Crime in the Choir

by Catherine Moloney

Markham became aware he was squeezing his girlfriend’s hand so fiercely as to cause pain.

  He kissed the little palm and tucked it into his coat pocket. Mollified, Olivia smiled up at him.

  ‘I’m sorry, Liv,’ he began.

  ‘No need. I’d rather you took it out on my mitts than a suspect!’

  ‘It was DCI Sidney, actually.’

  ‘Ah!’ said Olivia in a tone of deep comprehension.

  Time to return to the real world.

  ‘Right, dearest, I’m going to drop you back at home and swing by the station. I can take my bad mood out on Noakesy if he’s around.’

  Reluctantly, they made their way towards the lights of the High Street.

  In the offices of Bromgrove CID, an unaccustomed peace reigned, the steady hum of strip lighting the only sign of life.

  The rest of CID would have been amused if they could have seen DS Noakes sitting in his fusty cubicle surrounded by back issues of Friends of St Mary’s. With a view to killing some time, he had embarked rather unenthusiastically upon the reading material thrust at him earlier as he left the unprepossessing little office at number 32 Acacia Avenue. Despite himself, however, he had become increasingly absorbed, his posture rapidly shifting from slumped apathy to alert interest.

  Sex and secrets. That was the thread running through it all, he realized with growing unease. It kept cropping up. ‘You must cherish the Master’s “hidden knowledge”.’ Noakes read the text aloud, following the words with a stubby forefinger. ‘A bid to recover the innocence of childhood via the renunciation of grosser sexuality ... finding pure warmth in the lap of young friends.’

  Bloody hell, no wonder O’Keefe had got the jitters.

  Then there was something called mystical regression. ‘The way of spiritual childhood … rejoice in the touch and warmth of young companions to conquer the forces of evil and enmity in the world, just as Christ called for eunuchs for the sake of the kingdom of heaven.’

  As he read these unsettling words, another Biblical text bobbed unbidden to the surface of Noakes’s mind. Better for the man who harms one of these little ones to be thrown into the sea with a millstone around his neck.

  A shower of loud taps at the window next to his cubicle made the DS almost jump out of his skin. Just the branches of a spindly elm directly outside the office, but the sound unnerved him nonetheless, as though the insistent rapping was a spectral call to attract his attention.

  Noakes’s eyes dropped once more to the text in front of him.

  A sentence immediately leaped out at him.

  Death is no skeleton with a scythe but rather an angel bearing a golden key.

  Skeletons.

  Noakes felt his chest tighten, his breath come short. Again, in the stillness of the room, he had the feeling that someone was calling to him, begging him urgently to decipher the code.

  Memories bubbled up like boils being lanced.

  Jonny Warr had played the sitar. He was mad for anything ‘alternative’. The missing boys had been through a hippy phase…

  Noakes felt as though some hideous poison was creeping through his system. Was O’Keefe right, then? Was this apparently innocuous little society the nucleus for an evil network of abusers?

  That list of subscribers. Perfect cover for paedophiles hiding in plain sight.

  With suddenly shaking hands, Noakes thumbed through the magazines.

  Yes, each issue featured Students of the Month. Bright-eyed handsome lads gazing out at the world from the pages of the little booklets, their sunshiny innocence undimmed by the cheap paper and amateurish photography.

  And then a note from a nightmare. The picture of Julian Forsythe staring up at him.

  A noise behind him.

  ‘Are you all right, Noakes? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.’

  Markham’s whole body tensed as he saw the picture of Julian.

  Oh God, no, please, no!

  There was no need for anything further. Noakes snatched up his mobile, moving with unaccustomed speed and decision. When he spoke, there was an undercurrent of hoarse urgency in his voice that Markham had never heard before.

  ‘Dr O’Keefe. DS George Noakes here. I need you to check the whereabouts of Julian Forsythe and get back to me on this number as soon as you’ve located him. Now!’

  The two officers gazed at each other in mute horror waiting to hear what they already knew.

  Julian was gone.

  ‘On our watch,’ groaned Markham.

  It sounded like an epitaph.

