The Body Under the Bridge

by Paul McCuster

“I understood it was because your wife died.”

  “My wife’s illness gave me the excuse I needed to leave my job, but it’s not really why I left.”

  “Then, no, I don’t know why.”

  Father Gilbert hesitated, his eyes going to the road ahead of them. He didn’t want to sensationalize what had happened. Yet, he didn’t want to understate it either. “I dealt with a particularly difficult case. Horrific, in fact. One that brought me face to face with something I could only describe as pure evil.”

  Benson was silent. “What kind of a case?” he finally asked.

  “We were investigating what we thought was the kidnapping of a teenage girl. She had come from a respectable middle-class family. Unfortunately, the more we investigated, the more it began to look like she wasn’t the victim of kidnapping, but had run away and got caught up in the drugs and porn industry of the Soho district.” Father Gilbert looked down at his hands. His fingers were tightly threaded together.

  “You found her,” Benson said.

  “Yes, we did.” He cleared his throat. A taste like old nicotine lingered there. “But there were things about the case – the girl – that didn’t line up.”

  “Like what?”

  “She was sweet and innocent. She came from a loving, Christian family. Very straight-laced.”

  “How can you know for sure?”

  “I dealt closely with the girl’s parents. It was their faith that made an impression on me.”

  “Kids run away from good homes all the time,” Benson said.

  “Of course they do, but I believe this girl was lured away.”

  “By whom?”

  “A force of evil.”

  “The devil.”

  “A devil,” Father Gilbert said.

  A thoughtful silence from Benson. “What became of her?”

  “Officially, she committed suicide,” he replied, remembering the report, seeing the colour of the folder, the lines and boxes on the police form. “But I believe she was murdered.”

  Benson looked at him, the obvious question in his expression.

  “I saw her before she died. She was desperate to escape from where she was. But she was afraid. I tried to persuade her to come with me. She told me that ‘he’ wouldn’t like it. ‘He’ would stop her.”

  “Who?”

  Father Gilbert shrugged. “At the time, I assumed she was talking about a pimp, or whoever had coerced her into that life. Now I assume it was the demon.”

  Benson shook his head slowly.

  “I very nearly took her by force,” Father Gilbert continued. “I wish I had. But my sensibilities as a detective said she needed to come willingly, otherwise she’d run away again and wind up in the same sort of place. So I agreed to leave her, with the promise that she’d contact her parents.”

  “She didn’t.”

  Father Gilbert looked down at his twisted fingers again. His knuckles hurt. But not as much as the pain in his heart. “I failed her because I didn’t recognize true evil.”

  “You can’t hold yourself responsible for her decision.”

  “No. But had I known then what I know now…” He wondered what he would do now. “She looked and sounded the way David Todd did this morning. There was a deep conflict going on, a struggle…” He stopped.

  “So… what happened with the case?” Benson asked.

  “My superiors thought I was cracking up, that I’d been too personally involved. They took me off the investigation. It was a suicide. There was nothing to pursue.”

  “That’s when you quit?”

  “Not long after. The experience had been an epiphany for me. I saw evil for what it truly was – a very personal and supernatural force. The world as I knew it had changed.”

  Father Gilbert knew how unpopular talk about Satan was within the Church of England. He imagined Benson going back to St Mark’s and calling the Bishop to ask for a transfer to another parish.

  “Some of us actively fight evil, as best we can, based on our limited understanding of it,” Father Gilbert said. “We underestimate its power and make stupid mistakes out of weakness. Or we overestimate its power and make stupid mistakes out of fear. I suspect that Colin Doyle killed himself out of fear.”

  “Fear of what?” The question came in a flat tone. Father Gilbert wasn’t sure how to read it.

  “That medallion represented something terrible to him, something he didn’t believe he could cope with,” he replied.

  “You and I both saw the medallion,” Benson said. “We held it in our hands. I didn’t feel anything significant about it.”

  “Neither did I. But Colin believed something about it that we don’t know.”

