The Slow Road to Hell

by Grant Atherton

  We make decisions every day of our lives; big and small, good and bad. And many of them of no lasting significance. But the decision I'd made that day was one I'd learned to regret for many years.

  I couldn't have stayed there. Not then. Not under the watchful eye of a father who now despised me no matter how hard I tried to please him. And so I ran away. Packing what few possessions I had, I left without a word to anyone, hurt ashamed and confused. In retrospect, it had been an ill-conceived ill-considered decision. Unhappy and distressed, eager to get away from a home life dominated by a tyrant of a father, and without thinking through the consequences of that decision, I had also left behind the one person who meant more to me than any other. Nathan Quarryman, my friend, confidante and lover.

  But there was no going back. Some mistakes cannot be undone. And as time passed, I learned to live with the consequences of that rash decision, making a new life for myself without the man I had loved for nearly half my life. And I tried to forget him.

  The town had changed surprisingly little over the years. The Tasty Bites burger bar still propped up the end of the block on Tideswell Road. A favourite eatery of mine until the proprietor, old man Roscoe, caught me emptying the salt cellars into the sugar bowls. Revenge for his refusing to accept he'd shortchanged me. Not that I'd needed a reason. It wouldn't have been the first time I'd pulled some stunt for sheer devilment. Like the time, I'd dropped red dye into the local swimming baths during the school gala. One of many escapades that had provoked my father's wrath. But maybe that was the point. Kickback, I guess, against the pressures of being the vicar's son. And, dear God, there had been some pressures.

  Further to the north, the square stone clock tower, nestled within a gated enclosure of cultivated greenery, stood watch over the small paved square where Nathan, Karen and I would often meet up before heading off to a local pub or to take in a film at the Essaldo. The cinema had gone now. A penny arcade stood in its place but the large red Essaldo sign still hung over the entrance on the white stucco facade.

  And it was there, in the dark, that my friendship with Nathan had changed into something more. I still remembered that moment. So clearly. We were watching a late night horror film. The three of us. Something with vampires. I sat on one side of Nathan and Karen on the other. As we settled into our seats, Nathan squeezed my leg. As he often did. A friendly gesture. But this time his hand had lingered there, resting on my thigh, and a moment later, I sought his hand and held it. Such a simple gesture. But it changed everything. And it had seemed so right. I don't remember much about that film. Just lots of teeth and blood. But I remembered the way my heart beat against my chest and the way my breath caught in my throat.

  I remembered too the times he would join me here. Always knowing where to find me when I needed him. When I was having a hard time with my parents or following some trouble I'd gotten into.

  I'd almost forgotten how much I had relied on him. How supportive he'd always been when I needed a friend. The strong arm around my shoulder. The deep reassuring voice.

  A tightness gripped my throat and a dull empty ache spread through me. Maybe this hadn't been such a good idea after all. I turned away and made my way back to the car.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Storm clouds were already blowing in from over the mainland as I turned into Vicarage Lane. The sky was ashen grey. By the time I reached the vicarage, the first of the rain was falling. I parked up close to the courtyard gate and hurried over to Trivett's house, sidestepping puddles of rainwater and clutching my coat collar against the wind.

  The vicarage faced the gate, with Trivett's house to the left, standing at right angles to it. As I neared the two buildings, a uniformed police officer stepped from the shelter of the vicarage porch and took up a position by the entrance.

  I stopped and stared at him. The vicarage should have been closed up and secured once my father's body had been removed. So why this? Why would one of Elders Edge's finest be playing guard duty?

  I headed towards him.

  The uniform spotted me and stood to attention, hands behind his back, his chest puffed out in a display of authority.

  He must have thought I was on my way to the vicarage and, when I reached him, he moved to block my approach, and adopted what I presumed was his 'official' pose once more.

  "I'm sorry, Sir," he said, "but these premises are off limits at the moment."

  "What's the problem here?" I asked.

