The Devil Came to Abbeville

by Marian Phair

  It was not long before the name Kevin Edwards, came up, and he was known to associate with Terry Jones, the petty criminal whose name cropped up with sinister regularity. Twenty two year old Terry Jones was already well known to the police, he had been in trouble before for burglary and assault.

  Two police officer’s were sent to the end of terrace council house on Lime Tree Avenue. When the door was answered to their knock, a large ginger cat shot out between their legs and made off down the garden.

  “Mrs Edwards?” one of the officer’s asked the woman in the doorway.

  “Yes. What’s wrong, Kevin hasn’t been in an accident has he?” she asked, a worried look on her face.

  “No, it’s nothing like that Mrs Edwards. Is Kevin at home we would like to ask him a few questions?”

  “He isn’t here. He left about an hour ago. What sort of questions?”

  “May we come in for a moment? I could see one or two curtains twitching when we came up your path. I’m sure you don’t want your neighbours to know all your business.” He smiled as he said it, and she moved to one side inviting them in, and closed the door behind them.

  “Go through the door on your right into the front room,” she told them.

  Going over to the settee against the back wall, she shoved a beautiful grey Persian cat off the cushions and invited the officer’s to sit down. When they were seated she asked, “What’s this all about, what do you want with my Kevin?”

  “I’m Sergeant Karl Walton, and this is Officer Craig Ingles,” he said making the introductions. They nodded their heads in greeting.

  “We are making inquires into an incident that happened last night. Was Kevin here at home with you, or out somewhere with his friends?”

  “Kevin wasn’t here last night, he didn’t come home until this morning. He told me he was staying overnight at his friend, Terry Jones’ place. He was helping Terry paint his flat.”

  “So, he was with Terry Jones last night?”

  “That’s what I’ve just told you, Terry asked Kevin to give him a hand.”

  “What time did Kevin go to Terry Jones’ place?” Officer Ingles asked her.

  “I don’t know exactly. I guess it would be around seven thirty; I always watch ‘Emmerdale,’ and it starts at seven o‘clock, and it was about half way through when he left.”

  “And that was the last time you saw Kevin until he returned this morning?”

  “No.”

  “So, Kevin wasn’t gone all night then?”

  “He left to help Terry, and then he popped back about ten minutes later to ask me if I had a pair of tights he could have.”

  “He asked you for a pair of your tights, did he say why he wanted them?”

  “Well, yes. Kevin had some old paint left over from a job he’d done some months ago. He asked me for an old pair of tights to strain the paint through, because it had got dried paint flakes and skin in it, and it was the paint they were going to use at the flat”

  The two officer’s looked at each other; they both knew what the other was thinking.

  “You said Kevin left here an hour ago, what time did he arrive home this morning?” the Sergeant spoke for the first time.

  “I don’t know the exact time, it would have been around seven fifteen, to seven thirty. He had lit the fire when I got up and was stripped down to his underpants. He was burning his clothes and his trainers, and when I asked him why he was doing this, he told me he had got some of the red paint over them and they were ruined. I left him to it and went to the kitchen to start breakfast, by the time I had cooked it, he had left.”

  She bent and picked up the Persian that was rubbing its cheek against the leg of her chair, scent marking its territory.

  “Where is Kevin now, did he tell you where he was going?” Officer Ingles asked.

  “I don’t know where he goes, or what he gets up to these days. Your best bet is the pub on the corner of Bank Street, he’s always stuck in there when he‘s not gadding about with that Terry Jones.” The cat on her lap made loud purring noises as she sat stroking it. Sergeant Walton had been taking notes throughout the conversation; he now sat with pen poised as he asked her another question, which was totally unrelated to their reason for being in the Edwards home. He had suddenly remembered a brief they had received a few days ago from Abbeville police station.

  “A ginger cat shot past us when you opened the door. How many cats do you have?”

  “Oh, that was Marmalade; I named him that for obvious reasons. I have three all told. This is Sebastian, and I have a black female, she’s around somewhere. I call her Sooty, again, for obvious reasons. Are you a cat lover by any chance?” she asked him.

