Looks at DI Gostkowski, the first to his right.
'Phone records?'
'Of course,' she says. 'Of the previous four victims, the only one to have called the Reverend Jones was Mrs Stewart, but that makes sense, as she ran the Bible study group at the church. There were eleven calls in the last two months between them. Nothing from any of the other three. Now, this is interesting. There was a call from a mobile phone, the owner of which we have been unable to identify, to Mrs Stewart on the day of her death. This same number also called the Reverend Forsyth several times over the last few weeks.'
'Bingo,' says Taylor, his voice low, the word barely audible. Not looking at her, scribbling in his notebook.
'If we can tie that phone to Jones...' she says. 'All the better, in fact, if we get a warrant to search his house and find the phone itself.'
'That'd be great. Still not enough in itself, of course, but it certainly has value.'
He nods at Morrow. Morrow shakes his head.
'Nothing from the correspondence of Mrs Henderson. She wrote to him, often, but he never replied. Haven't been able to dig up any connections between the others. I'll need more time with regard to Forsyth. Get onto it in the morning.'
Another nod from the boss. Eyes move onto Eileen Harrison. Hey, the gang's all here. Yep, there are seven of us. There's an adjective to go with that, but I can't quite think of it. The Something Seven... No, it's gone.
Shit. Mind is going. Tired. That's all. Tired with the long day, tired with the feeling of cold and damp, tired with the effort of not thinking about the girl and her body rotting in an unmarked grave for the last forty-seven years, and the strange fact that the grave wasn't unmarked, that there was a quote added to the headstone, and how did that happen? And tired, more than anything, or maintaining the denial, from not thinking about the phone message from Philo, of not thinking about what she said at the end, those three words which she said to me, that I never got to say to her, tired from forcing myself to think of that phone message as evidence rather than the heartbreaking, crushing weight that it actually is.
I stare at the table. People talk. This is how it's been for much of this investigation, after all, isn't it? The inquiry has been continuing, and I've been on the periphery. What's my job supposed to be? My overall job? I have the daily duties as part of an investigation, the go and speak to him and look at the next thing and check whatever piece of paperwork. But it should also be on me to have Taylor's back when it comes to overall perspective. Keeping tabs on everything. Complete overview. I'm his right-hand man on that. I really ought to know everything.
And what do I know? Very, very little. Off chasing my own demons, as usual.
Taylor lays his hands loudly on the table, bringing the meeting to a close. Bringing his detective sergeant to attention. Checks his watch. In a Mexican yawn kind of way, so do most of the rest of us. 1.57 a.m.
'Sorry,' he says, although there's no actual trace of apology in his voice, nor need there be. 'Final push, let's just get at this and nail the fucker. The sergeant and I are going over there now to bring him in. This is what we work to. Give it another hour or two, go home, get a few hours sleep, then back here in the morning. We can get a day off when the job's done. Stephanie, get the paperwork on the go for the house search.'
She nods. Taylor gets up and walks from the room, his usual manner, no unnecessary words, no rousing talk. Doesn't need it. Everyone, fortunately, is a lot more switched on than I am.
49
Sitting in the car, the drive no more than the length of Main Street. He's given a couple of uniforms warning that they should be ready to follow in fifteen minutes. We'll call. Doesn't want to turn up too heavy-handed in the first place, although ultimately he might make the judgment to bring the vicar in with the backup.
'We're remembering this guy might have a gun,' I say, halfway along the road, when the thought suddenly occurs to me that the guy might have a gun.
No Bob on the CD player. Bob doesn't play when you're on your way to make an arrest. Maybe on the way back. If it doesn't go badly. Taylor likes to ease the passage of a suspect into police custody with a bit of Dylan.
'Yes.'
'You don't want to—'
'No,' he says. 'The one way to guarantee turning a discussion into a gunfight, is to take a gun.'
'It could be a bit one-sided,' I say. Just paying due diligence to the discussion. Don't really believe that the guy will be a problem either.
