by Joy Ellis
‘Please, Bert? Let me try. If something is happening to the village kids, we have to know what it is, don’t we? For the sake of all the others out there who may be in danger.’
Bert Gilmore pushed back his chair and stood up abruptly.
‘I come ’ere for some ’elp with me girl’s problems, not to be told something’s happened to ’er like. An’ if something funny were goin’ on, then we’d deal with it aarselves, right?’ He strode to the door, and yanked it open. ‘Yer nowt but a scaremonger, Doctor! Moastlaikes me an’ ma family’ll be seeing old Doc Parkins out at West Salterby in future.’
The slam resounded loudly through the old house. Gilmore’s noisy departure was very like the Cartwrights, but not quite as ear-shattering as that of Bill Harvey and his wife.
‘Bloody place! Nothing’s damn well changed here since the blasted Dark Ages! I might as well buy a tank of leeches and start prescribing herbs picked only during a full moon!’
His wife peeked around the door. ‘Thank God he was your last patient! Do you need the screwdriver for the door handle again, dear?’
He gave her a wry smile. ‘Not this time, Linda. Bert didn’t have quite the heft of Bill Harvey. But then again Bill farms potatoes and that’s heavier work than gutting fish.’ He stared down at his notes. ‘What am I going to do, Lin? How do I get through to these people?’
His wife moved round and gently massaged his aching shoulders. ‘Gently. You’ll have to be very persistent, I think. They will come around, John, but I suspect it will take some terrible tragedy to make them face the fact that we have a real problem here in the village.’
‘Something like what happened to Lucy Clark?’
‘Or worse.’
‘That’s what Sarge Barnes reckons.’ He leant back and stretched his neck. ‘Bit to the left, yes, that’s it. Oh, by the way. Did you have any luck getting to speak with Ellen Cartwright? You two were on the same stall at the bring and buy sale, weren’t you?’
‘She swapped for the tombola.’
‘So they don’t trust you either?’
‘They don’t trust anyone, John, and they’re scared.’
‘If we do have a pervert out here, then they have every reason to be scared. If only one of the children would have the courage to say something!’
‘Would you, if you had Bill Harvey for a father?’
‘Probably not. And I certainly wouldn’t if the person that terrorised me was right here in the community, and maybe even knew my parents.’
‘Exactly, and you’re not a little seven-year-old kid, are you?’
He took her hand and turned to face her. ‘Youngsters usually try to blot it out, pretend it never happened. I hoped I would have a chance to get through to one of the children, but it doesn’t look as if I’m going to get one, does it?’
‘Chin up, darling. All you can do is be there for them when they come running back to you, which they will. No one is going to travel all that way out to West Salterby if they feel groggy, especially when they know that dear Dr Parkins might well be as pissed as a newt when they get there! They also know that you are a damned good doctor. They just don’t want to hear the truth right now.’ She smiled sadly. ‘Just have patience, darling.’
‘But do I have the time? This village is a powder keg, and the next attack could be fatal.’
Linda didn’t answer him.
John Draper sat upright in his chair. He just hoped that whoever was now in charge had the gumption to take this old case and give it a bloody good shake! The truth should be uncovered, once and for all. It had lain hidden for far too long, just like Gordon Hammond’s mouldering body.
* * *
Father Aidan removed his old leather jacket and flung it over the back of his worn and threadbare settee. He felt cold and tired. More like frozen and exhausted, actually. He sat down heavily jolting his back on the wooden struts beneath the foam seating, and wishing he had the luxury of a housekeeper like Father Brendan in the neighbouring parish of Silk Lillington. After spending half the day working on the overgrown churchyard and the other half writing a sermon, he was too tired to cook.
His heart sank when he heard someone knock on the vicarage door. He really did not think he had the energy to listen to a recitation of some parishioner's troubles. He sighed. It was his job — no, his calling — to be there for his flock. He reprimanded himself for being so weak. He struggled up and summoned up the strength to smile. A glance in the hall mirror reflected a benevolent priestly face. Good. Straightening his aching back, he opened the front door to — nothing.
