Cult of Evil: Inspector Steve Morgan, #2

By Steven M. Moore

Steve Morgan, a former Scotland Yard Inspector and now one at Bristol PD, has another murder case to solve. A young woman appears to have been tortured as part of some cult's evil rite and then hung lifeless from a Victorian folly. Is the cult leader the scam artist who took over the woman's properties and other valuable assets? And to make matters even worse for Morgan, a deadly assassin is hunting him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steven M. Moore
• Release date: Oct 17, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215221389

Steven M. Moore

If you’re reading this, thank you. Not many people find me...or recognize me as an author of many genre fiction novels. Maybe it’s because my name is too common—I thought once about using a pen name...and probably should have. Maybe it’s because I don’t get many reviews. (It's not hard to write one once you've read one of my books: just say what you like and dislike in a few lines, and why.) I know you have many good books and good authors to choose from, so I’m honored and humbled that you are considering or have read some of mine.You’re here on Smashwords because you love to read. Me too. Okay, maybe you’re here to give someone the gift of an entertaining book—that’s fine too. I love to tell stories, so either way, you’ll be purchasing some exciting fiction, each book unique and full of action and interesting characters, scenes, and themes. Some are national, others international, and some are mixed; some are in the mystery/suspense/thriller category, others sci-fi, and some are mixed-genre. There are new ones and there are evergreen ones, books that are as fresh and current as the day I wrote them. (You should always peruse an author's entire oeuvre. I find many interesting books to read that way.)I started telling stories at an early age, making my own comic books before I started school and writing my first novel the summer I turned thirteen—little of those early efforts remain (did I hear a collective sigh of relief?). I collected what-ifs and plots, character descriptions, possible settings, and snippets of dialogue for years while living in Colombia and different parts of the U.S. (I was born in California and eventually settled on the East Coast after that sojourn in South America). I also saw a bit of the world and experienced other cultures at scientific events and conferences and with travel in general, always mindful of what should be important to every fiction writer—the human condition. Fiction can’t come alive—not even sci-fi—without people (they might be ET people in the case of sci-fi, of course).I started publishing what I'd written in 2006—short stories, novellas, and novels—we’d become empty-nesters and I was still in my old day-job at the time. Now I’m a full-time writer. My wife and I moved from Boston to the NYC area a while back, so both cities can be found in some novels, along with many others in the U.S. and abroad.You can find more information about me at my website: https://stevenmmoore.com. I’m also on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/authorStevenMMoore; and Twitter @StevenMMoore4.I give away my short fiction; so does my collaborator A. B. Carolan who writes sci-fi mysteries for young adults. See my blog categories "Steve's Shorts," "ABC Shorts," and the list of free PDF downloads on my web page "Free Stuff & Contests" at my website (that list includes my free course "Writing Fiction" that will be of interest mainly to writers).I don't give away my novels. All my ebooks are reasonably priced and can be found here at Smashwords, including those I've published with Black Opal Books (The Last Humans) and Penmore Press (Rembrandt's Angel and Son of Thunder). I don't control either prices or sales on those books, so you can thank those traditional publishers for also providing quality entertainment for a reasonable price. That's why you won't find many sales of my books either. They're now reserved for my email newsletter subscribers. (If you want to subscribe, query me using [e-mail].)My mantra has always been the following: If I can entertain at least one reader with each story, that story is a success. But maybe I can do better than that? After all, you found me!Around the world and to the stars! In libris libertas!

Book preview

Summary

Steve Morgan, a former Scotland Yard Inspector and now one at Bristol PD, has another murder case to solve. A young woman appears to have been tortured as part of some cult’s evil rite and then hung lifeless from a Victorian folly. Is the cult leader the scam artist who took over the woman’s properties and other valuable assets? And to make matters even worse for Morgan, a deadly assassin is hunting him.

Related Novels

This Inspector Steve Morgan novel is the sequel to Legacy of Evil, the first book in the Inspector Steve Morgan series, and it is also related to the last two novels in the Esther Brookstone Art Detective series. Other characters from those novels also appear here, but the following story can be read and enjoyed independently.

If you’d like to peruse the Esther Brookstone novels, here is the full list:

Rembrandt’s Angel—Esther becomes obsessed with recovering a painting stolen by the Nazis in WWII.