  13

  Lengthening Shadows

  In the wan small hours of the following morning, Markham dragged himself through the front door of his apartment. Although badly in need of comfort and reassurance, he decided not to disturb Olivia and headed to the spare room to snatch a few hours’ broken sleep.

  Curled into a ball, peristaltic shudders coursed through him as he reviewed the night’s events.

  Most harrowing of all was the memory of Nat Barton’s shocked and bewildered face. His eyes red with crying, the boy was bustled away by protectively hovering staff once it became clear he could shed no light on the disappearance of Julian Forsythe. Nat was out of bounds to the police for the time being. Or at least until the school doctor had checked him over.

  Just before he was whisked off to the infirmary, however, Nat had sobbed out a question which reverberated agonizingly in Markham’s mind.

  ‘What made Julian go and leave me in the night?’

  This piteous reproach unlocked memories which Markham had thought were long buried. Memories of someone who had left him in the night never to return. The fair-weather father who had walked out on his family when Markham was nine years old, leaving behind a scorched earth legacy of silence and repression. They had never talked about it afterwards. Not once. Part of him closed off that night. Died.

  I should be glad of another death.

  Markham wondered how Nat would come to terms with the horror of Julian’s almost certain abduction and murder. Perhaps he too would simply embark on a project of denial – unhitch his friend from time and space, think of him as rolled round diurnally with rocks and stones and trees. Well wadded with pragmatism, he could only survive by erasing the past.

  Somehow, recalling Nat’s fine-boned spiritual face and the intensity of his bond with Julian, Markham felt it more likely that he would be eternally tormented by the dreadful irreversibility of his friend’s disappearance. The trusting peace of his confiding little soul would be forever poisoned, leaving a sense of loss that deepened every hour.

  Markham’s gut twisted with self-disgust at the realization that he had failed Julian Forsythe. Logic told him that there had been no reason to suspect that Julian or Nat was in any immediate danger, but emotion was a different story. He’d had an extrasensory awareness of danger or evil after the service in the cathedral. He’d felt it lurking there somewhere in that cool vaulted space. Wanting very much to get away from it, he had ignored the nagging sixth sense that something was off centre and admonished himself for being caught up in the hysteria of unfounded suspicion.

  Unfounded suspicion. Woodcourt.

  The canon, alerted by O’Keefe, had arrived quickly on the scene tonight. Amidst the chaos and confusion, he showed such fatherly concern for Nat and the frightened lads who clustered round him – counselling against the ‘grave sin of despair’ – that Markham doubted all over again. Could the man so earnestly exhorting staff and students to remember that God was with them really be a counterfeit priest?

  Police units had scoured every inch of the school complex, not excluding the chapel, basement shrine and grottoes. The search yielded no trace of Julian Forsythe. His bed in the little dormitory was neatly made up. Impossible to know if he had ever been in it that night. No-one could be certain of having seen him after tea. As though he had melted into the swarm of boys before slipping away unnoticed. As for the cathedral, it had been locked up earlier that night. A sweep of the premi
ses had disclosed nothing.

  Again and again, Markham replayed that memory of the cassock-clad choristers vanishing down the cathedral processional ramp after the Sunday service. This time he called out to Julian to come back. But the slight dark figure never turned. He felt as though the sound of those receding footsteps would haunt him all his life.

  The abduction had to be an inside job. Had to be. How else could Julian have been spirited away from under the noses of staff and students? And yet, preliminary interviews indicated nothing out of the ordinary had occurred until just after 7pm when Noakes raised the alarm and a flurry of staff converged on the senior dormitory – the Sharpes and Woodcourt from the direction of their respective flats, O’Keefe from the Chaplain’s House and Cynthia, trailed by a sheepish Edward Preston, from her cottage on the north side of the cathedral. An emergency assembly was hastily organized, the junior boys blinking like little owls and the seniors affecting a desperate insouciance which deceived no-one. As word spread through the ranks that Julian Forsythe was missing, a ripple of disquiet passed through the room like an icy gust. Outside a gibbous moon hung in the black arcing sky as search parties fanned out across the grounds.

  At least they’d been spared Sir Philip Soames. A flare up of myasthenia gravis had left him too ill to leave the house. Markham felt a growing conviction that the Friends of St Mary’s was somehow a perfect breeding ground for the evil in this case. He did not relish informing St Mary’s patron that his cherished theosophical society had served as camouflage for a twisted commerce in children’s bodies.