  "No problem, Sir. May I ask you what business it is of yours?"

  I explained what business it was of mine. He offered his condolences for my loss but still refused me entry.

  I upped my tone a notch and said, "Your Sgt Lowe assured me that I would have access to my father's home this morning. So I'll ask you once again. What's the problem?"

  I tried to keep the irritation out of my voice. It was never a good idea to upset the local constabulary.

  He drew himself up and said, "With respect, Sir, I wouldn't know anything about that. I was sent here - by Sgt Lowe himself, I might add - to secure the premises and make sure no one was let in until the Forensics Team had finished their work."

  "Forensics?" My heart skipped a beat. "Am I missing something here? My father had a heart attack. Why would you need Forensics?"

  "I can't tell you any more, Sir. All I know for sure is that a team is on its way, and I'm here to secure the premises until they arrive. If you need to know anything else, I suggest you get in touch with the station."

  "You can be damn sure I will."

  All thoughts of hiding my irritation were gone. The dubious pleasure of standing around in the drizzling rain, locking horns with Mr Plod, was fast losing its appeal.

  Lowe had meant to leave the vicarage keys with Trivett. Whether or not he had, he may well have appraised Trivett of the current situation.

  I took my leave of our boy in blue and made my way over there.

  The door opened as I approached. Trivett must have been watching for my arrival. A thin rake of a man stepped out. He wore a pair of cavalry twill trousers, a baggy white woollen pullover that hung off his bony frame like a sail, and a clerical collar. He blinked at me from behind a pair of thick-lensed spectacles which magnified his eyes and gave him the appearance of a startled rabbit.

  He greeted me and asked me in. "Sgt Lowe told me to expect you," he explained.

  After shaking out my wet coat onto the tiled porch floor, he arranged it on a hook behind the door, and ushered me into the sitting room, fussing around me and keeping up a constant flow of chatter about the bad weather. He was the kind of man who ran on nervous energy. Just watching him was exhausting.

  The living room was small and cluttered, with a black leather three-piece suite huddled around a hissing gas fire. Trivett invited me to take a seat on the couch before settling himself into the nearest chair.

  The clatter of crockery from nearby suggested that Trivett's wife was taking care of domestic chores in the kitchen.

  I hadn't intended to stay but as it was our first acquaintance, it seemed churlish not to. Reluctantly, I sat.

  A corner display cabinet to one side of the hearth contained a collection of Dresden figurines and on a sideboard against the adjacent wall, a photograph of a smiling Trivett and an attractive dark-haired woman stared out from a silver frame. His wife? I guessed it must be. Not at all the retiring mousy type I would have expected to partner someone like Trivett. No accounting for taste. But then what would I know. When it came to relationships, on a scale of zero to useless I made it to the top.

  With a look of benevolent concern on his face, Trivett proffered his condolences and said, "If I'd known you were Owen's son, I wouldn't have been so hasty in calling the police." His tone was apologetic. "Indeed, your father rarely discussed his family. He never said much about you." It sounded more like a question than a statement.

  "We weren't very close," I said. That statement was in danger of becoming a mantra.

  "Still, it must
have been a shock finding him like that. You have my deepest sympathy."

  I thanked him for his condolences and steered him round to the main purpose of my visit. "It was also a shock to find the police still involved. Have you any idea what's going on?"

  Trivett squirmed in his seat. "I'm afraid that may be my fault. I'd better explain. But first I'm sure we could both do with a cup of hot warming tea."

  Before I could protest that a cup of hot warming tea was the last thing on my mind, he turned to the doorway and called out, "Sweetheart, I'm sure our guest could use something warm to drink."

  Almost immediately, Trivett's 'sweetheart' entered the room carrying a tea tray.

  "All ready and waiting," she said.

  Her photograph hadn't done her justice. She was a startlingly attractive woman. Soft skinned with radiant azure-blue eyes in a heart-shaped face framed by short dark hair. She sized me up with a bold stare.

