“A five minute walk, at the most. I wanted it to be longer, I needed to clear my head.”
“How so?”
“With the audit at the pharmacy and everything. I was stressed I guess.”
“Stressed enough to attempt murder, suspecting that River would point the finger at you?”
“No. How would that help me?”
“People do irrational things, when they’re stressed.”
Charlotte’s eyes reddened and she said, “I think I will wait until the lawyer gets here before I say anything more.”
Daniel intervened, “Mrs Torrence, that’s entirely your right. But how about we don’t ask any more questions about your guilt or lack thereof, until they get here. Why don’t we, for now, focus on what happened with Reverend Jacobs.” This appeared to placate Charlotte and undermine Cliff in equal measure. Cliff sat back and folded his arms, clearly signalling for Daniel to take over.
“So let’s pick up from when you arrived at the church. Is it fair to say that this was around ten fifty?”
“Approximately.”
“And what happened then?”
“The light for the confessional switched to green shortly after I arrived. I remember going into the confessional box, and he was in there. It had been a while since I’d confessed. The last time was shortly after he moved to the area.”
Cliff leaned forward from his arms-crossed position and asked, “Do you know where he moved from?”
“I’m not sure. You’d better ask him.”
Daniel said, “I guess it’s pretty dark in a confessional. How did you know it was him?”
Charlotte looked at Daniel with no love, no affection, no connection. He saw only rage; her mouth quivering. “It sounded like him, it was in his confessional box, in his church. Who the hell else would it be?”
Daniel nodded, “So what happened then?”
“He asked me if anyone knew I was there.”
“Go on, what happened then?”
“I remember footsteps outside, then feeling as though I was suffocating. That’s the last I remember. Other than glimpses, snippets of memories - of being tied, of being disorientated.”
“Of being tied? Where were you?”
“Hard to say.”
“Come on, think.”
Charlotte closed her eyes and Daniel looked to Cliff who rolled his good eye, tightened his crossed arms and sat back.
With her eyes squinted closed she said, “The room was a swirl, distorted and discoloured. But I remember the sounds, scratching and growling.”
“The growls of what?”
“Oh I don’t know. An animal - a big dog maybe.” She opened her eyes and hit her desk. It’s so frustrating trying to piece it together.”
“We understand,” said Daniel. “Interview suspended at twelve fifteen. We’ll be back.”
Reverend Jacob’s interview room was much the same as Charlotte’s, with the exception of the window. Weak silvery sunlight touched the clouds outside and spilled into the room from behind him. Daniel immediately regretted the layout of the room. He’d forgotten how difficult it was to read the features of those being interviewed when the rear light kept their faces in semi-silhouette.
In a bizarre way the backlight befitted the reverend; it gave him a saintly halo of light playing against the stray edges of his hair. Daniel led this time. He was careful to get the formalities of the interview right, there was nothing worse than screwing up the procedure and ending up with a heap of inadmissible material. The Reverend’s lawyer, with his neatly trimmed beard and horn-rimmed glasses, scrutinised Daniel’s movements.
With procedure followed to the letter, Daniel's spine relaxed. In a slightly perverse way, he was looking forward to the conversation.
“Reverend Jacobs. I appreciate your time here today, to answer these charges.”
“I’m always happy to help the police resolve any matter. It’s unfortunate to have been falsely accused in this way, but I’m sure you’re just doing your job and this mix-up can be straightened out in no time.”
“I hope so … I hope so. Reverend, do you know a Charlotte Torrence?”
“I do.”
“How do you know her?”
“She’s a resident of Blaine and attends St Hughs, not every week but frequently. I’ve spoken to her on a number of occasions."
“Does she ever take confession with you?”
“Occasionally.”
“Could you be more specific?”
“Now I recall, she’s probably only taken confession with me on one occasion.”
“I see, and when was that?”
“It must have been almost two years ago now.”
“Just after you moved to the area. May I ask where from?”
The Reverend paused momentarily, and there was a marginal shift in his affable expression, a hardening.
