by Marian Phair
“Nobody you know, mum, she’s not from here.” Rosemary answered her question, keeping her back to her, so her mother couldn’t see she was lying. Funny how her mother had always been able to tell when any of her offspring were not telling the truth. She had this uncanny knack of looking at their faces and instantly knowing whether she was hearing the truth, or a pack of lies, and she dealt with them accordingly.
Her father, Ken, came into the kitchen carrying his dirty mug, and added it to the dishes in the sink.
“What’s the name of this friend of yours? How did the two of you meet?” he asked.
“Her name’s Betty, and we met three months ago in a café when I went on a shopping spree to Buxton,” she lied. “We got talking and hit it off. We’ve met a few times since, just for a coffee, or to go and see a film.” Rosemary kept her back to her parents as she spoke. Turning on the tap she added hot water to the sink, and then a squirt of washing up liquid.
“Well, you just watch what you get up to my girl. Make sure you stay together; there is safety in numbers, so mark my words. Keep away from dark alleyways, and stay where it’s well lit-up. We don’t want the police knocking on the door telling us something bad happened to you. It’s not safe out there for a young girl alone.”
He went back into the dining room and picked up his newspaper. Drying her hands, she followed him, leaving her mother to finish the tidying up.
“I won’t be on my own dad, I’ll be with Betty. Anyway, I’m nineteen. I’m not a child.
I can take care of myself. I know the dangers, and I won’t do anything stupid.’”
“See as you don’t,” he told her. “As for you taking care of yourself, I’ll bet young Emily Anderson thought the same thing, and we all know what happened to that poor kid. Just watch yourself, that’s all I’m saying.” Then ignoring her, he turned his attention back to his newspaper where he had been studying the racing results.
Rosemary went upstairs to pack an overnight bag and get dressed for her date with Albert. Her heart was beating wildly against her rib-cage, dreading what lay ahead!
Ronald York was heading home when he spotted his sister standing on the corner of New Street and looking anxiously up the road. She didn’t see him. He was about to make his way over to her when he saw Albert Brooks turn the corner, and his sister pick up her overnight bag and hurry to meet him. Ronald ducked into the doorway of a nearby grocers shop, and watched the two as they hugged and kissed each other in greeting, before heading off in the opposite direction. What the hell was his sister doing hugging and kissing a married man. Not any married man, but Albert Brooks, whose reputation preceded him everywhere he went. Ronald made his way home, wondering what his father would say when he imparted this information to him.
CHAPTER 12
The fog had not dispersed completely as Jake Fletcher drove the three miles to the station from his home on the outskirts of Abbeville. It clung in the many dips and hollows along the route, making his journey even more hazardous. Pulling into the small car park behind the police station, he switched off the engine. Reaching into the glove compartment he removed his cigarettes and lighter, and lit up his fourth smoke of the day. He sat quietly for a few moments, smoking, lost in thought. The clock on the dash-board read nine thirty a.m. Uttering an oath, he got out of the car, slamming the door to behind him. He hurried across the parking lot, puffing furiously on his cigarette, stubbing it out underfoot before going through the side door.
He made his way to the small room that had once been used for storage. It had now been converted into a research room, complete with computer, for Scott Holden.
He had assigned the young constable, Tom Holmes, to assist him. The two men were already at work when he entered the room. Together they were entering every detail that was known about the crimes, searching for patterns that might reveal that the same person was committing them. They had spent the last two days mapping the crimes, under pressure from the investigating team to come up with a preliminary profile.
“Morning,” Jake addressed the two men. They both mumbled a greeting without looking up from their task.
“Do you have anything for me? Anything I can use now? Forensics takes forever before we can get our hands on their results. I need ACTION!”
“Nothing concrete yet, sir, we are still working on it,” Tom Holmes replied.
“Rome wasn’t built in a day, detective. We are making sure we have all the details entered correctly, and correlating what evidence we have,” Scott told him.
