Slice

by David Hodges

  He crossed himself automatically as he turned down the nave towards the chancel, genuflecting in front of the simple brass cross on the altar before making for the north-east corner. The curtains across the choir vestry stirred on his approach, as if under a draught, and he paused again with a frown, peering over his shoulder at the north door. It appeared to be securely shut and he shook his head a couple of times in puzzlement, wondering where the draught could have come from. Then he shrugged, mentally reproaching himself for his stupidity. For heaven’s sake, man, he thought, the church is 700 years old. You can hardly expect it to be vacuum sealed.

  The low door to the sacristy at the far end of the choir vestry was ajar, the bunch of keys still dangling from the lock where he had left them earlier, and he ducked his head as he went through. The lamp burned brightly on his desk, casting fantasy shadows up the bare stonework, but not all were illusions and he froze when one peeled itself off the wall behind the desk and came towards him. ‘Good evening, Father,’ the figure said quietly. ‘That was a nice short service.’

  Cotter’s mouth tightened and the worms immediately started crawling around his insides. ‘I am not a father,’ he snapped, trying to take command of the situation, but finding himself let down by the nervous quaver in his tone. ‘This is an Anglican church.’

  His visitor chuckled. ‘Well, whatever, Andrew,’ he replied, continuing to advance slowly towards him. ‘Let’s not split hairs, shall we?’

  Cotter clenched both fists by his sides. ‘What do you want?’ he whispered. ‘Is it money you’re after?’

  The other laughed harshly. ‘Money, Andrew?’ he echoed. ‘Money? Oh, I think you’ll need a lot more than mere money to clear your debt.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Now, now, Andrew, no more playing games, eh? You did enough of that in the old days, remember?’

  Cotter shook his head quickly as he backed away from his sinister visitor. ‘I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.’

  Feeling the top of the low arched doorway touching the back of his head, he suddenly ducked under it and out into the choir vestry, grasping the iron ring in the door and pulling it shut behind him. Then, after turning the key in the lock, he scurried through the curtains of the choir vestry in a panic, his cassock flapping around him as he ran down the aisle towards the porch doors.

  Virtual silence accompanied his flight, a silence broken only by the ringing thud of his shoes on the flagstones, and for a moment he was surprised that there was no sound of angry banging from the sacristy he had just left as his visitor tried to force the door open. Then, with an icy twist in his gut, he remembered the external door, which gave access to the church from the churchyard itself; he realized that his ‘prisoner’ must already be out and was no doubt pacing him along the outer wall, ready to confront him when he burst through.

  Changing direction at the last minute, he stumbled through the pews to the nave and headed for the west door, only to find it locked. Fumbling for the keys in his cassock pocket, he suddenly remembered they were still in the door of the sacristy. He was trapped. With a very non-Christian exclamation, he spun round and raced back down the nave, darting suddenly into the nearest row of pews and crouching down on both knees as he heard the loud ‘crack’ that indicated the heavy iron latch on the north door had been raised.

  Next came the sound of the door opening, followed by a familiar bang as it struck the stone pillar just inside, then heavy footsteps advancing along the stone-flagged aisle to the nave. Silence for a few moments before the footsteps resumed, walking slowly down the nave towards the west door. Cotter pressed closer to the back of the pew behind which he sheltered, freezing as the footsteps passed by his hiding-place and praying that they would not stop.

  But even the prayers of the Almighty’s chosen ones are not always answered and he was still crouching there with his eyes tightly closed, waiting for a miracle, when the apparition appeared in the pew behind him and leaned over to tap him gently on the shoulder. As he jerked his head round with a terrified cry, a powerful hand grabbed him by the hair, hauling him back on to the seat of the pew, while a soft pad soaked in some sort of strong anaesthetic was pressed tightly over his mouth and nose. His last recollection was of hearing the clock in the church tower begin to strike the hour before a heavy, all-consuming blackness swallowed him whole.

  chapter 10

  FULTON COULD NOT settle. He had gone home with the intention of putting his feet up for a while, but things kept racing around inside his head like an erratic DVD trailer. The brutal murders of Herbert Lyall and Lenny Baker, the disappearance of John Derringer, the row with Dee Honeywell and the acid comments of Andy Stoller – a poisonous witches’ brew of voices, images and doubts, each one clamouring for pride of place, and there, in the midst of it all, the podgy face of Janet glaring at him with all the malevolence of the witch herself.