'He won't use a gun,' says Taylor.
The manse for St Stephen's is one up the road from the church. Taylor parks outside and we get out the car. Stand still in the early morning. The darkness of 2 a.m. The air is damp, the ground sodden, but it's not currently raining. Quiet, but for the underlying hum of the nearby city, and lone cars on the motorway, down the hill, away on the other side of the river.
The house is dark, no sign of life in the church, except a night light over a rear entrance.
'There's no family?' says Taylor.
'No.'
Up the garden path, rings the bell, stands back. The quiet beauty of the 2 a.m. bust. So often a dog will start barking at this point, a child will start crying. There will be footsteps on the stairs, locks being thrown, a voice shouting through the door.
Nothing. He looks up at the bedroom window, then rings the bell again.
'Where did you speak to him?' asks Taylor. 'In his office?'
'Yep.'
'Which is in the church?'
Another nod.
'Still at work?'
'Maybe he's one of those Margaret Thatcher types. Only needs two hours of sleep a day.' And even that's taken hanging upside down from a beam in the loft.
Taylor waits another moment or two, and then walks down the road and into the church grounds. Tries the handle of the back door beneath the light. The door's open.
'Somebody's home,' he says, his voice low.
Step lightly into the corridor, close the door behind us. Completely dark inside bar a sliver of light from a barely open door at the end. Having been here before, I know the walls are lined with posters and announcements about the church, drawings from Sunday school, simplistic pictures of Jesus blessing children. The light is coming from his office.
We walk forward, our shoes sounding incredibly loud on the wooden floor. If he's there, he'll hear us coming.
I get to the door first, push it open and walk in, Taylor behind me. Reverend Jones is at his desk, same position in which I previously spoke to him.
'Sergeant,' he says, eyebrow raised. 'I wondered who was calling at such an hour. Seems late to be conducting routine police business.'
Taylor steps forward, holds out his ID.
'DCI Taylor,' he says. 'Can I ask you where you were at six o'clock this evening?'
That's the moment when you intrinsically know if you've got them. Right there. The first hint, out of the blue, that you're on to them. Virtually anyone can prepare for it, but when they don't know it's coming, it takes a real pro to balls it out.
He hesitates. There's the golden moment, the moment when we both think, you fucking, stupid loser, you might as well just give it up right now, and then he waves the hand of deceit to the side and says, 'Here, I think. Yes, yes. Here all along. It's been a long couple of days, what with Mrs Stewart... you know.'
'That must've been hard,' says Taylor, with not an iota of tone in his voice to indicate any empathy with that thought. 'She was the leader of the Bible study group?'
'Of course,' he says.
'When did you see her last?' asks Taylor.
Another hesitation as he pretends to think. As ever, even with someone this calculating, when put on the spot you can see the calculations whirring through his head. How much do the police already know?
If he's got the balls, he has to admit he saw her just before she died. Except, we know he was interviewed by Gostkowski, and said he hadn't seen her since the Sunday. The guy's in a tricky position, but if you're
going to commit multiple murder...
'Sunday,' he says. 'At church.'
'I'm going to have to ask you to accompany us to the station,' says Taylor.
'Why?'
'We have a phone message to tie you to the scene of one crime, and possibly a DNA sample to tie you to an—'
'Fuck!'
Whoa. Didn't see that coming. Sure, if you imagine someone is capable of murder, then you've got to imagine that the word fuck might occasionally trip lightly from their lips. But it's not that. It's the cave. The guy caved, right there. He screamed fuck, and he caved.
'Fuck,' he says again, this time less of an ejaculation, more of a resigned statement of despair.
'If you'd like to put anything away, lock anything up, you may do so, but do it quickly and in the knowledge that we will have a warrant to search the premises.'
'Fuck,' says the vicar again, this time with added bite. 'How did you know? Seriously, how the fuck did you know?'
