by Helen Phifer
Chapter Six
Natalia Costella pulled the sleeve of her daughter Isabella’s coat, dragging her into the church hall despite the fact that the kid was digging her heels down and grumbling.
‘Bella, stop it. I promised that we’d help set up the stalls for the winter fair tomorrow.’
‘I want to go with Daddy, I don’t want to stay here.’
‘Daddy is busy, he has to go to the restaurant and talk to the staff. You’ll be in the way; you can help to set up the toy stall. You’ll like that. You might find something to spend your pocket money on.’
‘Good afternoon, Natalia, how lovely to see you both. I can’t thank you enough for giving up your spare time to help.’
‘Oh, it’s nothing, Father David. I like being here and helping out, it’s such a beautiful church.’
Isabella rolled her eyes; the grip on her sleeve released as she spied Ellie hovering around by the kitchen door and she raced towards her.
He laughed. ‘I think your daughter has a slightly different opinion of the church if I’m not mistaken.’
Natalia’s face began to turn crimson. ‘I’m not going to lie, she’s a daddy’s girl. She wanted to go with him.’
The vicar nodded. ‘Well there’s nothing wrong with that. If my father owned the best pizzeria this side of Brooklyn Bay I’d want to spend my time there as well.’ He patted his round stomach. ‘Although, I don’t think my trousers would be too happy. Can I ask a personal question, are you and your husband Italian?’
Natalia shook her head. ‘I’m part Italian, my mother was from Sorrento, my father is English. Tony is definitely English. He just loves Italian food. When we first met, we spent hours in the kitchen while I taught him to cook. It turns out he’s a far better cook than I’ll ever be. I’d better go and find Margaret, I’m sure she’ll have a clipboard with everyone’s assignments ready to be ticked off.’
She wandered off, and Father David watched her; she had one of those perfect, hourglass figures, complemented by a head of lustrous, black curls and the most seductive lips he’d ever laid eyes on. She had the look of a young Sophia Loren.
The slight touch of a cold hand on his broke his trance and he turned to face Jan, his much plainer, rounder wife of fifteen years. She was glaring at him, and he smiled. ‘Yes, dear.’
‘What are we going to do about Street Saviours on Saturday night? Is it still going to happen or are we going to cancel it?’
‘Why on earth would we cancel it?’
‘You can’t expect people to volunteer at the fair and then come back later on, David. That’s taking their loyalty a little too far.’
‘They won’t mind.’
‘How do you know that? It’s taking the piss if you ask me.’
He winced. ‘You have such a way with words. I’ll ask them and see what they say. I’m sure they’ll all agree it’s far too important to not bother. We’re just getting it off the ground. If we want to be taken seriously then we can’t pick and choose when to go out. We have to be out there, making it a regular thing so the patrons of the pubs and clubs know that we’re here, ready to help them in their hours of need. We’re providing a valuable service and if it stops one drunk from getting into a fight or passing out on the street corner and choking on their own vomit, then it’s all worth it.’
He walked away, and she stared at him, her eyes narrowed and the distaste radiating from her in waves.
Oblivious to the withering look from his wife he began to make his way towards the hall where Natalia was talking to the sullen teenager who had been volunteering with the soup kitchen and organising the winter fair as part of her coursework. But he was intercepted by Margaret.
‘Father, I need to talk to you about the running order of events tomorrow. We need a clear itinerary.’
He tried his best not to roll his eyes, mustering up the warmest smile he could.
‘It’s a winter fair, I don’t think it needs to be precision timed, down to the last minute, Margaret. We open the doors at one and let the rabble do their worst. When we’ve had enough, and the tea and cakes have run out, we’ll draw the raffle and let them all go home.’
‘We can’t do that, we need to be organised. It won’t do to have a free-for-all, things need to be done properly, otherwise it will turn into a disaster. If we don’t get the raffle tickets sold before the end, who knows what could happen.’
‘Margaret, why don’t you tell everyone what you think is best? Have a chat with Jan, she’ll be happy to help you get everyone organised if that’s what you think it needs.’
‘Thank you, David, that’s better. It will be chaos if we don’t keep to a schedule.’
He blinked several times, and then forced his mouth muscles to work and smile.
‘Well, you know best. I’ll leave it in your capable hands; just give me my orders tomorrow and I’ll do my best to follow them.’
His hand reached out, squeezing her frail shoulder. She was so tiny, he doubted Margaret had ever had a curvaceous, lustful figure. In fact he didn’t even know if she’d ever been married; if she had, the poor sod deserved a medal. If he thought his wife was sent to try him, she was almost a saint compared to Margaret.