‘Hello?’
Darkness and silence surrounded him. The hall light spilt across empty stones.
‘Hello! Is there anyone there? I’m sorry if I took a long time to answer the door.’
The strong wind had eased off, and now all he heard was the whisper of a breeze through the shrubs and trees that flanked the pathway.
He pulled the door to and walked down to the gate. The light from the moon revealed his neighbour’s cat slinking beneath the hedge. A white plastic bag danced in the air. Father Aidan walked back to his front door and paused. Had he actually heard a knock at all? Maybe the wind had blown something over in the garden?
If he had been less tired, he would have checked.
He was about to go in when he looked through the side gate that led to the churchyard, and saw a light flicker. From the way it bobbed and weaved, he thought it could be a torch.
He ran into the house and turned on the outside garden lights. He then retrieved his own big flashlight from the kitchen and grabbed his jacket. At the side gate he slowed his pace and looked around. He could see no movement. He swung the powerful beam from his lamp over the crosses and stones, searching for a sign of life among the dead.
He was not afraid. People never came here in the dark of night. The church had a reputation. So whoever was traipsing through the churchyard must be up to no good. And then he thought, why knock on my door and announce your presence in the first place?
He made his way to the Norman arch over the church door. The door was still locked and he saw no one lurking in the shadows of the porch.
He walked around the old building, the beam of his torch illuminating the carved words on the gravestones. “In Loving Memory,” “Departed this Life,” “Rest in Peace.”
After twenty minutes he returned to the vicarage, made himself a strong coffee and poured himself a stronger drink. His evening supper consisted of a cheese sandwich and an ageing banana.
He went to bed at eleven, prayed for ten minutes and then had another whisky. He decided to leave the outside light on.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
After an early breakfast, Nikki and her team were preparing for their visit to Quintin Eaudyke when the phone rang. Joseph took it.
‘Sorry, Nikki, but I think you’ll want to take this. It’s Father Aidan from St Augustine’s again.’
‘Bloody hell! He hasn’t found another murdered murderer, has he?’ Cat dropped her clipboard onto her desk and stood waiting.
‘Father Aidan! Good morning, and what can we do for you?’ Then her smile faded, and she beckoned to Cat. ‘DC Cullen will come straight over. Leave it where you found it, Father. Cover it, if you think it best — you know, children seeing it?’ Nikki hung up, looking slightly uneasy.
‘Cat, it may be nothing, probably some bored little toe-rags with a nasty sense of humour, but check it out anyway. You know where to go.’
‘What’s the poor sod found this time, ma’am?’
‘Rabbits. Dead rabbits placed on the site of Gordon Hammond’s unofficial grave.’
‘Oh great! Just after breakfast too.’
‘Sorry, Cat, but under the circumstances it has to be investigated. Ring me when you’ve taken a look. I’ll go on with the others. If it turns out to be nothing, then catch us up in Quintin. If not, we’ll see you back here.’
* * *
‘Not exactly the work of the local f
ox, is it, Father?’ Cat said.
‘Not unless he’s discovered how to use a sharp knife,’ Father Aidan replied.
‘When did you find it?’
Cat listened to the young priest’s account of the previous night’s events. Just after dawn he had gone out to check in case the tombstones or the church had been vandalised.
‘It’s no coincidence that it’s Hammond’s temporary resting place, is it?’
‘No, Father. Your dissected bunny and his friends are definitely here for a reason. Look, I’m going to have to get some photographs. Normally I’d just say get rid of it, but because of the situation, I’d like to keep a record. We may need a photographer to come out, and I’d better let the guv’nor know.’
The priest carefully draped two black bin bags over the macabre tableau, while Cat rang Nikki.
‘Ma’am? Some sick git has gutted one rabbit and staked it out, biology lesson style, and beheaded a couple of other bunnies, and carefully placed them all over the area of Hammond’s grave. Oh, hang on, ma’am. The priest is calling me.’ With the phone in one hand she returned to the grave, where Father Aidan was pointing to something in the bushes. ‘Looks like there’s a note, ma’am. It’s scribbled in black felt pen on a big piece of card. It says “Lest we forget” in capital letters. There are two rough holes in the top and a bit of bloody string dangling from it. I think it may have been attached to our dead bunny display but the wind blew it into the bushes.’
