“At my age? I’ll risk it!”
Graham poured her another glass. “Thought I might have heard more from the police. I bet they’re not interested in finding the poor woman. They’re more interested in showing their happy side at Pride marches and such. Did you see them at Notting Hill, prancing about? Supposedly keeping the peace, at one with the general public, instead they’re messing about performing the Samba with some semi-naked girl who seems to be sprouting feathers from every orifice! Meanwhile someone is being beaten to death half a mile away. They tolerate some disgusting behaviour, frightened of being seen as party poopers, that’s what it is. They’ve lost all respect; nobody is frightened of their teachers or the police nowadays. Even the church bends towards a weaker society rather than having society grow and develop towards those demands made by the church. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, everyone’s got to be frightened of someone or something, otherwise you’ll have anarchy… We have anarchy, what am I saying?”
He took two tablets from his pocket, popped them from the packet and swallowed them with a mouthful of wine.
“You had your tablets this morning, dear.”
He just raised his eyebrows and mumbled some obscenity.
She sipped her wine and smiled. “Here endeth the first and only lesson. It’s a good job you can’t get onto a soap box otherwise I’d buy you one for your birthday.” She chuckled to herself. “You’re like a record player, dear.”
Graham stood and crashed the empty plates together. “If there was more discipline, more rigour, society would be a lot more stable, you mark my words. I’ll wash up. Shopping tomorrow?” Graham asked, his voice now less strident as he carried two stacked plates into the kitchen using a stick to help guide him.
“Felicity said she’d pick you up and drop you in town as usual. I’ll do the cleaning and I’ve ironing to do.” She watched his slow progress to the door. “I’m sure you could manage without those things, it’s just confidence, that’s all. You’ve come to rely on them too much. Remember what the specialist said?”
He stopped, not making the manoeuvre to turn and confront her, but from the tone of his voice, she could gauge his facial expression. “Yes, yes, but he doesn’t have the spine I have, he doesn’t understand the pain I’m constantly in. The sticks give me support, keep the pressure away and with that the pain and discomfort.” He disappeared through the door, ending the conversation.
“You haven’t drunk your wine.” She looked at the level in both glasses. Graham had only had a sip or two. Glancing towards the door, she quickly swapped them. Graham smiled.
23
Cyril had arrived at work earlier than usual. He had one or two loose ends to try to sort out for other members of his team working on another case.
April sat in the Incident Room, a large sheet of white paper in front of her. Owen came in after he had uploaded his report.
“I’m glad you’re here, April. Murder and not suicide, Flash said so if you remember. He’s bloody good.”
“Flash?”
“I’ll tell you some other time. It’s his nickname but whatever you do don’t let him hear you utter it, he’ll have your guts for garters!”
“My nan used to say that.” She chuckled. “So what made them change their minds regarding Fella?”
“Caner just said that now he was convinced that it wasn’t suicide and that he’d know definitely tomorrow after running more tests. They’re amazing, really, what they can discern from the smallest of clues. I’ve texted Cyril. He’ll be delighted that he was right. May I run something past you? I’ve been having a think. It’s about the Bible sayings, not the thirteen weaknesses but the ones you and Cyril picked up from Fella.”
“Happy to. How can I help?”
Owen looked at the photograph of the Telfer Pyramid gravestone that was situated within Clipton churchyard. “Your report stated that when we were talking to Ian Fella he mentioned about Rahab. He also mentioned that Gideon had revealed that he came to the pyramid for correction, it was where he heard the voice of God. He was adamant that it was where God corrected him. I found that quite disturbing when I read it.”
April nodded. “Yes. There’s something about the story of Rahab and that of Gideon Fletcher that have remarkable similarities.”
Owen removed a pen from his pocket and prepared to jot down his thoughts on the large sheet in front of him. “May I?”
April smiled.
“I did some reading but I’m not sure if I’ve got things right. Fella said that both Rahab and Gideon had similar stories. Both were, and I quote here from something I read about Rahab, ‘on the dunghill and then placed with the gods’. You learn all sorts in this game, April! Rahab was a harlot, in Hebrew a Zoonah and in Greek the word is Porne, from the latter you see why she was a bad ’un like our Gideon. I’m sure you’re aware of his past and how suddenly when in prison he had a Damascus moment. Anyway, I digress, sorry.”
“Her home was in the walls of Jericho and when Joshua was preparing to attack the city, he sent two spies to check out the military strength. However, they were compromised and they went to the inn run by Rahab. She realised that they were men of God and needed a favour, a different favour from that asked by men who normally entered her inn. It’s believed also that she dyed yarn and the spies hid under a pile of yarn that was drying on the roof to escape their pursuers. They used a scarlet dyed rope to escape.
“It was promised that once the city was captured, she and her family would be freed and spared from death if there were to be a massacre. The sign they should hang in their window should be a red cord. When the attack took place, all those homes with the scarlet thread hanging in the window were spared. It’s said that this may be the reason brothels have a scarlet lamp hanging outside but I can’t possibly say.”
April observed as Owen completed his notes, impressed by his diligent research. He then brought the pen to his lips.