Chapter Seven
Natalia had been given a raffle ticket book, and a roll of Sellotape to stick all the tickets with a zero or a five on to the selection of donated prizes. She reached the table and looked at the assortment of tat; surely people wouldn’t pay a pound to win a bar of yellowed lavender soap that had been hidden away in someone’s drawer for the last six years, or a bottle of sherry that had years of dust stuck to it? She wasn’t a snob but she enjoyed the feeling of helping others who were far less fortunate than herself. Her favourite was working in the soup kitchen, and she’d helped out with the Street Saviours the last couple of times. Much to Tony’s annoyance: he didn’t like her spending her spare time here. He thought that church and religion were a waste of time and delighted in telling her she should spend her time helping out in the restaurant. She did when she had to, but he paid staff to work there. She hated his attitude at work, he was always so bossy. The hustle and bustle of it all was too much for her, and he didn’t need her. They nearly always ended up arguing whenever they worked together, so it was better if she kept away. She wasn’t too keen on helping the drunken people that the Street Saviours targeted, but despite her reservations about it, she loved helping others. Father David had a way of making you feel bad for saying no and that was how she’d got roped into it. She looked around to see where Bella was and smiled to see her chattering away to Ellie, the surly teenager who was pulling stuffed toys out of boxes. Ellie’s face broke into a smile and soon the pair of them were giggling at something, which made Natalia smile. She was blessed to have a loyal husband, a beautiful daughter and a thriving restaurant. Life was good to her and if she could repay the favour by giving a couple of hours of her spare time to help others less fortunate then so be it. At least she could say her prayers and go to sleep each night knowing that she was being a good person, which was all that mattered.
‘Mamma, Ellie said I could help her tomorrow. Can I?’
Natalia turned around to look at her daughter, who was a miniature version of herself. ‘Help her where, Bella?’
‘Here, on the toy stall. Please, Mamma, I want to.’
She looked at Ellie. ‘She’s certainly had a change of mind; earlier she was crying to go with her dad. If you don’t mind listening to Bella’s never-ending chatter, then of course she can help you.’
Ellie laughed. ‘No, she’s cute and funny. She also passes the time on.’
‘Why are you here on your own? Shouldn’t you be out with your friends shopping and hanging around Costa on a half term Friday afternoon?’
‘Yes, but I have to get good grades in my citizenship. It’s my last chance to impress my dad; he’s kind of mad at me. I’ve messed up everything else, and I wanted to prove to him I’m not a waste of space.’
Natalia studied the girl. ‘That’s very noble of you. What about your mum?’
‘She hates me, I hate her and besides she spends more time at work than she ever does at home. My dad says she’s married to her job in the police more than she was ever married to him.’
‘I’m sure she doesn’t hate you. It’s tough being a teenager though, I remember it all too well. The arguments with my parents were terrible.’
Ellie rolled her eyes. ‘Tell me about it.’
Bella, who was bored of their conversation, nudged Natalia. ‘Can I?’
‘If Ellie says yes, then yes.’
Bella smiled; turning to Ellie she whispered, ‘I told you so.’ She grabbed the teenager’s hand. ‘Come on, I’ll show you where they keep the sweets.’
Natalia turned back to her dismal tombola prizes before she got another order from Margaret. Tony might hate her spending her spare time helping here with the church, but it was the right thing for her to do. It gave her peace of mind and a feeling of satisfaction – which was worth far more than the odd grumbling from her husband.
Chapter Eight
Lucy yawned. Her eyes were feeling heavy. She had to get out of this office – it was too stuffy – if she didn’t, she might fall asleep with her head on the desk. She also needed to go back to the church. The body had been moved to the hospital mortuary a couple of hours ago. She needed to have another look at the scene now it was daylight. The office was empty. Everyone was out on follow-up enquiries, which suited her just fine: she would go on her own. She needed to get a feel for the place, to try and recreate what had happened in her mind. Why had the killer chosen this particular building? It must have some meaning to him – was it symbolic? Maybe Tom had something: even though CSI hadn’t found anything else to substantiate devil worship it didn’t mean that he was wrong. Staring at the checklist she’d written down, there wasn’t anything missing. The worry of being responsible for catching whoever was responsible for Sandy’s death was weighing heavy on her shoulders. This was her first, solo major case and she wanted to make sure she did everything she needed to without being told. No one had bothered to warn her that with the promotion came the relentless worrying about not fucking up.
* * *
The church grounds, which were more like an overgrown tip, were still cordoned off. They’d had to open the street an hour ago after task force had been in and done a fingertip search. It was one of the main roads into the town centre and a logistical nightmare to keep it closed for too long. The search had found nothing of evidential value; drains, refuse bins, flower beds along the edge of the car park had all been painstakingly searched and photographed. No weapon had been found, which was what Lucy had been hoping for. She parked in the car park once more: the street was busy. Brooklyn Bay residents enjoyed the thrill of a good murder; the Facebook rumours were spreading like wildfire. Thankfully no one knew the extent of the horror which had happened inside the church. It was a good job it wasn’t summer because Lucy was pretty sure some of them would have brought their kids and picnics along to watch all the police activity. There was an unmarked car parked to block the entrance, and Lucy waved at Sam, one of the PCSOs.
Sam got out of the car with the scene guard book.
‘Morning, Sam, is there anyone left inside?’
‘No, ma’am, task force left about an hour ago. It’s been quiet, well, apart from the crowds of onlookers.’