  In the end, hot, sweaty and irritable, he got up and took a shower before slumping into his armchair with a cigarette in one hand and a half-full glass of whisky in the other. Pushing thoughts of Janet, Andy Stoller and Dee Honeywell out of his mind, he concentrated instead on the murder inquiry. He was missing something – a fact so obvious that it was screaming at him to be noticed. Somehow he knew it wasn’t visual. It was something he had been told or overheard, possibly in the last twenty-four hours, and it had grated on him like a discordant note at the Last Night of the Proms. But exactly what was it, that was the point?

  He had managed to get a warrant for Baker’s place, but apart from a stack of dirty magazines, a selection of soft porn DVDs and a pile of racing papers, his search team had found absolutely zilch. Lenny apparently lived alone and his flat was a tip, presided over by a flea-bitten mongrel that had managed to sink its teeth into the leg of a member of the search team before it had been dispatched to the local kennels in the general-purpose Transit.

  He took a couple of sips from the whisky glass, then, making a sudden decision, abandoned the rest.

  Rain was spattering against the window panes as he left the house and got into his car, and a thick fog had developed by the time he pulled up outside Derringer’s flat. The street seemed to be deserted, the cars that were parked on both sides of it just sinister smudges in the gloom.

  He had his credit card ready and his torch in his other hand by the time he got to the bottom of the steps and approached the front door, but then he stopped short, his senses tingling. The door was ajar.

  He listened intently for a moment, but heard nothing, save the sound of a distant train. He was positive he had secured the door properly at the end of his last visit with Phil Gilham, but there was no denying it was open now.

  He switched on his torch, grinning to himself as the beam, expertly masked with black tape, pinpointed the lock. Masked torches were usually carried by villains with a penchant for breaking into houses and he wondered what would happen if a passing patrol happened to walk in on him, equipped as he was.

  He switched the torch off again, pushed the door wider and peered into the gloom, still listening for the slightest sound. Then he heard it – a soft scraping noise from the bedroom to the right of the door as if a drawer were being carefully closed. A second later, a glimmer of light showed, then died. Someone else, it seemed, was using a masked torch as well.

  He poked his head round the corner of the room. His heart made strange squishing noises as he tried to control his heavy breathing and his mouth tightened as a floorboard cracked under his weight. The bedroom was in total darkness now. The intruder knew he was there.

  He fumbled for the light switch, but at the same moment a big solid shape, blacker than the darkness he was peering into, came at him from nowhere, briefly knocking him off balance and lunging for the front door. Instinctively, his balled fist struck out and he had the satisfaction of feeling the crunch as it connected with flesh and bone, but although the intruder cried out in pain, the blow failed to diminish the spe
ed of his departure. He was out through the front door before Fulton even managed to swing round and the thud of his flying feet on the steps up to the street quickly faded as he vanished into the fog, leaving behind the smell of cheap aftershave.

  Cursing under his breath, Fulton flexed his bruised fingers, but made no effort to go after his antagonist. He had to accept that his bulk was not built for speed and anyway, matey-boy would have been long gone by the time he even got to the top of the steps.

  Instead, he contented himself with a look round the flat and when he eventually found the light switch he wasn’t surprised by what he saw. The whole place had been ransacked; the bed stripped and slit open with a sharp blade to expose the springs, drawers pulled out and their contents dumped unceremoniously on the floor and the expensive shirts and suits he had noticed on his previous visit ripped from their hangers and left in piles in front of the wardrobe.

  The kitchen had not escaped attention either, with cupboards and drawers emptied on to the floor and bags of sugar and flour slit open, then tossed among the litter of pots and pans, crockery and food which had preceded them. Even the freezer had been emptied and grisly-looking parcels of red meat, fish and packets of frozen vegetables lay everywhere.