  They were approaching David Todd’s house. Father Gilbert felt relieved to have this conversation interrupted.

  “Does David Todd know what that something is?” Father Benson asked.

  “I don’t know.” Father Gilbert hadn’t had time to think about it properly. “David may be like a lot of people who can’t accept the idea of a supernatural evil, which makes him all the more susceptible to its persuasions. People like that are empty houses, just waiting to be broken into.”

  “But David’s been going to St Mark’s most of his life, hasn’t he?” Benson’s implication being that, as a Christian, Todd should know better or be spiritually protected somehow.

  “I wouldn’t want to judge him, but I’ve always suspected he attended as a cultural duty. He’s English, so he goes to the Church of England. It’s an activity that has brought him some sort of satisfaction.”

  “Like people who fight to preserve the language of the original Prayer Book but don’t actually pray,” Benson added.

  Father Gilbert thought for a moment. “It’s possible that his bitterness against Lord Haysham has interfered with his ability to grasp God’s grace. Maybe that bitterness has led him to a darker place, where he’s even more open to evil because of the power or glory or personal victory it might bring to him.”

  “So you believe that people can be possessed,” Benson said.

  Father Gilbert turned to Benson. “Yes.”

  Benson met his gaze. “Have you ever witnessed it first-hand?”

  “Yes.”

  He paused. “Will you tell me about it?”

  “Not now,” Father Gilbert said. That story would take more time than they had.

  Benson frowned. “Then… what are we doing here?”

  “I believe that David Todd, in a lucid moment, was right. This isn’t about land development or greed. If we follow the trail of evil, we’ll find out what’s really going on here.”

  They reached the turning for Todd’s house.

  CHAPTER 24

  David Todd’s driveway curved around to a modernized brick house of two storeys with leaded windows and decorative gables. Father Gilbert recalled that it was spacious, with a generous kitchen and dining area, a room Todd used as an office, a sitting room, four bedrooms upstairs, and a loft conversion above that. Ironically, the house had more actual living space for Todd than Haysham Manor afforded Lord and Lady Haysham.

  A low whistle from Father Benson. “He lives here alone?”

  “He does now,” Father Gilbert said. “His wife let him buy her out after their divorce.” Love reduced to contracts and negotiations.

  “What killed their marriage?” asked Benson.

  Father Gilbert thought about Todd’s affair with Mary, but knew it was more than that. He shrugged. “It’s as if they both gave up.” He remembered reaching out to them, but both refused any offer of help. Father Gilbert’s impression was that David Todd’s drive and arrogance was a bad mix with Penelope Todd’s sense of propriety. To overtly show too much initiative was simply not the English way. Todd wanted a wife who was a female version of himself. Instead, he married a woman who was pleasant enough, but aloof and distant, with a strong sense of privacy. Perhaps she used it as a disguise for her pride. Getting help for their marriage would have been an embarrassin
g indication of weakness and vulnerability.

  “Kids?” Benson asked.

  “Two grown boys – at university.” Father Gilbert thought about Todd’s sons. Jeremy, the older, had the looks and ambitions of his father. Joshua, the younger, favoured Penelope with a fair complexion and quiet stubbornness. Todd didn’t talk about his sons much at all. Father Gilbert suspected they weren’t in contact.

  The driveway ended at a three-car garage on the side of the house. A dark-blue saloon and a bright-green police car sat by the open garage doors. A uniformed officer and a detective in a drab suit stood by the lawn. Each took a last drag on a cigarette, then tossed them onto the grass as if the newcomers were part of a no-smoking patrol.

  “The police are already here?” Benson said.

  Father Gilbert frowned as he climbed out of the car. “DI Wilton?” he asked the first man.

  “Inside,” the man replied in a low rumble of a voice. “Go through the garage. But don’t touch anything.”

  They walked through the open garage door into the first bay, which was actually a half-bay filled with cardboard boxes, old newspapers and magazines, and shelves covered with gardening supplies.

