“It’s from Scarlett. She’s had her tyres slashed outside the office and she’s asking me to give her a lift home later. Perhaps you would like to do that. I imagine you’ll be a house guest again tonight.”
Lennox shook his head. “Two nights in a row looks too much like a relationship. I don’t subscribe to that concept.”
Wednesday breathed a deep sigh and clamped her lips together as they left the house. “Let’s go to The Crow and see what’s what.”
“I’m surprised you haven’t given me a lecture about not hurting your sister,” he said, climbing into the car.
“You’re both adults, although she is a lot younger than you. I’m not some spinster in the twilight of her years needing to live vicariously on other people’s relationships.”
“Point taken.”
The Crow car park was virtually empty as it was only lunchtime. Walking inside, they saw a couple of ramblers huddling around the roaring fire, and a game keeper in muddy boots and a wax jacket standing at the bar chatting to the barmaid.
“Is Dick Pennymore in?” asked Wednesday as she flashed her badge.
“Afraid not, he’s at the brewery. Can I help?”
“Have you seen Stewart Cleveland recently?”
“No, not for a few days now. Dick’s looking for him too. Shall I say you called?”
Wednesday nodded before she and Lennox reluctantly left the cosy atmosphere for the raw air outside.
“You never liked having my Darren around,” spat Judith Wright at Des who had just walked in through the back door. “I bet you’re secretly glad he’s dead.”
Des could see there was nothing he could do to dampen the molten fury in Judith’s inebriated mind.
“I’m going to lose the child benefit now, so we’ll have less money than before. You’re a useless lump,” she yelled as she launched a heavy glass ashtray in his direction. It missed him but managed to make another dent in the already mutilated kitchen door.
“If you were less ruled by alcohol, you may have been the mum he needed.”
Des instantly regretted verbalising the truth as he saw her stagger towards him with her gnarled hands clenched in fists. As she was too small to reach his chin, she punched him in the groin. He doubled over in excruciating agony. As his head lolled forward, she raised her knee and made contact with his nose. Big, fat drops of blood splashed onto the floor, mingling with the muddy footprints he had brought in.
Des gritted his teeth and screwed up his eyes, fighting the inner turmoil to lash back at her. He wanted to strike her and fling her across the room; but that was what his father had done to his mother—and she died. His father was sent to jail as the jury struggled to believe he was the victim of domestic violence, not the perpetrator.
He felt another blow on the back of his head before she pushed him, knocking over a chair as he rolled towards the floor. Her laugh rang in his ears and then he heard the familiar sound of liquid being sloshed into a mug. He knew she would be subdued for a period of time. He dragged himself along the floor and moved snake-like out into the hallway. As he reached the front door, he stood up, brushed himself down, and made a silent exit. He needed to rid himself of his internal rage.
As he walked along the road, he wiped the blood from his face and rolled a cigarette. He allowed the breeze to carry the grey plumes from his mouth; his neck muscles tightened as he relived the past few moments and the tension began pounding in his head.
Reaching his destination, he threw the stub end to the ground and crushed it under foot. He marched into The Crow and ordered a pint.
Arlow and Damlish received a frosty welcome from the receptionist at Markham Hall, but undeterred, they interviewed all the staff members that were available at that time. The last teacher was Colin Pollock.
“Let’s talk about the headmaster. Did you have occasion to meet him after work?”
“Mr Cleveland and I don’t mingle in the same social circles.”
“What do you do in your spare time?”
“I’m a geography teacher, so I like to hike around the countryside and get involved with nature. I’m also a member of the local choir.”
“Are you a religious man?”
“Religion is a drug for the weak and fearful. But I do sing in the choir so I’m there on Sundays for the music, not God.”
Arlow raised his eyebrows then looked down at his notebook. “Is there anything else you would like to add?”
“Not that I can think of. Can I go?”
Arlow nodded and waited for him to leave before turning to Damlish. “We’ve got nothing to offer Hunter here,” he said gruffly, flicking through his notes.
“Let’s try the receptionist. They’re usually a good source of gossip,” replied Damlish.
They scraped back their chairs and headed for the front office, where they found Nina Prince engrossed in marking the attendance sheets.
“Could we have a word, Mrs Prince,” said Arlow after glancing quickly at her name plaque on her desk.
“It’s Ms Prince.”
“Right. Is there anything you can tell us about Mr Cleveland’s timetable over the past few days?”
She sat up straighter in her chair and shuffled forward on her buttocks. “He’d been getting unscheduled visits from some unsavoury looking men over the past few days. Mr Cleveland hadn’t booked them in his diary either, so I can’t tell you who they were.”
“What do you mean by ‘unsavoury’?”
“Well,” she began in a conspiratorial tone, “they looked like the type of men who could have an unhealthy interest in the students, if you know what I mean?”
“I’m not sure that I do, could you clarify that?”
“Call yourselves detectives? They looked like paedophiles. It’s the shifty eyes and shaven heads.”
Damlish stifled a snigger with a cough, although Nina Prince knew exactly what he was doing. She chastised him with an arched eyebrow.
