“You don’t have to die, it won’t bring them back. We know you were involved as we’ve found your DNA on the cocktail stick in the hut and fingerprints on the fragments of shower curtain. The right thing to do now is tell the parents what happened so it brings them some form of closure.”
Wednesday could feel beads of sweat slithering down her back even though her face and fingers were freezing. The dusk had brought drizzle in the air, and she could sense miniscule droplets clinging to her eyelashes.
“What happened to Claudia? Why was her death so different?” Wednesday persisted.
“She was different. She had taken a life and so she had to be punished.”
Wednesday wondered how he knew about the termination when Claudia’s own father did not know. “That was a violent way to die. Did you act alone?”
“She was numbed by drugs; she wouldn’t have suffered as much as she should have.”
“You didn’t answer my question. Did you act alone?”
“You should look closer to home, DI Wednesday, and just let me die.”
Wednesday looked at Lennox, who shrugged his shoulders at first, and then suddenly said, “Your mother, Wednesday, where’s your mother?”
Wednesday stepped closer to the tree, disregarding his orders to stay back. “What have you done with my mother?” she said, with her heartbeat pounding in her temples.
“We have all been used in one way or another, and nothing can stop it from moving forward.”
She called to him that he was not making sense. She stepped closer again until she was an arm’s length away from the sturdy trunk.
“Your mother is having new life breathed into her. Her mental infliction will be expelled from her body, and then the work begins—but not with me—I am to be left behind, I’m no longer needed.”
Wednesday’s face grew red, how did he know about Joan’s illness. She wanted him to jump, but not before telling her where Joan was. She had to play it cool.
“Who no longer needs you? What are you talking about?”
“She now has her own child within. My soul will live as it lives.”
Who was pregnant, thought Wednesday. She mulled over the past few hours and remembered the faint smell of vomit in one of the bathrooms they visited. Then she remembered.
“Are you telling me that Vera Olong is having your baby?”
“Bravo, Detective. I’m a castigated father to be.”
Lennox moved towards Wednesday and whispered in her ear that he thought they should get to the vicarage.
“Arlow and Damlish can look after this burke,” he said, nodding in Pollock’s direction.
They jumped into Lennox’s car and sped off. Wednesday radioed the station to advise Hunter of their movements, and to request back-up.
Vera’s car was parked outside the vicarage, so unless she had gone on foot, they presumed she was in. All the windows were closed and the place was in darkness. Wednesday rang the bell a few times then tried the handle, only to find it locked.
They decided to check the perimeter to see if they could gain access another way. Walking around the back, a beam of light hit the ragged lawn, making them look up towards the source. Squinting in the brightness of the light, they could just make out a shadowy figure appearing from the window in the attic.
“Is that Vera?” asked Wednesday.
“I can’t tell. We need to get up there.”
“Let us in, we need to talk,” called Lennox through his cupped hands.
“I have nothing to say. You won’t get me alive.”
They recognised Vera’s voice.
“Have you got Joan Willow?” called Wednesday.
“I couldn’t save your mother’s sanity, her madness runs too deep. You should’ve come to me much sooner.”
“Where is she?”
“Up here with me.”
A cold sweat encased Wednesday’s body, but her mind focused on the task in hand. She had to show she could cope.
Lennox remembered the French windows that could easily be broken into, so he suggested Wednesday keep Vera talking whilst he broke in.
She grabbed him by the arm. “I have to go in. If my mum is up there, only I will be able to reassure her.”
Reluctantly, Lennox let her go, on the proviso that she did not put herself in danger.
Wednesday wrapped her scarf around her fist and smashed the pane of glass adjacent to the handle. Slipping in through the French doors she felt her way around in the shadows, almost knocking over a vase in the process. She could hear Lennox talking.
She inched her way along the dark corridor and found her way to the staircase. She crept up as quickly as she could, anxious for Vera not to be warned of her arrival.
Listening to Vera’s voice, she mounted the tiny wooden staircase and groped her way to the entrance of the attic. Although the door was closed, chinks of light shone through the cracks in the wooden door. Wednesday strained to see if she could hear her mother’s voice, but all was quiet apart from Vera’s periodic responses to Lennox.
Wednesday put her ear to the door. Vera had stopped talking and Wednesday could not detect any sounds of movement. Wrapping her hand around the handle, Wednesday gently turned the white ceramic knob and opened the door until she could peer through the gap.
Her eyes had to adjust to the intense light in the room. Gradually she saw Vera standing by the full-length window. In the corner furthest away from her, she spotted a crumpled figure huddled under a blanket.
Wednesday took a deep breath and entered the attic. She looked towards Vera and called out her name. Vera swiftly turned her head then glanced in the direction of the far corner. The bright lights glinted off the butcher’s knife she was holding, and cast deep shadows allowing the evil in the room to multiply.
Vera glared at Wednesday then rushed towards the huddled figure. “I couldn’t save her,” she said, pointing the knife in the direction of Joan.
“How did you try and save her?” asked Wednesday, shuffling forward almost imperceptibly.