  A white Ford sat in the next bay to the left. A red Peugeot sat in the bay beyond it.

  “Be sure to put on the foot covers,” the detective called from behind them.

  The foot covers were plastic coverings for their shoes, presumably to make sure they didn’t track anything into the house, nor contaminate what was already there. A box sat just inside the door, in a room containing a washer and dryer, cleaning detergents, and shelves of food. One wall served as a coat rack. There were jackets, coats, and macs on hangers, and shoes and boots on the floor beneath. An umbrella stand sat off to the side with half a dozen handles sticking up.

  After putting on the plastic footwear, Fathers Gilbert and Benson moved towards the next door, but DI Wilton came from the other direction. He was startled to see them. He was carrying green rubber boots.

  “Boots?” Father Gilbert asked.

  He held them up. His hands were covered with latex gloves. “A partial boot print was found near Lord Haysham’s body on the path. Boots like these.”

  “I have a pair just like them,” Father Gilbert said. “They’re worn by a lot of people in the area.”

  “Maybe so. But not everyone wears the same size as the killer.” He skirted past them and opened the door to the garage. A loud whistle, and the man in the suit ran over. Wilton handed the boots to him. “Put these with the rest.”

  The man nodded and retreated.

  Wilton eyed the two priests and said, “I expected you to have been here and gone long before we showed up with the search warrant.”

  “We were delayed,” Father Gilbert said without explaining why.

  Wilton made a feigned noise of sympathy.

  “Did you find the note David mentioned?” Father Gilbert asked.

  “No,” he said. “But I found something else. Come in.”

  They stepped through to a spacious kitchen with chrome appliances, white cabinetry, and quartz countertops. A few mugs and plates sat next to the sink. Father Gilbert smelled old grease and burnt toast.

  “You know that Lord Haysham received a note like the one Todd described,” Father Gilbert said.

  “Probably written by Todd,” Wilton said. He moved beyond the kitchen to a small breakfast area with a round table and four chairs. A sliding glass door sat behind it, the plain beige curtains pushed aside.

  Father Gilbert glanced out at the green lawn that stretched back to a forest.

  Wilton said, “We found a shopping list, a notepad with a few phone numbers scribbled on it, and this—”

  He held up a clear plastic evidence bag with a single piece of A4 paper in it. From a few feet away, it looked like childish doodling – straight lines that formed triangles, and then violent cross-outs, as if the artist had become annoyed with his work.

  “May I?” Father Gilbert asked.

  Wilton handed the bag to him. “Help yourself.”

  Benson stepped next to Father Gilbert and they looked at the page together.

  “Do you see that?” Benson asked, pointing to the page.

  Father Gilbert nodded. The triangles formed a pentagram.

  “See what?” Wilton asked.

  Father Gilbert showed him the shape of the pentagram, then reminded him of its appearance on the church cellar wall and at Clive Challoner’s house.

  Wilton looked smug. “That reinforces my theory. David Todd put the symbols in those places for some sick reason. Maybe he’s obsessed. Maybe he’s lost his mind.”

  Benson pointed to the right-hand side of the paper. The words servo vel intereo and aut ministrare aut mori had been scrawled in a swooping cursive. “Do you know what that means?” he asked.

  “‘Serve or die’,” said Father Gilbert. “Another variation on ‘Take your place’, I think.”

  “He’s conning you with all his demon-possession rubbish,” Wilton said.

  “Maybe so.” Father Gilbert handed the evidence bag back to him.

  Father Gilbert’s gaze went to the next room. Something beyond the doorway caught his eye. He moved towards it.

  “Is there anything else you’d like to see? A tour of the house, perhaps?” Wilton asked sourly.

  It was a sitting room, if he remembered correctly: a television, a couple of chairs and a sofa, maybe a drinks cabinet. But there was something about the wall that didn’t seem right. “Have you looked in here?”

  “Yes,” Wilton said in an “Of course, do you think I’m an idiot?” tone.