“And what do you think they were doing with Mr Cleveland, unless you’re implying that he, too, is hiding something?” Arlow asked.
“Goodness no!” she exclaimed, her eyes darting from one man to the other.
“If you hear from Mr Cleveland, or some of those visitors call for him, please contact us straight away.”
They made their way to the front entrance, relieved to be leaving the building that smelt of teenage body odour and plimsolls.
Arlow was conscious of his rumbling stomach. Looking at his watch he realised lunchtime was a couple of hours ago.
Walking towards their car, a young girl loitering by a tree caught their eye. She turned away, but not before the detectives saw her looking troubled.
“What’s your name?” asked Damlish, walking towards her.
“Freya.”
“Was there something you wanted to tell us?”
“It’s just . . .” She paused, scuffing her shoes in the carpet of damp, brown leaves. “I was wondering whether what happened to Claudia will happen to someone else?”
“Is that what’s worrying you?”
“Well I’m a girl, and everyone says I’m prettier than Claudia, so I’m bound to be a target for the freak.”
“We’re actively searching him out, and we will get him. Keep yourself safe at all times, be vigilant of your surroundings and make sure your parents know where you are at all times.”
“They’re saying she was sacrificed to appease him.”
“Who’s saying that?”
“The rumour is all around the school.”
“Perhaps you should return to your lesson, and not listen to gossip.”
The girl flicked her sleek hair over her shoulders before prancing off in the direction of the school entrance.
“The kids seem to have lost their innocence these days, don’t you think?” asked Damlish as he watched the girl tug on the entrance door before sliding inside.
“The girls are too aware of their sexuality. It’s disturbing.”
&nbs
p; Damlish looked at his partner and shook his head. “Disturbing is perhaps pushing it.”
“If you had a new baby daughter, you’d find it disturbing.”
Wednesday pulled up outside Scarlett’s office and saw her immobilized car a few spaces along. Anger burgeoned within her. Scarlett had brought this on herself.
After waiting five minutes in the car, she called Scarlett on her mobile, but it went straight to voicemail. Nagging worry intruded her thoughts as she watched the staff leave. When she saw a reporter she recognised, she wound down the window and called to him.
“Shaun, is Scarlett still up there?”
He moved towards her and bent down so they were face to face.
“Hiya Wednesday. No, she’s not up there. She said something about meeting a friend for a drink. Don’t know where, though.”
Wednesday rolled her eyes and thanked Shaun before winding up the window. As much as she wanted to have a soak in the bath whilst drinking a glass of wine, she switched on the engine and drove towards the hospital. Muttering under her breath she gripped the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles turned white.
Visiting time was almost over by the time she arrived. Walking down the windowless corridor that echoed with foreign sounds, Wednesday tried not to breathe in the clinical stench of insanity by holding her finger under her nose.
The charge nurse let her onto the locked ward, but warned her that she only had twenty minutes. Thanking him, she went off in search of her mother, whom she found sitting up in bed with her knees pulled up under her chin. Oliver was sitting on the chair next to her.
He raised his heavy eyelids to greet her. He looked like he was being slowly eaten by the chair, with stubble speckling his chin.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t get here sooner—work’s rather hectic. How is she?”
“She isn’t deaf or stupid, she is sitting right here,” Joan said in a child-like voice.
“Sorry Mum, didn’t mean to ignore you.”
“Was that said with feelings of sincerity or guilt?”
“Please don’t start,” replied Wednesday as she dragged a chair over to sit next to Oliver.
He leaned in to her. “She’s been like this all day,” he whispered as he patted her knee.
“I’m still here, you two. I know you’re colluding with the doctors to keep me in here ’coz you want a rest.” She jabbed an accusatory finger in Oliver’s direction.
He took her hand and kissed it, but she withdrew it sharply and folded her arms across her chest. Oliver exhaled quietly.
“Why did you stop taking your meds, Mum?”
“I was feeling better. The tablets slow me down and dull my artistic flare. I paint better when I’m drug free.”
“You know it’s the meds that are making you better. When the levels are back up, you’ll soon be home.”
“Only when I’m subdued like a ragdoll.”
Wednesday turned to Oliver. “Are you looking after yourself?”
He nodded and patted her knee again, as though she was a worried seven-year-old who was concerned about her parents arguing.
“Where’s Scarlett?” asked Joan.
“Busy at work.”
“She’s not got mixed up in that cult thing has she?”
“No Mum. There isn’t a cult around here anyway.”
“There must be if Scarlett’s written about it. She doesn’t lie, my Scarlett doesn’t.”
Wednesday felt a twinge zip across her chest at her mother’s words. Scarlett’s no ruddy angel.
“Is everything okay, you’re looking tired,” asked Oliver.
“Oh you know, work is rather harrowing. The death of young people is always difficult to come to terms with and sometimes, my brain just won’t switch off.”
The next ten minutes were spent watching Joan drift in and out of sleep. Periodically, her mouth would twitch as though she was speaking to the ghosts in her head.
“I’m here if you need me,” Wednesday said quietly to Oliver. His face crumpled into a million creases and folds as he smiled.
“Please try and encourage Scarlett to come. I’m sure it would help your mother.”
