BURIED CRIMES: a gripping detective thriller full of twists and turns

by MICHAEL HAMBLING

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ Sophie replied. ‘And if the result is anything like the image from that previous programme, it’ll be a real bonus for us. It was so good that it refreshed my memory as well as one of my team members.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. It helped us so much. He’d been lurking in the crowd outside the police station — trying to judge whether we’d fallen for his tricks, I suppose. It helped us to nail him.’

  ‘Is that common? Hanging around during the investigation?’

  ‘Oh yes. A lot of criminals have huge egos. In their minds the world revolves around them and their desires. They really do feel much more important than anyone else. Their feelings, their needs, their resentments always take priority. And checking on the police’s progress, or lack of it, helps to feed their overinflated opinion of themselves. It’s quite astonishing, the number of killers who even volunteer to help with searches of the area where a body might be found. Not that it will happen in this case, twenty or so years after the event. Deaths like these leave so few clues.’

  Louisa frowned. ‘I did realise that this was an unusual case and would need a lot of sensitive handling. It’s quite shocking, isn’t it? How do you manage?’

  ‘We just get on with it. What else can we do?’ Sophie shrugged. ‘We have to solve the crime, just like any other. But it isn’t like any other, we know that. So we make sure we’re always aware, always careful about what we do and how we act.’

  Louisa nodded. ‘By the way, since the software is still under development, I’ll categorise your request as a test case. It won’t cost anything.’

  ‘That’s a relief,’ Sophie replied. ‘I can see that money’s going to be a problem with this investigation, since it all happened in the dim and distant past. The powers that be consider it high priority, as you can imagine, but the budget will be smaller than for a current murder investigation. And we don’t even know that it is murder. There could be other reasons for them being buried like that.’

  Louisa wrinkled her nose. ‘I can’t think of any that are anything but bad. Who would ever do such a thing?’

  Marsh heard a beep from his computer and went to check on an email message. He came back a few minutes later carrying a print-out. He handed the pages to the computer software specialist. ‘The two sets of skull dimensions. I’ve forwarded the email to you as well. Remember — it’s all confidential.’

  ‘Of course. Just like last time. I should have some news for you in a couple of days. Is that okay?’

  ‘Fine, thank you. Let us know if you need more information.’

  Barry Marsh saw Louisa out of the office. He returned to continue the planning, but was interrupted by Sophie’s desk phone. She listened, frowning in concentration. She wrote down a phone number and replaced the handset.

  ‘Curiouser and curiouser.’ She looked up at Marsh. ‘Apparently the vicar at St Paul’s phoned in a few minutes ago and asked if I could go round and see him. He might have some information about the investigation, but he didn’t say what. Let’s go and see what he has to say, Barry.’

  * * *

  The minister at St Paul’s parish church was a soft-featured, kindly-looking man with iron grey hair and twinkling eyes. He smiled at the two detectives, shook hands and invited them inside.

  ‘I’m Tony Younger, the parish vicar. I hope that this visit won’t be a waste of time for you. I’ve been worrying about it ever since I saw the news about the two children’s bodies in that local garden.’

  ‘So, exactly how do you think you can help us, Mr Younger?’

  ‘It’s about some poems that were sent in for the parish magazine. We’ve always encouraged our parishioners to submit stories, essays and verses that might be uplifting or that have a faith-based theme. It’s always nice to have an input from ordinary people. It makes it more interesting than just being a list of what’s on and when.’

  The detectives followed the vicar into his study. ‘So these poems were in your magazine?’ asked Sophie.

  ‘Well, that’s the point. I never included them. They were unsuitable for a monthly parish newsletter. I never really knew what to do with them. They were sent in anonymously so I had no way of contacting whoever sent them. I just hung onto them in case their author ever contacted me to ask for them back. They never made much sense to me, although I could tell that the writer was suffering some kind of mental anguish. I even put a request in the magazine a couple of times, asking for them to contact me, but I never got a response.’

  ‘When was this? When did they arrive?’

  ‘About seven or eight years ago. There was nearly a year between them. I always wondered whether the person would have sent more if I’d published them.’

  ‘And what makes you think they’re relevant now?’

  ‘I suggest you read them. I think you’ll spot what made me think of them when I saw the news on Saturday.’

  He passed across a clear plastic wallet containing a couple of sheets of paper. Sophie pulled on a pair of latex gloves, extracted the top page and studied it, slowly. What she read made her shiver. She had felt the same overwhelming sense of self-loathing herself, just a year before. This person was down in a dark pit of despair, unable to see a way out. And there it was, the reference that had made the vicar suspicious.

  She handed the first page to Marsh and picked up the next one. Further outpourings of self-loathing, but again a relevant reference.

  Sophie turned to the minister. ‘You were right to contact us. I’ll need to take these. Who else has touched them, apart from you?’

  ‘My late wife, when they first arrived. They’ve been in my filing cabinet since then.’

  And there haven’t been any more? Nothing remotely similar?’

  ‘No. That second one was the last. Maybe by then whoever wrote them had worked through the problem.’