  Markham’s thoughts turned back to the lost boy. He had no doubt that he was already dead. Just like the owner of the little plastic figurine he had found down in the grottoes.

  There had been something strangely touching about Julian, he reflected with wrenching sadness. Noli me tangere. It was that cloak of reserve – a sense of something withheld – which made him reluctant to violate the boy’s privacy. Lying there in the darkness, he admitted to himself that there had been another more selfish reason for his inhibition. The dread of touching a painful nerve and stirring up dormant memories of his own unhappy childhood.

  But he should have gone in harder. Should have pressed Julian about the Night Watchman. Should have…

  Markham ground his teeth in an agony of frustration. This self-flagellation would only divert his energies from the task in front of him. The utmost he could do for Julian was to crack the conspiracy. The meeting with Steve Sinnott would need to be brought forward as a matter of urgency…

  Markham’s exhausted mind began to drift, his thoughts flashing frantically hither and thither.

  Noakes. The DS had interrogated staff and students like a man possessed, his usual shambling gait and lazy affability nowhere to be seen, every barked instruction eloquent testimony to a gnawing self-reproach.

  Olivia. Her tender heart would break over Julian. How would he ever find the words to tell her?

  With that last despairing thought, oblivion finally claimed him.

  Three hours later, Markham and Noakes sat grim-faced in the DI’s office at CID.

  Outside, a light dusting of snow turned Bromgrove Green’s familiar shop fronts to silvery filigree, the gaudy festive fripperies taunting the two men with their reminder of Christmas cheer. Toystop, in particular, with its Star Wars themed window display, was a heart-rending reminder of the missing boy’s enthusiasm for all things Jedi.

  Breaking the news of Julian’s disappearance to Olivia had been an ordeal.

  ‘Oh no, that poor boy,’ she whispered, her voice tight with distress. ‘He was so proud and excited when he showed me the school’s relics. And so protective of Nat. He didn’t have anyone else…’ Like Markham, she berated herself for negligence. ‘I didn’t do enough. I knew Julian was holding back, but he was so private that I didn’t like to pry. His thoughts were all he had.’ Tears ran down her face. ‘Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.’

  A lump came into Markham’s throat as he recalled his girlfriend’s passionate plea.

  ‘Julian never had much of a shot at life, Gil. Promise me you’ll nail the lowlife who did this.’ He had done his best to comfort her without, however, mentioning Woodcourt. The spinners of the spider’s web must be allowed to go on hatching their schemes until the time came to lure them out from their dark hiding places.

  Noakes too was taking Julian’s disappearance badly. Pouchy under the eyes, and sending up a shower of scurf every time he scratched his frowsy head, the DS looked even more shop-soiled than usual.

  ‘Friends of St Mary’s! Nowt but a cover for nonces!’ he exclaimed bitterly, flailing at the pile of magazines which fluttered like confetti about him. ‘Should have seen it right away.’ He gnawed impotently on his fist. ‘An’ that poor little bastard. Just didn’t get the breaks … life over before it’d even begun.’ Honking into a dingy hanky, he scowled at Markham as though daring the guvnor to contradict him.

  The DI’s intercom sputtered into life, making them start.

  ‘There’s a Reverend Sinnott ’ere at reception asking for DS Noakes.’ The desk sergeant sounded suspicious. ‘Says it’s about St Mary’s.’

  Noakes was galvanized into action.

  ‘Sinnott’s kosher, Sarge,’ he barked into the intercom. ‘I’ll be right down.’ Turning to Markham with a faintly apologetic air, he added, ‘Figured we couldn’t wait till Tuesday, boss, so asked Steve to come in soonest. He’s a family man himself, you see…’

  ‘You did right, Noakesy.’ Markham’s voice was warm. ‘We need something to break this case. I’ll take whatever your mate has to offer.’

  * * *

  The Reverend Sinnott, Markham reflected, looked more like a prop forward than a priest with his burly frame, crinkly ram’s wool hair and plug ugly features. But his hazel eyes were astute and compassionate. It was the steady gaze of a man only too familiar with the darkest recesses of the human heart.

