by Peter Laws
‘And why’s that?’
‘Because when Jesus comes back he’s going to raise the dead. I know Pastor Chris says Jesus made us from dust and he reckons he can easily resurrect a body from scattered ash. But I’m not risking that. I’m getting buried, me. Intact. Arms on, head on, spine in a straight line. I want to be myself when I get to heaven.’ He sniffed then flicked a switch on the machine. A row of lights on the wall went off. ‘Besides, it’ll save Jesus the hassle of gathering up all those tiny grains.’
Before he turned, Matt looked over at the Roses tin. Stared at it. His inconvenient lack of x-ray vision made him tempted to just march on up to it, fling the lid off and tip it all out on the floor. Sift through it until he found the other golden tooth of Nicola Knox and call Miller there and then. Tell him that he’d found the shiny Wonka Bar that might be his ticket out of suspicion.
But James was staring at him again and he realised he’d paused for long enough and asked enough odd questions to appear comprehensively psychotic. So he just turned and closed the door, rushed up the steps and didn’t look back. Desperately he tried to figure out his next move.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Matt was still in the crematorium car park but he’d shifted the car so that it was parked around the back of a couple of oversized wheelie bins. He was hiding out like the fugitive he might well become. Putting that label on himself made him feel physically ill and forced him to rifle his brains for an idea.
After a minute of drumming on the steering wheel (his preferred method of inspiration) he quickly grabbed his phone from his pocket. He called Directory Enquiries and asked them to put him through to his old Bible college. It rang three times, then there was a tiny click at the other end.
‘Hello. Kimble Theological College.’ It was a woman’s voice. She sounded happy and young. His mind pictured a teenager, swinging her legs and chewing a pencil. He ditched the image, knowing full well that phone voices usually turned out to be the very opposite of first impressions.
‘Hi … my name’s Professor Matthew Hunter. Can I ask if David Wilder’s still the principal of the college?’
There was a moment of breath and silence. ‘Can I ask what this is about please?’
‘I can’t say on the phone. I just need to ask him a question about a former student.’
‘Well, I’m sorry but he’s about to give a lecture. Can this wait, Professor?’
‘Frankly, no, it can’t. It’s an emergency. I only need a few minutes of his time.’
A sigh. ‘Just a moment, please.’
Click.
At first he thought she’d hung up on him because there was utter silence. Then he realised he was on hold, only without the muzak. He sat there, listening to the gaunt quiet. It was probably the first time in his life he’d actually desired the sound of pan pipes or a tenor saxophone.
Click.
‘What did you say your name was again?’
‘Matthew Hunter. Profess—’
Click. A pause.
‘Okay. Putting you through.’
Click.
The phone crackled and then Wilder’s familiar Scottish lilt filtered through the phone. Matt felt suddenly nineteen years old.
‘Professor Hunter?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not our former student, Matthew Hunter?’
Wilder always did have an amazing memory with names. He’d said it was one of the finest skills any pastor (or politician) could have. ‘You can learn all the Bible in the world,’ he’d said one afternoon, in a lecture on pastoral skills, ‘but I tell you, if you remember their names, they’ll love you for it.’
‘It’s me,’ Matt said. ‘I’m amazed that you remember.’
‘Don’t be so impressed. I’m aware of your work. I read all the journals, you know … even the atheist ones. You’re a provocative writer.’
‘Yes, I er … I’ve …’ he squirmed in the seat, ‘moved away from some of my old beliefs.’
‘Which is your privilege, of course,’ he said, with no sense of reproach. ‘You work with the police I hear?’
‘More and more, I guess.’
‘Good for you.’ A short little clear of the throat. ‘So how can I help?’
‘Actually I need to ask you about a former student. I started in 2002. He was a year above me but I got to know him over that first term. Until he left at Christmas. His name was Chris Kelly and he—’
‘Christopher Kelly.’ There was a sudden gravity in his voice. ‘I certainly remember him.’