  A white cotton figure-hugging top with a scooped neck showed off her tan and a whole lot more. She was not at all what I'd expected of a curate's wife. Particularly, one of Trivett' s ill-favoured appearance. Shows how easily we allow ourselves to be influenced by stereotypes.

  We went through the now usual formalities of introductions and condolences.

  Leaning over the coffee table, Frances Trivett played the dutiful housewife and poured our teas, fixing me with a look that was anything but dutiful and wondered with a murmur if she could offer me a biscuit. The tone of voice suggested that more biscuits were on offer but I declined anyway.

  All of this play went unnoticed by her dewy-eyed husband. If love truly was blind, then Giles Trivett was living proof.

  Frances left us with a backward glance and a teasing smile.

  Trivett waited until she had retreated and turned his attention back to me. "Oh, you'll be wanting these." He leaned over to an occasional table by the side of his chair, picked up a set of keys, and handed them to me.

  I pocketed them. "You said something about this being your fault," I reminded him, eager for an explanation.

  "Ah, yes." He ran a hand over his thinning hair. "When Sgt Lowe dropped off your keys yesterday afternoon, I happened to mention that your father had a visitor the other day. Jonas Wainwright. He's a local builder. It seems you father had asked him to quote for some work."

  While I drank my tea, Trivett went on to explain that he had seen Wainwright at the vicarage door and gone out to question him. He had learned that Wainwright's appointment had been two days earlier but that on his arrival, he had heard my father engaged in a violent argument inside. Not wanting to get involved, he had left, intending to speak to my father later in the week. But on his return that day, he had been unable to get a response to his knocking.

  "As your father's visitor may have been the last to see him alive," said Trivett, "and there seems to have been some sort of altercation, it obviously raised some concerns and the police must have decided it was worth more scrutiny."

  More scrutiny was one thing but to turn what was, for the police, a relatively minor incident into a full-scale criminal investigation on the basis of a recent argument was ludicrous. Unless there was something Trivett and I were unaware of.

  "Have you any idea who it was?" I asked.

  "Wainwright seemed to think he recognised the voice, but he didn't tell me who."

  "Did you hear or see anything?"

  "I wasn't here. I was away at a conference. But Frances heard the argument. It was loud enough to carry over here. She didn't recognise the voice though. We told all this to Sgt Lowe yesterday."

  I acknowledged what he'd told me but I didn't accept the necessity of a scaled-up investigation quite as readily as he had. Not on the basis of a reported argument. Something didn't ring true. The implication of a full forensic investigation was obvious; my father's home was being treated as a crime scene. And the only crime that fitted the circumstances was murder.

  Just as well my next call was to the police station. Sgt Lowe had some explaining to do.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The desk sergeant dropped the receiver back on the hook. "Sgt Lowe will be with you shortly, Sir. I understand he's been trying to get hold of you all morning." His tone was disapproving.

  "Well, I'm here now."

  The sergeant didn't look impressed.

  I took a seat in the waiting area. A morose-looking youth scowled at me from one of the other metal-framed chairs. He slouched in his seat, hands thrust deep in the pockets of a pair of baggy jeans that had seen better days. Probably someone's Probation Officer.

  I was rescued a few minutes later by a fresh-faced young constable who led me down a featureless corridor to an equally featureless interview room. The room was small and windowless. It was oppressive, despite the white-painted walls.

  Sgt Lowe was seated at a desk in the centre of the room. He greeted me curtly and waved me towards a chair on the other side of it. The desk was bare but for a recording device sitting between us.

  The young constable took up a position in the corner of the room by the door.

  Something was out of kilter here. This wasn't the reception I'd expected. There was a change in Lowe's attitude from when we had last met, a coolness.

  And then it struck me. I'd sat in on enough police interviews to recognise what this was. I was being treated as a suspect.

  "Is this a formal interview?" I asked.