Jesus, for a vicar this guy's language is terrible.
He leans forwards, elbow on the desk, rubs a finger down the middle of his brow. 'Fuck it, man,' he says, then he laughs and sits back. Shaking his head, looking between the two of us. Funny how some people will tough it out as long as possible, and some will just throw in the towel.
However, usually the throw-in-the-towel brigade will have cause to regret, and often repent, their loquaciousness.
Both elbows on the table now, still shaking his head. The look comes into his eyes. The look that says he's going to regain control, of the conversation at least, if not exactly the situation.
'What have you got?' he says.
'I've given you the time to clear up your things,' says Taylor. He looks at me, gives me a nod. I turn my back on the two of them, take out my phone, make the five-second call back to the station to get the patrol car down here.
'Fuck.'
Turn round. This time it's Taylor. The reverend, sure enough, has decided to bring a gun to the discussion.
'Put it down,' says Taylor.
Stare him down, although he's not looking at me. He's interested in the boss. I contemplate charging at him. Do I care if I die?
Jesus, yes. Yes! I do care. Because of Philo. I don't know what that is, but it's because I want to think about her. I want to take her memory home with me. I want to listen to her voice again.
It'll be awkward as fuck, especially if her husband makes some kind of speech, but I want to go to her funeral. I want to remember her.
A gun? Seriously. For God's sake.
'Why?' says Taylor.
Now we're into it. When the guy is coming to the station, you don't want the random confession, you don't want it blurted out like you're in the last two minutes of a TV crime drama and you have to squeeze in all the explanation before the ten o'clock news. The gun on the table is a bit of game changer, however.
'Oh, please, Chief Inspector,' he says. Wonderfully annoyed tone, as if it's absurd that Taylor would ask. 'That arsehole Cartwright and his happy little band of brothers. Jesus. This is my church. MY church! How dare they? They weren't fucking touching it. Fucking Cartwright. That guy was just... he was just a dickhead, with his Daniel obsession and....'
'Why bother trying to fake suicide, when at the same time you were trying to frame Cartwright?' I ask.
On the other hand, might as well get the questions in while he's spilling the beans. Nothing like having a lawyer in the room to shut you up.
He waves the gun. Steady on there, Sundance.
'Aw, crap, I don't know. Keeping my options open, juggling a few balls, that was all. Options. We all need options, and then that idiot Christie walks in on me and I had to put a bullet in his wife's mouth. Jesus.'
'And it was Forsyth who told you about Cartwright's group?'
Jones sneers. A slight shake of the head, a disdainful laugh. Said all he's going to say. A slight twitch. He lifts the gun, puts it in his mouth, pulls the trigger. The noise fills the room. The back of his head explodes, blood and skull and brain matter carpet the wall behind him. His arms drop, his body jerks against the back of the chair, what's left of his head then falls forward and thumps onto the table.
'Bollocks,' mutters Taylor. 'Fucking bollocks.'
50
'What did she mean?' asks Taylor. 'When she said she was leaving you another message?'
3.31 a.m. Wrapping up the crime scene for the night. The vicar's office is awash with our lot. The body has been removed. Taylor is fucked off, and fair enough. Never good when a suspect kills himself in the presence of the police. And no matter the evidence, there will be no end of fuckers who will be happy to assume that we shot him.
Connor has been and gone. He can be relieved, at least, that this whole thing was not down to someone from his blessed congregation. On the other hand, he'll have to handle the fall-out from making a total bell-end of himself over the false arrest of Cartwright. Smooth that one out with all your church buddies, you stupid prick.
'I don't know,' I say. Have been thinking about it myself. And I really don't.
'You look shit, Sergeant.'
'Thanks.'
'Yeah, we all look shit. Listen, I'm going into the office, will work through, get this wrapped up. Maybe aim to work until lunch or so, then I'm going home to crash. You go home now, get some sleep. Be in before I leave and we'll see where we're at.'
'You sure?'