‘Brilliant. Then I’d like to ask you a couple of things about him. Firstly, do you still have his address on file when he was at the college? I know it was somewhere in Hemel Hempstead.’
‘Well, I can’t very well tell you that, can I?’
‘Actually, this is a police matter. I’m assisting them. You can call DS Larry Forbes if you need verification. I have his number.’
Wilder seemed to wait, then he expelled a long flow of breath. ‘I suppose my secretary Nikki can get that for you. Is Chris in some sort of trouble?’
He tried to put it into police-speak. ‘They just want to eliminate him from their enquiries.’
‘I see. Then what else do you want to know? Chris wasn’t a particularly good student, grades-wise. And I must say that he wasn’t very popular with the other students, either. Though I remember the two of you got on. Still, it was sad that he had to leave the way he did.’
‘I take it you know why he stopped coming to college?’
‘I know a little. A family tragedy. His wife died. She was called Lydia as I recall.’ He waited, then cleared his throat. ‘Yes … yes … that sounds right. Chris decided he couldn’t study once it happened. Understandable, I suppose. I did feel very sorry for the chap.’
‘Do you know how Lydia died?’
‘No. But I did speak to her once. I called his home because I wanted to talk to him about one of his assignments. Something that troubled me …’ Wilder paused.
‘Can you elaborate on that?’
‘Well, I remember Chris Kelly quite vividly actually, because his theology was rather unique for a college like ours. He seemed to lean towards the … how can I put this … the ritualistic. Far more than the college was teaching. What I mean to say is that he had an obsession with Holy Communion. And baptism, in particular.’
‘He still does.’
‘Well, that’s a real shame. He seemed to think that the water actually washed sins away. I mean literally. The college view is that it’s more of a symbolic act. He really wasn’t in step with us.’
‘You have an amazing memory for all of this.’
‘Don’t flatter me. I remember this because of what happened when I called him. It was pretty hard to forget, to be honest with you. Lydia, his wife … she was the one how answered.’
‘And how was she?’
‘Antagonistic, confrontational, offensive. When she heard I was from the college she told me to never call again. I distinctly remember this because I’ve never heard such foul language. She said I was an “effing parasite”, and that Christians were “weak-minded—” Well, I shan’t repeat the word. Anyway she sounded very upset and ranted that the virgin birth meant that God was a rapist. Quite memorable, really.’
‘Did you get to speak to Chris?’
‘Oh, he was there. In the background. He was pleading for her to stop abusing me on the phone. He kept saying, “Lydia, Lydia. Don’t say those things. He’s my teacher.” But she hung up and that was that.’
‘Did you ever speak to either of them again?’
‘Not really. He came in late the next day but seemed very distant. I gave him space. I thought he might be embarrassed by the phone call. Then he left early and went to the pub, as far as I know. I never saw him again. We learnt later that his wife had died.’ He suddenly paused. ‘You don’t think Chris had something to do with her death, do you? Is that why you’re asking me these questions?’
‘I’m as
sisting on a different case. This is just background.’
‘I see.’ He didn’t sound convinced. There was a ruffle of papers. ‘Listen. I’ll get Nikki to hunt out that address. I know we keep them on file. Though you’re sure it’s for the police?’
‘Yes. Listen, I appreciate this.’
‘That’s quite alright. Now, I’m afraid I have a lecture to give and I really must go. Models of the Atonement … perhaps you remember sitting through it yourself?’
Matt laughed. ‘Actually yes, I do.’
‘Correct answer … Stay on the line so that Nikki can get your details. And best of luck.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Oh, and Matt?’
‘Yes?’
‘I hope you find what you’re searching for. In everything, I mean.’
Matt held the phone to his head but didn’t say anything.
‘Take care.’ With a click he was gone and Nikki came back on the line. She told him the address and he jotted it down on a pink Post-it note that was lying in the glovebox. Then he planted it on the dashboard and pressed it in place.