“So, Owen, changing character from bad to good is one connection that they share and then the scarlet cord linking the crosses and the dyed hair that have been found. But why hair and not just plain old thread?” She watched his eyes scan the notes before he tapped the pen against his teeth. “And why is he drawing us to Rahab in the first place?”
Owen lifted a finger and then smiled. He then wrote in block capital letters, HAIR HAS A DNA TO TRACK AND WE’RE LOOKING FOR OUR OWN RAHAB.
It was April’s turn to pull a face as she looked across the broad expanse of paper. Hesitantly she said, “He’s set us a trail?”
Owen nodded. “Firstly we need to look at the Telfer Pyramid again and we need twenty-four hour surveillance on that site. If God is still correcting him then he’s still returning. Come on, enough for one day.”
April looked at Owen and although he had the reputation of not being as good a copper as Cyril she could see why they made a perfect partnership.
They both stood. Owen checked his watch. “Tomorrow at 07:30. I’ll check if any CCTV images from the Clipton area have come through. I put out a request to the public for any dash-cam images in and around Clipton and the church that show a single person who might be deemed suspect.” He held up his hand. “A massive stab in the dark, I hear you thinking, but we have to grasp at straws occasionally. There’s also the footage from houses near the church and the vicarage. We’re checking constantly the local ANPRs too. We can soon eliminate the neighbours.”
“Gideon might live in the area!”
Owen stared at April. “Further house-to-house with Gideon’s picture once suicide has definitely been ruled out. Don’t work too late. I’ll phone Cyril first thing and let him know what we’re doing. See you tomorrow.” Owen left.
April moved through to the general office. The collection of desks and the computer stations sat empty. Shakti was the only officer left at her desk. She looked up and smiled as April approached.
“I’m so pleased you’re still here. I’ve been meaning to speak to you fo
r a while about the missing woman, Tracy Phillips. What exactly do we know of her past? I’ve read the reports and know she was working at the Oak Hotel but what about prior?”
Shakti flicked onto another tab on her computer and brought up the file. “It’s all here, you’ve read it. Still nothing.”
“Just chatting with Owen and we’ve both come to a similar conclusion that we could be looking for a woman who might and I use the word carefully, might be connected in some way to both murder cases. We know that she was identified in the DNA taken from the hair trapped within one of the packets. What we need to do is find out if at any time she was a harlot.”
“A what?” Shakti could not help but laugh. “So you mean a whore? A prostitute?”
“Both mean the same so I guess you got it in one.” April rested her hand on Shakti’s shoulder. “That’s the answer we need right now.”
April moved to her desk, pushed out the chair and sat back. She felt the buzz of adrenalin, an excitement she had longed for since joining the force. Here, working with Cyril and his team, she felt accepted. She glanced across at Owen’s desk, a battlefield of chaos, and smiled. She had realised just how valuable he was within the department and she felt proud that he had come to her for advice. She returned her glance to the computer screen to the right of her desk, it was black, but attached to the edge was a Post-it note on which she’d written, “Socialised and Integrated Psychopath… NOW!” It was the last thing she needed. She looked at her watch before the screen turned blue and the crest of the North Yorkshire Police hit her squarely in the eye.
24
Cyril had been home for an hour. He had polished his shoes, shaved and changed. The invitation to dine at Julie’s had been welcome. Although he always had a feeling of excitement when visiting, on this occasion it was tempered by his need to confess something of his past, a past that he liked to keep hidden and private. He had hoped that he could share the contents of the letter he had received sooner but there had never seemed to be an appropriate opportunity. He acknowledged that there had also been a certain reluctance on his part. It had been bottled up for so long he had wondered whether she or anyone else needed to know, after all, it was nobody’s business but his. Somehow, for a reason he could not truly fathom, the arrival of the letter had prompted a sudden need to share his past with someone very close and on this occasion, Owen was not even in the frame. After careful consideration, it could only be Julie.
Julie had a sixth sense regarding Cyril’s sudden moods and she knew that he was keeping something from her or that work was beginning to prove too distracting for him. Could the ghost of Liz be affecting his judgement? The therapist had certainly warned Cyril that Liz's presence might remain within him as another voice, a presence that might either control or invade his imagination at stressful times. The latter was the more concerning. She let her thoughts linger a while longer until she considered a more dangerous scenario. Maybe April, the new temporary officer, was playing on his mind a little too much. He had been referring to her more lately and his mood seemed to be lighter when she was brought into the conversation. At that thought, Julie laughed, but only to herself, more out of uncertainty than anything else. It was, on her part, whistling in the dark confidence. She then felt foolish for her jealous thoughts. In reality, she knew that she could never totally discard the possibility; after all, Cyril was a handsome man, probably impossible to live with permanently, but nevertheless worthy of a fight if one were needed.