“I held a parish just outside of Chester.”
It was Daniel’s turn to pause and consider what line of questioning to pursue.
“Mrs Torrence's confession … I know it’s been two years now but do you recall the nature of that confession?”
The lawyer said, “Reverend, I advise you not to-”
The Reverend silenced him with a dismissive wave. “I’m sure I do not, and if I did, it would not be permissible for me to share the nature of her confession with you.”
“I’m afraid we might have to make it permissible.” The lawyer looked like he was about to interject, when Daniel continued, “But we’ll come on to that in good time. Charlotte Torrence came to take confession with you shortly before eleven o’clock this Tuesday, is that correct?”
“That is not correct, as I’ve already said, she’s not confessed in some time and I didn’t receive a confession from her on Tuesday morning. I hope that’s clear.”
“Are you saying she made that up?”
“From what I understand the poor woman has gone through quite an ordeal, has she not? I wouldn’t like to accuse her of lying. Perhaps she’s confused.”
“Where were you on Tuesday morning between ten thirty and eleven?”
“I was giving a talk to the local women’s institute in Louth. I was there from ten until twelve forty-five. It officially finished at twelve, but they kindly asked me to stay for cake and tea. The ladies there are a delight. I left them …” the Reverend’s eyes searched upwards before he re-fixed his focus on Daniel, “Twelve forty-five at the earliest, I would say.”
Daniel exchanged glances with Cliff. Both attempted to remain poker-faced, but the interview was falling on its arse, Daniel knew it, Cliff knew it, and so did the Reverend who sat back and smiled. “I told you I was happy to clear up misunderstandings. If it helps, I can produce a list of around thirty women who could testify to my whereabouts until twelve, and half a dozen who stayed back with me until twelve forty-five. If that would be helpful.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Aitken stood in front of a cottage which looked like it should have been a rectory. St Hughs's spire loomed over the property from the rear. Aitken imagined the residents waking to the sound of peeling bells.
There was no sign of a dog, although at the centre of the sparse lawn was a thick metal stake, corkscrewed into the ground. It had a silver, D-shaped rusting bracket at the top, but no lead or chain.
Just before knocking, Aitken glanced over her shoulder at the two women from the dog section. Anita Glover, the woman who’d called her about the dog, flanked her to the right. “Are you sure this is the address?”
Glover checked her notepad. “That’s what they said. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” But there was something. It wasn’t just the weeds at the lawn’s edge, snaking their way up the walls, crying out neglect. Nor was it the sign about not accepting cold callers. And it wasn’t the yellowing opaque net curtains covering each widow and the door’s frosted panel. It was the combination of these things and something else.
It was that sense you get about
some houses, the way you know it’s going to be cold inside, long before you cross the threshold. It was also a whispering premonition which sat firmly in her stomach; once inside, she’d assess the hallway, and know within seconds that something wasn’t right. She dismissed the notion, but couldn't deny her unease as she knocked.
Her knocking sparked a dog’s howl, somewhere towards the back of the house. The howling rapidly gave way to a throaty bark that was deeply familiar. She knew they were at the right address.
“Alfie!” a meek voice cried without authority from somewhere inside the house. “It’s difficult for me to come to the door.”
“This is DC Aitken from the Lincolnshire police, is it unlocked, may we come in? We want to have a quick chat with you about your dog.”
“Come in. I don’t think Nicky’s locked it.” Aitken pressed down on the scratched aluminium door handle and gingerly pushed the door open. The flanking officers each held poles with nooses at the end, ready to be tightened around the throat of any escaping canine.
Aitken called through the gap, “Is your dog restrained?”
“He’s shut in the utility.”
This news damped their circumspection a little and they made it through to the hall which was entirely bare apart from a pair of tartan slippers which were neatly laid in front of an under-stairs cupboard.
“Come through, I’m in the lounge, it’s the door on your right.”
