Stalker on the Fens

by Joy Ellis

  ‘Does it have some sort of programme, ma’am?’ Niall Farrow asked.

  ‘Yes. At seven o’clock the candles will be lit, then the vicar from the local United Reform Church is going to lead a short service and open the book of condolence. After that a group of local people, some of her friends at the Willows in particular, are going to say a few words about Helen, you know, their recollections and memories of her. Then the crowd will gather along the Waterway side of the riverbank for a silent prayer vigil. Superintendent Woodhall has brought forward the flower float to midnight. Hopefully there will only be a faithful few who remain and stick it out in the cold until dawn. It’s hard to believe, but it looks as though most of this has been caused by some web site that was operating long before she died. Some well-meaning ex-client of hers decided that she was some kind of miracle worker. He wrote a blog about how marvellous she was, and invited half the country to post their own experiences on the site. Naturally, it went viral when she was killed, and then the media caught on. Hence this goddamned freak show tonight.’

  Niall Farrow raised his hand. ‘Do we know if Miss Duchene is still going to attend?’

  ‘I spoke to her an hour ago. She will be there, and I have said that you and DC Jessie Nightingale will stay close to her. She was very relieved to hear that, and Niall, she’s pretty spooked by that note. She just doesn’t believe she should be frightened off doing what she wants to do.’

  ‘Quite right, ma’am. Jessie and I will keep an eye on her, don’t worry.’

  ‘Okay. Any questions?’ She looked around the room.

  Cat stood up. ‘Ma’am? What about through traffic? Westland Waterway is a busy road.’

  ‘When we go down to the assembly point the super will fill us in on whatever detour Traffic has set up. They’ve certainly got something in place. So, if you’re all ready? Let’s go join the troops.’

  * * *

  Superintendent Woodhall stood on the steps and addressed the officers massed in the yard.

  ‘I want this dealt with tactfully and discreetly. Most of the people attending the vigil are doing it with the best of intentions, to pay tribute to a beautiful woman who had already suffered more than most, a person who cared for others and was needlessly killed. They are there because they are outraged by the injustice of it. What I don’t want is for them to turn their anger on us. It’s early days regarding the enquiry, so they won’t be baying for blood yet, but keep your behaviour exemplary, okay?’

  There was a murmur of agreement.

  ‘So, having said all that, we have had a threat telling us to cancel the whole shebang. We have chosen to ignore it, so keep your eyes open and if there is the slightest hint of trouble of any kind, quash it as speedily and as tactfully as you can. And, every minute that you are there, bear in mind that the man standing next to you could be Helen Brook’s killer.’

  There were a few muttered comments, a shuffling of heavy boots.

  ‘Right, before we leave, you must know that there is a massive media presence down there — TV, radio, journalists, the lot. They will be watching us like hawks, looking for the slightest indiscretion, so don’t give them any excuse, and that’s an order. The road is closed off from Milton Avenue to Wordsworth Crescent and a diversion is in place that misses the riverbank completely. The green at the back of the town hall has been opened for free parking, to ease the expected congestion. And that is about all I can tell you. CID, you will mingle and keep your ears open for anything suspicious, any talk of violence, any indications of individuals stirring up trouble, anyone acting oddly. Uniform, do what you are supposed to do and keep the peace. Just make sure this remains a vigil from start to finish. Lastly, and very importantly, remember the threat to Miss Duchene. We have designated officers looking out for her, but please, all of you, be on your guard.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Right. Time to go and join our colleagues at the river. Good luck all of you. Let’s move out.’

  * * *

  Nikki had expected a massive turnout, but she was not prepared for what they found on the banks of the River Westland.

  Despite the cold east wind, the road, the river path and every available square foot of space was packed full of people. Nikki gazed out across a sea of faces — men, women and children, babies, the very elderly, and the disabled. She saw Joseph’s jaw drop and heard him mutter, ‘My life! If something kicks off, we are in deep shit!’

  Cat pushed her hands deep into her coat pockets and shivered. ‘Touch wood, they all look very calm, in fact, have you ever seen so many people in one spot and heard so little noise?’

  ‘Only at the Cenotaph, during the two minutes’ silence.’