“Well, I’ll be in my office if you find anything. I’ll let you get on with it.” He left them to do just that.
By studying detailed maps, Scott had already come to the conclusion that the killer lived locally, and told this to Father Patrick over coffee on his next visit to the rectory.
“How do you go about building up a profile with so little to go on?” Father Patrick asked, as they sat sipping their coffee.
“Well, we make what we call a ‘Behavioural Map.’ We enter each crime on a computer, one below the other in a row. The types of behaviour are entered as columns. For each crime, an action that did not occur is entered in the appropriate column as 1. One that did occur, as 2. This gives us a data matrix. In rows where the pattern of one’s and two’s is very similar, there is a likely correlation between the crimes.”
“Fascinating,” Father Patrick interjected, reaching for the coffee pot, “More coffee?”
“Thanks, and I’ll have another of those delicious homemade cookies if I may. Ruth certainly knows her way around the kitchen. She’s a great cook.” He reached out a hand, helping himself to a biscuit from a plate on the table between them.
“Ah yes, she certainly is. You should try her steak and kidney pie, my mouth waters just thinking about it,” Father Patrick laughed. “I wonder if I will ever get used to the ‘Americanism’ in what I like to think of as the English language.”
“What do you mean?” Scott looked puzzled for a moment, as he dunked his biscuit.
“Oh! Yeh, y’all call them biscuits over here. Stateside, a biscuit is more like your bread rolls. You’ll have to let me know next time Ruth makes steak and kidney pie, I’ll invite myself over for dinner,” he said, smiling broadly, and displaying even white teeth. Scott shifted nervously in his seat. “I was going to ask you something about Ruth. Is she seeing anyone? You know, stepping out with anyone?” He found himself blushing as he asked the question that had been on his mind for some time now.
Father Patrick cast a whimsical look in his direction before answering him.
“Not that I’m aware of. I think I would know if she was seeing someone. When she’s not looking after me, she spends all of her time with Sally. Why do you ask, are you interested in ‘stepping out’ as you put it, with Ruth? Forgive me if I sound crass, but aren’t you a little too old to be chasing after the ladies?” He studied his friends face as he asked this, watching his reaction.
“I’ll have you know there’s only seventeen years between us. Since when did age become an issue between friends?” Scott was a little put out by this reference to his age. “Heck! I’m fifty five, fit and healthy. I may have a little snow on my roof, but the fire hasn’t gone out in my grate! All I wanted to know, was, is she seeing someone? I didn’t want to be stepping on anyone’s toes. It’s not as if I was trying to get her into bed!” Father Patrick raised his eyebrows at this remark, but said nothing.
Scott met his gaze. “Molly told me all about Ruth and the accident. Her husband has been dead for nearly four years now. I know DCI Jake Fletcher and Ruth had a ‘thing’ going way back in high school. If they had been sweet on each other in the past, nothing has been done to move it on over the years, at least according to Molly.” Father Patrick found himself getting angry, and for the life of him, he couldn’t think why.
“Molly talks too much for her own good sometimes. I’m not going to expostulate. Why don’t you approach Ruth yourself, and let her decide if she wants
to ‘step-out’ with you. Let’s get back onto the subject we were discussing before we got side-tracked.” Scott had really been hoping his friend would have offered to put in a good word for him with Ruth, but it appeared that wasn’t about to happen.
“I guess that’s what I’ll do. I’ll just go right ahead and ask her myself.” Scott said.
Father Patrick settled back into his chair, hands clasped loosely in his lap totally relaxed. “You were telling me you thought the killer was local, and was about to explain why when I interrupted you. I really do find all this fascinating. Shocking, yet intriguing.” He waited for his friend to continue.