119 Kellaway Heights, Hemel Hempstead
After he hung up he put the phone in its holder and leant across the steering wheel to tap in the postcode. Just as he was finishing the phone suddenly buzzed.
Incoming call: Sergeant Terry Miller
Matt snapped his hand back from the phone, like it was on fire. Ever since he’d walked out of the crematorium he’d wondered if Miller might suddenly spring from behind a bush and nab him. But he’d never considered a simple phone call. He felt his mind lock down into tunnel thinking. He just stared at the phone. Pulsing its light, playing theme music from Jaws. His new ringtone was definitely not helping the mood right now.
He refused to touch it. Miller would probably be asking where he was, acting all normal and asking him to pop in and chat about the fox. If that was the case then Matt wasn’t biting. He needed more time. Instead he just pushed the car into first and lurched out from behind the bins, heading for the iron gates that led out of the crematorium.
And the ringing kept going, sounding like some manic funeral march. His. And when it didn’t stop ringing he slowed the car.
A superficial quadrant of his brain – largely educated by TV cop shows – insisted in a New York accent that he just grab the phone and throw it out of the window so they couldn’t trace him. Better still, stow it on some other moving vehicle so he could hide his trail. But how dodgy would that look? Them finding his phone abandoned and stuffed in the tarpaulin of a long-haul Tesco truck. And besides. He might need it.
Oh shit, this was turning into a mess.
When the ringing finally stopped he waited for Miller to leave a voice message, but he didn’t. Which somehow felt a lot more ominous than if he had. In his rear-view mirror the chapel chimney reflected back. A tiny low cloud hung above it, looking different to all the others. Like the last belch of smoke from Reginald Arthur Keech’s body had somehow got stuck in the Hobbs Hill sky.
‘I know how you feel, Reg,’ Matt whispered nervously under his breath and pushed the accelerator into the floor.
CHAPTER FORTY
It felt good to be out of Hobbs Hill. Very good. Rat-out-of-a-cage good, even as Google barked out dispassionate, female robot commands as Hemel Hempstead grew closer. Take the first exit! Turn left onto Willow Way! At one point, he was sure the satnav lady said: Turn yourself over to Miller and stop running away, idiot!
He just slammed his foot harder onto the pedal and swung back into the fast lane.
What the hell was Chris playing at? If he’d requested Wren to come to Hobbs Hill because he hoped to convert Matt again, bring him back into the fold … well, that he could believe. Christians could be tenacious and cunning in their quest for spiritual conquests. But to set him up … why? If it was punishment, then punishment for what? Did Chris hate him, for some reason? Was he jealous of him having a wife with a pulse? Or was there something else?
And then there was the thought that brought long cold waves running through his skin. Did Chris actually kill those women? An image of Chris popped into his head, kneeling on the floor, both hands gripping a pair of pliers stuffed into a fourteen-year-old’s mouth. The loud crack of teeth breaking off.
He winced.
Don’t you realise, Nicola Knox … that God gets very, very angry?
He shuddered then quickly shook his head. No, no, no it was way too early to say that. The evidence was … how do they normally say it? Circumstantial?
But still … something felt distinctly wrong about Pastor Kelly. Too many ragged edges. And there’s only so many times your nose can twitch before you have to admit that someone has shit on the floor.
Thankfully, Wren had texted. Unaware of Miller’s suspicions of Matt, she and the girls were largely still in that blissful kingdom called ‘normal life’, having fun in Oxford. He wanted to call her and tell her about the golden tooth and about possibly being set up. But it would take up time and freak her out. And what would be the point, anyway? Better to leave her out of it, at least for now.
They were seeing a film tonight in the city centre, and it started at 8 p.m. Amelia was apparently buzzing that she was being allowed up so late, thinking of it as a treat rather than what it actually was: a ‘keep everyone away from the dodgy cottage’ tactic. At least for today.
