In the Light of Madness

by Madness, In The Light Of

  “I suggest we scrutinize the parents of the murdered kids deeper. They must be holding clues or withholding information that would open more leads. I want Arlow and Damlish to re-interview the Wrights and return to the school to re-interview students and staff. Wednesday and Lennox, I want you to visit the Dolbys and the Edwards. Remember, parents always lie.”

  After Hunter returned to his office, the room broke into a hum of murmuring. Some officers gathered their files and others busied themselves with phone calls. Hunter had demanded progress—he had given them direction—and now they needed to give him some answers.

  Arlow and Damlish looked less than happy about revisiting Judith and Des Wright. Jones wandered over to Wednesday and asked her quietly if Lennox was going to the Christmas party.

  “I’ve no idea. You could always ask him yourself.”

  Jones play-punched her on the arm, unable to hide her glowing cheeks at such a daring suggestion.

  “He doesn’t bite,” Wednesday said, rolling her eyes.

  “That’s not what I’ve heard,” she replied cheekily before sashaying off.

  Lennox had arranged the visits; their first one was to be at the Dolby’s house. He was happy to let Wednesday drive, as lack of quality sleep was already catching up with him and he thought he could rest his eyes on the way.

  His rest was short lived as he was nudged into action by Wednesday telling him they had arrived.

  As James Dolby answered the door, Lennox’s eyes watered as he stifled a yawn. He looked apologetically at the bereaved father.

  Emily Dolby was waiting for them in the lounge, sitting bolt upright in her over-stuffed chair. She gave a pained smile before offering them a drink, which Wednesday declined on both their behalves.

  “You bring us news?” asked Emily quietly.

  “I’m afraid not, Mr and Mrs Dolby. We’d like to ask you both some more questions. There may be clues we’ve overlooked.”

  Emily’s shoulders and head drooped at her response, but James remained upstanding with his eyes fixed upon Wednesday. She asked them to recount the day Tom disappeared.

  James stood with his hands behind his back, rising almost imperceptibly up and down on his toes, as he spoke.

  He went to work that Wednesday like every other day, nothing special, same dull meeting that he had most days. He had not seen his son at breakfast, as Tom was in the habit of rising late and running to school eating toast along the way. He had seen Tom at dinner time on Tuesday evening, but he was in a sullen mood.

  “I told him to buck his ideas up, get an idea of what he wanted to do in the future. Emily wrapped him up in cotton wool. I believe he thought he could live off us forever.” James moved to the window and turned his back on everyone in the room.

  Emily took the opportunity to recount her last time with her only child. Tom was not a morning person, so she would go into his bedroom at seven and open his curtains, but it would take him another thirty minutes before he would get out of bed.

  “He was grumpy when he came downstairs. He’d only grunt when I suggested he eat something. A typical teenager I suppose.” A regretful smile touched her lips.

  At that point, James turned around and startled everyone by letting out a snorting laugh. “The dead are often seen through rose-tinted glasses, allowing the living to forget difficult and obnoxious behaviour. Emily is offering you that rosy portrait of our son as it is too painful to mention his faults. It feels disloyal.”

  Emily looked wide-eyed at her husband, disbelieving his words. “You drove him away from us. Always belittling him, never praising his achievements. You never showed him enough love.”

  She remained seated whilst wringing her hands rapidly. “You wouldn’t help me when he was being difficult. It was always up to me to deal with him alone. If he was rude to me in front of you, you never stood up for me or defended me.” Tears streamed down her face, pooling in the corners of her mouth. James was unmoved by her exhibition and remained where he was.

  “I knew you were blaming me for his death. I was offering him tough love to counter balance the smothering he received from you.”

  Watching the parental meltdown, Wednesday decided it was time to intervene. She suggested that perhaps they should interview them individually.

  “No you don’t. You did that last time. We’ll be interviewed together or not at all, unless we are under arrest,” snapped James.

