Purged

by Peter Laws

  He was yanking his pile of jotters and notebooks from his other bag when he heard the email chime through. He creaked onto the kitchen stool and clicked on the new mail. No subject. Just another link like the last one. Blue underlined letters floating on a blank white page.

  He felt his heart twitch, hurrying a little behind his ribs. He glanced behind him to make sure Chris or the girls weren’t lurking. He clicked the link, with little thought to viruses or Trojan horses, and a picture flashed up on screen wth those same white bold capital letters along the bottom.

  WHERE?

  But this time he wasn’t looking at a fourteen-year-old girl. This was a much older woman, probably forties or fifties, a bandana stretched across her smooth-looking head. Ears sticking out, pressed slightly down by the material. There was a snarl on her mouth, a generally pissed-off demeanour.

  Before even thinking about it he grabbed his phone and accidentally knocked a pot of pens onto the floor. The phone also chimed the same email’s arrival. Then he snapped some pictures of it, which was just as well because when he went to right-click on the picture to Save As, the woman’s face had vanished. In its place – zooming from behind – came the rainbow. And the winking little git of a smiley face.

  ‘Ha! Got you,’ Matt said and quickly checked the picture on the phone. Still there. He saved it, emailed the photo back to his laptop and held the phone up in front of him, eye to eye with the miserable-looking woman, like some bizarre one-sided Skype call. ‘So who on earth are you?’

  ‘You calling your fancy woman?’

  Matt spun round to see Chris carrying the plates and cups back into the kitchen followed by Wren. Matt plunged the phone into his bag. ‘It’s work.’

  ‘Mmmmm,’ Chris said.

  ‘Wren, I just need to get changed, then I’ll be popping into town for a bit. I want to get a newspaper.’

  ‘I thought you were writing?’ she said. That familiar smell of an excuse in the air.

  Chris set the plates into the sink, ‘Well hey, I’m heading off. Like, right now. I can give you a lift.’

  ‘Nah. I’m fine thanks.’

  ‘Come on, it’ll be fun.’

  ‘No, I’m sure you’ve got lots to do.’

  Chris went to speak then just nodded instead, eyes switching to serious. Weighted with a self-imposed authority. ‘Actually I do have some major things today. Got a healing session in the afternoon, which is kind of a big deal. Plus this morning I’m off to see Nicola Knox’s mum, would you believe. Ever since the little one went missing she’s been having me over every day for prayer and counsel. How great is that?’

  ‘Well I’m sure it’s rather shitty for her. Her daughter’s missing.’

  ‘Ah, but my point is that she doesn’t even come to the church! But this … it’s making her think about God. I mean, isn’t it amazing how he can bring great things from the bad? Every cloud as they say …’

  The bubble of anger, quivering in Matt’s gut, finally popped. ‘You’re unbelievable.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Basically, as long as you or God or whoever gets a cross over her door, then that girl’s death is going to be worth it. Is that right?’ He turned to his laptop bag and yanked the zip shut. ‘Unbelievable.’

  Wren’s mouth dropped at him. ‘Matt. What’s got into you?’

  ‘Hey, Wren,’ Chris said, ‘it’s all okay. Be gentle with old Matty Boy.’

  Wow. Chris was a master at inspiring punches.

  But Wren ignored Chris and just glared. ‘Matt, he’s only trying to help.’

  ‘Whatever,’ Matt sighed and grabbed his bag. He caught Chris’s eye, wondering if the guy would be upset. But he wasn’t. In fact he didn’t look offended or put out by the comment at all. No look of annoyance, no expectation of an apology. On the contrary, Chris just looked at him. Silent. Lips rising at the edges, in an odd satisfied smile.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  At the police station, Miller’s eyes were half closed and he was drumming his fingers on his office desk while Matt rummaged in his bag for his phone.

  ‘You do realise,’ Miller said, ‘if this is another rainbow then I’m pushing you over our famous waterfall.’

  ‘Just wait.’ Matt pulled his phone out and started clicking into his photo gallery. Scrolling through. The mystery woman popped into view, looking as grumpy as ever. He felt a quick beat of relief that the picture hadn’t magically evaporated into the SIM card and come back as a rainbow or some cute rabbit hopping over a flower. ‘See.’