“Re-birthing of course. That’s the way for people to be cleansed and purified to move forward.”
Wednesday’s puzzled look made Vera smile. With one hand on the knife and the other on her abdomen, she tilted her head and stared at Wednesday. “You have questions, I can tell.”
“What does re-birthing involve?”
“It involves wrapping someone up tightly in a blanket, then lying on top of them to mimic being in the womb. They have to fight their way out of the birth canal to be re-born, without the remnants of trauma from the first birth to cloud their character.”
The blanket shifted and both Wednesday and Vera looked towards it. Wednesday bit her lip; it was too soon to make a move.
“Who is present when you do this?”
“I think you already know one person. But he is weak and no longer worthy of my affection.”
“You mean Colin Pollock.” Wednesday inched forward slowly. “I’d feel happier talking to you if I could come closer.”
“Stay where you are. I’m in charge here,” Vera hissed as she brandished the knife’s thick blade in her direction. “You asked who else was there. Would it surprise you to know that the mothers were there? Mothers are essential at a birth after all.”
“Emily Dolby and Judith Wright were there?” Wednesday replied incredulously.
“Emily was a lot more functional than Judith, but they’re all the same. They watched as their child struggled in the womb—reliving that fateful day that would change their lives forever.”
“Was killing the boys an accident then?”
“I’m not sure. I hate the people around here with their perfect lives as parents. I wanted to be a parent, but my husband was too focused on caring for God’s children to have one with me.”
“Is that why you set him up, led us to believe he was guilty.”
Vera laughed and said he deserved it. The blanket moved again, and Wednesday could no longer resist.
>
“Let my mother go. You don’t need her in here.”
“What do I get in return?”
“What are you asking for?”
“I want to keep my baby. I want to finally be the mother I’m supposed to be.”
“You won’t be able to keep your baby in prison, if that’s what you’re angling for.”
Vera’s legs stopped supporting her for a few seconds. Her head dropped so she could see her burgeoning belly which she rubbed in a circular motion. The light caught a silver globe hanging around her neck.
“My husband and his god have made me be this way. If the deaths were accidents I’d get to keep my baby, right?”
“What about Claudia’s death. How was that an accident?”
“She deserved it. She was blessed with a baby, and she flushed it out, caring not for the life of the unborn. She had to be punished.”
Vera recounted how Colin Pollock knew Claudia’s parents would be away, and so he faked his car breaking down and requested to use the phone. “He drugged her and took her to the rambling hut, where I was waiting. He thought we were going to cleanse her through re-birthing.” At that moment, she chose to let out a long sigh. She recounted how she found beating Claudia very therapeutic and soothing.
Feeling the moment was right Wednesday moved towards her mother as Vera backed away towards the balcony. Joan stirred on Wednesday’s touch. She felt clammy and appeared drowsy, unaware of her surroundings. Wednesday helped her mother to her feet and guided her to the attic door where an officer was waiting to take her to the attending ambulance.
Wednesday found she was able to move closer to Vera, close enough to smell the hint of vomit that followed her around.
“You know there’s no way out for you, you’ve killed three children. You won’t be allowed to keep yours.”
Wednesday held her hand out which only made Vera move a leg over the balcony rail, so she was perched precariously on the rail.
“Where’s George?” she asked.
“I’m here.” His voice came from the doorway.
“See what you’ve done to me,” she said, turning to look at him. “I’m going to take you down with me. It’s your fault these things happened and there’s evidence all over the vicarage linking you to the crimes. Your name will be blackened.” The bitterness in her voice was palpable.
“I have a solid alibi for the nights of the murders, Vera,” he said as he leant against the door frame, wringing his hands. He was dressed in casual clothes, and smelt of soap.
“Is God your alibi, you miserable excuse for a man?”
“No, my partner and child are. I have a three-year-old son whom I visit regularly. Nancy has always known about you and has been understanding about the situation. I didn’t know how to leave you, but you’ve helped me with that conundrum. I’m also leaving the Church to be with my family. I will serve God another way.”
Vera gasped for air as the reverend’s words sunk in. She held a hand to her throat, so the sapphire in her engagement ring glinted in the harsh light. “You . . . You have a family?” Vera’s high-pitched voice grated the air, and the pain of what she had heard seized her chest so hard she struggled for breath.
“I do, but I’m suffering with the guilt of suspecting you of doing something nefarious and not saying anything to the police. All the rumours in my last parish were because of you. It was never to do with me. I should have spoken up and now these deaths are a heavy burden I’ll have to carry in my heart forever.”
Wednesday watched as Vera’s grip on the rail got tighter, and her hips shifted further over the rail. The reverend’s contribution was literally sending her over the edge. Wednesday needed to re-focus Vera’s attention on her.
“Was it you who left Scarlett Willow cryptic messages?”
Vera gave a short, mirthless laugh. “I thought I’d have more fun with your sister, but she holds madness within her that translates her fear into nothing but smoke. I thought I could unbalance her mind, but I failed.”
Wednesday refrained from answering back and signalled to the reverend to back away.
