by Clare Revell
Isabel turned her attention back to the pulpit. Pastor Carson was finishing up reading the Lord’s Prayer from Matthew’s Gospel. Looking at him, she found it hard to believe he’d ever done what Zander had told her. Still, the pastor was living proof that God had the power to change lives in such a dramatic way.
The next hymn was one of her favourites yet had the addition of a chorus. Her outrage at the thought of such a well-loved hymn being altered, gave way to joy as they reached the chorus which only added to the hymn’s beauty and poignancy. Isabel decided then and there that this was the church for her.
She slipped from the chapel as soon as the service ended, wanting to sit somewhere and think about what she’d learned during the sermon. She also wasn’t ready to be asked if she were visiting, or for the Guv and Sarge to see her.
Not wanting to cook, and knowing the Three Sixteen was closed today, Isabel walked across town to somewhere she’d been once with Farrell. A small, family run café on the Bath Road called Over the Yard Arm. They served a roast on a Sunday as well as all day breakfasts.
She found a table by the window and inhaled deeply. Something sure smelled good. Not bothering with the menu as she knew what she wanted, she caught the waitress’s eye and smiled as the young woman came over. “Hello, Brit. Not moonlighting, are you?”
Brit laughed. “No. My parents own this place and were a hand down today. I said I’d help out. What can I get you?”
For a moment Isabel saw two Brits. She blinked and they resolved back into one. “The roast, please. No peas.”
“OK. Would you like cabbage instead?”
“Yeah. And an apple juice, please.”
“Sure. It won’t be long.” Brit vanished into the kitchen.
Isabel leaned back in her chair, staring out of the window. Despite the fact it was Sunday, the street was busy. As useful as it was not having to cook, she half wished the Sunday trading laws were abolished, and things were as they used to be. Not that she remembered, but Gran had told her often enough that Britain used to be shut on a Sunday and a Wednesday afternoon.
She sighed and rubbed her temples. A headache was starting. Something else Farrell had never understood. To him any headache was a migraine, no matter how bad it was. But for her—if she didn’t take the meds in time, a migraine was three to four days of intense agony and sickness, where even light and movement caused physical pain.
Brit came over with a tray. “Here you go.”
“Thank you. Could I also get a glass of ice water please? Tap water is fine; it just needs to be really cold.”
“Of course.”
Isabel poured the sparkling apple juice over the ice in the glass slowly. A light hovered at the edge of her vision. Bright rotating triangles flashed and danced. She rummaged in her bag for the box of prescription meds. What could have triggered it? She avoided the normal triggers, food and spices. Perhaps it was the stress with feeling so inadequate in her new job.
The glass of water appeared. She glanced up. “Thank you.” Swallowing the pills, she closed her eyes. Small sounds reverberated inside her head. Her stomach churned. This would be a bad one.
“Izzy?”
Groan. Why did Farrell have to appear now? What part of ‘over and leave me alone’ didn’t he get? But best to be polite. She glanced up. “Farrell.”
“You look dreadful.” He dropped uninvited into the chair opposite her. “Is it true what the papers are saying? About my paintings being found with those murdered girls?”
“Yes.” When had the press discovered that? Last she’d heard that snippet was being kept out of the news for a reason.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Nausea rose and she swallowed hard. “I’m a little busy trying to solve a case.”
“Not very well.” The sarcasm in his voice carried over to his piecing gaze.
“We’ll get him,” she managed, massaging her temples.
“Another headache?” He glanced around. “Where’s this partner of yours?”
“It’s my day off. We’re not joined at the hip.” She pushed her plate away, the smell of the food turning her stomach even more.
“How long have the two cases been connected?” Farrell persisted.
Isabel reached for her bag. “I can’t talk about this.”
He grabbed her wrist, twisting painfully. “Can’t, or won’t?”
“Both. If I were you, I’d let go. That’s assaulting a police officer.” Isabel tore away, ignoring the burn in her wrist. However, had she put up with this behaviour for so long?