'Of course. Go.'
He turns away from the splatter on the wall, at which we've both been staring transfixed for the past few minutes. I do believe that at any other time he might have suggested that I stay away from alcohol. He knows, however, that that won't be an issue. He puts his hand on my shoulder, the slightest squeeze.
'Hope you can sleep all right. Sorry about the woman.'
*
Early morning. Still dark, still damp. Rain coming on again.
Walk back to the flat. Tired, drained. Am I really going to make it into work for midday? Of course I am. What else is there?
You don't think it's often like this?
There just won't be answers to all the questions. Jesus, everyone's dead. How are they going to give us answers? So we're left guessing. The important thing is that the killing will stop, and that there's someone at whose door the blame is definitely laid.
What do we suppose? That Reverend Jones was trying to frame Cartwright, using an obvious biblical reference with a connection to the guy? Maybe that was all it was. The press can write about it for a while, and the town can gather in huddled groups and gossip. The latter will last much longer than the former.
God knows what will happen to St Stephen's. Well, possibly even God doesn't know. Will they have the balls to go looking for a new minister, or will they fold?
Close the front door, walk through to the sitting room, stand at the window and look down. Spend so much time here when I come in after dark. Nothing to see but an empty street, yet it's beguiling in the deserted middle of the night in a way that it's not during the day.
If St Stephen's folds, who wins? Cartwright. Hmm. Cartwright wins.
No, I don't think there's anywhere to go with that thought. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow afternoon, when I've got time to sit down and think things through with a clear head. Yes, Cartwright wins, but how could he have manipulated this situation? How could he have arranged for Reverend Jones to so quickly implode?
No, I'm not thinking about it.
The red light, reflected in the window, is still flashing. I watch it for a moment, then turn. I listened to the message. It shouldn't be flashing any more. It wasn't flashing when I went out earlier.
Someone must have left a message in the middle of the night.
I stand there staring at the phone, getting a peculiar, uneasy feeling. Finally let out a long sigh and walk over to the phone. What am I worried about? Everyone's already dead, aren't they?
Press the button. The machine clicks and buzzes. The recorded message begins. A lot of
static, like a call from far away. Another time.
'Thank you.'
Click.
I look down at the phone. The voice of a young girl.
Shivers, a sudden thump of the heart. I turn and look at the room, half-expecting her to be there, but of course she's not. If she had been, she wouldn't have had to leave a message... And she's dead, so how could she be there? She was never there. She always just found her way into my nightmares.
I play the message again. It's gone. There is no message.
I feel so screwed up that I don't know if there ever was a message. I imagine her voice, the voice that had spoken to me so many times, saying those two words. Thank you. I can hear her right now, if I concentrate.
What am I thinking?
Go to bed, Sergeant.
Into the bathroom, clean my teeth. Stand staring at myself for a while. Have my clothes dried on me yet? Not quite. Strip off, step into the shower. Hot water, steam quickly filling the room. Five minutes, that's all. Feels like the first warmth for a long time.
Tired.
Out the shower, dry myself off, walk into the bedroom. Stand there for a moment in the dark and the shadows cast by the streetlights. Look at the bed. I've been avoiding it.
How many nights? Doesn't matter. Will it still smell of her?
Long, tired sigh. Get some sleep, Hutton. Stop thinking.
Pull the covers back. There's a note on the pillow.
Stop, stand there for a few moments, naked and alone, melancholy descending, an avalanche of sadness. This is the other message.
I lift the note, get into bed, pull the covers up and turn on the light. A torn-in-half piece of A4, folded again. A short note, handwriting that I don't recognise because I haven't seen it before, but that I will come to love. Just from these few words.
My Dearest Hutton... it begins. I laugh. Can't help myself. Such a sad laugh. It might be tough for a while, but I know we'll be together. It's funny. Feels such a perfect thing, almost as though there's nothing we can do about it.
The Blood That Stains Your Hands Page 26