Son of Thunder—Esther is out to prove either the famous Renaissance painter Sandro Botticelli didn’t go to Ephesus (now in modern-day Turkey), or the tomb of St. John the Divine isn’t located there.

Death on the Danube—Bastiann van Coevorden and Esther finally tie the knot, but their honeymoon voyage down the famous river becomes a murder investigation.

Palettes, Patriots, and Prats—Esther defends an American artist and discovers a vast network of stolen art and sex traffickers.

Leonardo and the Quantum Code—A friend from Esther’s days at Oxford is developing new algorithms for secure quantum messaging, and three different countries and a lone wolf want them.

Defanging the Red Dragon*—China wants the plans for software and hardware upgrades for nuclear submarines; Esther, Bastiann, and friends endeavor to stop them.

Intolerance*—Three cases of evil intolerance keep the art detective busy, including evil actions perpetrated by a group of domestic terrorists.

The Klimt Connection—Esther and Bastiann’s visit to New York City is abruptly ended when their flat in London is bombed by the new leader of the group of domestic terrorists.

Celtic Chronicles—Esther and Bastiann are volunteers at an archaeological dig in Scotland when a student’s murder has international repercussions.

*Free PDF download available at stevenmmoore.com.

The other novels have ebook versions available wherever quality ebooks are sold. The first three novels also have print versions. You can peruse all my books on the Books & Short Stories web page at the above website. 

British, Irish, and Scotch Words and Phrases

Just like the US has Bostonian and Texan dialects, the UK and the Republic of Ireland also have regional dialects. Here I tried to include all expressions not familiar to US readers that appear in the novel, but I might have missed a few...or included a few extras from previous novels in the series? And English and Irish readers, please don’t hold it against this Yank if my definitions aren’t one hundred percent correct. While I might be responsible for some errors, Google and Microsoft Word were willing accomplices!

A

aggro—aggravation, discomfort

ANPR—Automatic Number Plate Recognition (cameras on major UK roads used to read license plates)

ARO—Armed Response Officer (like a SCO19 member)

ARU—Armed Response Unit (also often called SCO19)

ARV—Armed Response Vehicle (a van carrying an ARU or SCO19)

Auld Reekie—Edinburgh, Scotland

B

barney—intense argument or verbal skirmish

barrister—lawyer who can participate in a trial

beck—creek, small river

biro—ballpoint pen (named after its inventor)

blaggard—scoundrel

blather—talk, often without rhyme or reason

bloke—fellow, guy

blues and twos—emergency vehicles, or patrol cars in general (for blue lights and two-toned sirens)

bollix—bungle

bollocks—general swear word (literally, testicles)

boot—car trunk

brae—a steep bank or hillside

brief—a barrister or solicitor (or the usual meaning)

C

car park—parking lot (usually seen as two words, but sometimes as one, or hyphenated)

ceilidh—gathering with Gaelic folk music, singing, dancing, and/or storytelling

chap—fellow, guy

chappie—fellow, guy

chat up—flirt

chinwag—conversation, discussion

CID—Criminal Investigative Department within a police station

chuffed—pleased

cockup—something done badly or inefficiently; disaster, fiasco

copper—policeman or policewoman

crisps—potato chips

D

DS—Detective Sergeant

DC—Detective Constable

DI—Detective Inspector

DCI—Detective Chief Inspector

do an early dart—leave business early

do a runner—flee, disappear

donkey’s years—a long time

dosh—money (wad)

droll—boring, irrelevant

duty solicitor—legal representation provided to a suspect by the police or court

E

eejit—fool

F

fag—cigarette

feckin’—not as strong as the American version, but also used to emphasize

fiver—five-pound note

FLO—family liaison officer

fuggy—warm, stuffy, smoky (of a room, atmosphere, or mind)

G

give stick—beat up, verbally or physically

gobshite—mean or contemptible person

gobsmacked—astonished, astounded (a gob was a wad of tobacco)

goolies—testicles

GP—General Physician

grass—rat, stoolie (noun); to rat on, inform (verb)