  He thrust the phone at Miller who had to tap his reading glasses down his nose to see it. He squinted once, then his eyebrows came together. ‘When did you get this?’

  ‘About thirty minutes ago.’

  ‘Email it to me.’

  ‘What … you mean, right now?’

  ‘Right now. Address is on here.’ He pushed his business card across the top of the desk, and they sat in silence while Matt jabbed the address into his phone. They looked at each other until a computer in the corner pinged.

  Miller stood up, checked the screen and nodded. ‘Thank you.’

  Matt shut down the photo gallery on his phone and went to the original email message. He spun the screen round so that Miller could see. ‘Look. It’s got the same little self-destruct thing going on. I clicked on her picture once. Just once and then—’

  ‘Rainbow.’

  Matt nodded. ‘So who is she? Do you know her?’

  Miller pushed his seat back, reaching over to the wooden coat rack for his uniform jacket.

  ‘Terry, do you know her?’

  He pulled on his jacket and paused halfway. ‘She’s a local.’

  ‘And does she have a name?’

  ‘Why are you getting these emails?’

  ‘I have no clue. Literally.’

  Miller pulled the rest of his jacket on and jangled his pockets to check he had his car keys.

  ‘So is this woman missing as well?’ Matt said.

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘Then you’re going to see her? Right now.’

  ‘Seems wise, don’t you think?’

  ‘Then I’ll come with you.’

  Miller whistled. ‘Well aren’t you the eager beaver? Is this your idea of adding a little spice to your holiday?’

  Matt stood up, looked him in the eye. ‘Now just a minute. I’m not role-playing here. I’ve seen neither of these women before those emails appeared in my inbox. But someone is sending me this stuff and frankly it’s getting kind of creepy now.’ He paused before speaking again. ‘Besides … maybe I can help. I told you, I do a little work with the Met. I’ll happily give you Larry Forbes’s number if you want to—’

  ‘No need.’ Terry held up his hand. ‘I rang him the day after I met you.’

  Matt pulled his head back, surprised but then not surprised all in the same moment. ‘And?’

  ‘He reckons you’re one of the good guys. His exact words. Says you have a decent eye for detail.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning grab your stuff. We’re going for a drive.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  ‘Her name’s Tabitha Clarke.’ Miller turned the police car up the hill and crunched into a lower gear. ‘She’s a forty-nine-year-old artist living up at the old Spencer farmhouse, a few miles out of Hobbs Hill.’

  Police Constable Jim-Prayer Warrior-Taylor twisted in his seat so he could speak to Matt in the back. His face looked even more bizarre in profile. ‘She moved up here from London. She’s got some weird ideas about art.’

  ‘Weird how?’

  ‘She likes to paint pictures of tits and tree trunks,’ Miller called back. ‘Seems to be her thang.’

  Taylor shook his head. ‘It’s weeeird. And not very wholesome if you ask me. It’s certainly not art.’

  Miller snorted a laugh. ‘Thus speaks Brian Sewell here.’

  ‘Who?’ Taylor said.

  ‘Tabitha’s not well. She’s got stomach cance
r.’

  ‘Aaaaand …?’ Taylor threw a look at Miller. ‘Go on. Tell him.’

  ‘Oh, and she’s a lesbian, which my colleague doesn’t approve of.’

  Taylor widened his eyes at Matt. A sort of can you imagine! face.

  ‘Life really is vintage out here, Terry,’ Matt said.

  Miller went on, ‘She moved up here with her long-haired lover from Liverpool. And I mean literally. She had a lover, from Liverpool. With long hair. But that woman moved to Zimbabwe last year.’

  ‘To paint pots and pans or something.’ Taylor shook his head and laughed. ‘I mean, how easy is that?’

  ‘How bad is the cancer?’ Matt asked.

  ‘Bad. Last I saw her they were prolonging her life with chemo. Notice I said prolonging, not improving.’ Miller went silent and the car started to slow. ‘Here we go.’

  He turned the car left up a skinny, potholed dirt track, surrounded on each side by nettles and thorns.

  ‘I’ll never understand why anyone would want to live up here and not in the village,’ Taylor said.

  Matt popped his seatbelt free. ‘Maybe you guys are too cosmopolitan for her.’

  Taylor frowned but Miller let out a low, gravelly laugh.