Nikki told her to bag the message. It was not sufficiently important to warrant turning out a forensic photographer or a SOCO, but Cat should take photos and carefully check the scene in case something else had been left
Cat and the priest searched carefully for nearly half an hour, but found nothing else. Father Aidan made them both coffee, while Cat took photos on her smart phone and sent them back to Dave to print off. She took the luckless priest’s statement and helped him to bag up the remains.
‘Anything else that you see or hear, Father, just call us. I don’t think you should be chasing around in the dark. Whoever filleted Bugs Bunny might turn on you next time. You never know these days, so be careful, okay?’
* * *
By midday, Nikki, Joseph and Yvonne felt as if the villagers of Quintin Eaudyke had built a brick wall around themselves. They had been told go away in various terms. The last one, Bill Harvey, had expressed his irritation at seeing them by answering the door with a broken shotgun over his arm. No one wanted to help with their enquiries, no one cared that Gordon Hammond had been murdered, and no one wanted to remember.
‘Just your butcher now — Cyril Roberts.’ Joseph crossed another name off the list. ‘I wonder if he will be any more interested in seeing us than his wife was.’ He frowned. ‘I’m sure she didn’t have to be that rude!’
Nikki shook her head. ‘They’ve all lost their children. For whatever reason, every single one of them has left. It’s no wonder the parents are bitter.’
‘I suppose so. Well, let’s see how Gordon’s only friend feels about his murder.’
‘God, this awful place reminds me of . . .’ Yvonne’s words faded into silence.
Nobody spoke, then Nikki said, ‘I thought so too at first, Yvonne. Lonely, difficult to find, looks derelict from a distance . . . But no, it’s not like that awful case. He is making an effort here.’
Indeed, they could see a few straggly pot plants bravely holding out against the wind. The garage doors had recently been mended and the Toyota pickup in the yard was moderately clean. There was washing blowing on the line and the net curtains were almost white.
Cyril Roberts was waiting for them.
‘I wondered when you’d come.’ He opened the door and they trooped inside. ‘Have a seat. I saw Doc Draper. He said Gordon had been done for, so knew you’d be here soon. Didn’t think it’d take three of yer, though.’
Nikki introduced the others and looked around. It was pretty spartan, but clean and tidy. She was surprised to see several bookcases stuffed with an eclectic mix of reading matter, ranging from Tolstoy to Rupert Bear. This balding, overweight man did not look like a typical bookworm.
‘We had planned on conducting a number of interviews, Mr Roberts, but the inhabitants of Quintin are less than willing to talk to us.’
‘Your ex-wife, in particular,’ added Joseph.
Roberts snorted. ‘You should have come out here first. I could have saved you a lot of time and most likely an ear-bashing in my wife’s case. Want tea? I can make a pot if you like.’
Nikki declined. ‘We’ll cut to the chase, as they say, Mr Roberts. Do you have any idea what happened to Gordon Hammond?’
Roberts sat down in an old Lloyd Loom chair and took a deep breath. ‘The men of Quintin Eaudyke, they wanted to “sort it.” They had no proof. They put two and two together and made five, and Gordon was the perfect candidate, poor fool. He didn’t drink much and he hated chitter-chatter. And even I had to admit he changed after his boy died.’
‘Dr Draper mentioned an accident.’
‘Gordon was weeding the sugar beet field. He had young Matthew with him, and his dog, Snowler. He sent Matt to clear some stones away from the drag harrow at back. Matt yelled for him to help him ’cause there was a rock jammed in the tines. Gordon left the tractor tickin’ and the dog in it, and went to help the lad. They cleared it between them and then Matt saw another chunk of rock. He leaned across to free it. Gordon reckoned the dog must have jumped out and knocked the gears somehow. His boy got his jacket caught in the tines and was dragged under.’