“Where are you going? What about your meal?”
“I’m going home. Feel free to eat this. I haven’t touched it. And if you ever lay hands on me again, I will be pressing charges.” Somehow, she stood and made her way over to the cashier. She honestly had no idea how she would get home. But she had to lie down and sleep off this migraine before it completely incapacitated her.
Brit angled her head. “Is the food not to your liking?”
“I’m sorry. I have to go.” She pulled out her purse.
“It’s fine, just leave it.”
“I ordered and should pay.” Every word was a struggle. White fingers clutched the counter in an effort to remain upright.
“You didn’t touch it.” Concern filled Brit’s face. “You look dreadful. Are you all right?”
“Not really.” She swallowed hard. “It’s a migraine. I need to lie down.”
“Do you want me to call you a taxi?”
Isabel shook her head, regretting the movement. She clamped a hand over her mouth and just made it to the ladies’ room in time. She leaned her head against the cold tiles. She just wanted to lie down, didn’t care where.
Finally, Isabel made her way outside into the brightness. She screwed her eyes tight shut, sucking in deep breath after deep breath. She took two steps, the pain intensifying.
“Detective York?” Brit’s voice came from beside her. “Let me drive you home. Mum insists.”
“OK, thank you.” Isabel wouldn’t argue. She couldn’t make it if she walked. She got into Brit’s car, which fortunately was just outside, and closed her eyes. “It’s One hundred twenty-four Greys Avenue.”
Five minutes later the car stopped. “We’re here.”
Isabel moved slowly. “Thank you.”
“Will you be all right?”
“Yeah.” Somehow Isabel made it out of the car and up the path. She got into the house, locked the door, took the landline phone off the hook, and switched off her mobile. She tossed it into the kitchen, hearing it land on the worktop with a clatter that echoed inside her head like a klaxon. Kicking off her shoes, she went into the bedroom and pulled the blackout curtains. As she lay down, the vision vanished completely in one eye, replaced by twisting, shining triangles.
The clock read 1:45 PM as Isabel closed her eyes, trying to keep as still as possible. No easy task with the room spinning and her head exploding.
22
Pounding pulsated through her. Isabel opened her eyes. Darkness encompassed the room. She tugged the duvet, snuggling in before closing her eyes. More pounding reverberated. She squinted at the clock. 2:45 PM. Only an hour. Not long enough.
The pounding increased.
“Isabel! Are you in there? Open the door before I break it down.”
“Go away, Zander,” she whispered.
The pounding didn’t stop.
She groaned and got up. At least the ground was no longer spinning away. And she could see out of both eyes, another bonus. She edged her way to the door. “I’m coming.” She opened the door on the latch.
Zander stood the other side, his hand raised to knock again. “Are you all right?”
“Trying to sleep off a migraine. What’s so important it can’t wait until Monday?”
“It is Monday.”
She looked blankly at him. “It can’t be.” It had been 1:45 PM when she climbed into bed and now it was 2:45. Daylight, so not the mid
dle of the night. Thus, only an hour had passed since she fell asleep. “It’s only been an hour since Brit brought me home from the restaurant after church.”
“Can I come in?” Zander’s tone was unusually brusque. “I’ve been worried sick.”
“Yeah.” She released the latch and opened the door wide enough to grant him access. “I get migraines. I can’t see. They last for days. I have to take the meds and sleep, which is what I did an hour ago, or yesterday, or whenever.” She rubbed her temples and longed to go back to bed and stay there. “After church I got back from the restaurant at 1:45 PM. The clock now says 2:50 PM. That’s just over an hour.”
“Why’s the phone off the hook?” Zander replaced the handset with a loud thud.
Isabel winced. “I told you. I have a migraine. I turn off my mobile and unplug the landline before lying down in a very dark room. Couldn’t see to do that, so I left it off the hook.”