  ‘You said your late wife, Mr Younger,’ Marsh interjected. ‘Did she pass away recently?’

  The vicar nodded. ‘Three years ago. Cancer.’

  ‘I’m so sorry to hear that. You have our sympathy. It must have been a terribly difficult time for you.’

  ‘It still is. The sense of loss never goes away.’

  There was a silence. Sophie took the two sheets of paper and slid them back into the folder.

  ‘I can see why you never published them. Whoever wrote them seems to have lost his or her soul,’ she said.

  The vicar nodded slowly. ‘I know. I understand that sense of desolation now, after the loss of my wife.’

  ‘Do you think it’s likely that they come from one of your parishioners? Would anyone else be sending you material for the parish newsletter?’

  ‘Well now, there’s the problem. We don’t just restrict circulation to our churchgoers. We deliver one to every house in the area, right up to our parish boundary. It costs a lot of money, but we had a specific donation for that purpose left to us in a will. So they could be from anyone living in the area, not just one of my regular parishioners. I do get some non-church stuff and put it in whenever I can, as long as it’s suitable. That was a condition of the funding bequest.’

  ‘Who else knows about these poems, Mr Younger?’

  ‘No one. Chrissie and I decided that we’d keep them to ourselves.’

  ‘Please keep it that way. Certainly for the time being.’

  Chapter 7: Poems of Despair

  New Home For Old Rugs

  Are you happy there, down in the soft earth, down in your new home?

  Have your patterns faded?

  Have your tufts peeled apart?

  Have the stains soaked away?

  Are you happy there, down in the soft earth, down in your new role?

  Acting like swaddling clothes?

  Holding them tight?

  Entrapping their souls?

  Are you happy there, down in the soft earth, encasing their bodies?

  Like pupal skins

  Waiting for metamorphosis?

 
Two ghastly, rotting parcels?

  Who Am I?

  I live a spectral life, empty of meaning.

  I inhabit a ghostly world, vacant of substance.

  I pore over old memories, and retch at my actions.

  I think of their grave, and pray that it stays closed.

  Dear God, who am I? What evil being spawned me?

  Not my mother and father, kindly souls both.

  More the evil monsters that dwell beyond imagination,

  Pouring out their filth into this world, a muck that sullies everything it touches.

  I am poison, I am toxic.

  My name is Death, my face is Medusa.

  My breath is sulphurous, my spit is arsenous.

  My body drips vileness upon the ground.

  And still those two poor parcels call out to me, call my name.

  What does their long-dead mother say, howling in the mist?

  Does she still search for her babies among the lost, dead souls?

  I am destined for the devil to consume, an end that is too good for me.

  Chapter 8: Youthful Trauma

  Wednesday afternoon

  Lorna MacIntyre leaned forward in her seat and spoke quietly to Karen Freeman. The young girl sat opposite her in the small interview office.

  ‘Your parents are right to send you back to school, Karen. One day of absence was enough, as I said to you yesterday. You may not think so. You may think it would be better for you if you had another couple of days off, but it’s not the case. I spoke to the principal on Monday after your parents phoned in, and we all agreed about it. Even your parents, when I called them back later.’

  Karen was tearful. ‘But I just can’t concentrate on anything, Miss MacIntyre. And I keep thinking everyone’s looking at me. I hate it. I hate being here.’

  ‘We all realise that you’re having a terrible time. But being in school gives you the chance to take your mind off what happened at the weekend. If you try to concentrate on your work as best you can, the horrible feelings you have will slowly fade. And we are taking your situation very seriously. Mrs Taverner asked to be kept informed of how you’re getting on, because we all care about you. She’ll speak to you herself if you want, but she thought I’d be best placed to have a quick chat with you each day, since I’m your form teacher.’

  It was lunchtime at Dorchester High School, and Lorna was giving up half of her valuable free time to see the troubled youngster, still clearly upset by the events of the past weekend. Martin Allen, her boss in the Mathematics department, who was also the assistant principal, had stepped in to run her weekly “Catch Up On Maths” club for younger pupils so that she could have some time with the young girl and talk through her problems. Martin had been adamant. The girl should not be told that he was the husband of the police officer in charge of the investigation into the two young bodies found buried in the garden of her family home.

  ‘Not a good idea,’ he’d said. ‘It will backfire if we tell her that. She’ll think I’m always watching her. She’s got enough on her plate anyway, poor kid. We need to help her to forget. I don’t want anyone else to know about Sophie either, just you and Claudia Taverner. And for God’s sake don’t let the girl’s head of year know. Sharon Blake is the biggest gossip in the school.’

  Lorna had been surprised. ‘Doesn’t she know what your wife does?’

  ‘No. And I want it kept that way. Sophie bumped into Sharon last year at some liaison meeting at County Hall. She’d been taken by our esteemed previous principal, God bless her cotton socks. There was a bit of a clash between Sophie and our ex-leader. I don’t think Claudia’s predecessor came out of the encounter very well. Since it was only a few weeks after Sharon started here, it has probably stuck in her mind. I have a reasonable working relationship with her at the moment and I don’t particularly want it to suffer. I think it would if she found out.’ He grimaced.

