In the Light of Madness

by Madness, In The Light Of

  Joan was sitting quietly on a chair to the right of the psychiatrist. She looked pasty and barely acknowledged the presence of her daughter and husband, and the psychiatrist seemed to over-compensate with theatrical gestures and a jovial voice. As he spoke, his handlebar moustache jiggled with a rippling effect. Wednesday found it distracting, so she turned her attention to Oliver.

  His face was drawn, accentuating the lines from his eyes and down his cheeks. His curly hair lay in clusters on his head, jutting outwards randomly much like the springs in an old mattress.

  Joan, on the other hand, had obviously had her appearance dealt with by the staff so she conformed to the social norms. Nevertheless, her eyes betrayed an inner dullness that was not the mother Wednesday knew, except for episodes after a hospital admission.

  Wednesday listened whilst the consultant spouted the same psychobabble she had heard before. Impatient for him to get to the point, Wednesday decided to speak.

  “What happens if Mum stops taking her meds again?”

  “It’s quite the norm for people like your mother to stop taking meds when they feel well. They are convinced they are better.”

  “I know that,” said Wednesday. “So what can we do about it?”

  The consultant brushed his ring finger over his moustache before replying. “Constant encouragement and vigilance for her to remain on her meds, and remind her that her urge to stop is normal but not advised.”

  The advice was repetitive and never seemed to change. She found the whole matter discouraging and wearing.

  The nurse appeared with Joan’s suitcase and placed it at Oliver’s feet. They all stared at the inanimate object as though it was going to offer the solution they all sought.

  The psychiatrist stood up to leave and wished everyone well, leaving them in muted confusion.

  “You couldn’t give us a lift home, could you? I couldn’t face the parking, so I came by bus,” said Oliver as he leant in to Wednesday, with pleading eyes.

  As sanguine as ever, Wednesday nodded, even though she was keen to get back to work. She was not sure how long she could leave Lennox without him confessing to her whereabouts.

  Joan linked her arms through theirs and the three of them shuffled out of the ward, towards the car park. Oliver carried the suitcase, and Wednesday carried a plastic bag full of medication and the appointment card for follow-up visits. Joan had hardly uttered a word, except to say during the meeting that she wanted to go home.

  “Is Scarlett safe?” she whispered in Wednesday’s ear.

  “Of course she is. Why shouldn’t she be?”

  “Writing those stories.”

  “We’ve been over this, Mum.”

  “I know dear, I know,” she replied, giving her daughter’s arm a little squeeze.

  On entering the house, Wednesday wished she had had the forethought and time to tidy up before the homecoming. Old newspapers were strewn over the arms of the two sofas; mugs lay dotted around, half full of cold tea with scum floating on the surface. The chilled air smelt stale and vaguely like a brewery.

  Joan appeared oblivious to the state around her, choosing instead to trundle to the armchair by the unlit fire. She sat bolt upright and stared into the middle distance until Wednesday brought her a cup of tea, whilst Oliver set about lighting the fire.

  “I really do have to get back to work. I’ll call you later. Take care,” she said to Oliver as she pecked him on the cheek. She then bent down and said much the same to her mother. As she reached the lounge door, she looked back to see the gentle, yet wretched scene. She hoped she was not seeing a vision of her own future life.

  Wednesday returned to the station to find the Incident Room rumbling with gossip about Scarlett’s article. She feared she was going to be overloaded with questions from her colleagues, but Hunter got to her first.

  “Close the door,” he asked as they entered his office.

  “I suppose you’ve seen this,” he said, throwing the newspaper on his desk.

  “I have, Gov.” Wednesday remained standing with her hands clamped together behind her back.

  “What are your thoughts?”

  “It’s her take on the crimes, based on nothing but rumour. I don’t take it seriously.” She rocked from one foot to the other, waiting for him to speak again.

  “This London angle is potentially interesting.” He sat down and looked directly at her. “I want you to accompany me to the vicarage, I want to get the reverend’s take on this,” he said before picking up the telephone receiver. “I’ll meet you in five. You’re driving.”

  Wednesday left his office with her cheeks burning a gentle hue of cherry. She looked over towards Lennox’s office and noticed that he wasn’t there

  “He got called away to a family emergency,” said Jones, noticing Wednesday’s puzzled look.

  She checked her mobile to see whether he had left her a message, but he had not. Wednesday quickly gulped down a coffee, almost scolding her throat, before she saw Hunter striding out of his office and beckoning her towards the door.

  As they climbed in her VW Beetle, Wednesday was embarrassed by the overwhelming smell of cigarette smoke. Even Hunter’s aftershave did not mask the stench. Switching on the engine, they both opened their windows even though the weather was bitter.

  Hunter sat in the passenger seat looking pensive and drumming his fingers on his knees, whilst Wednesday drove at a steady pace without smoking or playing any music, even though she was desperate for both.

  She drove up to the vicarage and parked next to the reverend’s burgundy Volvo.

  Vera opened the door before they knocked; evidently Hunter had called them about their imminent arrival. Her frown displayed her displeasure at seeing them. Without speaking, she stepped back and waved her arm to usher them in. She then pointed them towards George’s study.

