by Mark Dawson
It was three in the morning by the time Miller left the house. The shoot had lasted two hours and, by the time the party following the shoot had finished, he had been tired and ready to go.
There was a car parked on the lane next to Miller’s house. The passenger-side door opened, and a figure stepped out and started down the road to him. Rain was falling heavily, but the figure—Miller thought it was a woman—didn’t seem to be paying it any heed.
“Mr. Miller?”
Miller stopped with his hand on his gate. His first thought was that it was the police, back to question him again. “Can I help you?”
The car’s headlights flicked on, shining right at Miller. The sudden illumination blinded him, and he had to look away and blink until the streaks and smears of brightness disappeared.
The woman drew nearer. “Remember me?”
It was dark and she was silhouetted by the lights. Miller could see that she was of average height and build, but not much beyond that.
“I can’t see you very well. The lights—”
“Doubt that’d make much difference. It was a long time ago, and I was a lot younger then.”
“I don’t know who you are, and I don’t appreciate being bothered at my home at this time of night.”
The lights flicked off. Miller heard footsteps behind him. He turned—too late—and saw the smudge of movement coming out of the thick dark. He saw motion, something swinging at him, and, when it hit him—hard and fast and sudden—the night drew around him like a fist.
83
Atticus and Mack had come back to the office. She was asleep in the room next door, but he had been unable to relax. His mind raced with thoughts and, unable to quieten them, he had got out of bed and crept through into the office. He had read Bronstein’s book on the Zurich chess tournament for an hour and then, inspired, had woken his computer and checked whether any of his online opponents had taken their moves. He opened the game with Jack; Atticus had moved his kingside knight, and now he saw that Jack had responded by bringing out his second knight. Atticus mirrored that with his queenside knight and submitted the move.
A message appeared in the chat box.
> I need to talk to you.
Atticus typed:
> We’re talking now.
> It’s not the same.
Atticus looked up from the screen, then stood and went to the window. He looked out into the street below. It was deserted. The rain had been falling all night, and now even the road was awash with it, run-off pooling around drains that were already in full spate. He had the uncomfortable feeling that he was being watched, yet could see no evidence to suggest that it was more than just a premonition.
He went back to the desk and saw that another message was waiting for him.
> I need to speak to you. Properly.
Atticus reached for the keyboard to reply, started to type, then stopped. He didn’t know what to say.
Another message flashed up at the bottom of the chat box.
> It’s about James York.
Atticus stared. His fingers rested on the keyboard, lifeless.
> And Richard Miller.
His mouth was dry. He reached for a plastic bottle of fizzy water that he had left next to the keyboard and drank down the tepid half-inch that was left in the bottom.
> Come to the cathedral. I’ll meet you under the tree on the path between the visitor entrance and West Walk.
Atticus frowned.
> The gate will be locked.
Another message flashed up:
> I’ve unlocked it. I have a key.
> When?
> Ten minutes. Please don’t be late. It’s cold, and you’ll want to hear what I have to say.
Atticus grabbed his leather jacket and put it on and wrapped a scarf around his neck. He glanced into the bedroom and heard the gentle breathing that told him that Mack was still asleep. Bandit looked up from his position on the sofa, one ear cocked quizzically.
“I’d better do this on my own,” Atticus whispered. “Stay here. I won’t be long.”
He made his way down to the passageway. The door that opened onto New Street was closed, and Atticus unlatched it and stepped outside. He looked left and right, expecting to see someone watching him. The street was still empty. The rain fell heavily.
He set off, walking briskly through the rain toward the junction with the High Street. He reached the junction and turned left. The North Gate was locked every evening at eleven. Residents of the Close were given a key to unlock it, but ingress and egress were otherwise restricted. He raised his hand and found that the gate swung back at his push. He opened it far enough to pass through and continued inside.