  Lorna looked up. Karen Freeman was watching her. She smiled at her pupil. ‘You’ve got all the help you could ever need here, Karen. Just try to stay calm. All your teachers know that you’ve been through a trauma, though they don’t know the full details. Your close friends know a little about it, and they all promised to be supportive. I said to you yesterday that we’re all glad to see you back. Just remember that you’re among friends. Are you getting support from anybody else?’

  The young girl nodded. ‘The police have arranged for me to see someone tomorrow after school. She’ll be coming to the house. And we all get visited by a policewoman who’s good at listening.’

  ‘Well, if you need to talk while you’re in school, just come and find me, any lunchtime or break time. Okay?’

  She patted Karen’s shoulder.

  ‘How did it go?’ Martin Allen asked when Lorna returned to the maths department office.

  She sighed. ‘As well as could be expected. I feel so sorry for her. It must have been awful. How on earth does your wife cope with it, having to deal with these things all the time?’

  ‘That’s a question I often ask myself. I always thought she had a layer of impenetrable psychological armour, but I’ve become less sure of that in recent years.’ He glanced at the clock. ‘Two minutes to afternoon registration. We’d better be off.’

  * * *

  Jill Freeman had left work early so that she would be home when her daughter arrived back from school. Paul, two years younger than his sister, was already in the lounge watching television when the front door banged shut behind Karen. She sniffed the air: cakes. She dropped her bag and walked through to the kitchen.

  ‘It’s only fruit scones, Karen. I haven’t had time to do anything more complicated. But the first batch is cooling on that rack, so you can have one if you like. It’ll be an hour or more before Dad’s in for dinner.’

  Jill rinsed the last of the dishes and watched her daughter spread jam thickly onto a scone and take a large bite. Thank goodness, she thought. Things are beginning to get back to normal.

  ‘How did school go today? Were things any easier?’

  ‘It’s horrible. I keep thinking people are looking at me, then when they see me looking back, they look away. I keep thinking they’re talking about me.’

  ‘It will just be your imagination, Karen. Your friends are really nice, aren’t they? Certainly the ones I’ve met. You don’t think that about Jamila and Rachel, do you? And they’re your closest friends. Haven’t they been friendly enough since you went back yesterday?’

  The girl sighed. ‘I suppose so. And it’s not them, it’s the others.’ She paused. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I just feel sad all the time. I feel like crying. I cried today when Miss McIntyre saw me at lunchtime. I tried not to, but I couldn’t help it.’

  ‘It’s not a bad thing to cry, Karen. It helps to show how upset you are because then other people will try to understand a bit better. How did the talk with Miss McIntyre go?’

  ‘Okay, I suppose. But some of the other girls found out and they were looking at me when I went into registration.’

  ‘Maybe you could ask Jamila and Rachel to wait for you outside Miss MacIntyre’s office next time. Then you wouldn’t be going into registration on your own afterwards. How does that sound?’

  ‘Okay.’ The girl finished eating her jam-covered scone.

  ‘Will you and Paul be alright watching the telly for a short while? I need to pop out with an important message for someone. Okay, sweetheart?’ She watched her daughter anxiously. Karen merely nodded absentmindedly, spread some jam onto another two scones and took them through to join her brother in the lounge. Her mother smoothed down her skirt, checked her appearance in the hall mirror and slipped out of the front door. Some things just couldn’t wait.

  * * *

  Theresa Jackson was the family liaison officer assigned to the Freeman family. She was a young Dorchester-based PC, dedicated and keen to do well in her chosen career. She visited Finch Cottage early each evening in order to talk through any issues that the family raised, a
nd to keep them up to date with developments. This particular evening, Wednesday, would be problematic for her, though. She had made a date with her current boyfriend to celebrate his birthday in one of Dorchester’s upmarket restaurants. She had decided to drop in on the Freemans during the late afternoon instead. Karen, the family member of greatest concern, should be home from school by then.

  Theresa turned off the main road and drove into the quiet, tree-lined area where the Freeman family lived. She suddenly noticed that the woman walking quickly around a nearby street corner into a secluded cul-de-sac was the Freeman mother, Jill. But why was she acting so furtively? Every few paces she glanced back over her shoulder. Theresa slowed and pulled her car close to the kerb where she watched and waited.

  The door of a parked car, a red VW Golf, opened as Jill approached and she slid quickly into the empty passenger seat. Theresa thought she could just make out the hazy shapes of two figures embracing, or was it her over-vivid imagination? She noted the car registration then moved her own car back into the traffic lane and drove on to Finch Cottage. She rang the front doorbell and waited the few seconds that it took Karen to answer the door, safety chain engaged.

  ‘Hello, Karen. Can I come in? I’m a bit early today, aren’t I?’

  Karen smiled weakly and closed the door in order to disengage the security chain. Theresa was glad to see the youngster looking markedly more cheerful than on the previous three days. She followed Karen through into the kitchen.