  ‘Exactly. It’s creepy.’

  Niall and Jessie stood a little apart from the others. Niall looked at his watch, then turned to Nikki and asked, ‘Ma’am? How on earth are we going to locate Miss Duchene in this lot?’

  ‘I’ve told her to be at the corner of Wordsworth Crescent at ten to seven. Meet her there and stay close to her. Keep in touch, okay?’

  Niall and Jessie moved off through the crowd.

  ‘I see what the super meant about it looking more like a rock festival. Look over there.’ Nikki pointed towards a small grassy space that was normally used for riverside picnics. A mass of brightly coloured one-person tents covered the ground like an eruption of giant mushrooms. People milled amongst them carrying sleeping bags and folding chairs, along with the ubiquitous bunches of flowers and cards.

  ‘Lord! If Helen could see all of this, she’d be horrified.’

  ‘She was hardly the ostentatious type, was she?’

  ‘Oh, no way! She was quiet, unassuming, and about as far from this kind of thing as you could get. She even hated the way they praised her on that web site.’

  ‘Do you think the public will change their opinion of her when we release the details about Andrew Gregory’s misdeeds?’

  ‘That depends entirely on how the papers deal with it. If they intimate that Helen might have known about his crooked dealings, then mud sticks, no matter how much you try to prove otherwise. Then again, if they get wind of the last farewell in the chapel of rest, well, everyone loves a romantic drama, so who knows?’

  Joseph leaned back against a rough brick wall. ‘Speaking of Andrew Gregory, ma’am, I meant to tell you, I had a message from a mate of mine who works in the Met. He’s come across the infamous Mr Fabian before. Apparently he used to work for a foreign criminal organisation, a Mafia-type group. He decamped about a year ago. No one knows where he lives or anything about him, other than that he seems to be Italian. His name, and that of Mr Venables, have cropped up pretty regularly over the last eight or nine years, all in connection with disappearances, violence or killings. Thing is, they don’t seem to exist. Interpol told my friend that they are hunting ghosts.’

  Nikki gave a small laugh. ‘So Rory would make a good detective after all.’

  ‘Ma’am?’

  ‘Nothing. Thanks for checking, Joseph. Well, we’d better get ourselves into this crowd. It’s almost seven. Look, if we get separated, I’ll try to keep close to the house, near the vicar and the book of condolence. You never know, the murderer might get off on signing his name in the book.’

  * * *

  Jessie spotted Carla Duchene first. ‘Bit overdressed, don’t you think?’

  Niall raised his eyebrows. ‘I think she looks very chic, in a mature kind of way.’ He grinned and gave Jessie a comically deprecating look. ‘There’s no harm in looking your best, is there?’

  They made their way towards her, Jessie muttering, ‘Thanks a bunch. I wonder what she’d look like in Gore-Tex and sensible shoes. Over to you for the introductions.’

  Niall stepped forward and held out his hand. ‘Miss Duchene? I’m PC Niall Farrow, and this is DC Jessica Nightingale.’ Jessie hated it when people gave her full name. ‘Now, are you quite sure you still wish to attend? It’s not too late to change your mind. We are happy to escort you back home if you li
ke.’

  Carla Duchene bit her lip. ‘To be honest with you, Officer, I’m terrified. But I’m damned if I will be frightened off by some stupid threat.’ She looked fearfully at the crowd. ‘There are far more people here than we ever dreamed. And look at all the press! The national press! And even the BBC! It’s simply amazing.’

  ‘It’s not just Greenborough. Thanks to some website, the whole country has taken her death to heart, Miss Duchene.’ Jessie was feeling the weight of her responsibility for keeping this woman safe. ‘Look, no one would think any less of you if you avoided this. You’ve paid for the flowers for the float, and helped organise it all, surely that’s enough?’

  ‘What are you saying exactly, DC Nightingale? That I really should not be here?’ Carla Duchene looked even more concerned.

  Jessie really did not want to frighten her further, but felt she deserved to be aware of the truth. ‘No, of course not. It’s just that, well, we hope the threat wasn’t serious, but watching you for several hours in this huge crowd could be difficult. I just don’t want you to think we’re being flippant.’