  For a moment Fulton leaned back against the kitchen wall, studying the mess while he lit a cigarette. When he had first disturbed the intruder, it had flashed through his mind that maybe Derringer had sneaked back for a change of clothes, but the man who had crashed into him was of a much heavier build than the weasel-faced beat bobby, and besides, why would Derringer want to trash his own flat? It didn’t make sense. No, whoever was responsible for this job, must be someone other than Derringer, but who, that was the point? And, more important, what the hell were they after? This latest inquiry was turning out to be a lot more complicated than he had at first expected and the conviction was growing on him that, aside from the killer, there were other players involved in the business, each one working to a different agenda. As he jerked his mobile from his pocket and put in a call to the police control room to summon the cavalry, he knew it was time he paid one of those players a visit.

  It was after ten by the time Fulton rang the bell at the Vansetti house in Grove and, when the muscular thug in his tight blue suit answered the door, he could not help grinning.

  Bruno Dodd had never been particularly handsome, but the swollen cheekbone and black eye gave him a kind of grotesque comic book appearance, which Fulton was delighted to see.

  ‘Screwed any basement flats lately, Bruno?’ he sniped, quite sure how he had sustained his injuries.

  The dead eyes studied him like those of a lizard. ‘Hello, Mr Fulton,’ the other said politely. ‘You come to see Mickey?’

  ‘You’re sharp this evening, Bruno.’

  ‘It’s late.’

  ‘So what? Has he had his Horlicks already, then?’

  ‘I’ll ask him if he’s in.’

  Two minutes later Fulton was shown into a thickly carpeted lounge, furnished with a gilt-leafed bar and several green-leather chairs. Carlo Vansetti was sitting in one of the chairs, propped up by cushions. Old and eaten up with cancer, his days as head of the family were nearly done, but the jaundiced eyes still missed very little and the grey emaciated face turned towards the policeman when he entered the room, nodding slowly without speaking.

  Mickey was at the bar with his back to the door, but he turned to greet his visitor with two half-filled glasses in his hands. ‘Well, this is a pleasure, Jack,’ he said. ‘Scotch?’

  Fulton accepted the drink and took a sip. ‘You should get a minder for Bruno,’ he said. ‘Then, when he gets caught breaking into basement flats, he won’t get hurt.’

  Mickey chuckled. ‘Gettin’ old, Jack – like the rest of us.’

  Fulton took another sip of his drink and deposited himself in one of the chairs. ‘OK, Mickey, let’s cut the crap, shall we? Tell me about John Derringer.’

  The death’s head smile returned, but the eyes were cold and hard. ‘Been a naughty boy, your Mr Derringer, Jack. Needs a slap.’

  ‘How much has he taken you for?’

  Now even the pretence of a smile vanished. ‘No one takes me for nothin’, Jack, you knows that. Let’s just say he’s made an unauthorized withdrawal.’

  ‘Meaning what exactly?’

  ‘We speaking off the record? No wire nor nothin’?’

  ‘Depends what you tell me, but I’m not wired, you have my word on that.’

  Vansetti drained his glass and stretched his thin lips over his teeth. ‘Your Mr Derringer ain’t a very nice man, Jack,’ he said. ‘Shafted one of my little girls, then used her to get his hands on my money.’

  ‘One of your girls?’

  ‘She were a croupier at a sort of unofficial club I owns in Pilstone, just down the road. Derringer liked to play blackjack most nights he were off duty and he persuaded her to come in on a little scam he had cooked up. Managed to cream off a couple of grand over a few weeks, too.’

  ‘You must be making a few bucks if you didn’t notice that. I’d miss twenty quid from my bank account.’

  The grin returned. ‘Said you was in the wrong job, Jack. Anyway, the little tart took off when my manager finally sussed what was going down. Bruno managed to find her an’ bring her back, but by then she had tipped off your Mr Derringer, who did a runner.’

  ‘And you thought Derringer might have a stash somewhere in his flat?’

  ‘I can see why you’re a detective, Jack, and I’m just a poor entrepreneur.’

  ‘I could haul you and Bruno in for burglary.’