Nikki felt slightly queasy. She knew the size and weight of tractor tyres, and the kind of horribly dangerous equipment they pulled to till and clear the ground.
‘That weren’t the end of it neither. Gordon had some kind a nervous breakdown. It was also said, although she never admitted it, that Avril had witnessed her brother’s death.’ He paused. ‘If she did . . . well, can you imagine it? Anyway, I’m digressin’. Gordon had a wicked temper alright. Put that with Glad’s lifelong habit of falling over and bashing herself, and the good men of Quintin named him a wife-beater. In their book, that was only one step away from molesting children, and from there to being a killer!’ Cyril looked scornful. ‘As if!’
‘You still don’t believe he hurt all those children? And if he didn’t, Mr Roberts, someone else did. They are as disturbed today as they were then, which is odd in itself. So, who?’
Cyril stared at the old black boiler. He stood up, lifted the top lid using a metal hook, and shook in some dusty coal. He replaced the lid and sat back down. ‘I had me thoughts, Inspector, back then. I thought I knew.’ There was a catch in his voice.
‘Who did you think it was?’
‘You see, they were so fixated on Gordon they never looked any further — except Doc Draper. I think he was probably my only ally. At least he listened to me, the other buggers didn’t.’
Nikki was beginning to grow impatient. ‘Mr Roberts?’
‘I’m sorry, really I am, but when Avril died all my thoughts came to nothing.’
‘Mr Roberts, she was never found. You know that.’
‘Whatever. One night I saw Gordon go out to the fen with a heavy bag. When he came back an hour later it was empty. There was blood on his coat the next day. I dunno what it was, but after that I had to admit he was just not himself. I blamed the men of the village. I did then and I do now. If he did do something dreadful, they drove him to it. I mean, it wasn’t him that hurt our children. You want to know who killed him? Gordon? It was all of them. They all wanted him dead, every damned one of ’em!’ Cyril’s voice had risen.
Nikki continued to push him. ‘Please, Mr Roberts, we really need your help here. If it wasn’t Hammond, who do you believe was responsible for terrorising the children of Quintin?’
‘I don’t know, really I don’t.’
‘Then who did you suspect?’
The man looked at her with anguish in his eyes. His voice dropped to a whi
sper. ‘I thought it was one of the older children. But, Inspector, Avril disappeared, and children don’t kill other children, do they?’ The tears spilled, down his chapped and ruddy cheek.
Nikki knew that they did. She said nothing.
Yvonne made them all tea, and a calmer Cyril agreed that Nikki could come back another day.
Joseph wondered about leaving the old man alone like this, but Cyril assured them he would be fine. He preferred his own company these days.
* * *
They drove off the fen in silence. Nikki thought about Avril, lying dead beneath the marsh or spirited away never to be seen again. Was her disappearance and the abuse of the children the work of two different parties?
And now there was a new mystery. Nikki sighed. ‘Who was decorating Hammond’s grave with dead animals? “Lest we forget.”’
Joseph spoke from the back seat. ‘It has to be someone who knows that pets and other animals went missing at that time.’
‘Which could be absolutely anyone in the area, or anyone able to read a local paper.’ Nikki groaned. ‘This is one right royal jumblement, as we say ’ere in the country.’
Yvonne was driving. She gazed at the road ahead and began to reminisce. ‘Barnsey was so frustrated with the Fenlanders he threatened to arrest half of them for wasting police time, and the other half with attempting to pervert the course of justice. He was almost tearing his hair out. Well, we all were, but I was much younger, and I guess what had been done to those children affected a family man like him, with kids of his own, more than a young ’un like me.’
‘Looks like the villagers haven’t changed much. That wasn’t the most successful trip we’ve ever had.’ Joseph bit his lip. ‘That poor old guy, all on his own out there. I know he said that’s how he likes it, but it doesn’t seem right somehow.’
‘It doesn’t, does it?’ said Yvonne. ‘If he had a nice little place like Sergeant Barnes has got, with friendly faces around him and plenty to do, I’m sure he’d finish off his days with a bit of enjoyment in his life.’