An elderly woman sat at the end of a long room in a rocking chair, the Daily Mail open and laid across her lap. They approached her, Aitken leading. Her feet rested upon a terracotta leatherette pouffe. A tray with a cereal bowl, with remnants of tomato soup, sat on a table to her right.
“I’m DC Aitken, these are my colleagues Anita Glover and Sylvia Oswater from the dog section. We’ve come following a complaint.
“Well it’s lovely to have company,” she said, leaning forward to rub her feet (just able to reach.) “I say, you can’t see my slippers anywhere can you?”
Glover said, “I think they’re in the hall, I’ll fetch them.” She did so, all the while the dog’s distant barking and growling persisted.
“Oh that’s ever so kind, I keep telling him not to tidy them away. I shouldn’t complain though. Who can complain about a young man who tidies? Now, what was it you said you wanted?”
“We’ve had a complaint about your dog running free and attacking another dog in the neighbourhood. Sorry I didn’t get your name,” said Aitken.
“Agnes, Agnes Tonks. Very nice to meet you.” She held out a withering, veiny hand and Aitken shook it gently. She stared into the woman’s milky, unseeing eyes. She had to remind herself not to pity her, that behind those eyes could be a brain as sharp as a tack. As Glover passed the woman the slippers, Aitken looked at the fireplace, with its electric bars, one glowing orange - undoubtedly burning money Mrs Tonks couldn’t afford. On the mantelpiece were pictures of Agnes in more sprightly days with a young toddler, not more than two years old. In one he wore red shiny wellingtons. The boy sat in her lap, legs dangling in the sea.
Above the fireplace were two empty display brackets placed three feet apart. Aitken couldn’t make out their use. There was a bent, banana shaped, faded mark on the wallpaper between them.
“May I ask, the boy in the photos, who is he?”
“Ah … that’s my Nephew. You’ll probably get to see him soon, I don’t think he’s gone out yet. Honestly, my memory’s getting terrible. He’s been a saviour my Nicky. We moved in together when social services were getting on to me about putting me in a home. We settled on Blaine - we both like it here. It was tragic, what happened to his parents, but they say everything happens for a reason - even the worst of things. At least he’s given me my independence during the time I have left. He’s ever so good to me you know. Takes me to church on Sunday, and to the coffee mornings. Here’s me rambling on … what did you say you’d come about again?”
“Your dog.”
“Oh yes. It’s not actually my dog. It’s Nicky’s. He rescued it from the RSPCA shortly after he moved here from Chester. His parents never let him have a dog - it's a good companion for him now they're no longer with us.”
Three memories played out in an instant, like overlapping films. The first was of the crazed look in the dog’s eyes glinting in the moonlight, moments before it came for her. The second was of the Dalgliesh kid, anxious to distance himself from Nicky in the church hall - yes, Nicky was his name, Nicky the older lad, Nicky the impressionist. The third was of the gridded map of the UK; the cluster around Chester which ended as abruptly as the Blaine murders had started. In that last image, Aitken’s brain distorted the picture, the red-penned grid dripping down the page as though the lines had been drawn in blood.
Connections sparked, her mind an electrical storm. Nicky from Chester, Nicky with the crazed dog, Nicky the master impressionist, Nicky who the Dalgliesh kid had been wary of.
A voice of one of the officers asked from behind Aitken, “Mrs Tonks, we really need to speak with Nicky. Think carefully, is he in the house?”
“Well he was. I’m sure I don’t know. Nicky!” Her cry for her Nephew was feeble.
Daniel, from outside the reverend’s interview room, sent a text to Aitken. It simply read, ‘It wasn’t the reverend who drugged Charlotte. I need you back here. We need to re-group quickly.’
Daniel and Cliff walked down the corridor, heading towards a vending machine for some of that infamous West Parade coffee.
“What do you think Cliff? Do you think his alibi will hold up?”
“I’d bet my mortgage on it.”
Daniel fed change into the machine. “What you after Cliff?”
“Forty-seven,” but Cliff punched the buttons anyway.