  “Not really, I prefer dogs to cats,” he smiled at her genially. “I wonder if I could trouble you for a glass of water, Mrs Edwards, I have been having problems lately with my throat.” Throwing him a suspicious look, she rose from her chair, telling him it was no trouble at all.

  When she had left the room, Karl Walton tore a sheet off his notepad, and then carefully removed a few cat hairs from the cushion beside him, placing them on the paper, folded the ends up encasing the hairs, and slipped it into his pocket.

  She returned with the glass of water and handed it to him. The two men stood up as if to take their leave, instead the Sergeant asked if she would mind them looking around.

  “Of course I mind, this is my home. What reason would you have to look around. Just what exactly did you come here for, you still haven‘t told me?” She stood before them, hands on hips, and an indignant expression on her face.

  “It’s okay, Mrs Edwards, like I told you at the door, we are just making inquiries into an incident that happened last night, and we thought maybe your son could help us.”

  As she closed the front door behind the Police officer’s, Rita Edwards realised that Sergeant Walton had set down the glass of water on the table, and hadn’t taken as much as a sip from it. Something was seriously wrong, she felt it in her bones, and she knew in her heart it had to do with her son Kevin.

  The two officer’s got into their patrol car, watched by a nosy neighbour, who stood concealed behind her dirty net curtains. When they were on their way, Craig Ingles radioed into control, and told them where they were heading. An alert was put out for both Terry Jones, and Kevin Edwards, and later that day, a local judge received a request to issue a search warrant for the Edwards home.

  Kevin Edwards was arrested in the Nags Head public house and taken to Buxton police station, where Chief Inspector Mike Robbins, was waiting to take samples of his prints. It was established beyond doubt that the unaccounted for fingerprints on the cash box belonged to Kevin Edwards. A further search of the waste bin turned up a bloodstained crowbar, the blood matched that of the victims, and once again Kevin’s prints were found on the murder weapon. Faced with the overwhelming evidence against him, Kevin broke down and confessed.

  When stocking- masked Kevin had broken in demanding money, Timothy had recognised his voice, and confronted |him. He had found the blood-stained overalls at the back of an old locker used to store tools, and half empty paint cans. He suspected Kevin had something to do with Emily’s abrupt departure from Buxton and her untimely death, and he threatened to tell of his suspicions to the police, and give them the overalls. The blood on the paint stained overalls, and the cat hairs were matched to the Emily Anderson murder.

  Faced with the overwhelming evidence against him; Kevin confessed to her murder, telling the police officer taking down his statement, that Emily had tried to be virtuous and remain a virgin, and he, whilst high on drugs, had raped her, and she had ended their relationship. Emily never reported the rape to the police, and she was afraid to tell her mother; but she had confided in Hilda Simpson. Sworn to secrecy, Hilda had told no one of the rape, not even her husband, but this knowledge had signed her death warrant.

  The deranged young killer had beaten them both to death with the crowbar used to jemmy the door, and then r
obbed the cashbox of the pitiful few pounds it contained. He spilled the beans on Terry Jones, who he blamed for all his troubles, and told the officer questioning him, that Terry was planning to rob Lily White who owned number thirty four Station Road.

  At the same time that Kevin Edwards was being charged with three counts of murder, a squad car, dispatched to that address, turned into Station Road, siren wailing and blue light flashing, and came to a halt outside number thirty four.

  As the officer’s got out of the squad car, a terrified Albert Brooks fled shirtless out through the back door and scrambled over the garden wall. He ran down the alley way, heading for the junkyard, fear lending wings to his feet. He crawled under a truck at the back of the yard hidden behind a pile of rusty scrapped vehicles, and lay gasping for breath in the long grass, trembling in fear.

  Peering through the window of number thirty four, an officer saw the body of Lily White, where she lay dead on the bloodstained carpet. Trying the door and finding it locked, the officer’s tried to kick their way in, before radioing a request for an ‘Enforcer.’ In no time at all officer’s arrived with a Halligan bar, using it to force an entry into the premises. Within minutes the gruesome remains of the two women were discovered, and a SOCO team was called for, and the area swiftly taped off.

