“Redirect the focus of the search. Fine-tooth comb, Shakti.”
As Cyril and Owen passed the front of the building, the light from the downstairs rooms flooded the garden, silhouetting the white forensics figures who were removing items and placing them into the back of a van.
“We’ll not find anything in there other than the few prescription drugs the dogs found. My gut feeling says she’s not coming back.”
The officer standing by the driveway entrance moved to one side.
“Organise a rapid response CCTV trailer to monitor the front of the house. Full facial recognition and day-night surveillance, the full works. If she comes back I want an immediate alert. Pictures of everyone in the block to be added to the database for immediate crosscheck and ID.”
“What about the rear of the property, anything there?”
“Anything to the side of the building will be picked up as they operate on a three hundred and sixty reference with automatic tracking and zoom. A fiver says she’ll not return either as a male or female.”
Owen smiled. “I’ll take that.”
Barlow leaned forward and stared at her. “So why kill him?”
“The day you saw us in the churchyard wasn’t the first time we’d met. We’d talked about Gideon and Ian had shown me the envelope containing the passage wrapped with scarlet thread. That made me think about the thirteen human weaknesses, but you already know his, and he did too, the theft that he spoke of. That wasn't all, he held a secret sin even closer. I was informed at the pyramid and when I spoke of it to Fella his face was as red as the scarlet cord.”
“And what sin was this?”
“He was a fornicator, a man of trust who fucked a married woman whilst her husband was away, not once but many times. It was this exposure, this hidden truth that made him realise that he was not only a thief, but in the eyes of God he was a sinner. I knew what he would do, after all, he was a soldier and a brave one at that. I told him that I could shield those he cared about, his parishioners, from the sad truth. I would not tell. I watched him set it all up. He dressed beautifully, tidied the house before he moved into the garage. Each step was measured. He didn’t speak, he just kept looking at me. I think he wanted me to tell him to stop, that everything would be all right. How could I do that when I’d been instructed to correct his ways?”
“We then moved to the garden. The evening was mild. There was a freshness to the air. We both sensed it. The evening light still lingered red and orange, enough to watch the events unfold. It was like a welcome, that he was being forgiven. I saw him stare at the beauty in the sky before he stood on the steps. Some cattle moved in the field behind the garden and gave us both a scare. He laughed! A man about to slip a rope around his own neck laughed. Everything was there, the rope and the steps, even the hook on the back of the summerhouse that normally took the washing line. Do you know, I think there was a moment when he changed his mind but then I was quick enough to help, I was able to sweep the steps from beneath his feet. They tumbled away, clattering across the grass. Of course he tried to take the strain from the noose that bit into the tender flesh on his neck but that was impossible; your weight prevents that. Even with his feet against the wood of the summerhouse it proved to be unsuccessful.”
She paused, reflecting on the moment. “Have you ever seen someone slowly strangle? Someone fight to stay alive? It’s not pretty. I put the note in his hand and tightened his grip after the thrashing had eventually stopped. You see, I wanted it found, just as I wanted the crosses to be discovered. Without those there’d be no point, no one would know why. There has to be a point to death as well as life, don’t you think? For these people to simply die would not teach others anything of what the Bible tells us.”
“And the body found in the compost. Was that you, too?”
“She helped. Dug her own grave. That’s not strictly true, she shifted the compost and as a reward she then enjoyed a strong huff. Passed out and then I stripped her and I buried her. She wouldn't be able to shift the compost cage mesh once I’d replaced it. It was easy.”
“You’re not on the side of good, you’re one of the most evil, manipulative conniving people I’ve ever met…” He paused and blue flashing lights lit the back wall briefly. He turned and went to the window. “Those are just the people I need to see. They're looking for you.”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so. I can hide behind Gideon. They’re looking for a man. I’m just a missing statistic and certainly not a priority. Do you know how many missing people there are in the UK today?”