He checked his watch. It was just after 12.40 p.m. That gave him plenty of time to nose about in Hemel without worrying that they’d come back to find themselves alone at the cottage.
Of course he knew full well that driving there might be pointless. But if Miller really was gunning for him since the gold tooth discovery, then he needed all the evidence he could get that something wasn’t right with Chris Kelly. And since the word Hemel seemed to push his buttons, Matt wanted to find out why.
The satnav told/ordered him to leave the motorway and he obeyed with a click of the indicators. The voice was starting to distort and now sounded like a premenstrual dalek. Then the drone of the motorway grew quiet, and the roundabouts began.
It didn’t take him long to get into the centre of Hemel, and just as the dalek announced that he’d reached his destination, he could already see the tower block he was looking for against the dull, grey sky.
He turned a few corners, headed down a backstreet then pulled up outside and killed the engine. A few fat raindrops started to slap off the windscreen, so he reached into the back seat and pulled his jacket through. He grabbed his phone and checked the address again.
119 Kellaway Heights, Hemel Hempstead
He stepped out as a few teenage girls squealed in the rain and ran past. They pulled their jackets tight over their heads, hobbling like a bunch of Quasimodos. The cold drops were growing more frequent now, bouncing off his face, so he held his hand across his eyes and looked up.
Kellaway Heights loomed over him, about thirty floors up by his guess. There were no balconies, just sheet metal and grimy windowpanes. It was yesterday’s vision of the future. There were a lot of satellite dishes.
He could smell the damp pavement under his feet.
Admittedly the place didn’t look particularly rough or dilapidated but the birdsong paradise of Hobbs Hill had warped his perspective. This place looked like the east wing of a concentration camp.
As the rain grew heavier he pulled his collar close and rushed in through the double doors made of blue peeling metal and reinforced glass. He expected to smell urine, but someone had been cooking curry instead. It hung so heavy in the air that he might as well be rubbing his face in turmeric.
He pressed the green plastic button on the lift and a few seconds later the brushed silver doors scraped open, like an abattoir meat locker. A young guy wearing headphones stepped out, hands thrust into the tiny pockets of his jeans. He pushed by Matt as if he weren’t even there.
Matt took his place in the lift and the doors drew together. He glanced at the list of flat numbers, then found his b
utton.
110–124
The metal felt sticky when he pressed out 119, but he chose not to lick his finger clean. It was only as the lift began to rumble and rise that he pictured Chris with his guitar, back in 2002, coming in late at night from the station after a day in Bible college and a few drinks at Monday Pub Night. He glanced around at the graffiti and read it all. Who knows, maybe Chris may have scrawled something here on one of those late nights.
Hey! One day I’m going to frame the perfectly innocent Matthew Hunter. Just sayin’ Signed by Christopher Kelly.
But there was no such illuminating graffiti. Unless Chris had written Muslims Out, there wasn’t anything to see.
Flat 119 was at the far end of the corridor. The fluorescents above him were certainly bright enough, but most had an almost imperceptible yet constant flicker to them. It made the place look like the inside of a faulty fridge.
‘Money’ by Pink Floyd rumbled loudly through a door. The music stopped dead on the word ‘caviar’. Just as he walked past it. He picked up the pace.
He reached the end of the corridor, looking back nervously. He tapped a knuckle against flat 119.
And waited.
Eventually, a muffled voice came from inside. ‘Just a sec.’
Matt reached into his jacket and pulled out his university ID while a key cranked inside the lock. Finally it swung open.
‘Yes?’ The man was probably in his early twenties with a huge swept-back fringe and tight beanpole jeans. His red and white striped top and horn-rimmed glasses were supposed to make him look trendy and alternative. Just another fake-nerd hipster type, but Matt felt like telling someone to stop the clock, because he’d finally found Wally.
Matt flashed the ID at him, long enough to show the general official looking outlines, but not enough for the man to actually read anything. ‘I have some questions.’