Lucy smiled. ‘Just the usual then. Do you need anything or want to go and get a drink while I’m here? I need to go back in and look at the scene.’
‘No thanks, I’m good. Phil is going to bring me a coffee in half an hour then take over. To be honest I don’t mind sitting here all day. It’s warmer in the car than being out on foot, and at least I can listen to the radio or read a book.’
Lucy took the scene log off her and signed herself in; there was no need for protective clothing this time. As far as she was aware the scene was clear, but they were keeping it secured in case the post-mortem brought up anything later. She walked around the back of the car, snapping on a pair of gloves. The car door slammed shut making her jump, then she walked towards the doorway.
All around the edges of the board were now covered in black fingerprint dust. She stepped through it into the vast space, where wintery light filtered through the missing tiles in the roof and the cracks between the walls and boards. It was different to last night, still dark around the outer edges, and she turned the torch on. Shining it into each of the corners, walking forwards she didn’t see the charred chunk of wood that had been moved in the search earlier. A screech escaped her lips as she tumbled over it, landing on her hands and knees, and an ear-splitting shrill, rattling whistle filled the church as the air above her turned black with startled pigeons that had been nesting in the eaves. Lucy screamed even louder: she hated birds and the furious flapping and squawking terrified her. She cowered, covering her head to protect it. They took off out of the gaps in the roof, and she heard Sam shout: ‘Lucy, is everything okay in there?’
Standing up before she got caught curled up in a ball on a pile of rubble, she shouted back: ‘Yes, thanks. I think I gave the pigeons a bigger fright than they gave me.’
Her knees stinging, she could feel her cheeks burning, it was lucky for her there was no one around to see her make a tit of herself. They’d have a right old chuckle about it at the station and she’d never live it down.
‘Okay, if you need me shout.’
She waited until she heard the muffled sound of the car door shutting and exhaled; a white cloud of her breath filled the air in front of her. The torch had rolled some distance, and this time she kept her eyes on the ground while she went to retrieve it. The church was eerily calm now the birds had left. Lucy shivered. She made her way to where the cross had been positioned, staring down at the dark stained rubble it had been wedged into. Closing her eyes, she pictured the scene exactly as it had been in the early hours when she’d first set her sight on it. Sandy Kilburn must have been terrified. Of all the godforsaken places to die, this wreck of a church must be one of the worst. She tried to imagine how the killer had lured her inside: he must have removed the board from the door beforehand and had the cross made and waiting. It wasn’t the sort of thing you could carry down a busy town centre street – even at night the area had plenty of passing foot traffic. And how did he get her to go in with him, had he promised her alcohol, sex, money? All possible reasons for her to follow him, or had she known and trusted him? There were so many lines of enquiry to follow; what they needed was to start interviewing the list of associates on Sandy’s intelligence profile. She studied each wall to see if there were any satanic symbols, not that she was really aware of any. A pentagram or an upside-down cross was about the limit of her knowledge on matters concerning devil worship, and even these had come from re-runs of old Hammer horror movies on the TV.
When she went home she knew that was how she would spend her evening before falling into a coma. She would search the internet until she had a grasp of the knowledge she needed to know about these sorts of crimes. She yawned, she was exhausted and still had the post-mortem to attend, which would take hours. It crossed her mind that she could send Browning and Mattie on her behalf while she went home for a couple of hours’ sleep. Then she ruled it out. How would it look if the new DI couldn’t hack the first twenty-four hours of a murder investigation? There was no way she would let anyone scrutinise or criticise her. She needed strong coffee, some food and she’d be good to go for another few hours. It didn’t matter how tired she was, all that mattered now was catching this killer, and she was going to do everything in her power to bring him in to custody to answer for this heinous crime.
Chapter Nine
Margaret was the last to leave the church hall. She had assured David she was more than capable of locking a door behind her. She wanted to check everything was in order one more time and she couldn’t do it while there were people milling around. The sound of
their chattering voices filled her mind and gave her a headache, which made it hard to concentrate on anything longer than twenty seconds. They also made her forget what she was doing, which was why she needed the damn clipboard. Old age wasn’t what it was cracked up to be; her memory was playing up. Some days she could remember what she’d done from the moment she opened her eyes until she closed them at bedtime. Others she couldn’t remember what her cat was called or how long she’d owned it. She paused as a sob escaped her lips; her cat was dead, murdered. She kept forgetting that as well. Some evil person had taken away the poor innocent thing for no reason at all. Her well-meaning son had suggested she made an appointment with her GP about her forgetfulness, but she hadn’t. Her mother had started with dementia at an early age and she was terrified it might run in the family. She didn’t want to end up in an old person’s home like her own mother had. Visiting her mother had been heart-wrenching to say the least. Her vacant eyes staring into space and never at her, wandering around asking for scrambled egg all day despite being fed less than ten minutes ago. No other conscious thoughts or memories left inside, her mind an empty shell – the thought made her shiver. She’d always been such an efficient person. There was no crueller fate than to make someone who feared losing their mind actually lose it.