As she spoke, she slipped her hand behind her and rummaged through the bag until she found the plastic lemon. She withdrew it, flipped the lid and stood. Barlow moved his head, trying to see if it was the police. She moved barefooted and silently to within a metre of Barlow.
“Is it the police?” Her voice was low and menacing. “How exciting!”
Barlow turned, realising that she was behind him. The yellow object in her outstretched hand did not register immediately but as the stream of clear liquid struck its target, he gasped. He swung his hands, trying to stop the flow or to connect with the hand, but without success. She had the element of surprise on her side. He groaned as the acid etched further into the sensitive flesh in and around his eyes. The agony slowly intensified. He went down on one knee.
“I really didn’t want to do that, but I can't let you prevent me from fulfilling my final task.” She moved through to the kitchen and immediately saw the knife block. “For your sake, let’s hope you keep them sharp,” she said out loud.
Moving back into the small lounge she saw that Barlow was trying to stand, his hand on one chair as his other tried to hold his burning face. She picked up a small ornament and tossed it into the far corner of the room. It crashed against the wall. Barlow turned in the direction of the noise and in doing so exposed his back to her. She knew just where to place the knife and thrust the blade hard into the area of his right kidney. It slid silently, catching bone on its journey, but travelling far enough to reach the handle before she twisted the blade with as much force as she could muster. An initial squeal was forced from his lips as a hand instinctively moved to the new area of agonising pain. Within seconds, he had folded and fallen to the floor, his head catching the corner of the chair as he did so. She moved towards the light switch, flicked it off and the room was plunged in darkness. The lights from the police car still patterned the wall but with a greater intensity. She would wait. Time and the night were on her side.
The officer moved the tape, allowing the van and trailer to pull into the drive of the apartment block. The trailer camera was wheeled onto the grass and the operator secured the base before winding the handle to extend the cameras on a telescopic mast. It was soon operational. All movements would be automatically monitored and the control would be notified of any unusual activity. The facial recognition would also be constantly on the alert.
38
The mobile phone danced across the auction house catalogue and then dropped onto the table as if chased by the shrill, ringing bell of an antique phone. Cyril lay back in the chair, his feet on another. The ringing seemed to be part of his dream. He had been home for an hour and, considering the time, had not seen the point of retiring for the night. He had at least removed his trousers, which were folded over a radiator, and he had wrapped himself in a dressing gown. It had not taken him long to fall asleep but the nagging ring made him suddenly realise that it came from his own phone. He woke suddenly, quickly sitting up to see his glowing phone shimmy towards the edge of the table. He instinctively reached out a hand and caught it as it tumbled off the edge.
“Owz that?” he called, raising his hands. Where this sudden burst of energy had come from he would never know.
He quickly answered. “Bennett.” He listened carefully. “Shoes, male in the Clipton churchyard. How close to the pyramid? Has the camera been installed at…” He didn’t have time to finish. “…that’s
something at least.”
Cyril stood, collected his trousers and put them over his arm. “Has anyone called in on John Barlow, the church caretaker, to see if he’s seen anything? No? Just get someone there. His address is on file. Send me a car in fifteen minutes and I want DC Richmond and DS Owen in it when it arrives here. Yes, I am aware of the time, sergeant.” He put his head in his free hand and rubbed his face, suddenly realising that he was creasing his trousers. He placed the phone on the sideboard. “It’s simple policing, for goodness sake!” he grumbled as he went into the kitchen. He slipped a pod into the coffee machine before going into the bathroom to shower and shave.
Checking his watch, he pressed the button to start the coffee machine and he watched the stream of dark, black coffee pour into the espresso cup, the aroma immediately lifting his spirits. His phone rang as he raised the cup and sipped.
“Bennett.” The voice sounded anxious. “Bloody hell!” He listened as the details of Barlow’s plight were relayed to him. “Have we an estimated time of death? Between midnight and two?” He checked his watch again. 5:57. “So this could’ve been taking place whilst the police were actually in the churchyard?” He shook his head.
