by Jo Carnegie
‘Who is it, Penny?’
PC Penny could hardly get the words out. ‘It’s . . . it’s a man who says he was with the Reverend Goody the night he died!’
Rance was out of his chair now, bounding round to the other side of the desk.
‘This bloke says the Reverend wasn’t murdered, that they were playing some kind of sex game!’ squeaked Penny. Rance stopped in his tracks. ‘The Reverend was gay?’ he asked, astonished.
‘Too right! This bloke met him in some internet chat room and the Reverend invited him over to the rectory for some hanky panky or something. Apparently they were into some pretty kinky stuff . . .’
Rance hitched up his trousers grimly. ‘Let’s get to the bottom of this – no pun intended – right away.’
They were in interview room two. The man sitting across the small square table from DI Rance looked like he wouldn’t say ‘boo’ to a goose. Average height, he had short thinning dark hair, a round, slightly petulant face, and rimless half-moon spectacles which he kept taking off and polishing nervously with his shirt sleeve. He had just told them his name was Gareth Hebdon and he was a 34-year-old librarian from Birmingham.
‘I can’t live with it any longer!’ Gareth wailed, small mole-like eyes filling up with tears. ‘I wanted to protect Arthur, and all I’ve done is let him down! My poor Arthur!’ Gareth burst into snorts of noisy tears.
Penny was instantly there with a Kleenex, waving it solicitously in front of him. Gareth accepted it gratefully. ‘Th-th-thank you,’ he said from behind the tissue.
Rance wasn’t so sympathetic. He leaned over Gareth ominously.
‘Do you want to tell me what the hell is going on?’
It took twenty tortuous minutes, punctuated by sobs, before the whole sorry story was out. By the end of it, DI Rance wanted to grab hold of PC Penny’s baton and shove it somewhere where the sun didn’t shine. He couldn’t believe this bloody bloke!
It transpired that the two men had been conducting a secret affair for six months. They had indeed first met on an internet dating site, and after a clandestine meeting in an Oxford library they had begun a full-blown love affair. Gareth claimed he was sick of hiding in the closet, and wanted to leave his wife and come out to the world as the Reverend’s other half.
‘Is that where you’ve been all these months, then?’ barked Rance. ‘In the bleeding closet?’
‘You’re married?’ squealed Penny.
‘Arthur begged me not to tell the truth! He said he’d dedicated his life to the church and it would ruin everything. I told him not to be so stupid, that there are more gay vicars around than you can shake a cassock at these days . . .’
At this particular revelation Penny’s eyebrows shot into his hairline.
Gareth carried on, ‘Arthur wouldn’t listen to me. He said if we were to go on seeing each other, it would have to be in secret. No one else knew about us. That was the only way Arthur wanted it.’ He sniffed loudly. ‘I loved him so much, I went along with it.’
‘Would you like to tell me what happened on the night the Reverend died?’ asked Rance grimly. Gareth went pale and seemed to baulk at the memory.
‘It was awful. I decided to go and have a bath and left him listening to Radio 4. When I came back, he was dead.’ Gareth shuddered. ‘He was just hanging there from a hook on the door with the scarf round his neck.’ He burst into loud, noisy sobs again. ‘I’ve had auto-erotic asphyxiation experiences plenty of times and it’s never gone wrong before!’
‘Auto what?’ asked Penny, clearly baffled. What was this bloke talking about cars for?
‘Auto-eroticism Penny,’ Rance informed him. ‘It’s a sexual practice when people strangle themselves to reach orgasm. Something about cutting off the blood supply to heighten the senses.’
This time, Penny’s eyes looked like they were about to pop out of his head.
‘I – I came back and when I saw poor Arthur there, I panicked,’ said Gareth. ‘I went over to revive him, but he was obviously dead.’ Gareth’s pudgy bottom lip wobbled. ‘I was in a state of shock, but eventually I untied him from the door and dragged him over to the bed. I couldn’t bear to leave him just lying there for the world to see. People would have put two and two together and our – his – secret would have been out. I know what it’s like, people would have made his life sound sordid, and he wouldn’t have been there to defend himself.’ Gareth blew noisily into his sodden tissue.