  A steady and clear voice beckoned them in, where they found him sitting behind his modest desk. A green glass desk lamp stood next to the telephone on one side of the desk, and a pile of papers sat on the other. His hands were in a prayer-like position between the two piles.

  They both sat down before Hunter began the conversation by asking George his perspective on the cult angle pursued by the local paper.

  “You’re not the first person to ask me that today.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’ve been approached by several parishioners asking me the very same thing.”

  “And what did you tell them?”

  “The same I’m going to tell you. I have no evidence of such an abomination. It’s the paper’s way of selling more copies. That Scarlett Willow has a lot to answer for.” He shot a glance in Wednesday’s direction.

  Wednesday was used to having anonymity. However, after Vera’s visit, she knew that cover was blown.

  “Who in particular was asking you?” asked Hunter.

  George gazed towards the ceiling and twiddled his thumbs before answering. “Emily and James Dolby were rather upset by the insinuation that their son may possibly have been involved in a cult. It’s got all their neighbours whispering, apparently.”

  He wrung his hands, and his face glistened with sweat. The change in his demeanour did not go unnoticed.

  “Reverend Olong, if you know anything about these murders, then I urge you to speak now, before the person strikes again.”

  Hunter leant back in his chair and waited for George to respond, but he remained in the same position, his eyes fixed on the swirls in the patterned carpet.

  “I am unaware of anything untoward happening in this community, or the surrounding villages,” he said finally, his eyes moving upwards to briefly look Wednesday in the eyes.

  “Could you show us around the church?” Hunter said as he stood up.

  Dark circles harboured under the George’s eyes, exhausted by their very presence. He begrudgingly eased himself out of his chair and walked around the desk to stand next to Wednesday. He unhooked a grey duffle coat as they past the rack by the fr
ont door.

  The gravel crunched beneath their feet as they made their way across to the Norman church. George turned the large pewter coloured knob and led them into the church, where it was a few degrees colder than the exterior.

  A shiver went up Wednesday’s spine as they walked down the central aisle towards the vestry. Feeling insecure she turned her coat collar up around her neck.

  “Is there a crypt?” she asked.

  “Of course. I’ll take you to see it.”

  They followed George through a door and down some stone steps. The air felt as still and as chilled as the inside of a fridge. The damp smell of stone infused the air. The lights shed very little illumination into the corners of the vast space, and it took a while for Wednesday’s and Hunter’s eyes to adjust to the gloom.

  Pockets of rooms without doors led off from the central vault, and each space contained books, relics, or nothing at all. Wednesday used her hand to gently guide her along the wall, when her foot brushed against something that rustled. She bent down and patted the ground with her hand until she came across an empty crisp packet.

  “Do people often come down here?” she asked George as she put the packet in a plastic bag.

  “Only to put something in or take something from storage, such as the candles.”

  “Who has access?”

  “Many of the lay preachers find the damp troublesome for their joints, so I’m the one who usually comes down here. However, the door’s not locked, so theoretically, anyone could.”

  “And when were you last down here?”

  “I really don’t know. A couple of weeks perhaps.”

  Hunter suggested they return upstairs and he would get the forensic team to check out the crypt. As they reached the top, Wednesday and Hunter squinted, but George was unfazed by the contrast in light.

  “How is business?” said Hunter.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Numbers in your congregation.”

  “Immediately after Tom’s death, the numbers multiplied. However, since the local paper started writing about my past and a cult, numbers have dwindled.” He stood in front of the altar, wringing his hands and stumbling over his words. His face glistened in the light that filtered through the stained glass windows.

  “Thank you for your time, we can see our own way out,” Hunter said as he began walking away.

  “Is a cult a real possibility?” Olong called out as they were almost through the door.

  “We have no evidence to corroborate the story. It’s probably the fabrication of someone’s overactive imagination,” replied Hunter, giving Wednesday a sideways glance.

  “Let’s go to the Edwards’ home,” he said.

  As Wednesday drove, Hunter was on his mobile, instructing the forensic team to process the crypt. His manner was clipped and precise, he commanded the air around him, and Wednesday wished she had the same ability. She feared her gene pool would eliminate her chances of having such power over her entourage, unless it was the power of fear.

  Lucinda Edwards answered the door, looking as fragile as ever. She raised a spindly arm in a greeting and allowed them in.

  “Greg is working in his home office today. Would you like me to get him?”

  “In a minute, Mrs Edwards, we’d like a chat with you first,” Hunter said.

  The affluent environment did not manage to extinguish the cloying sober air of bereavement around them.

  “Have you found the person responsible?” she asked with perfect diction.

  “We’re still making enquiries, Mrs Edwards. We would like to know more about your daughter’s life. See if we’re overlooking something,” replied Hunter as Wednesday produced her notebook and pen.

  Lucinda Edwards’s eyes glazed over, until she was prompted by Wednesday to begin with Claudia’s school life.