The evening was still chilly but it was fine and Cyril had decided to walk, to do what he did each morning to focus his thoughts. He needed a way to approach the implications of the letter to Julie, and the subject of his past. He was far from feeling comfortable as he walked up the pathway before glancing at the blinds shielding the lounge bay window. The anxiety was reminiscent of the time that he was waiting for the doctor’s discharge that would signal that he could return to work after Liz’s murder; the same heavy-footed butterflies were there, the slight nausea and the feeling of helplessness. At least on this occasion his future was not in someone else’s hands, it was definitely in his. The thought made him remove his hands from his pockets. He stood for a moment and looked at them before clenching his fists. At least here, at Julie’s, things remained the same, he could relax and, if the time proved right, he would tell her. “Time!” He said out loud. If the letter were accurate, time was certainly not on his side.
He knew that once he had rung the bell the blinds would open, her smiling face would appear and all would be well. He unclenched his left fist and rang the bell, turning to watch for the flicker of the blinds but he was surprised to hear the immediate click of the electric catch on the door. He frowned and his heart sank. He pushed open the door and entered. Thankfully the hallway had not changed. He glanced at the flowers on the narrow table, the black and white tiled floor. “At least you’re in the right bloody house, Bennett!” He could not resist walking to the end of the hallway and glancing at the stained glass window on the landing. The streetlights seemed to give it a special, nocturnal magic. The door to Julie’s apartment was ajar.
“It’s open!” Julie’s voice sang out from deep within before echoing in the hallway.
A flush of nerves fluttered briefly in his stomach as he pushed open the door. He removed his shoes, placing them, as always, to the side. He looked around the room and noticed the glass of red wine waiting next to the chair he favoured. The recognisable tones of Guy Garvey could only bring a smile of pleasure. The ambience was perfect and Cyril immediately began to feel his shoulders relax.
“You know me too well, Julie Pritchett,” he said removing his coat before following his nose into the kitchen. Julie was by the stove, a blue and white striped apron round her waist. “Smells divine.”
He moved behind her and kissed her neck. “And so do you, young lady, so do you!”
She dipped a spoon into the saucepan and turned to Cyril proffering the steaming taster. Her free hand was held beneath to catch any drops. Cyril instinctively blew on the offering before sampling the sauce.
“I’ve always loved gruel!” His impudence earned him a slap on the arm.
“Pearls before swine. Pork Veronique, I'll have you know, duchess potatoes and green beans for me. For you?” She paused holding a finger in front of her face. “Soup… I have a tin somewhere, probably out of date and full of Clostridium botulinum, an ingredient that should not only cure your sense of humour but might well help with your wrinkles.” She jabbed playfully at his eyes with two spread fingers before tossing the spoon into the water in the sink.
Cyril laughed. “May I help?”
“You can leave me in peace. It’ll be ten minutes.” She kissed his crow’s feet. “There, a kiss to make them better, laughing boy.”
Music from a live band drifted out over Montpellier Hill from one of the bars, the occasional laugh erupting above it, briefly attracting the stare of the solitary figure sitting on the bench that was almost hidden in the gardens. The large hood of her coat was drawn over her head, creating a dark cavern that concealed her face. Wisps of cigarette smoke were occasionally exhaled to drift lazily into the surrounding gloom.
Her voice, low and melancholy, was almost robotic. “He doesn’t want fucking much! ‘I’m doing as I'm told!’ he says. Jesus he’s a grown fucking man. ‘Not long now!’ he says, again and then again.” The cigarette butt was ejected with a spit that showed her anger. It travelled to the right of the bench before hitting the path, causing it to flare and die. “He thinks there’s only him that has needs. What about my fucking needs? He says we’ve to do this, we’ve to do that. Fuck me! He’s not the only one telling me what to fucking do. What about him in here?” She jabbed her right temple. “And him here?” She swapped hands and jabbed the left side of her head. “They all want me to do this and fucking that! Want, want, want, fucking want!”
She wrapped her arms around her body and tucked her legs under her on the bench as if to make herse
lf invisible. “I’m going to tell them, tell them once and for all to just fuck off and let me lead my own life.”
She removed a hand and felt for money in her back pocket. It was empty. A low growl erupted from within the hood. She heard the voice whisper and she immediately responded and chewed her lip. The voice came again and she obeyed, biting harder before sucking the wound and releasing the metallic taste to linger on her tongue. “Fuck all this for a game of soldiers! Fuck! I hate this.” She stood and screamed at the top of her voice, “Fuck you!” The last word rang out for a few seconds ejected along with the fine mist of minute, bloody globuled saliva. A man started to run towards her.
“Are you all right?” he called in all innocence and with great concern as he approached. When he saw the solitary hooded figure standing in the shadows, he stopped. He watched as she raised her arm and pointed a finger at him as if it were a gun.
“Stop just where you are. Fuck off! I don’t need your fucking help. I don’t need anyone’s help. I just want all this chattering to stop!” She turned and ran towards the darkness of The Stray. All the while an observer standing within the shadows of the gardens had witnessed everything. He simply crossed himself and smiled.
25
Cyril stared across at Julie as she finished her meal.
“Are you going to leave that last incy wincy duchess potato, Detective Chief Inspector Creosote?” She adopted a French style accent mimicking a Monty Python sketch that they both loved. For Cyril it was said at the wrong moment as his mouth was full of red wine. He struggled to keep himself from spraying the potato and the surrounding area. Two red, liquid lines dribbled from the corner of his mouth and down to his chin before he quickly caught them with his napkin.
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