“The Guv’s not happy.” He shook his head and moved into the kitchen. The tap ran and then the kettle flicked on.
Sighing, and wishing he’d just go away, Isabel followed him.
Zander leaned against the worktop, phone against his ear. “Hey, boss, it’s me. Yeah, I found her. She’s fine—sick, but fine.” He listened for a moment. “Migraine. She says she took the meds when she got in from church yesterday afternoon and won’t have it that she slept for twenty-five hours.”
“Only awake now ’cos of you,” she muttered. She sat on the floor, leaning against the cupboard. Mr. T climbed onto her lap, purring loudly and nudging her. She turned her phone back on to check the date. Sure enough it said Monday. Had she really slept twenty-five hours?
Zander hung up. “Next time just shoot me a text rather than go off grid like this. Apparently, the Guv’s wife gets migraines so he’s wholly sympathetic, but still mad you didn’t call in sick. You can’t just not turn up. It’s the same in any job.”
“OK. Sorry,” she whispered.
“He says you need to eat and drink something. What do you want?”
The cat leapt onto the floor as Isabel balanced her elbows on her knees and rubbed her temples. “Toast. As it’s technically morning. Can you feed Mr. T as well, please?”
“Will do.” Zander dropped the bread into the toaster. “Tea or coffee?”
“Tea.” She pushed herself up. “Be right back. I’ll jump in the shower. Washing my hair might help the headache a little.”
Ten minutes later, with damp hair and in fresh clothes, Isabel returned to the kitchen.
“You look better already,” Zander said.
“I feel it. I ought to go into work for the rest of the day.”
“No. One there is no point, and two, the Guv said not to.” He slid the tea and toast along the worktop to her.
She perched on the stool and picked up the cup. “Thank you.” The tea could have been nectar it tasted so good. “And there is every point.”
“By the time you’ve eaten, and we’ve got there, it’ll be almost four.”
“It’s only five past three. We can be there by half past the way you drive. There was something I wanted to check after yesterday’s sermon.”
“It can wait until tomorrow.”
“It can’t.” She took a bite of the toast. “I need to see all the postcards together.”
“Fine.” Zander shot her the look she was beginning to know so well. “But I drive you straight home afterwards.”
“Sure.”
~*~
Still not happy, Zander drove Isabel into work. While she’d been in the shower, he’d looked migraines up on the Internet. He had no idea how bad they could get. To him it was simply a bad headache. Turned out they were as far from a bad headache as a cold was from pneumonia. He should have gone with his gut instinct, sent her back to bed, and sat beside her until she’d fallen asleep again. Otherwise, knowing her, the minute he’d driven away she’d have caught the bus into work, and that would be an even worse idea.
He glanced sideways at his partner. She still looked awful. If this was an improvement, he didn’t want to think what she’d looked like twenty-four hours earlier. Once again, she sat on the far edge of the seat, her face turned towards the open window. “So, what’s so important that it can’t wait?” he asked.
“Those numbers on the back of the postcards. The ones that didn’t match the verses.”
“What about them? I thought we’d figured they were serial numbers or something.”
“Yesterday Pastor Carson preached on part of the Lord’s Prayer. He was really good by the way. Shame you missed it.”
“He always is. I’ll download it tonight and listen.”
“Anyway, the topic was ‘hallowed be Thy name’.”
“OK.” He indicated and turned right.
“Matthew six verse nine. But did you know it’s also in Luke? Luke eleven verse two.”
Zander’s mind whirled. “Twice?”
“Yeah, all the important stuff is repeated at least twice.”
“Are you thinking those numbers are Bible verses?”
“Yeah. The Ten Commandments are written twice, I think. Not just in Exodus.”
His fingers drummed on the steering wheel as he thought. “Think it’s Deuteronomy. Hey, maybe you’re not just a pretty face after all.”
“Ugh. Not even that today.” Isabel pulled the visor down and peered at her reflection. “I look like death warmed up.”