  She recounted how her daughter was in year eleven at Markham Hall School. With her poker-straight light blond hair and translucent blue eyes, she was a popular girl with the boys—not that Greg knew that fact. She was only five-foot-three and petite in build, so her father never saw her as a teenager, instead preferring to see her as “his little cherub.” Claudia was apparently considered mature for her age, and when Hunter asked for clarification, Lucinda blushed and looked towards Wednesday for support.

  “Do you mean that she was aware of the sexual connotations of life? Was she sexually active?”

  Lucinda nodded and lowered her voice as she gave an account of a conversation she had with Claudia about going on the pill. It had taken Lucinda by surprise, and she had never discussed the conversation with Greg, as she knew he would have been furious.

  “Did she have a serious boyfriend then?” asked Wednesday, equally quietly.

  “She never mentioned a name. Anyway it was all elementary; she was gone before we got that far.” Tears welled in the corners of her eyes at the mention of her daughter’s demise. The word gone was more palatable than the harshness of the word died.

  “What about her social life,” said Hunter, keen to move the conversation forward.

  It emerged that Claudia was in the habit of receiving countless messages on her iPhone, and spent many hours on the internet, on various social networking sites.

  Hunter turned to Wednesday and checked that Claudia’s laptop was being processed, and she confirmed it was.

  “Thank you for your time. You’ve given us a more complete profile of your daughter,” said Wednesday as they all rose to their feet.

  Lucinda went to the lounge door and opened it, peeked around the corner, then closed it again.

  “I have one more thing to say, but you must promise that it doesn’t go further.”

  The pair waited for her to divulge the information.

  “You may eventually find this out for yourselves anyway, but . . .” An awkward pause arose whilst she visibly drew deeply through her mouth for breath.

  “Claudia had a termination at the beginning of the year. And no, she never disclosed who the father was. I took her to a private clinic in London, on the pretext of having a mother-daughter weekend.” The colour drained from her cheeks and her shoulders drooped as the burden was lifted from them.

  “I know there were three boys who would visit her here, and they’d also go to the cinema.” She searched the ceiling for a few seconds. “Ralph, Tony, and James.”

  “Do you think one of these boys could have been the father?”

  Lucinda shrugged her shoulders and studied the ostentatious emerald ring on her hand, turning it around and around her slender finger.

  Wednesday and Hunter had got more information on Claudia than they had imagined, and there, perhaps lay the motive for her murder. They both thought Mrs Edwards should have disclosed the fact earlier, but understood, up to a point, why she had kept it a secret.

  Driving towards the Dolby household, Hunter was deep in thought.

  As Wednesday pulled up outside the house, they saw James Dolby park up on the driveway. He got out, briefcase in hand, and looked their way as he heard their car doors slamming. His face inanimate in response to their greeting.

  “Have you come with news or more questions?” he asked in a flat tone as they walked up to him.

  “More background questions, I’m afraid, Mr Dolby. May we come in?” asked Wednesday.

  He audibly sighed, bemoaning that he had already had a difficult day at work, but allowing them in all the same.

  Emily’s face blanched as she saw the detectives arrive with her husband. James quickly told her that they had only come seeking more answers, and that he was going to have a shower.

  Emily’s cheeks burned bright red as she led them into the kitchen, where it was warm.

  “We would like to gather more background information on Tom if that’s okay,” Wednesday said, before offering the frail-looking woman a gentle smile.

  “I think we’ve said all there is to say, but I’ll try if it helps you find the killer.”

  After Emily mad
e a pot of tea, she recounted how quiet and bright Tom was at school, but that he was more outspoken and temperamental in the home. He had very little respect for her as he hit his teens, and was frequently arguing with his father.

  “What did they argue about,” asked Hunter, as he struggled with the tiny handle on the teacup with his stubby fingers.

  “The usual things, I suppose. What time he could go out and come home, where he could go and with whom.”

  “We understand that he was good friends with Darren.”

  “Well yes, I told you on that awful night. It was a bone of contention with us. We didn’t think Darren or his family were the kind of people we cared to fraternise with.”

  “What concerned you about them?”

  “You’ve met them. The mother is often seen drunk during the day, his brother’s in prison, and the stepdad is violent.”

  Wednesday kept her eyes on her notebook as she wrote. Gossip, whether it was the truth or fantasy, was often rife in villages. There was always currency in gossip.

  They heard her husband walking around upstairs, and Emily looked up to the ceiling as though she could see right through it.

  Hunter coughed to draw her attention back to the room. “Did Tom have a girlfriend?”

  Emily looked at her hands, and shook her head very slowly. “I never mentioned it to James, but I secretly wondered whether our son was, you know . . . gay.” Her voice trailed off at the end of the sentence, so the word gay was little more than a whisper.

  “Would that have been a problem?” Hunter asked.

  “We are a religious family, so my husband would have undoubtedly banished Tom from our lives. I would have tolerated it, so as not to lose hm.” She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeves and dabbed her eyes.

  Wednesday was about to ask what had led her to believe Tom was gay, when James arrived in the kitchen in a pair of brown twill slacks and a roll neck jumper. He smelt of soap and talcum powder.

  “Have you got all the answers you need?” he asked as he poured himself a glass of fruit juice.

  “Almost. Could you tell us what kind of things you and your son argued over,” asked Hunter.