  A man shoved Niall as he hurried into the opening service. Niall glowered at him. ‘See what we mean? Jessie’s right, miss. We take all threats seriously, and unless we handcuff ourselves together, we could very easily lose sight of you.’

  Carla hung her head and shook it slightly. Then she brought it up and looked at them defiantly. ‘No. I owe it to Helen, for my mother’s sake. I’ll be fine, honestly. Now, we should go. Do your best, that’s all I ask. And I’ll try to keep close.’

  * * *

  Cat Cullen slipped in between a small group of damp-eyed teenage girls clutching flickering candle lamps, and eased her way through the crowd towards her boss. This really was something else! ‘All going pretty well so far, ma’am.’

  Nikki nodded. ‘Very orderly, especially the queue for signing the book. Seen anyone acting oddly?’

  ‘No, but that foul man, Titus Whipp, is here. Yvonne Collins is keeping a close eye on him.’

  ‘But he’s behaving himself?’

  ‘At present, guv. But I think if he even looks at Yvonne funny, he’ll find himself marched out of the area.’ She gave a short laugh, then said, ‘The sarge is pretty jumpy tonight. It’s not like him at all.’

  ‘Joseph? I hadn’t noticed. Any idea why?’

  Cat shrugged. ‘None at all. It’s just so out of character. I mean, he’s never gung-ho like some of the guys, but he’s always up for a rumble. He did say he’d got bad vibes about this, but who hasn’t?’ She looked towards the makeshift podium that had been erected in Helen’s driveway. ‘Who’s that? About to say his bit?’

  Her boss smiled grimly. ‘Oliver Kirton. I thought he would have something to say.’

  They took a few steps closer to the front of the crowd and Cat stared at the tall, dark man on the rostrum. ‘Damn! He’s well fit! Why didn’t I get to interview him?’

  ‘Because he’s not what he appears. And according to Prof Wilkinson, you wouldn’t want to meet him when his medication has worn off.’

  Cat puffed out her cheeks and rolled her eyes, ‘Oh, I’d be willing to take that chance. What a looker!’

  Nikki grinned. ‘DC Cullen! That leer is hardly professional.’ Then she held up her hand. ‘Hold on. I want to hear this.’

  Kirton had taken the microphone. Unlike the speakers before him, he had no notes. He stood in silence and stared around him. Then his eyes rested on a large picture of Helen Brook, a blow-up of one the local paper had run. It was taken before her accident, and she had a particularly haunting smile on her elfin face. He began to speak, and all that could be heard was the gentle hushing sound of the wind.

  ‘There has been little light in my miserable life. I have done nothing to be proud of. I considered suicide, but then I am a coward, and despite myself I did not want my family to suffer. Then, light walked into my life, in the form of the beautiful woman that we are mourning here tonight. But now that light has been extinguished.’

  He gazed at the picture of Helen Brook and spoke into the night:

  ‘I had a dream, which was not all a dream.

  The bright sun was extinguished, and the stars did wander darkling in the eternal space,

  Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth,

  Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;

  Morn came and went — and came, and brought no day,

  And men forgot their passions in the dread

  Of this their desolation; and all hearts

  Were chilled into a selfish prayer for light.’

  He took a long breath. ‘But light will never come again. Someone stole it. There is now only darkness.’

  He handed the microphone back to one of the organisers and stepped down from the rostrum.

  * * *

  Cat swallowed. The silence persisted.

  Then someone started clapping, and soon was joined by others, until the street echoed with thunderous applause. Cat looked around, but Oliver Kirton had disappeared and DI Galena was staring at the podium muttering under her breath. ‘Thank you very bloody much, Dr Kirton. Just what we did not need! For God’s sake get someone else up there to say their bit.’ She turned, and said to Cat, ‘This is not good. All we need is a gap before the next mourner and some big mouth will be asking what the police are doing to catch the bastard who stole the light! Then all hell could break loose. The one thing we don’t need right now, is audience participation on this kind of scale.’