‘Even if what you say is correct, you did leave him there, didn’t you, Mr Hebdon?’ barked Rance. ‘I don’t need to tell you you’re in very serious trouble. A possible murder suspect, perverting the course of justice, wasting police time . . . Don’t you watch the news, man? We’ve had a full-scale murder hunt going on!’ Rance exhaled angrily. What a cock-up.
‘Don’t you think I’ve wrestled with my conscience every day!’ wailed Gareth. ‘I haven’t been able to eat or sleep, I’ve left my wife because I couldn’t go on living a lie. Every time I went to phone the police, I’d hear Arthur’s voice saying: “We can never tell anyone.” ’ Gareth wiped his nose on the back of his sleeve. ‘It was horrible to let people believe Arthur had been murdered, but I thought anything was better than the truth. I wanted him respected in death, as he was in life.’ He looked at the police officers through red-rimmed eyes. ‘You do understand, don’t you?’
The months of hard slog and frustration had come to a head. Rance slammed his hands down on the desk, making Gareth and Penny both jump.
‘No, I bloody don’t understand!’ he roared. ‘We’ve been running around here like blue-arsed flies for the past five months while you’ve been living in cloud bloody cuckoo land!’
‘I’m here now, aren’t I?’ Gareth said plaintively. ‘I’m a law-abiding citizen y’know.’
‘Ha!’ shouted Rance. ‘I don’t think so. For all this sob-story malarkey, may I remind you that you are under suspicion for the killing of the Reverend Arthur Hillary Goody!’
At this, Gareth went into meltdown, wringing his hands. ‘I’m not a murderer, you’ve got to believe me!’ he shrieked. ‘I know I should have come forward earlier, but I was in turmoil!’ He put his face into his arms and started sobbing violently.
Rance studied the man caustically. He’d seen enough crocodile tears in interview rooms to spot them a mile off, but he didn’t believe Gareth Hebdon was a cold-blooded killer. Self-obsessed and highly-strung as he was, the guy just didn’t have it in him. Not that Rance was going to tell him that just yet.
‘You, Mr Hebdon, are not going anywhere until you answer a few more questions,’ Rance told him. ‘Let’s get on with this, shall we?’
Penny had heard that tone of voice before. He looked at the snivelling witness in front of him, and knew his day was about to get much, much worse.
Caro and Milo ended up staying at Clementine’s on the night of the ball. When she cautiously returned to Mill House the next day, having waited to give Sebastian enough time to pack his belongings, Caro’s heart was in her mouth at the thought of what she might find. Perhaps he would have gone ballistic and taken everything with him; or maybe he’d have trashed the place out of spite. Even worse, he might still be there, simply refusing to leave. As she put the key in the front door, Caro’s heart sank at the thought of another confrontation.
Instead she was greeted by silence. It should have been a horribly isolating moment of realization, but Caro took a deep breath and felt only relief. She made her way up the stairs and into their bedroom. Sebastian had gone. It wasn’t the empty wardrobe or the absence of face serums and pore strips in the bathroom that told her this. All the tension and misery in the place seemed to have evaporated. Even when Sebastian hadn’t been at home, he had somehow managed to distil negativity into the very bones of the house. But today it felt welcoming and happy for the first time. It was almost like an exorcism had been performed, driving away Sebastian’s nasty spirit.
Caro looked in the mirror above the fireplace and sm
iled at her reflection tentatively. The smile felt natural and good.
‘I think I’m going to be OK,’ she said aloud.
Chapter 59
DETECTIVE INSPECTOR RANCE was furious again. In fact, he was completely boiling. It was two days after the ball and he’d just been summoned to Chief Inspector Haddock’s office. After Gareth Hebdon had come forward, a second pathologist had been ordered to go through the Reverend’s post-mortem results one more time. She had come back with conclusive evidence that the death was not suspicious. If the original pathologist, Bernard Trump, hadn’t been several sheets to the wind that day in the mortuary, he would have arrived at the same conclusion. Trump was promptly hauled up in front of a disciplinary hearing, with rumours of an immediate retirement and a trip to a drying-out clinic in the West Country.