H

hire-car—rental car

HOLMES—Home Office Large Major Enquiry System, the UK-wide police database

I

Iron Lady—Margaret Thatcher

K

kerb-crawler—prostitute (kerb is curb in the US)

knackered—exhausted

L

do or have a lie-in—sleep late

loo—bathroom, WC

lorry—truck

lose his rag—get furious

M

marra—mate, friend (Cumbrian dialect)

mash—tea brewed from tea leaves, not tea bags

mobile—cellphone or smart phone

monkeys—500-pound notes

MP—member of parliament

N

nappies—diapers

nick—steal, arrest (verbs); police station, jail (nouns)

niggling—trifling, annoying

nippers—children

numpty—stupid or foolish person

nutter—crazy person

O

old chestnut—adage or saying

P

peckish—hungry

Peel Centre—training institution for the Metropolitan Police (originally only for higher-ranked officers, and also called Hendon Police College or Hendon Training College)

pillock—fool

pish-tosh—just a trifle

plonker—fool

plod—copper

PM—prime minister

prat—a stupid or foolish person

publican—manager or owner of a pub

punter—bookie, gambler (more British); customer (more Irish)

R

rozzer—copper

rugger—rugby player

S

SCO19—Specialist Crime and Operations group (SWAT group in the US); see ARO, etc. (This term tends to be used more in standard policing, while MI5 and NCA tend to use more the ARO terminology.)

scarper—flee

scrote—lowlife

scrum—disorderly crowd

shite—what you expect, but not considered swearing as such

shop (out)—betray

skelping—unusually large or outstanding

SIO—Senior Investigating Officer

snout—informant (see grass)

SOCO—Scene of Crime Officer (US CSI)

sod—annoying person (noun); deprecate or disparage (verb)

solicitor—a lawyer who provides legal representation but can't necessarily appear in a trial

stunner—pretty woman

T

Taff—Welshman

takeaway—fast food the buyer picks up

taking the Mickey—taunting, wisecracking, or being otherwise unreasonable

taking the piss—(see immediately above)

tam—a Scottish hat

tearaway—urchin

telly—television

tipple—imbibe an alcoholic beverage, or the beverage itself

tippler—habitual drinker

toe-rag—urchin

toff—aristocrat, or member of the privileged elites

tops—bobbies (for the helmets)

trainers—sneakers (US East Coast) or tennis shoes (US West Coast)

trawl—search

tuck in—more for eating than for going to bed

twaddle—nonsense

twit—foolish or stupid person

twitcher—birdwatcher

W

wag—a person given to droll, roguish, or mischievous humor

wanker—a contemptible person, scoundrel, villain

wellies—overshoes

wing mirror—side mirror of car (as opposed to rearview mirror)

wrinklies—elderly or older people

Y

yob—rude or aggressive person

Security Agencies

British national police—the Metropolitan Police System (the Met aka Scotland Yard) and its regional affiliates

British national crime agency—National Crime Agency (NCA)

British internal security—MI5

British external security—MI6

Chinese security—Ministry of State Security (MSS)

French internal security—DGSI

French external security—DGSE

Irish Republic's national police—An Garda Siochana (Gardai or the Guards)

Russian internal security—FSB

Russian external security—SVR

US internal security—ATF, DEA, DHS, FBI

US external security—CIA, sometimes FBI

Notes:

The Metropolitan Police System, also called the Met or the Yard (for Scotland Yard, which is often used for both the Met and the City of London Police), and their regional affiliates represent the general policing organization for England and Wales; it covers general crime throughout the region with its many divisions, but it also covers background checks and crimes associated with the Official Secrets Act and railroad terminals and some local airports. Individual cities' police departments are now considered part of the overall system (e.g., Bristol or Reading PD).

Police Scotland was created in 2013 to unify policing in all of Scotland, and it's basically a copy of the Metropolitan Police system with all its own divisions and bureaucracy.

MI5 and MI6 were created during World War II. (The MI stands for Military Intelligence, and Section Five and Section Six are just reduced to the numbers in general parlance.)

The National Crime Agency was also created in 2013 to lead efforts against organized crime, including sex- and drugs-trafficking.

FSB and SVR are the remnants of the old KGB, Putin's old employer.