“I hate the very air you people breathe. The ungrateful and selfish mothers deserved to lose their kids. They couldn’t cope with teenage tantrums. I gave them their freedom back and this is how I get thanked—hunted like a witch.”
Vera hoisted her other leg over the rail. “I won’t let you take this child from me.”
Wednesday lurched towards her, arm outstretched, but she was too late.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Maria Jones knocked on Wednesday’s office door.
“A call has come in, a suspected suicide. Here’s the address. Hunter wants Lennox to go with you.”
It was another day of constant drizzle, and the ambulance was still outside the house when they arrived. Curtains twitched as they walked up the path to the already open front door.
They found James Dolby standing in the hallway with one hand twisting the hair on top of his head, his eyes red rimmed. He registered their presence after a few minutes.
“I can’t believe this. I feel like my life is spiralling towards an abyss.”
“Could you tell us what happened?”
He stretched out his arm and handed Wednesday the suicide note left by Emily. In it, she explained her rationale for seeking help from Vera Olong, who seemed to empathise with her difficulties raising a difficult teenager. Vera’s suggestion seemed harmless enough, rather like acupuncture. She was so convincing, leading her to believe the re-birthing session would cleanse Tom’s soul.
Emily went on to describe the harrowing session, where she witnessed her son struggle under the blanket until ultimately, she and Vera had crushed the very breath out of him. She wanted to stop the process, but she got swept along with it all, and then it was too late.
The letter went on to ask James to forgive her for never wanting to be a mother, and for being a deficient one when Tom finally arrived. For being only half a wife for him, and for bowing out of life in such a way that God would shun her forever.
Wednesday asked to keep the letter as evidence, until her death was confirmed as suicide.
Wednesday and Lennox left as Emily’s body was taken away, leaving James Dolby standing in the middle of the lounge, staring out the window.
“So much misery,” said Lennox, climbing into the car and reaching for the packet of cigarettes. “Hunter offered you a few days leave to be with your mother, why don’t you take it?”
“Because that would be admitting I’m flawed and couldn’t hack it. Hunter would never forget it.”
Lennox lit his cigarette.
“Don’t you think we smoke too much?” she asked before lighting hers.
Chapter Thirty
Like every year, an opulent Christmas tree stood at the entrance to the church. Everything looked the same except for the new reverend who was greeting his new parishioners on Christmas Eve. He had been warned of dwindling numbers, but he hoped his blemish-free career would encourage people to return.
A man in a dark grey suit wandered up to the church door and hesitated before accepting the reverend’s outstretched hand.
“James Dolby,” he said before quietly stepping inside and sitting in a pew at the back. He bowed his head and said a prayer for his son but not for his wife.
People around him shuffled in their pews, averting their eyes.
The reverend watched as a couple moved towards him, swaying as they walked. As they reached him, the smell of alcohol made him flinch backwards before extending his arm to greet them.
Judith Wright paused to speak to him, ignoring his hand. “I hear there’s free wine on offer.” She sniggered before pushing Des forward.
At the other end of the town, The Crow was crammed with people. Dick Pennymore was happily filling his cash register with money. Rowdy Christmas songs played in the background, and the sound of an occasional party popper pierced through the thick wall of sound. A fire roared and crackled, and
groups of young people wearing silly hats and tinsel, giggled and flirted with one another.
In a grey prison cell, Stewart Cleveland sat on the edge of his bunk, with his head in his hands. He contemplated how he had gone from being a headmaster, to a prisoner for fraudulent theft, all thanks to his addiction to gambling. The judge had given him plenty of time to reflect on his actions, and to consider what he could do when he got out.
His cellmate coughed a smoker’s hack and turned over in his bunk, making the whole frame rock. Cleveland wrinkled up his nose at the man’s rank body odour which sat heavily in the air.
He missed being with his parents for the festive season. They had sent him a meaningless Christmas card, seemingly unable to surmount the deep disapproval they now had for him. He knew his relationship with them had been irrevocably damaged.
Jacob Lennox’s parents had gone to a party without him, so he sat in their lounge watching mindless festive drivel on the television and drinking his father’s single malt whisky.
Although they had not mentioned it, he knew his parents were desperately missing their grandsons and disappointed in his failure. He feared they may spend some of the holiday analysing his behaviour. He threw another glass of malt down his throat and waited for the feeling of tender warmth to rise up from his stomach to dull the anguish in his heart.
Oliver and Joan’s house was filled with the spicy aroma of mulled wine and pork crackling. The large round table was littered with dirty plates, crumpled up napkins, and discarded coloured paper crowns.
The Christmas tree was decorated with remnants of Christmases past. A traditional eclectic mess of vibrant and faded colours tumbled down the branches, ending with an oversized red bow wrapped around the pot.
Joan looked tired and strained; a tremor twitched her head almost constantly. By her side sat Oliver, who had accumulated more grey hair over the past few months. He held her hand, giving it an occasional squeeze.
“Has Jacob mentioned me lately?” Scarlett whispered in Wednesday’s ear.
In the Light of Madness Page 28