  But of course it was. Now that this whole sorry affair had been turned into a criminal investigation, I was the perfect candidate for murderer of the day. Most murders are committed by close family members - though in my case, I'd take issue with the term 'close' - and I was the obvious choice for first in the line of fire.

  In his best formal tone, Lowe said, "I'm interviewing you today in connection with the murder of Owen MacGregor."

  So they really were treating my father's death as murder. My mood turned from exasperation to anger. This was so stupid. Bad enough that I had to cope with my father's death in such circumstances and now it was to be investigated as a possible murder because of a presumed argument with someone. It didn't make sense.

  I kept my thoughts and my feelings to myself as Sgt Lowe leaned across the table and switched on the recording device. Its baleful red eye gleamed into life and it glared up at me.

  Lowe stared directly into my face. No doubt looking for a reaction that would confirm my guilt. I must have been a disappointment to him. It's not as if I didn't know the form and I wasn't about to let him intimidate me.

  "Am I under arrest?" I said.

  "No, Mr MacGregor. For the moment, this is an interview under caution."

  For the moment? That didn't bode well for my prospects. And I knew enough to know that an 'interview under caution' was police speak for 'we know you're as guilty as hell but we can't prove it yet'.

  I stared back at him, stony faced, as he advised me of my rights and, for the sake of the recording, registered details of time place and those present.

  I was aggrieved. This whole thing seemed such a gross waste of time.

  "Look," I said, "I spoke to Trivett this morning. He told me about the argument Jonas Wainwright overheard. It's hardly a justification for turning my father's death into a murder investigation."

  "Your father was strangled."

  This time, Lowe got a better reaction. My jaw dropped, and I stared back at him, open-mouthed. I trembled as the blood drained from my face. "Strangled?" It came out as a strained whisper. "There has to be some mistake."

  "We're still waiting for the Medical Examiner's final report but from the details we already have, there seems little doubt. The deceased had signs of haemorrhaging in the eyes, and contusions and abrasions on the neck. Of course, there will be a full autopsy but we're certain it will confirm what we already know. You father died of manual strangulation."

  It didn't make sense. God knows my father could be a difficult man; arrogant, self-opinionated, holier-than-thou. There were many people who had
little cause to like him but that was a far cry from wanting to murder him.

  "I don't understand. Who would want to do such a thing?"

  Stupid question. He didn't need to reply. The answer was in his expression.

  "No." I shook my head vigorously. “Don't even go there."

  He said, "I'm going to need details of your whereabouts over the last week. And we'll need to contact anyone who can vouch for you."

  "Well, that shouldn't be a problem, I spent most of my days at City Road Police Station in London."

  "Oh?" He raised an eyebrow.

  "Relax, Sergeant. Nothing untoward I assure you. I'm a forensic psychologist. Sometimes, I get asked in to sit in on interviews. It's all in the line of work."

  "And the evenings?"

  "For God's sake. I live in London. It's miles away."

  "It's only two hours by car."

  This was unbelievable. "Someone would have seen me if I'd driven down here."

  "We're already pursuing that line of enquiry, Sir."

  I thought back over the past few days and was instantly relieved. The Gods had blessed me for once. A week earlier and I would have needed to acquaint Sgt Lowe with some of London's lesser known attractions; one or two less than salubrious gay cruising spots and at least one private club that wouldn't be getting its Health and Hygiene certificate any time soon. Fortunately, I'd spent most of my evenings preparing material for my weekly radio broadcast. Alone. In my flat. But, unfortunately, the only evening I could account for was two days before that of the actual broadcast.

  "Most of the week, I was at home preparing some work for a radio broadcast," I said. "I host a show on local radio."

  "Yes, I've already done some checking. I understand you have a show about investigations into unsolved murders." There was a hint of mockery in his voice. The irony wasn't lost on either of us.

  "Among other topics," I said.

  "You told me yesterday that you and your father weren't close. Any reason for that?"

  "He didn't approve of my lifestyle."