  There was no time for polite preliminaries.

  ‘What can you tell us about Canon Dick Woodcourt?’ Markham asked bluntly. ‘We’re investigating a possible paedophile ring going back many years and Woodcourt keeps turning up.’

  Sinnott exhaled deeply before replying with an air of quiet deliberation which commanded respect.

  ‘Woodcourt’s a very able administrator, Inspector, and highly regarded for his pastoral gifts. I’d heard rumours over the years about pre-pubescent boys… There always seemed to be a coterie of young lads in attendance, so tongues tended to wag. In fairness to him, though, I’d say stories like that are pretty much par for the course if you’re wearing a dog collar and working with young people.’

  ‘Not for you!’ Noakes was outraged.

  Sinnott’s smile was rueful. ‘I have a wife and kids. That was a protection of sorts. Being ex-Job helped too. But a guy like Woodcourt … well, there’s something a bit finicky and precious, about him. That’s what fanned the flames.’

  Markham frowned. ‘It was an issue for the church authorities, then?’

  ‘Well, Woodcourt got moved about a fair bit.’

  ‘But that’s normal, isn’t it?’ Noakes was playing Devil’s Advocate.

  Sinnott shrugged. ‘From what I heard, he had made one or two places too hot to hold him. There was gossip about Black Masses too, which didn’t help.’

  ‘Black Masses? What do you mean?’ Markham leaned forward intently.

  Sinnott emitted a rumbling laugh. ‘Oh, it was just a load of hokum due to him dabbling in fringe stuff outside the mainstream. Theosophy, as I recall. A talk to some historical society or other about occultist philosophies ended with him being denounced to the bishop as a practitioner of the dark arts and devil-worshipper to boot!’

  ‘Hmmm.’ Markham was thoughtful. ‘Isn’t theosophy meant to be non-diabolic and peaceful?’

  ‘Oh sure.’ Sinnott nodded vigorously. ‘Woodcourt was banging on about its origins in alchemy and astrology. He gave another talk later about
its links to the great world religions, but by then all sorts of nonsense was doing the rounds.’

  ‘You didn’t find anything sinister about it?’ Taut as a bowstring, Markham watched as Sinnott considered the question.

  ‘To be honest, at the time no, I didn’t. After all, it’s a common enough aspersion in religious circles, Inspector. The Early Christians were accused of cannibalism and all kinds of occult practices. Then, a few centuries down the line, the anti-Semitic brigade accused Jews of kidnapping and murdering Christian children to siphon off their blood.’

  ‘The blood libel.’

  Sinnott looked at Markham with heightened respect. ‘Quite so.’

  Noakes stared from one to the other in bafflement.

  ‘Let’s skip the University Challenge bollocks, Steve,’ he pleaded. ‘You said you didn’t find anything sinister about the Black Masses shitstorm at the time.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘But what about later? Did anything happen to make you change your mind?’

  Markham held his breath. He could tell from the sudden stillness which came over Sinnott that the DS was on to something.

  ‘Something close to home?’ he prompted gently. ‘Something to do with your kids?’

  The other stiffened. ‘It’s personal—’ he muttered gruffly.

  ‘Nothing’s personal in a murder inquiry, mate,’ interjected Noakes.

  ‘Murder!’ Sinnott’s ruddy cheeks blanched.

  ‘Ongoing inquiries,’ Noakes confirmed portentously.

  ‘Look, Mr Sinnott,’ said Markham, trying to suppress a rising tide of impatience, ‘if Woodcourt’s our man, then he’s a predator. We’re dealing with someone who camouflaged himself as a priest to target his victims and cut the weakest from the pack. The perfect disguise.’

  As his friend’s head sank lower, Noakes attempted some bluff reassurance. ‘The canon certainly fooled us good and proper.’

  Sinnott looked up at the two officers with a hunted expression. ‘Could be something and nothing,’ he murmured, ‘but I noticed a change in my younger boy. It was a while back when I was starting out in Boscastle. Woodcourt was doing lots of outreach with the Youth Group, and my lads belonged to a Junior History Club or some such. It all seemed harmless enough. Kept them out of mischief.’