  “This is an informal visit, Mr Dolby. We are happy to speak to you both at once.”

  Emily dabbed her cheeks with a tissue to compose herself before speaking more candidly about her son. She revealed Tom had a dark side when at home. Her face grew bright red and she could only bear to look at the floor.

  “He was always a quiet little boy, never any trouble. It all changed when he started at Markham Hall, I don’t know what it was. He just changed.”

  She sat back in her chair and expelled a long blow of breath. She took a sip of water to moisten her arid mouth. She looked up at James and hesitated, as if waiting for his permission to continue speaking. When he gave no indication as to his emotions, she heaved a sigh before continuing.

  “Tom became friends with Darren, and I think it was through him he saw another side of life. A side we’d always shielded him from.” She leant forward and whispered, “Domestic violence and alcoholism,” before leaning back again.

  She paused to blow her nose. “He began to treat us, well, me especially, like uneducated fools who had no understanding of the world we live in.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Wednesday could see Lennox tapping his foot in rapid succession and running his hand over the top of his head. In many ways, she felt just as irritated by the slow process of Emily’s drawn out memories, but if that was what it was going to take to get to the truth behind their middle class facade, then so be it.

  “Darren would come here occasionally, although they would just disappear to Tom’s bedroom.”

  “Could you explain the changes in Tom more clearly,” said Lennox, finally speaking to keep himself awake.

  “Bad tempered, with quick changing moods for no apparent reason, fluctuating appetite and a lack of respect in the home.”

  “Sounds very much like a normal teenager.”

  “You didn’t see the look in his eyes when he was shouting. They were full of black venom.”

  “Do you think drugs were involved?” he asked, although aware that no trace was found in the toxicology screen.

  “Tom was too bright to go down that path,” interjected James. “But I can’t vouch for that Darren. I sometimes noticed a smell of smoke around him. I wouldn’t be surprised if drugs were sold from that household.”

  James was proud of his statement, amplified by jutting out his chin. Wednesday disliked the man’s egotistical attitude, but tempered her emotions by remembering he was a grieving father.

  “Did you address this issue with him?” she asked.

  James rose on his tiptoes, with his hands now stuffed deeply in his pockets. A break in the clouds let a few rays of sun form a halo around his head, catching the few white hairs that were beginning to cluster around his temples.

  “Emily would say I was too strict, but I treated him like my own father treated me. He was a military man and he expected order and respect, and I expected the same from Tom. I never mentioned drugs.”

  He looked towards his wife who was now sitting up straight with her hands clasped in front of her, resting on her tweed covered lap. Her face drained of any colour, and her thin lips tightened as she fought back more tears.

  “In truth,” she began, “I always thought having children would prove difficult as they never live up to your expectations.”

  Her husband turned his back on the room again and she shuddered whilst still controlling her tears. Tom’s death had driven a gigantic wedge between the parents for Wednesday and Lennox to bear witness to. They found they were left with more question than answers, but the turmoil experienced by th
e parents was not going to help address their queries.

  Wednesday stood up and left them the number of a helpline before she indicated to Lennox that they were leaving. Not a sound could be heard as they closed the front door behind them.

  They drove along the tree lined road towards the Edwards’ home, with the mellow voice of Joni Mitchell singing in the background. Wednesday pulled the visor down to shield her eyes from the low sun, before leaning over to take a cigarette packet out of the glove compartment. Lennox opened it for her and took one for himself before handing her one.

  “What did you make of all that?” he asked before flicking the lighter.

  “That even outwardly happy relationships harbour deep secrets and misery. The lesson being—stay single.”

  Lennox laughed, expelling billows of smoke over the windscreen. “I was thinking more along the lines of the father could have killed his son, perhaps through rage before placing him in the graveyard out of misplaced love and respect.”

  “Plausible, but that wouldn’t explain the other deaths.”

  “We’re not even sure they’re all linked at this stage,” he replied as he wound down his window slightly.