  A crowd had gathered as nosy neighbours and passers by pushed and jostled each other, craning their necks in an attempt to see what was going on, whilst being held back by police officer’s despatched to the scene.

  In the junkyard hidden by the scrapped vehicles, a badly frightened Albert Brooks knew that for him, there was no going back. The die had been cast now, and his only hope was to disappear, and try to avoid capture. His life had turned full circle and bit him on the backside; he would be a wanted man. Penniless and friendless, all he could do was run!

  CHAPTER 18

  The kitchen in the rectory was a hive of activity, as Ruth and Sally, helped by Scott, prepared the food for the coming birthday party. The cake had already been made and iced two days before, and stored in a large biscuit tin. Ruth had Sally stirring the mixture for some smaller fairy cakes, whilst she turned her attention to the home made lemonade, straining it into two large jugs. Scott had the job of setting the small paper cases onto a tray ready to be filled with the sponge mixture that Sally was concentrating on.

  Martha Higgins, along with two other lady members of ‘The Church Women’s Guild’ were busy making up trays of sandwiches. One whole tray was filled entirely with cheese and tomato ones, cut into dainty triangles. Their husbands were busy blowing up balloons, and setting out the tables and chairs; borrowed for the purpose.

  Father Patrick was overseeing this task making sure that everything was laid out on the lawn well away from his precious flower beds; and that a balloon was tied to the back of each chair. Under the solitary tree, he had erected a large board with a picture of a donkey on it, in readiness for a game of ‘Pin the tail on the Donkey.’

  Next to this was a small table on which he had set small paper bags filled with sweets, one for each child. A newspaper wrapped parcel concealed a prize for the winner of ‘Pass the Parcel,’ and there were paper hats and streamers for everyone.

  In the kitchen, Sally dipped a finger into the mixture she had been stirring, and licked it off. “I think this is ready now mum, and it tastes delicious. Can I lick the spoon?”

  “Not yet Sally. I want you to pour out some lemonade for everyone. I have set out six styrene cups next to the jugs on the side by the sink. Wash your hands first, we can have ours, and Father Patrick and the others can have a jug when they have finished.”

  “I thought you were making this for the party.” Scott said.

  “No, we have other drinks for the party. Father Patrick is in charge of that, it’s being set up outside. I thought this would be nice and refreshing for us workers.” She gave him a beautiful smile.

  Sally had washed her hands, and was running her fingers over the jugs and cups preparing to pour out the lemonade. Scott went over to her, and put a hand over her small one.

  “Here, honey, let me help you with that.”

  “It’s okay, I can manage, I’ve done this lots of times,” she told him.

  “Yeah, but those jugs look kinda heavy, and you’re just a little-bity thing,” he said.

  “I’m not a little-bity thing, I’m nine, and I’m strong. Tell him mum. Tell Mr Holden I can do it.”

  “Y’all can call me Scott,” he said. “Mister, is far too formal for friends.”

  Scott looked across at Ruth, who was busy putting the sponge mixture into the paper-cases. She smiled and nodded her head at him, and winked an eye. She signalled to Scott to let him know Sally was capable of pouring the drinks.

  “Sally can pour it out and maybe you could help her by handing them around please.”

  “I’ll do that small thing, okay, Sally honey. Ready when you are. Start pouring.”

  Sally placed one finger into the lip of the cup, then resting the jug against the cup’s edge, she carefully poured in the lemonade until it reached her finger. Her little pink tongue was stuck out of the side of her mouth as she concentrated on her task. Scott stood anxiously by, watching her.

  “This one’s for mum, you can give it to her,” she told him, as she reached for the next cup to fill.

  “Yes, ma’am.” With a shake of his head, Scott took the drink over to Ruth.

  “That’s some daughter you’ve got there,” he told her admiringly. “She’s as bright as a soldier’s button, and as cute as a kitten.”

  Lowering his voice so as not to be overheard by the others, he said in Ruth ear; “Almost as cute as her mother.” Ruth went bright red, and grabbed up the tray of cakes and hurriedly put them in the oven.