  “Weren’t you curious about this wall?” Father Gilbert asked once he was inside and had confirmed what he’d seen.

  “Family photos,” Wilton said as he entered. “I saw them earlier. Old photos of his wife and kids when they were—”

  He stopped, flinched, and moved away from the wall.

  Benson moved in and looked. “That’s curious.”

  The wall was made of plaster. Nails, meant to hold the family photos, were naked and exposed. The frames were on the floor, leaning against the skirting board. The photos faced away from the three men.

  “When were you last in here?” Father Gilbert asked.

  “Not ten minutes ago,” Wilton replied. His tone had lost its confidence.

  “No one else has been in here?” Father Gilbert said.

  “No.”

  “Then how did the photos wind up on the floor?” Benson asked.

  “They must’ve fallen,” Wilton said.

  “If they fell, you would have heard them,” said Father Gilbert.

  Wilton growled, trying to sound angry. “It’s a joke. I’ll get to the bottom of this.” He marched out of the room and began to shout for the other officers.

  Father Gilbert picked up a frame. The glass in front of the photo was intact. The photo itself was of the Todds on a seaside holiday somewhere, the two boys probably eight and ten years old. As Wilton said, they were all family photos, from various years in the family’s life. Happier days, to be sure. The frames and glass were undamaged.

  “If the photos had fallen, surely some of the glass would have cracked,” Benson said.

  Father Gilbert nodded.

  “And they would have landed face down on the floor,” Benson said. “These are leaning against the wall, facing the wrong way.”

  Father Gilbert nodded again.

  “I don’t get it.”

  Father Gilbert put the photo down where he’d found it. “In some cases of hauntings, the spirit or demon would turn family photos to the wall,” Father Gilbert said.

  “Why?”

  “Because a united family is a representation of the love and unity of the Trinity,” he said. “Demons despise it.”

  Father Gilbert moved to the centre of the room. It was as he’d remembered it, apart from a brightly coloured tapestry hanging on the wall behind the television. He lifted it up, just in ca
se it was hiding something. It wasn’t.

  The leaded windows looked out onto the back garden. One of the detectives appeared to be examining the back of the house.

  Benson moved in front of Father Gilbert. He looked pale, his eyes wide. “Are you suggesting this house is haunted?”

  Father Gilbert smiled at him. “Don’t be ridiculous. What priest in his right mind believes in haunted houses?”

  * * *

  If someone on Wilton’s team had played a trick, he didn’t own up to it. Wilton then adjusted his story to allow that the photos had already been taken off the wall and put on the floor when he walked in. He simply hadn’t noticed.

  Father Gilbert didn’t believe a word of it. If that were true, then how did Wilton know they were family photos? But there was no point asking.

  As they walked back through the garage, Father Gilbert saw that forensic detectives now surrounded the red Peugeot.

  “We’re checking for any evidence of Haysham,” Wilton said when they assembled again on the driveway. “If we find Haysham’s fingerprints inside that red vehicle, then your boy is a goner.”

  Father Gilbert said to Wilton, “He’s not my boy. Like you, I want to find the truth. Providing that you do want to find the truth.” He thought of the photos again.

  Wilton scowled. “If you expect me to believe Todd is tormented by demons, I won’t do it.”

  “Even if that’s the truth?” asked Father Gilbert.

  Wilton turned away.

  * * *

  As Father Benson drove them away from the house, Father Gilbert felt liberated, as if he’d escaped some sort of oppression.

  “You felt it, too?” Father Benson asked. “It was like something was pushing against my chest, making me feel weighed down.”

  Father Gilbert restrained from adding that he had felt a distinct presence and a feeling as if he was being taunted or laughed at. He’d felt it in other places at other times.

  He tugged at his collar. The sun had come out. The day was becoming hot and muggy. He wound down his window and breathed deeply. The fresh air was a comfort.

  “It wouldn’t surprise me if the Woodrich sword and ring were found hidden in that house somewhere,” Benson said.

  “Why do you say that?”