  “I think it would be safe to say that both boys’ deaths are.”

  Wednesday pulled up onto the Edwards’ ample driveway before brushing dirty-white ash from her trousers. She popped a mint in her mouth and offered one to Lennox.

  Lucinda Edwards answered the door wearing a pebble-grey silk blouse with ruffles around the collar, and a pair of wide-legged, dark grey trousers. Her hair was scraped back from her face, showing off her high cheekbones and hollowed-out cheeks. She wore neutral, but expensive looking makeup and smelt of Chanel No5.

  “My husband is waiting for you in the lounge, I’ll go and make a pot of coffee,” she said as she lifted her frail arm and pointed towards the lounge.

  “How are you both coping?” Lennox asked.

  “We’re both dreading the funeral tomorrow. I wonder if Lucinda will cope with it all.”

  Lucinda walked into the room and Greg leapt up and took the tray from her.

  “Have you received any calls, cards, or flowers from the boys who knew Claudia?” Wednesday asked.

  “Only a card from the school. The school phoned to ask if some of their students and staff could attend the funeral.”

  “We’ll be there to observe who attends and how they react, but we’ll be discreet.”

  “This all feels like a nightmare. I wake up each morning thinking she’s in her bedroom and that this is all a mistake,” Lucinda said quietly.

  “There was nothing untoward on her laptop. Her social networking showed nothing more than innocent banter between friends and school acquaintances. This leads us to believe she knew her assailant rather than meeting up with a stranger from the net.”

  “Thank God for that,” sighed Greg. “A stranger felt like it was her fault.”

  “Once again, our sincere condolences and we’ll be in the background tomorrow. We’ll see ourselves out.”

  On their way back to the station, they hoped that Arlow and Damlish had had better luck at the Wright’s and the school, but doubts dogged them.

  “We’re missing something,” said Wednesday, watching the road through the windscreen wipers that sloughed away the downpour.

  “I suspect it’s well hidden under the web of lies fabricated by one or two of the community members around here,” he replied.

  “So, are you pursuing a relationship with Scarlett?”

  “You women like the relationship word. I’m still fragile and untrusting of women.”

  “Not fragile enough to resist sleeping with her.”

  “I didn’t say I didn’t need sex, that’s a different matter altogether. Why spoil things by turning sex into a relationship?”

  Wednesday bit her tongue for the rest of the journey.

  Back at the station, no one had had any luck with the families. The atmosphere was stale and leaden with frustration.

  “What about Markham Hall?” asked Hunter, taking out a packet of mints from his jacket pocket.

  “Nothing new,” replied Arlow. “A group are attending the funeral tomorrow, and gossip is rife about Claudia being an offering in a cult ritual.”

  “We know where that idea sprang from,” he said, looking over towards Wednesday. “Wednesday and Lennox, you two to cover the people attending the funeral, and Arlow and Damlish take down all car registrations for a search enquiry.”

  His abrupt manner always left a tense atmosphere in the room.

  Wednesday followed Lennox to his office.

  “What are you doing after work?” she asked casually.

  “I’m seeing my sons. Taking them out for dinner.”

  “What a coincidence, I’m having dinner at Mum’s. I’m hoping to drag Scarlett along.”

  Wednesday drove home with the thoughts of attending another child’s funeral in the morning—the sight of a small coffin never failed to bring a lump to her throat.

  The inky sky offered intermittent glimpses of the stars, and the smell of cigar smoke lingered on her jacket, reminding her how every action left a lingering trace in a lifetime.

  The aroma of bacon wafted towards her on opening her front door. Scarlett was singing in the kitchen.

  “Have you forgotten that we’re eating at Mum’s tonight?”

  “No, I just fancied a bacon sandwich. Do you want one?”

  “No thanks, I’m going to get ready and I suggest you do the same, we’re leaving in an hour.”