Cast of Principal Characters

Ahmed—Afghan refugee

Harry Bond—Bristol PD DCI

Zelda Caddick—an acolyte

Paul Chung—an American helicopter pilot

Genevieve Ginny Graham—Bristol PD pathologist

Carl Hughes—FBI agent

Tom Jepson—Penrith PD DI

Akina Kimachu—Kanzi’s sister

Kanzi Kimachu—Bristol PD SOCO team leader

Siwan Llywelyn—a reporter and Owen’s sister-in-law

Frederic Freddie March—duke who’s a liaison between the Home Office and MI5

Senator Mellen—US senator overseeing CIA and FBI activities

Steve Morgan—Bristol PD DI

Betsy O’Toole—Bristol PD DS

John Pembroke—British PM

Arnulfo Rodriguez—Bristol PD SCO19 leader

Tabitha Tabby—an acolyte

Lowri Wilson (nee Llywelyn)—Owen’s wife

Owen Wilson—Bristol PD DS

Clarisse Workman—Bristol PD DI

Dennis Wycoff—leader of the cult and ex-ob/gyn surgeon...the Master

Prologue

In the Bristol Suburbs

Most of the acolytes had wondered if the Master had chosen well. He had picked Helen as the first of them to make the journey to the Seven Sisters up in the heavens. He made her drink the lethal mix of a hallucinogenic and poison as the other acolytes chanted the sacred verses the Master had taught them, the same verses the Sisters had taught him in a vision. Helen had done so willingly. Her face had become radiant and full of peace.

All the acolytes thought the Master seemed to be just as youthful and handsome as when they had met him. All their stories shared common elements: A first meeting with the man with the golden hair and rippling muscles who looked like a Greek god, especially when naked on the altar, but he had the voice of an angel, a deep baritone commanding respect and adoration. Even when and wherever he’d possessed the women, he’d said nothing about his past, only of his and their future, a future where they could all join him in his quest for infinite knowledge. He had promised the Sisters in the sky to recruit the worthiest and lead them on their journey to enlightenment.

Most of the time he walked around in a toga, but he would often shed it so the women could see and admire the holy body the Sisters had given them, a body that put all other men’s to shame. By pleasuring him, he became a conduit for the love from the Sisters flowing into them. That, he said, was an essential step on their journey to the heavens. Helen was the lucky one chosen to make that journey first.

As Helen went into a coma there on the commune’s altar to the Seven Sisters, he disrobed and freed her of all her worldly desires. He then sliced her open with the holy golden scimitar and removed her ovaries so that they could all feast on them to celebrate Helen’s heavenly journey up to the faraway stars. It was a magic moment enhanced by the hallucinogenic-laced wine sans poison all the other women drank.

Before the chosen acolytes took her body away as a message to other mortals of what they would be missing, the Master carved the holy symbol on her belly, a symbol that the Sisters had provided him because he was the earthly representative of those in the sky who would now bless all in their group for another year. They took Helen to the old tower where she would be displayed for all the world to reflect on the glory that she would now receive from the Great Ones of the Universe, the Seven Sisters in the sky. Helen seemed to be bathed in the ethereal light provided by the Sisters.

They’d gone in silence, and in silence they returned to the Master. Some of them were wondering who would be chosen next to ascend and be welcomed by the Sisters. None of them dared question the Master’s teachings because he’d told them that the Sisters could be vengeful. There among the stars, only spirits existed, and they had infinite wisdom unattainable for any soul in any earthly body, not even the Master, but those spirits demanded respect. Some of the acolytes began to wonder, though, how Helen had been chosen, even while others wondered about when they would be able to receive the Sisters’ blessings and knowledge.

***

Tabitha was one of those acolytes who wondered about both...the blessings and knowledge and many other things. She didn’t sleep well after she’d returned with the other acolytes. She rose from her small bed, careful not to awaken her three roommates, and went to the small window, the only one in the room. In the distance and beyond the woods, she could see speeding cars’ lights on the motorway, a shimmering necklace with its beads of red and white, almost mesmerizing.

Or was that only the remaining effects of the holy potion? Their hypnotic dance reminded her of him. She’d wanted him for herself, but now she had to share him. She didn’t want to be selfish—he said that went against the Sisters’ teachings—but it wasn’t what she nor Helen had expected.

She’d never visited those woods until that night. The Master frowned on their being outside. She’d always loved nature. Being a city girl, the fields and woods of rural England had always been like an escape for her. Their communal existence at the old mansion would have improved a lot if the Master would let them enjoy the grounds more. Instead of being pale as if she were living in a cave, she would be the bronzed girl of her childhood memories.

She was a tall, intelligent woman who was well read—she’d already known about the legends associated with the Seven Sisters. Looking into the Master’s eyes when she first met him, she’d thought his version was truth. She was a rather plain woman too, so boys and later men could consider her a friend, even a confidant, but never a lover. The Master had changed all that.