Despite this farrago, Rance had been ready to slap several lesser charges on Hebdon, including failure to report a death. Then Haddock had called him in and ordered him to let Hebdon off. Muttering on about too much bad press around the case, and the police looking like a laughing-stock, Haddock had said he wanted the whole furore to die down naturally. When Rance had tried to object, his superior officer had angrily informed him that he could like it or lump it, before adding in a scathing tone that, under the circumstances, Rance should be thankful he still had a career in the police force. ‘Can’t believe you didn’t realize her passport was missing, man.’
Furious at Haddock and even more furious at himself, Rance stormed down the corridor, flinging open the door to the main office. DS Powers, head buried in the sports section of the Bedlington Bugle, looked up in bemusement. ‘Don’t ask, Powers, just don’t ask,’ Rance growled, and threw himself down in his chair.
The mystery of the hooded figure and suspicious car was solved that evening. Once again putting out the rubbish at closing time, Jack Turner saw a dark mysterious shadow, wearing a full-length hooded cloak, loitering near the Merryweathers’ cottage. This time Jack was quicker off the mark. In a heroic, silent dash across the green he launched himself at the figure and rugby tackled it to the ground.
It quickly transpired the sinister figure was actually not very sinister at all. As the two rolled around on the grass, distinctly female shrieks came from the figure. When Jack rolled off, aghast, he was confronted by a tall, skinny, middle-aged woman wearing a pink ‘Devon Is Heaven’ T-shirt under her cloak. She got up and breathlessly introduced herself as 45-year-old Valerie Higgins from Oxford. Wild-eyed and even wilder-haired, Valerie claimed to be Devon Cornwall’s number one fan, despite the fact that she had spent months driving round the village unsuccessfully looking for Byron Heights. ‘I thought he lived in a castle somewhere!’ she cried. ‘I only wanted to knock on his door and ask him to sign my memorabilia.’ At that point, a whole load of Devon photos and fanzines had fallen out from under her cloak.
At first Jack thought she was having him on. But when Valerie told Jack indignantly that the cloak was one of only fifty limited editions made for Devon’s 1982 Pop Phantoms tour, and assured him she had no intention of murdering or robbing anyone, he decided she was fairly harmless. Still reeling from the fact that he’d rugby tackled a woman, Jack gave Valerie Higgins a sharp reprimand for stalking one of his punters and sent her on her way with a flea in her ear.
Chapter 60
DEVON AND FRANCES were walking round the garden at Byron Heights arm in arm. The mist had finally lifted and it was turning into a rather nice, if chilly winter’s day. They passed the two stone lions at the end, still poised stoically on their platforms, their majestic faces covered with the remnants of early morning frost. ‘Do you realize this was where we first—’ Devon said, but Frances interrupted him with a squeeze of her hand.
‘As if I’d ever forget,’ she said, smiling.
They continued walking in the easy, companionable silence that had become so familiar to them. ‘How’s Harriet?’ Devon asked eventually, pausing to pluck a winter flower off a bush and hand it to Frances.
Her face lit up as she took it. ‘She’s good, really good. She and Ambrose are getting on so much better, as well; it makes such a difference to everything.’
Devon looked at her, one eyebrow arched humorously. ‘The old man’s giving the poor girl a break at last, eh?’
Frances playfully hit his arm. ‘Stop that! Ambrose isn’t a complete ogre.’ She sighed. ‘If anything, I’m the bloody wicked witch of the west. I keep thinking about how I’ve treated Harriet over the years. Always going on at her about the silliest of things, making dreadful comments about her weight.’ She sighed again. ‘I think it all said more about my own insecurities than hers. Harriet wasn’t the one who needed to change, I was. I am trying now. I just hope she can forgive me.’
Devon stopped and wrapped his arms around her in an embrace. ‘Don’t give yourself a hard time, princess. You’re a cracking mum. I am sure Harriet feels the same way.’ He kissed her forehead and made her smile again.
‘You are wonderful for one’s self-esteem, darling,’ she told him.
‘Just returning the favour,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t have got anywhere near where I am now without you, Frannie.’
They stopped walking for a second, staring at each other and luxuriating in the moment. Then Devon spoke quietly. ‘Frances, I . . .’
He stopped mid-sentence and Frances looked concerned. ‘What is it? Are you all right?’