The floodlights that lit the cathedral at night had been switched off. Atticus walked into the grounds and made for the West Front, the Gothic frontage populated by statues of religious figures: angels and archangels, Moses, King David, Isaiah, Jeremiah. He waited there and looked about: it was late, coming up to half past three. There was no one about. The buildings that faced the cathedral from the West Walk loomed in the darkness, a handful with their windows lit, the others shapeless and foreboding.
There was a footpath that led from the West Front to the West Walk, and Atticus made his way along it. A large tree stood at the edge of the cathedral grounds, its naked boughs spread out in all directions, the rain slicing through the leafless branches. Atticus slowed his pace, looking for someone who might be waiting for him, but saw no one. He was alone.
He zipped his jacket all the way up to his neck and then shoved his hands into his pockets. He was starting to feel a little foolish. This had all the makings of a wild goose chase, and he started to wonder who might have been inventive—and bored—enough to have pranked him so thoroughly.
He was about to turn back when he heard the buzzing of a phone.
He looked around, expecting to see someone nearby, but still there was no one: he was all alone.
The phone continued to ring.
He searched left and right, trying to place it, until his eye alighted on a rubbish bin next to the wall. He walked toward it and looked inside: the bag for collecting the rubbish had recently been replaced, and there was just a small collection of discarded newsprint, drinks cartons and other detritus inside it. He ignored all that, for a clear bag had been fixed to the inside of the bin with a length of tape. There was a phone inside, its screen glowing. Atticus yanked the bag away from the tape, ripped it open, and took out the phone.
He answered the call. “Hello?”
“I’m sorry to have put you to this inconvenience, Atticus, but I really wanted to speak to you properly. You know what the internet can be like—it’s so difficult to appreciate nuance.”
The words were distorted and robotic. There were dozens of apps on the market that could change the sound of a person’s voice, and Atticus guessed that one of them was being used now.
“This seems like a very complicated way to do it,” he said. “You could have made an appointment like normal people.”
There came a laugh. “I would love to meet you—really, I would—but I don’t think that would work for either of us. Not now, anyway. Perhaps another day.”
The voice sounded male, but Atticus knew that that meant nothing. The software could make a woman into a man and a man into a woman.
“Well, here I am. What do you want?”
“Richard Miller,” the voice said.
“What about him?”
“You know what he would’ve got if his case went to trial, don’t you? A light sentence and a pleasant place to do the time. An open prison, after a while. Somewhere he can come and go. How would you have felt about that?”
“How do you know about Miller?”
“Never mind that. Answer the question.”
“I wouldn’t have felt great,” Atticus said. “But it is what it is. It won’t be easy to prove he was involved in the murder. All of the other witnesses are dead.”
&
nbsp; The answer was quick and impatient. “Come on, Atticus. You don’t think that’s all he’s guilty of, do you? Really? I had hoped for more from you.”
“Okay, fine—you tell me. What do you think he’s done?”
“It’s not what I think—it’s what I know. Miller, York, Burns… what happened in Londonderry was just them getting started. What about the kids at Imber?”
Atticus looked around. He was still alone.
“What about them?”
“Haven’t you looked into that at all?”
“Of course we have,” Atticus said. “York confessed to it. He said he and Burns killed them.”
“And you believe him? You think it was just the two of them?”
Atticus paused. “I’m not convinced.”
“Good,” the voice said. “Good. It wasn’t just them. There were others.”
“Miller?”
“Yes, but not just him.”
“Who, then?”
“They were being paid to abuse those kids. I don’t know the names of the customers. I was hoping you might have been able to tell me, but maybe I’m asking too much.”
“There’s no evidence that anyone else was involved.”
“Aren’t you listening?” the voice spat. “I was involved.”
Atticus looked around again, itchy that he was being watched. “What does that mean?”
“I’d give you more, but I need to think about whether you’re the right person for the job.”
“Fine. Don’t tell me. Tell the police.”