“Tell me this. Presuming Charlotte Torrence didn’t feed herself those drugs. A big, ‘if’ I know, but let’s run with this. What sort of person drugs another and sets them up to attempt murder?” asked Daniel.
“They’d have to be patient, experienced, experimental even.”
“Not sure I follow,” said Daniel as he passed Cliff the beige cup and fed the machine more change.
“Well I’m no scientist, but if you’re feeding someone a cocktail of drugs, you’ll have to know the right mix, and quantities given their body weight. I doubt whoever did this started on humans - that would be far too risky. What if the person survived, that the drugs they’d been given weren’t strong enough to alter their personality sufficiently, or for long enough. Presuming this is the same person responsible for all those incidents near Chester, they’ve become skilled over time. But they didn’t start out that way. It strikes me their first time would be the most risky; the risk of getting it wrong, the quantities, the mix. So they’d have to have experimented first, on animals I suppose-”
Daniel looked at his phone.
“Sorry sir, am I boring you?” asked Cliff, sounding a little hurt.
“No sorry, it’s just that Aitken’s not got back to me.” He hadn’t been ignoring Cliff, just letting his words drift into his subconscious as he’d checked for Aitken’s response. Cliff’s words now crystallised.
Have to have experimented, on animals.
These connected to Aitken’s words, That dog looked crazed, like it wanted to kill me.
“DI Sheppard, Sir. Are you okay?”
Daniel dialled Aitken and put his phone to his ear. “Come on, come on, come on. Pick up. Shit.”
“What’s wrong?”
“We’re going to Blaine, we’ll call for backup on the way.”
“What about the coffee?”
“Screw the coffee.”
“What about the reverend?”
“Screw him too, come on.”
Cliff abandoned his drink atop the coffee machine and ran down the corridor after Daniel.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
The dog-catching poles thudding to the floor caught Aiken’s attention first, but it was the subsequent louder thuds and accompan
ying glugging noises, which made her turn around.
Somewhere from behind her, Mrs Tonks’s voice drifted up, distantly as though from another room, “Nicky, what’s that noise, is that you?”
The scene before Aitken was so abstract, so bizarre, so horrific that she struggled to take it in. The image of this man stood above her colleagues’ flinching bodies drew away from her, the walls elongating as though the whole house was about to be sucked into a black hole. Then, within what must have been less than a second, the scene rushed back towards her, snapping back into normal view.
Nicky, was tall, slight, yet his forearms bulged against the tight rolled-up sleeves of a black long-sleeved T-shirt. The blue prominent veins in his forearms swelled as he tightly gripped the handle of a Samurai sword.
The red handle was at least twelve inches long and protruded from the stub of his fist, a pattern of cream diamonds embroidered against red. The blade must have been at least three quarters of a meter long, and glistened where it wasn’t covered in fresh blood.
Nicky was grinning. He reached down to Glover’s back pocket to retrieve a tissue which he used to wipe off the blood. He successfully threw the tissue into a bin in the corner, without taking his eyes off Aitken who was temporarily cemented to the spot. She went for her phone, but Nicky reached out with the sword's tip. With precision, it hovered an inch or so over Aitken’s pocket. She withdrew her hand. He fixed her with a determined look and slowly shook his head in silence.
“Nicky, Nicky! Is everything all right?”
Then, in a tone you might use to decline an offer of assistance in the kitchen, he said, “Everything’s fine Aunt Agnes, just fine.”
In silence he motioned with his finger for Aitken to follow him, as though he was about to attempt a seduction. It was clear he didn’t want Mrs Tonks to be a witness.
“Mrs Tonks, everything is not fine. I’m afraid your nephew is not who you think he is. He’s just attacked my two colleagues who are lying on the floor. If I don’t get them medical attention soon, they’ll die, and he’s asking me to leave the room.” Aitken expected to see anger rise in Nicky’s face, but he just smiled. Rage rose up in her, overtaking fear. “Your aunt has heard all this, even if she hasn’t seen it. You won’t get away with this. I suggest you just put down the sword-”
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