“Yeh, I guess it is fascinating, in a gruesome kinda way. The program we use, like I said, is represented by rows of numbers. Each row of numbers, that is each crime, as a point, located somewhere within a square. The computer connects all these points to each other, and then tries to relate them to each other as closely as possible. What young officer Tom Holmes likes to describe as, ‘joining the dots’.” He smiled as he thought of the young rooky officer and his eagerness to make an impression.
“The more similar the behaviour in two crimes is, the closer the points representing those crimes will be.”
“I think I follow all that, but when it comes to computers, Scott, I wouldn’t have a clue. I don’t even know how to switch one on.” Father Patrick chuckled.
“Well, the points plotted in the squares will occur in clusters, although this will not reveal definitively which crimes are different from others, it provides an over all picture.” Scott told him as he munched on another of Ruth’s biscuits.
“So, how far along have you got in your search, Scott?”
“Not as far as I’d like to, but from what we have gotten so far, the guy is a local.”
“I’m shocked! Are you sure about this? Are you telling me, that one of my parishioners is a cold blooded killer?” Father Patrick found this hard to believe.
Scott shifted in his seat, and for the very first time considered what he was saying. Should he be explaining all of this to his new found friend? Looking across at him, sitting slightly forward in his seat, an eager expression on his face, and the fingers of one hand tracing the edge of his dog-collar, quietly waiting to hear more, his fears departed, almost as swiftly as they had arisen. The man sitting opposite, was not only a friend, he was a priest. This was his parish. He knew these people well. Some were really close to him. One in particular. Young Liam Findley, had been especially close to Father Patrick’s heart. He decided his friend had every right to know what was going on in his parish.
“When I say local, Patrick, I mean someone really familiar with the area, someone who could go around and not attract attention to themselves, a familiar face. Maybe not from Abbeville itself, possibly a neighbouring village or town, but someone, like I said, who is a familiar face. Like a mailman for instance.”
“A postman, you say? Um.” Father Patrick had a thoughtful look on his face as he digested this bit of news. “Well, that makes sense I suppose, a postie would be familiar with the area, and the people living in it.” He was quiet for a moment, lost in thought.
“What does DCI Fletcher have to say about this?” he asked.
“We have nothing concrete to go on just yet. We are still correlating the information. The police officer’s are busy following up other leads. All these things take time.”
“I see.” Father Patrick leant forward in his chair.
“Haven’t they found anything that moves the inquiries forward?”
“I haven’t spoken to the DCI today yet, but as far as I know, he is still waiting for the police in Buxton to report back to him. They are following up one or two inquires of their own. I do know one thing for sure.”
“What’s that?” Father Patrick asked. “I’m all ears, tell me.”
Scott studied the priests face closely, trying to judge what his reaction would be to his next bit of news.
“I know that there’s more than one killer out there.”
“Really, what on earth makes you think that?”
“What we have gathered so far points to this. I told DCI Fletcher the same as I’m telling you. I’m just waiting to see what Buxton police have to say. I have an idea, a hunch if you like, about the cases I’ve seen so far, but for now I’ll keep these thoughts to myself. Time will tell if I’m right.” Scott watched the priests face closely as Father Patrick digested this bit of news.
“I noticed a drop in attendance at mass, just lately. It would appear most people are afraid to go out, now that there’s a killer out there somewhere. What I can’t understand is why this is happening in my Parish. This has always a peaceful enough place to live. We’ve had no major crimes here. People went about their day to day business in safety. Everyone here in Abbeville knows their neighbour and offers a helping hand when needed. Now all these senseless acts are being committed, and people are afraid, they are wary of their neighbours, it shows in their eyes. People living in Abbeville never had cause to lock their door before all this started. Now, they are afraid to open them, and you’re telling me we have a killer out there, that people are being killed by someone who walks amongst us, someone we all know!”
“Killers, Patrick. I can assure you, there’s more than one.” Scott told him.
“Killers, then. Madness and mayhem on the streets of Abbeville I hope the killers are caught and brought to justice soon, before anyone else dies. How will you go about finding these killers?”