“Honestly, yeah you do.” He paused. “Of course, you’ll probably kill me for saying so.”
She scowled. “Whose side are you on?”
Zander smirked. “The Lord’s.”
Isabel sang the first line of a hymn. “Who is on the Lord’s side, who will serve the King…?”
“Oh, cool. I never knew it was a hymn.”
“It’s great. One of my favourites.” She glanced at him. “It should be on the Internet somewhere. Most hymns are.”
“Look it up. My phone is in the glove box. Can you find it?”
Isabel rummaged for a moment and then pulled the handset out. “What’s your pass code?”
“Potato.” He winked. “Of course, I’ll have to kill you now and then change the code.”
“That’s different…Oh, your code is a word. I was expecting to have to spell it using the numbers.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I make a word using the numbers rather than just random digits.”
“Such as?”
“The old one was take. Which is eight two five three, but I just had to remember the word not the number.”
Zander grunted. “I hope you have a new code for the new phone.”
“Oh yeah, but it’s still not a letter code. Just six numbers that spell a word instead.” She tapped on the phone. “Here you go.”
The hymn began to play as Zander parked in the station car park. He switched off the engine and undid his seatbelt, leaning back to listen to the words. When the hymn finished, he looked at her. “That’s really nice.”
“One of my favourites,” Isabel said. She handed him his phone back.
Zander put the phone in his jacket pocket and got out of the car. Making sure he stayed by Isabel’s side, they headed into the nick and down to the evidence room. They signed out all the postcards and took them up to the squad room.
Isabel spread them out on the desk face down. She pointed. “We have small printed numbers on the bottom right of each card. Originally, we assumed a printers mark or something—like photos used to have on the back of them where a chemist or store printed them from negatives.”
“Yeah.” Zander pulled up the Bible app on his phone. “So?”
“Right, the digits on the first card are five dash seven.”
DI Holmes strode out of his office and made a beeline for them. “Isabel? Go home.”
“She insisted on coming in, Guv,” Zander spoke quickly. “We’re checking something then she’s going right back to bed.” He glanced at Isabel. “Five dash seve
n?”
“Yeah. I discounted it as this commandment is in Exodus twenty, but…”
“Here.” He straightened, his stomach pitting. “Deuteronomy five verse seven is the first commandment.”
“The second card ends five dash eight.”
“Second commandment.”
“And five dash eleven?”
“The third.” Not that he needed to confirm it for any of them.
Even the DI’s attention was now transfixed on the cards.
Isabel leaned back in her chair. “What’s that?” She pointed to a brown A5 envelope in her in-tray.
“It wasn’t there when I left for your place,” Zander said.
Isabel reached for it only to have the DI stay her hand.
“Gloves. Now.”
Isabel pulled a pair from her drawer and slid them onto her hands. She picked up the envelope, opened it carefully, and pulled out a postcard. Her far too pale complexion lost what little colour it had left.
A green meadow filled the card. Dark green trees crossed the horizon, with blue sky and white clouds above them.
Isabel turned it over. “The digits are five dash twelve,” she whispered.
“That’s the fourth commandment,” Zander said needlessly.
She turned the back of the card to face him and DI Holmes. In big black lettering the next commandment almost screamed at him.
I AM THE LORD YOUR GOD. REMEMBER THE SABBATH DAY BY KEEPING IT HOLY. 5-12
“This isn’t over,” she whispered. “He’s going to kill again.”
To be continued in Soul to Keep
Say a Prayer Series Book 2
Say a Prayer Series Glossary
ARU — armed response unit
Cornflour — cornstarch
CPS — Crown Prosecution Service (DA)
Dob — tell tales, report
Drapers — shop specialising in fabric and cloth
Extract the Michael/take the Mickey — make fun
of, tease
Faffed — messed about.
Full English breakfast — bacon, sausage, fried
egg, fried bread, black pudding, baked beans,
tomato, hash browns, and mushrooms.
Gobsmacked — lost for words