He tried to laugh. ‘Oh, I’m more than all right! This morning I signed up to a five-album deal with Sony records. You’d think by the way they were acting that the bloody Messiah had been found alive and well living in a phone box in Chipping Norton.’
Frances clasped his hands; ‘Darling, that’s wonderful!’ She studied him. ‘Why the long face?’
Devon shuffled his feet a bit. ‘They want me to go on a tour first, “Re-engage with my fan base”, I think is how they put it.’
Frances looked even more uncertain. ‘That’s still good news, isn’t it?’
Devon kicked a stone along the path in front of them, and it went flying off into a sparse-looking rose bush.
‘It’s for four months, worldwide. Then they want me to go straight into the recording studios in Miami. They’re the best in the world for equipment and facilities,’ he explained.
Frances paused and studied him carefully. ‘In my heart of hearts, I knew this day would come,’ she said. ‘You’re too big for Churchminster, Devon. You always were.’
‘But you’re here, Frannie,’ he said, gripping her hands fiercely.
She smiled. ‘I’ll always be here, Devon. It’s where I belong, at Clanfield.’
Devon understood what she was trying to say. ‘I can’t persuade you to run off with me, then?’ he joked sadly.
‘One person in the family running off is quite enough, thank you,’ Frances said, and put her arms around him so he wouldn’t see her tears. It didn’t work.
‘Hey, you’ll always be my princess,’ Devon said huskily into her hair. It smelt of apples.
Late that night Devon and Nigel were asleep in their respective wings of Byron Heights, Devon in the middle of a very pleasant dream in which he was being awarded an OBE for services to the music industry by the Queen at Buckingham Palace. Suddenly there was a loud bang downstairs, and Devon shot up in bed gripping the duvet.
Bang! There it was again. Devon, his mind racing with every imaginable horror from ghosts to mad axe-men, was paralysed with fear. When someone knocked softly on his bedroom door, he nearly had a heart attack.
‘Devon! Are you awake?’ Nigel’s voice whispered urgently. Devon leapt out of bed and ran across the room. Unlocking the heavy wooden door, he pulled it open to find a white-faced Nigel standing there in his striped pyjamas. Devon pulled him inside and hastily locked the door behind them.
For once, Nigel looked positively unsettled. ‘Did you hear that noise?’ he asked Devon anxiously.
‘ ’Course I bloody heard it! Now do you believe me? This place is bloo
dy haunted. I knew I should’ve bought that new build in Cheltenham instead!’ Devon was interrupted by another loud bang downstairs, followed by a bloodcurdling guttural howl. It went on for several terrible seconds before fading into the depths of the house.
Devon clutched Nigel. ‘That’s what Frances and I heard before! Is there a fucking werewolf down there or something?’ His teeth were chattering violently, and not through cold. ‘I-I wish Frances was h-h-here. She’d know what to do.’
Nigel tried to disengage himself from Devon. ‘We’ve got to go down there,’ he told him. ‘It could be a burglar.’
‘Are you off your flaming rocker?’ Devon hissed. ‘I’m not going down there!’
Some of Nigel’s common sense was returning now. ‘Come on, and pull yourself together, there’s probably two of us against one of him,’ he said firmly.
‘Or “it”!’ Devon retorted, his eyes two round saucers of horror.
‘I’m going down there, with or without you,’ said Nigel, collecting a poker from the fireplace and moving back towards the door.
Devon was in a quandary. ‘Shit!’ he wailed. ‘You know I can’t let you go by yourself.’ Nigel didn’t say anything, and Devon looked half-heartedly round the room for a weapon of his own, eventually settling for a rolled-up yoga mat that was propped by the side of his bed.
‘Going to stretch the intruder to death, are you?’ enquired Nigel.
‘Oh shut up! I don’t know how you talk me into these things.’ Devon positioned himself behind Nigel, the yoga mat raised above his head like a baseball bat. ‘Let’s go and get killed, then.’
Nigel silently unlocked the door and pushed it open. Outside, the wide sweeping corridor was a yawning chasm of darkness. There was another bang downstairs, this time followed by the unmistakable tread of slow, heavy footsteps. Devon gave a squeak of fear. ‘It’s coming from the kitchen!’ he whispered.