  The car pulled into a small clearing with a crooked-looking farmhouse. A rusty barbed wire fence ran behind it, and beyond that was a wide treeless field, wild grass swaying in the breeze.

  They all stepped out.

  Matt’s mind kept replaying a question, which was difficult to shake. Why was Miller letting him tag along like this? Answer a) because he thought Matt could actually help. Answer b) because he wanted to keep the strange professor in his sights because he was a suspect in this. He decided not to ask which one was right.

  The sun was fierce in the sky, more like its nuclear-furnace self than usual. But despite the blaze, the racing breeze made it somehow cold on the hill.

  ‘Tabitha?’ Miller called out as they walked towards the house, one hand cupping his mouth like a yodeller. ‘Tabitha, it’s Sergeant Miller from the village … just a courtesy call to see if you’re okay.’

  No answer.

  He stepped up onto the groaning wooden porch and tapped his knuckle on the door. ‘Hello? Tabitha? Miss … Clarke?’

  While they waited, Matt scanned the dirt on the floor, looking for traces of car tracks or footprints. But the muddy floor was dry and cracked. Even Miller’s police car hadn’t left a trail.

  ‘Let me.’ Taylor stepped up next to Miller and pushed on the door gently with an outstretched hand. Matt noticed his fingernails were really long. Creepy banjo-player long. He gave the tiniest tap of those nails on the door; it must have not been shut because it swung wide open, creaking like a Bela Lugosi coffin.

  ‘Miss Clarke?’ Taylor called out. ‘Hellooooo in there.’

  Nothing.

  Miller tugged at his nose with his finger and thumb, gave a sniff, ‘Let’s go in.’

  ‘Don’t you need a warrant or something?’ Matt said from behind.

  The two officers just turned and looked at him with a you’re still here? expression. ‘She might be at risk. Maybe she needs medical attention. And the door was open so we can enter. Is that okay with you, Rebus?’

  They didn’t give him time to answer. Miller stepped inside first, then the three of them stood in the hallway, taking the place in with all its moth-eaten splendour. It was a jumble sale nightmare of a house. Water-damaged paperback books sat in teetering piles of varying sizes along one side of the wall. The opposite floor was lined with pot plants in various stages of death. One was tipped to the side, dry soil spewing across the dirty paisley carpet.

  ‘Wait here with Matt,’ Miller said to Taylor, as he headed off down the corridor, dipping his head into each room. Thirty seconds later he came back. ‘There’s nobody here.’

  ‘Maybe she’s at the hospital?’ Matt said.

  ‘Possibly, but I don’t think so. She’s got a calendar in the kitchen. There’s a few blocks next week that say “Chemo”. She’s drawn skulls across those days. But today’s blank.’

  ‘So she’s out shopping or something,’ Taylor said. ‘We should just go.’

  Matt closed his eyes and took in a long, deep sniff.

  Taylor looked puzzled. ‘Er … there’s nothing cooking in here.’

  Matt walked a few steps and dipped his head into the living room. Sniffed again.

  ‘What are you smelling for?’ Taylor asked.

  ‘A corpse.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You spend enough time around corpses, you get to recognise the scent. Sticks up your nose for hours.’

  Taylor shot a confused glance at Miller. ‘What did you say his job was again?’

  ‘University professor,’ Miller said.

  ‘I used to be a vicar and I got called into a fair few rooms where old people had died.’ He sniffed again, drawing in the memories like a screwed-up Bisto-Kid. Ah, the other side of church ministry. Being called to pray over old ladies who’d been rotting in their beds for weeks, melting into the cushions. All the heart-warming stuff. ‘I can’t smell much, here.’

  ‘Me either,’ Miller said.

  Taylor looked at them both, hands on his hips and shaking his head. ‘So she’s out for a walk or something.’

  ‘Shhhhh,’ Miller said.

  They moved through each room trying not to touch anything but still sniffing deeply, from bedroom to backroom to dining room. Like visitors in the most depressing stately home on the planet. A wide utility room at the back looked across the field and down towards the valley of Hobbs Hill. It must have been her studio because the floor in that room was smeared in various shades of paint. There were hand marks on the back of a sofa. A few easels leant against the wall and buckets of paintbrushes were strewn across the floor.

  In the kitchen they spotted a bottle of vodka in the centre of a wooden table. A single glass tumbler sat alongside it, empty and upturned. They checked the bathroom last and were just about to leave when Matt raised his hand. ‘Wait. That’s weird.’