  Before Cat could answer, the DI’s phone rang. Cat watched her boss’s face. Evidently the call was not making her feel any happier. She flipped the mobile closed and said, ‘There’s trouble down near Milton Avenue. Joseph’s gone to see what it’s about. Uniform are there too. You stay here, Cat, and I’ll go find Joseph. We need to keep a lid on whatever is kicking off.’

  Before Cat could even agree, her boss had been swallowed up by the seething mass of people. She was left wondering exactly what had driven the gorgeous Oliver Kirton to deliver such a powerful speech. Heartfelt loss and emotion? Or was he trying to ignite a fire?

  * * *

  In the heart of the gathering, a single soul stared distraught at the hordes of people around them. It shouldn’t be like this. This was a travesty. All the work, all the planning, all the time spent on those very specific and important designs, and the final act, the taking of Helen Brook, all reduced to this circus. The eyes stared around in horror. This should not be happening. It had all gone horribly wrong! The people here, the fools who worshipped her, were now carrying candles and arms full of flowers ready to be floated down the river. Hideous! And the police were making it worse. They were crawling all over the place, with sad faces and kind words for the stupid rabble that increased with every hour. And the television crews, and the prying, insensitive media! Someone must pay for this. Someone would pay.

  What could be done? Maybe there was a way to make use of this awful debacle. Forget the reason why these fools are congregating, and simply see the crowd as a seething mass of unstable matter. Then it could certainly be used to advantage. What was the old saying? Change that which can be changed.

  * * *

  ‘It’s just a group of yobs, as far as we can tell, ma’am.’ Joseph brushed earth from his jacket sleeve, the remains of a plant wrenched from someone’s garden and used as a missile. ‘Uniform has contained it. Heaven help us when it’s chucking out time at the pubs. You look really worried. Is it something to do with that Kirton bloke and his bloody speech to the nation?’

  ‘The atmosphere has changed since his blasted outpouring.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve noticed that, damn it. But it was dramatic, wasn’t it? I wonder why he chose that particular poem of Byron’s? Darkness was all about the end of the world, man turning on man. Maybe it was deliberate.’ Joseph raised an eyebrow. ‘But Oliver Kirton does have a lot of charisma, I’ll give him that.’

  ‘Yeah, like a sodding Svengali. Until Oliver chuck
ed in his tuppence worth, it was really peaceful. Now there’s an undercurrent.’

  ‘And the last thing we need is a hyped-up crowd of this size.’

  ‘On the banks of a tidal river! In the dark!’

  Joseph’s radio crackled into life. ‘Sergeant Easter. WPS Yvonne Collins is near the bridge and has reported that the white male she was keeping an eye on is causing a disturbance. Could you attend? Over.’

  ‘Roger. Show me on my way. Over and out.’ Joseph looked at Nikki. ‘Bloody Titus Whipp! Are you coming, ma’am?’

  ‘No, I should get back to Cat. I’ll check on Niall and Jessie too, see how they are coping with their guard duty.’

  Joseph loped off towards the bridge, and Nikki began to make her way back to Helen’s house. Her progress was slow. The queue to sign the book was three deep and over two hundred metres long. Then there was the main candle-bearing throng, milling around in the road and along the river walk. As she moved through the wall of coats and jackets, hats and scarves, she heard singing. Calming, at least. It sounded like a cross between a hymn and some country music. Suddenly it was drowned out by shouts.

  Nikki stiffened and immediately headed towards the source of the noise. About six houses down from Newlands, was a group of young men carrying badly-painted, hand-made banners. They were chanting something about “fakes” and “phonies.” Nikki reported her position, and pitched in and confronted the apparent ring-leader. Within seconds she was surrounded by a group of youths yelling obscenities at her.

  She knew back-up would arrive soon, but things were fast becoming ugly. Someone grabbed her from behind, and swinging round, Nikki was treated to a blast of beery breath and a thug with a head like a badly peeled potato. He shoved his broken nose into her face.

  ‘Filth!’ Saliva hit her cheek. Two other men were holding her arms behind her back, and she was powerless to move away.

  ‘Let me go!’ Nikki aimed a flying backwards kick. There was a howl of pain and one arm was released. Whipping around, she managed to throw the second man off balance. She leapt back, ready to take on whoever was coming for her. Where the hell was uniform?