  “Next one’s ready,” Sally called out to him. “Hurry up and take it, before I spill it.”

  “I’m coming right over,” he informed her. Soon they all had drinks in their hands, and they raised their cups to Sally in salute, who sat grinning and sipping her lemonade.

  The party was due to start at four o’clock, and end at six. Sally sat quietly in her new, pretty, yellow party dress, while Ruth put the finishing touches to her hair, tying the blonde tresses back with a matching yellow ribbon.

  “Do I have to have a bow in my hair mum, I’m nine now, only babies have bows?”

  “You look lovely, Sally, the ribbon matches your new dress, and a girl of any age can wear a bow in their hair. Now you go down and wait with Father Patrick while I freshen up. Your guests will be arriving shortly and you have to greet them when they do.” Sally left the room, and once out of sight of her mother, she reached up and pulled the offending bow from her hair. With a toss of her head she made her way down the stairs, and on reaching the bottom she hid the ribbon under the cushion of Father Patrick’s chair, before joining him at the door. Suddenly frightened she slipped her hand in his.

  “Everything will be fine, Sally, no need to be afraid,” he told her, sensing her fear.

  “I know, Father, but I can’t help feeling scared. What if no one likes me? I don’t know them, and they don’t really know me.” She gripped his hand even tighter.

  “What’s not to like Sally, you’re lovely, clever and friendly, and have lots of interesting stories to tell, and things you can do. Just give them a chance. They will probably be just as scared of meeting you for the first time.”

  Ruth took the hair brush and ran it through her own blonde hair that was as straight as Sally’s was curly. She quickly applied mascara, and a touch of pink lipstick, then checked her reflection in the mirror. The pale green chiffon dress she had chosen to wear made her eyes appear an even deeper green. She dabbed perfume behind her ears, and on her wrists; then slipped her feet into low-heeled sandals, and went down to the kitchen to put the finishing touches to the Birthday cake. She selected nine pink candles holders and matching candles from the box, and went into the pantry to fetch the cake. When she came out, Scott was lea
ning against the sink, a glass of water in his hand. Seeing her, he gave a low whistle of approval.

  Not daring to look at him, Ruth set the tin on the table and removed the lid. Lifting out the cake she placed it on its stand, getting some of the butter icing on her fingers. She went to lick it off, but before she could, Scott was beside her, cloth in hand.

  She thought he was going to wipe the mess from her fingers, and held her hand out to him. Instead he raised her hand to his lips, and gently sucked each finger in turn.

  He gazed into her eyes the whole time as his tongue flicked and licked every speck of icing from them. Ruth stood mesmerised; she could not take her eyes from his, her heart was pounding so hard she thought it would burst. Still holding her with his gaze, he reached out to the cake and scooped a little icing on his finger, and gently wiped it across her lips, then pulling her in close to him, he proceeded to lick and nibble gently at her lips before claiming them with his own. Ruth almost swooned as she melted against him. He deepened the kiss, as she clung to him, matching his fiery passion.

  Approaching footsteps forced them apart. Ruth stood breathless on trembling legs as Father Patrick entered the room.

  “Ah, here you are, I wondered where you had both got to. The children are starting to arrive. Scott, I wonder if you will take charge of the gifts and cards and put them somewhere safe for Sally to open later. Then maybe you’d be kind enough to pour out drinks for everyone.” One look at Ruth’s face, flushed with embarrassment, told him he had interrupted something. Her hands shook as she returned to the task of placing the candles on the cake.

  “I’ll be along as soon as I’ve finished here, Father; I’ll only be a few minutes,” she told him, not daring to look up from her task.

  Scott moved away from the table, and as he passed behind her, Ruth heard his whispered ‘later, honey’ as he joined Father Patrick, where he stood waiting in the doorway. When the two men had left the room, Ruth collapsed onto a kitchen stool before her trembling legs gave way beneath her; completely overwhelmed by what had just taken place. She could still feel the pressure of Scott’s lips on her own. His kiss had turned her whole world completely upside down. Taking several deep breathes, she calmed herself down, and once she had regained her composure, she joined the rest of the party in the garden.