“You think I can trust them? I know you’re not naïve enough to believe that.” There was a pause. “I can see that you’re trying to do the right thing. You were the only officer who made any effort to investigate what Burns had been doing. You knew it was more than just the pornography they found. I had hoped you might have realised how much more, but…” The voice paused. “Never mind. You have an open mind, and I appreciate the work you did. You lost your job because of it. That and… well, your drug use. And the situation with the detective chief inspector.”
Atticus had the impression that whoever it was on the other end of the line was making a point, demonstrating how much he or she knew about him.
“Do you have proof that Miller was involved?”
“Don’t worry about him. He’s been taken care of.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means he won’t hurt anyone else.”
Atticus turned and started to walk back to the office, taking the most direct route straight across the lawns. He started to jog.
“There’s no need to hurry,” the voice said. “I won’t be there when you arrive. I’d like us to work together, and we wouldn’t be able to do that if you handed me over to your girlfriend. That really wouldn’t work at all.”
Atticus reached the gate and passed through it onto the High Street. “Where’s Miller now?”
“I’m giving him to you. I want you to take me seriously.”
Atticus reached the crossroads and turned right onto New Street. He saw a small black car parked down the road on the right-hand side. The rear lights were on, their red smudging against the rain-slicked tarmac. The car was opposite the multistorey car park.
It looked like it had been left outside his office.
He tried to breathe normally as he lengthened his stride, fighting the urge to run.
“It’s the system, Atticus,” the voice said. “The institution. That’s why I’ve had to take matters into my own hands. It’s either incompetent or corrupt. Often both. I have no faith in it and neither do you.”
Atticus passed the Cosy Club and could see the car more clearly. It was a black Vauxhall Astra.
“Do you know your Bible, Atticus?”
“What?”
“Proverbs, chapter one hundred and six, verse three.”
“I’m sorry, I—”
“‘Blessed are they who observe justice, who do righteousness at all times.’ It’s one of my favourite verses. I’ve left a copy in your post box. I took the liberty of highlighting some of my favourite passages. You should read them. Give them some thought.”
Atticus reached the nursery next to his office as Mack came out of the passageway and onto the pavement. She was wearing her jeans and one of his shirts.
“What is it?”
Atticus ignored her. He reached the car. The engine was running. He tried the driver’s door.
It was open.
He looked inside. It was empty.
Atticus pressed the phone to his ear. “Hello? Are you there? Hello?”
The line was dead.
“Atticus?” Mack said. “What’s going on?”
Atticus backed out of the driver’s side and looked down the road to the junction with Catherine Street. He squinted and saw a figure standing outside the old court building. There must have been a hundred and fifty feet between them, but, as Atticus watched, he saw the figure raise an arm before walking around the corner and out of sight.
Atticus covered his fingers with the sleeve of his jacket, reached back into the car and pushed the button to open the boot. The lock disengaged with a thunk. He went to the back of the car, pulled the lid up and pushed it back so that it stayed open.
Mack joined him. They both looked inside.
“Jesus.”
Richard Miller was curled up in the compartment. His knees were drawn up to his chest and, were it not for the sickle of blood on his throat, it might have been possible to mistake his posture for one of peaceful repose.
Atticus hurried back around the car. He ran down the pavement, his feet splashing through puddles of standing water. Mack followed, but Atticus quickly outpaced her. He reached the corner and turned, blinking into the wind that whipped at him from St. John’s Street.
There was no one there.
No cars.
No pedestrians.
Mack caught up with him.
“Who was that?” she asked, breathless.
The street was empty.
“Atticus—answer me. Who were you talking to?”
He turned back to the car outside the office, the headlights glaring down the street at them, a dead body in the boot.
“I don’t know,” he said. “But I’m going to find out.”
ATTICUS PRIEST WILL RETURN IN
THE RED ROOM
WINTER 2021
Acknowledgments
Thank you to my wonderful advance readers for helping me make this book as enjoyable as possible. Special thanks to detective sergeants Neil Lancaster and Nick Bailey for making sure the police work stands up to scrutiny.
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