She ran her hands over her body, remembering how he’d given her so much pleasure that first time. Now she was only one of many he took to his chambers, so she felt neglected...and used? She’d discussed that sometimes with her friend Helen. Helen and she had even resisted the Master’s advances one time.

She didn’t feel that guilty about helping the others to transport her friend’s body, though—that should at least help put her back in the good graces of the Master—but the guilt about the jewelry store robbery kept her awake. Had she really killed that old man?

The Master said she had. She might not ever know for sure because the acolytes weren’t allowed any contact with the outside world—not even from the telly or radio and no newspapers. The Master insisted that the outside world was evil, and they shouldn’t be distracted from their worship of the Seven Sisters.

Yet, if the Master’s claim about worldly distractions were true, why had he sent them to rob that store? Tabby and the other acolytes, Helen as much or even more so than anyone, had turned over all their worldly belongings to the Master. Wasn’t that enough to keep their holy shrine going as a retreat from the world outside and a place to worship the Seven Sisters?

She’d believed all the Master had told her at first, but now doubts filled her mind...and kept her awake as well.

Chapter One

At an Old Estate’s Folly

Inspector Steve Morgan knew a bit about the Victorian era, mostly from unreliable discussions at work in the station’s canteen where he heard about the silly BBC dramas that appealed to those addicted to nostalgia and pined for a romantic Britain that no longer existed and probably never had. It was surprising that even some of the men got into that, probably from their wives or girlfriends. Am I being a sexist bloke? Or just an old copper who doesn’t know how to relax with a bit of escapism?

In any case, he wasn’t someone who could understand what the attraction could be. That Golden Age had also coincided with a period of often oppressive British colonialism that had given rise to many trouble spots in the world from Africa to the Middle East and Orient as the empire was forced to give up its colonies, abandoning them, to put a fine point on it, to become places where war and famine still existed. Only a few had surpassed Britain—Australia, the US, and Canada came to mind—and a few more would have if they hadn’t had powerful and jealous neighbors, like Hong Kong, India, and Israel. That was the Victorian era’s legacy.

He remembered when the Queen had passed on. There had been mourning in Britain, of course—that was the proper British thing to do—but many of those former colonies saw her death as an opportunity. It had rekindled a desire for complete independence, and they said the monarchy was only an anachronism from a previous age. He’d been ambivalent. A constitutional monarchy had some royal toff as a figurehead. They were common throughout Europe, and maybe not a bad thing. Presidents and prime ministers throughout Europe could focus on affairs of state with only an occasional nod to pomp and circumstance. The American president, not unlike similar leaders, had to assume both a ceremonial role and a political one, the former being a distraction.

Follies were from a previous queen’s era, the Victorian Age, not the second Elizabethan Age. That and his previous thoughts distracted the inspector as he shaded his eyes and looked up at the tower. He wasn’t tall or all that muscular, but he still had a solid build that had once allowed him to play a bit of rugby where he’d often taken a beating in the scrums. Wavy black hair matched his eyebrows; there was some premature gray around the ears, and he occasionally passed a trimmer over the brows now because they always became bushy for the men in his family as they aged—he at least remembered that much about his father. He’d also seen that in some old sepia photos, but it was hard to be certain if it was a genetic trait. He wasn’t an imposing physical figure but felt his mind was keen enough to do what had to be done in fighting crime. Both experience and creativity usually counted there more than physical prowess.

He supposed he might have appreciated DS Betsy O’Toole’s commentary on Victorian follies better without that bias against the Victorian era, one such folly now being the crime scene for their new murder case. Her rambling discourse was far too long as well, so he’d cut it off. The two had continued to stare at the tower in silence, now seemingly a monument to murder rather than Victorian exuberance.

Betsy was a redhead with green eyes, features that announced to the world that she had Celtic origins. She’d been born on the west coast of Ireland but grew up in Glasgow where she’d first become interested in policing. She was still so serious about performing well that she rarely smiled. Of course, crime scenes like the one they now observed gave neither of them any reason to smile.

The female victim had been lowered from the platform atop the old stone tower by a rope around her upper torso tied beneath the armpits; the marks could still be seen. She’d been already dead or dying. The gaping wound in her abdomen ran from the top of her pubic area halfway