“She’s not always easy to pin down, but I’ll try.”
A nurse announced that visiting time was over, so they both bent down and kissed Joan before tiptoeing out of the door.
Wednesday’s eyes began welling up with forgotten tears. Her deep, compounded fear was that she would follow in her mother’s footsteps and weave herself a mad future, where her only source of company would be the staff on a psychiatric ward. She remotely unlocked her car, got in and helped herself to a cigarette before heading home.
The house was in darkness when she arrived home, and part of her was glad Scarlett was still out, as she was in no mood for confrontation. But another part of her worried.
She picked up the post and placed it on the console in the hall. It was then that she noticed the note from Scarlett, saying she had found out some juicy facts on Reverend Olong. The article would be published tomorrow.
Wednesday frowned. Scarlett was prying too closely to her own casework. She made an Earl Grey tea before moving upstairs to run a bath.
As she lay amongst the fragrant bubbles, her mind drifted to the recent interviews to try and figure out what she was missing. The school, the church, and the complicity of the village all held some mystery with regards to the murders.
Emerging from the bath with skin a deep pink colour, she picked up her mobile and called Scarlett. Voicemail kicked it. Where the bloody hell is she?
Chapter Seventeen
Wednesday trundled downstairs, rubbing her sleep sore eyes. The house was as quiet and as untouched as when she went to bed, six hours earlier.
Whilst the coffee brewed, she tramped upstairs to speak to Scarlett; she was going to tell her that she had to visit their mother that evening, no excuses.
Wednesday tapped on the bedroom door, and when she got no reply, she tapped harder and called out to her. The resounding silence began to unnerve her, so very slowly she opened the bedroom door and peeked around it.
The bed was untouched. Wednesday’s heart started to pound in her temples and she began scouring the room for any evidence to indicate where she had got to.
On the dressing table sat Scarlett’s burgeoning make-up bag and range of perfumes; but Wednesday knew that she carried a more compact version of both items in her handbag. Nothing was missing. She ran back downstairs to get her mobile, dialled Scarlett’s number and got the voicemail once again.
Just then, she heard the sound of keys in the front door, and turned to see Scarlett breeze in.
“Bloody hell, where have you been?”
“God sis, what a welcome.”
“We agreed to let each other know if we’re staying out all night.” Wednesday gabbled her words. Her face flushed.
Scarlett just stared at her and shrugged her shoulders.
“Well?” said Wednesday.
“I went for a drink with Niall Barclay, the editor. We got talking about my articles, and one thing led to another. You know me.”
“Yes I do, but you normally bring your conquests home. I was worried about you, especially with what’s going on.”
“You fuss too much. Is that coffee I can smell?”
Wednesday sighed and moved to the kitchen to pour two mugs of coffee.
“Isn’t it a bit too close to home, sleeping with your boss?”
“Says the woman who slept with her work colleague.”
“That was years ago, and it was a bloody mistake. Now stop deflecting the conversation.”
Wednesday drew a cigarette from the packet and offered Scarlett one.
“No thanks, I’m off for a shower,” she replied before taking a mouthful of coffee then disappearing upstairs before Wednesday could rope her into further discussion.
She lit her cigarette and sat pensively, allowing relief to wash over her anger. The letterbox flapped as the paper fell to
the floor but she did not move, preferring instead to finish her cigarette. After stubbing it out, she buttered some toast to take up with her whilst she got ready for work.
As she passed the front door, she picked up the paper to sling on the console table, when the front page caught her eye. In bold letters, the headline read “Reverend not as angelic as he seems,” by Scarlett Willow.
Wednesday began reading as she slowly mounted the stairs, butter dripping down her chin. She was stunned, but not overly surprised, to read Scarlett’s finger-pointing ascorbic words, backed by her terrier-like journalistic research.
She sat on the edge of her bed and continued reading. According to Scarlett, it would appear that the reverend had brought similar trouble to Warsbury from his previous parish—Bethnal Green—and she alluded to the fact that a youth club was a ploy he also used to get closer to the youth element.
The story went on to talk about a teenage foster child in the last parish. He was fostered due to being abused by his own father. According to sources, the boy complained to the foster parents that the reverend was getting too personal, and wanted intimate details from the boy about the abuse he suffered. The boy reported that the reverend was persistent, which made him feel uncomfortable. The foster parents reported their concerns to the dean and it was shortly after that the reverend and his wife were relocated.
Wednesday put the paper on her bed and rubbed the back of her neck. She was going to have to speak to Scarlett about her sources and about her articles that had a bias against one of the suspects. She also knew that Hunter was going to be on her case when she got to work.
Scarlett was still in the bathroom and Wednesday was running late; the conversation was going to have to wait.
Greg Edwards brought his wife a cup of coffee in bed, and placed it on the bedside table.
“I wish we could have stayed in London a little longer,” she said as she leant upon her elbows.
“I know, but I need to get back to work.”
“I hate being here with the pitying stares from the neighbours, I feel reassuringly incognito in London.”
Greg moved to the window and opened the curtains so the grey sky was visible over the bare and sleepy garden.
In the Light of Madness Page 16