  ‘What is?’ Miller said.

  ‘Those.’ Matt pointed to the end of the deep bath, which had a grimy, queasy ring of body dirt around it. Behind the limescale-encrusted taps was a pile of cheap toilet rolls stacked neatly on top of each other.

  ‘Whoah, hold the phone. Toilet paper in a bathroom,’ Taylor said. ‘Somebody call Sky News.’

  Matt shot him a glance. ‘But look where they are. Since when do people keep their toilet rolls right under a shower head where they’ll get wet?’

  ‘Especially when they have room for them up there.’ Miller nodded over at the window where the other rolls were stacked. There was a definite gap where those extras could easily fit. ‘They’ve been moved from up there to the bath.’

  ‘So she’s eccentric with her bath habits.’ Taylor blew out a breath. ‘You know, I’m not being funny but maybe we should just leave. I mean she’s liable to turn up any second. If she finds us lurking around her house without a decent reason it’ll probably give her a heart attack.’

  He was making a perfectly reasonable point and if Miller was the one saying it, Matt would probably have agreed they left. But Miller wasn’t budging. Ever since they’d got to this place he’d been scanning the rooms, his jaw clenched with a depth of tone when he spoke. Maybe some police had a little spider sense. Whatever it was, there was a hardness in his eyes that told Matt that he wasn’t the only one who felt something was wrong.

  Miller leant toward the toilet rolls. He pulled out a pair of white plastic gloves and slapped them on.

  ‘What?’ Taylor said. ‘Are we in CSI Oxford now, Terry? I never even knew we had those.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Taylor, will you just shut up? For one second?’

  Taylor pouted and swung his head out of the bathroom. He looked nervously down the corridor at the wide-open front door, waiting for his worst fear to turn up: an angry, militant lesbian.

  Mille
r only had to pull a few rolls away before he saw a damaged tile. Three cracks. ‘So why is this covered up?’

  ‘Cos it’s easier than fixing it,’ Taylor called through.

  ‘Have you seen this place?’ Miller said. ‘It’s falling apart. There’s peeling paint, cracked tiles, dodgy skirting everywhere. So why cover this particular bit of damage?’

  Taylor swung his head back in, ‘I don’t know, maybe she needed toilet roll handy when she was in the bath. Chemo does stuff to you. Apparently.’

  ‘The crack in that tile is clearly from an impact,’ Matt said.

  Taylor came over and put his hands on his knees, bending over. ‘So she accidently knocked it with something.’

  Matt turned, ‘You think? When was the last time you took something big and heavy in the bath?’

  He smiled, ‘You mean apart from my wife?’

  Matt spluttered out a laugh, but it was a nervous-sounding one. The smile that framed it quickly disappeared.

  ‘You two finished?’

  ‘Sorry,’ Matt said.

  ‘Taylor. How tall would you say Tabitha was?’ Miller asked.

  ‘Er … pretty small. About five-four maybe.’

  ‘Yeah, that sounds about right.’ Miller, still kneeling, leant towards the tile. ‘So if she made that with her foot, then she’d have to be lying down.’

  Matt’s eyebrows slowly moved up as he started to nod. He leant over the bath, eyes scanning it. ‘She’d have been flat on her back to smack that wall.’

  Miller quickly stood up, knees creaking like a loud twist of rope. He quickly set the toilet rolls back into position. ‘I need to make some calls. Find out if anyone’s seen her.’

  ‘You should ask Pastor Chris. He knows pretty much everybody round here,’ Taylor said. ‘Though I’d bet my youngest kid that Tabitha was an atheist. I mean that much is obvious, what with her sexual choices.’

  Matt stared at Taylor. ‘Can you hear yourself when you talk?’

  ‘I don’t understand what you mean.’

  Miller cleared his throat and motioned for them to leave. They headed out of the bathroom and back down the corridor. By now Taylor was out on the porch, soaked in sun and greedily breathing in the now-warm breeze that raced across the fields. He seemed to need a quick lesbo detox. Miller went to step outside too, but he paused on the front step when he noticed Matt still hovering in the middle of the corridor, his feet in a sharp rectangle of sun from the door. He was leaning into rooms and scanning them. ‘You lost something?’