  Wednesday trudged upstairs and threw her jacket on her bed. Her feet were cold and achy, and she longed to soak in the bath. She rubbed the back of her neck in an attempt to ease the stiffness.

  Oliver let the pair in and embraced each one warmly. The smell of beef casserole and dumplings infused the air making Wednesday’s stomach growl.

  Strolling into the lounge they found Joan sitting by the fire with a medicated vagueness about her. The orange glow from the wood-burning stove reflected off her skin, and her partially white hair was gathered in a bun on the top of her head.

  Scarlett gave her mother an over-exuberant squeeze, and Wednesday bent down and kissed her tenderly on her forehead. Joan took hold of both of their hands and looked up at them.

  “My beautiful daughters; you look tired Wednesday, and you, Scarlett, you look otherworldly.”

  Wednesday sensed that her mother’s mind was not settled, and that perhaps madness connected with madness, hence her bizarre observation of Scarlett. Before the whirlwind of conversation could begin, Oliver announced that dinner was ready so they all trooped to the kitchen and took their places.

  “So, how’s work?” he asked as he served the steaming casserole.

  “Painfully slow. Three victims and numerous suspects.”

  “Still don’t think my cult idea is viable?”

  Oliver and Wednesday glared at Scarlett for mentioning the subject that so clearly had Joan on edge. Scarlett was oblivious to their reproaches and Joan began repeatedly tapping the knife on the edge of the plate.

  “Are you going to start painting again, Mum?” Wednesday enquired, passing a plate to Scarlett.

  Joan shook her head and stuck her fork into a chunk of beef, which she then moved around in the syrupy gravy. Her breathing sounded laboured as she pushed the air out through her nose.

  “I’m making more bowls and vases ready for Christmas,” piped up Oliver, trying to fill the void in the room.

  People around the table nodded in silent approval.

  The meal was eaten amidst unasked questions. Joan and Scarlett were both drinking too much wine, and although they all knew Joan should not drink at all, they avoided confrontation.

  “I still think an underground cult has infiltrated Markham Hall and is picking off the students, one by one. Why are the police resisting such a plausible suggestion? Perhaps you’re all afraid of delving into that murky world?” whispered Scarlett.


  “We’re not afraid of any such thing. You have no evidence to substantiate your claim. You went to London to find tenuous connections, but this is Cambridgeshire, not an inner city suburb in the capital.”

  Wednesday pushed her plate away, leaving some casserole, and took out her packet of cigarettes. Scarlett frequently cut her appetite by her words or behaviour. Wednesday scraped back her chair and walked over to the back door to light her cigarette.

  Joan was reaching out for the wine bottle, when Oliver’s hand rested gently on her wrist. Without saying a word, he pushed the bottle out of her reach and then took her hand and placed it on his lap, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

  “Perhaps they’ll come for me and relieve you all of the madness I inflict upon you.” Joan’s gaze travelled around the room touching each face and seeking their response.

  “Mum, we want you to be around us, don’t we?” replied Wednesday.

  As Wednesday was the designated driver, Scarlett allowed herself to drink several large glasses of wine, which had done nothing but accentuate her elevated mood.

  Wednesday stubbed out her cigarette in a flower pot by the back door, and announced they were going as she had an early start in the morning. In truth, she believed a monster was lurking in the room and she wanted to get out before it sank its teeth into her.

  “Is Jacob working with you tomorrow?” Scarlett asked.

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Just wondered if he’d be free tonight?”

  Wednesday rolled her eyes then kissed Joan and Oliver before jangling her car keys at Scarlett and walking into the hallway.

  “She can be so boring and controlling at times,” uttered Scarlett as she flounced around the table offering hugs and kisses to her parents.

  “She has a tough job, love,” said Oliver, holding her head between his cupped hands.

  Scarlett shrugged her shoulders and waved theatrically as she caught up with Wednesday.

  “Come on, trouble, let’s get you home.”

  In the car, both women were thinking about Lennox, and both wondered whether he was thinking about them.