“It’s customary to classify murder according to the relationship between the killer and the victim,” Scott told him. “Conflict, jealousy, the victim owned something converted by the killer, unfaithfulness etcetera, but with serial murders, the crime is apparently random and without purpose. The motive is so deeply locked into the killer’s inner psyche, that the victim need only be one of a type. An elderly person, a child, a police officer, or a priest, for instance.”
Father Patrick felt an involuntary shudder go through his body at this last statement. He wished now he hadn’t asked the question. He was no longer sure he wanted to hear the answer not with so many horrific images starting to creep into his mind.
“It’s getting late,” Father Patrick said, glancing at his wrist watch.
“I have to prepare to take mass. Which reminds me, Scott, I have been asked to help out in Buxton next weekend. The priest there is getting over a bout of the ‘flu and he’s asked if I wouldn’t mind standing in for him. So I won’t see you until I return. Maybe you’ll have better news for me when we meet again.”
“What about your worshipers here in Abbeville? Who will take your place?”
“I had a grand total of six worshippers on Saturday morning, eight if you count my assistant and me. I’ve told the congregation they will be most welcome to attend mass in Buxton, and, in fact, I expect to see them there. I have to go where I’m needed the most, and next weekend, that place will be Buxton.”
Smiling, he got up from his seat, and stretched to relieve his aching muscles before offering his hand to Scott. The two men shook hands warmly, and saying their goodbyes, went their separate ways.
CHAPTER 13
Since the death of young Liam Findley, Ruth had been concerned for Sally’s mental health. Sally had withdrawn into herself, and when not at her lessons, spent most of her time alone in her bedroom. The only time Ruth could entice her daughter out into the fresh air, was to go and put fresh flowers on the graves. Ruth noticed that Sally no longer lingered as before at ‘Skips’ graveside. She would take a single flower from the bunch in her mother’s hand, and having placed it on the little dog’s grave, would walk away. Using her cane to guide her, she would find her way to where Liam lay resting beside her father. There, she would sit quietly beside his grave, while Ruth filled the vases with fresh water from the standpipe, arranged the flowers and placed a vase on each grave. When all this was done, Ruth would take Sally by the hand, and together they would make their way back to t
he rectory. Ruth returned to her chores, whilst Sally, left to amuse herself, usually went to her room; Ruth knew things could not be allowed to continue in this manner. If losing her sight hadn’t been hard enough on Sally, losing her only friend and playmate had had a devastating effect upon her.
When inadvertently overhearing the harrowing details of Liam’s death being discussed, Sally had withdrawn into herself, like a crab into its shell.
Ruth went in search of Father Patrick, and found him sitting in the garden. His bible lay open on his lap, but he wasn’t reading. His eyes were following the birds as they raced each other to the seeds he had put down for them. They took flight as she approached the bench. Looking up, he smiled warmly, and moved down the bench inviting her to join him.
“Can you spare me a moment Father, I need your advice?” She sat down beside him.
“Certainly, Ruth. How can I help you?”
“It’s Sally, Father. Since Liam’s death, she has been spending more and more of her time alone in her room, when she’s not having lessons with you. She has no friends, and no one of her own age to talk to. It’s not right for a child of her age to be surrounded by adult company all the time. She has become so withdrawn lately, and I don’t know how to reach her. I don’t know how to help her through this since she won’t open up to me anymore. We used to be so close, now she is shutting me out of her life more and more each day. How can I make thing’s better for her, I’m at my wits end?”
Father Patrick had been listening intently to what Ruth had to say. He saw the sadness in her lovely green eyes. Eyes that were so much like Liam Findley’s had been. He struggled to keep his mind on the matter at hand, as she told him of her concerns. He too, had noticed the change in Sally. Ruth was right. Something had to be done to bring the laughter back into the child’s life. He pushed thoughts of young Liam to the back of his mind, and gave her his full attention once more.