  Mickey sighed. ‘You’d have to prove it first, my son.’

  ‘Maybe I am wired and I have what you said on tape?’

  ‘I doubt it, Jack. You’re old school – like me. You give me your word. And anyway, you ain’t interested in me. You wants your bent bluebottle. Murder, they tells me. Always knew he were a wrong ’un.’

  Fulton leaned forward in the chair. ‘So where is he?’

  Vansetti poured himself another drink. ‘If I knew that, I wouldn’t be tellin’ you now, would I?’

  Fulton stood up, sensing he had got as much out of his old antagonist as he was going to. ‘If I find you’re holding out on me, Mickey, your little club at Pilstone could come in for some real heat. Do you savvy?’

  The death’s head wore a bleak expression when Vansetti turned to face him again. ‘Oh I savvy all right, Jack, but I’ll tell you one thing.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I don’t reckon John Derringer’s got the guts to whack anyone. But someone else in your nick has. So if I was you, I’d watch my back, me ol’ mucker.’

  The Reverend Cotter awoke with a splitting headache in almost total darkness – almost total because there was a lamp of some sort just above his head, which cast a small circle of light around him, but revealed nothing beyond it. It was like being in the middle of a stage spotlight, though he was quite sure he was not in any theatre. He was conscious of a rhythmic chugging sound close by, like that made by a labouring engine, and there was a strong smell of diesel, cloying and nauseating.

  He was sitting in a high-backed leather chair, but that was all he could tell, because he could not move. His wrists were handcuffed to the arms in such a way that the metal bit viciously into the flesh, while his ankles seemed to be secured to the chair by some sort of sticky tape, which crackled slightly when he futilely tried to wriggle the circulation back into them. Most frightening of all was the tight, inflexible band that gripped his forehead, pulling his head back against the headrest so that his gaze was directed upwards at an angle and he could only see the lower part of his body as far as his wrists by forcing his eyeballs down in their sockets in an unnatural, painful contortion.

  ‘Ah, you’re awake then, Andrew?’ The voice seemed to come from somewhere over to his right. ‘Sorry we couldn’t get together before, but I gather you were away on some sabbatical or other.’

  Cotter tried t
o turn towards the voice, but the band gripping his forehead like a huge crushing hand prevented virtually all movement. ‘Who in God’s name are you?’ he said, his mouth and throat so dry that he could only manage a croak.

  His captor made reproving clucking noises with his tongue. ‘Profanity, Andrew, profanity. The bishop would be shocked if he heard you taking the Lord’s name in vain like that.’

  Cotter swallowed hard several times. ‘Why are you doing this to me?’

  More spotlights blazed into life behind him and he found himself looking at his own reflection in a long mirror suspended on chains from somewhere in the darkness above. As he stared into it, a hard face with dark brooding eyes appeared in the bottom right hand corner, peering over his shoulder from behind his chair.

  ‘You mean you really don’t know?’ the other breathed close to his ear.

  ‘How can I? I’m a man of God. I’ve done nothing to anyone.’

  A sneering laugh. ‘Oh come, come, Andrew, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten the old days already? Maybe this will remind you.’

  More lights blazed to reveal a small square room. Because of his restricted vision, Cotter could only see a small part of it, but what he did see drew a sharp gasp from his trembling lips.

  His captor laughed again. ‘Know where you are, Andrew? You ought to. What happened here should haunt your Christian conscience every single waking hour.’

  Cotter’s eyes widened in horror. ‘It cannot be,’ he whispered. ‘The place was sealed up.’

  He felt and heard a loud ‘clonk’ and the chair spun round fifty degrees, so that he was staring directly into the dark eyes of his tormentor.

  ‘You’re quite right, Andrew, it was, but I unsealed it, as you can see. You really should have destroyed everything instead of hiding it away and I’m surprised you didn’t. After all, you were pretty good at destroying other things in those days, if I recall – like people’s lives, for instance. Your conscience hasn’t bothered you though, has it? Or those others you conspired with. The lot of you simply buried those nasty memories and walked away as if nothing had ever happened.