The doorbell rang. Cyril hung up, finished his coffee and grabbed his coat and jacket before going to the door, tapping his pockets to make sure he had everything he needed. He mumbled inaudibly his mental checklist to ensure that he had forgotten nothing; spectacles, testicles, wallet and watch before opening the door to be greeted by Owen. Cyril climbed into the front and nodded to the driver. April was in the rear.
“I take it you’ve heard, sir. Barlow. Acid and then knifed. Forensics is on the way as is Dr Pritchett. The youth who witnessed the attack on Ripon Market Square has given us a pretty bland description: as usual a hooded figure but I think to save face he’s exaggerated the attacker's size and build. Six five, heavy set, tattoos.” Owen raised his eyebrows. “Could’ve been me if it weren’t for the tattoos.” He laughed at his own joke and April smiled politely. Cyril watched the road. “We also found someone who’d posted a review on Trip Advisor saying that the two youths were disrupting the horn-blowing ceremony, revving their bikes as loudly as possible. The person in question had gone to stop them. They described a true knight in shining armour who bravely tackled the two yobs. Gave the Hornblower five stars!”
“Description, Owen? I don’t care if he gave it a bloody constellation. Did he give us a description of Sir Lancelot?”
“Total contradiction to that given by the yob. Woollen hat pulled well down, about six foot and carrying two bags. One looked particularly heavy. Went off down Kirkgate after sorting out the trouble.”
There was a pause as the driver negotiated the two roundabouts at Ripley. Cyril slid open one of the windows. To turn and look at either in the back would only induce car sickness.
He inhaled some fresh air. “You’re up to speed, I take it? Looks like Hill is Phillips and Phillips may well be Gideon, or at least taking on the guise of Gideon.”
“Yes.”
Realising she had left her shoes by the grave, she had rummaged around until she found a pair of Barlow’s and some socks. With the addition of three pairs of thick socks they would do. She had remained dressed in Gideon's guise as it somehow seemed appropriate. She had left the cottage soon after the blue lights had disappeared, deciding to leave her shoes behind. If they were still there, it mattered not. She needed the hammer. She had been cautious in case they had left an officer on watch but then why should they? All had been quiet. She was right. The street was empty and the bag was where she had left it.
The walk to the next village had been easier than she had anticipated. A solitary car and a van had passed her but the lights had warned of their approach and she had managed to hide in the hedgerow. As she approached the village, she glanced at the sky and took a moment to marvel at the myriad stars that were so clear. The sheer scale always filled her with awe. She contemplated her journey, her reward for the work she had done here on earth. He had told her of the rich rewards that awaited her. She quickened her step. She spied the village shop. She was now close. Her hand felt the weight of the hammer through the thick wall of the bag. The house she was looking for was just across the road, Rahab, the harlot's home, was sited next to the church wall.
The dawn light was just beginning to break but the street remained dark and quiet. The low light from the fridges and from the blue insect killer in the shop glowed out of the large windows lighting the pavement blue.
She would wait in the church where it would be safe; after all, she had the key taken from Ian Fella’s house on the night he died. She wondered how the police could possibly have missed that, but then they had missed opportunities on several occasions.
Crossing the street she entered the churchyard. The large, oak doors were hidden within a shallow porch. She took the key from her bag and inserted it as quietly as possible. As she turned the handle and pushed, the hinges protested as she felt the cool air rush past her in escape. The darkness enfolded her as the door closed and locking it, she suddenly felt secure for the first time that evening. At seven she would come, she would prepare the church for the eight o’clock service for the stand-in vicar.
Cyril saw the blue strobe lights as they approached Clipton. He spotted Julie’s car and the white-coated ghostly figures changed from white to blue as they were struck by the cars' strobe lights. Owen was the first to get out but April remained seated. Cyril opened his door, relieved the journey was over, but then realised that April had not moved.
“Are you all right? You must find Clipton a little like Midsomer, what with the two deaths.” He tried to lighten the mood turning to look at her. Her face, illuminated by the roof courtesy light, showed that she was deep in thought.
“I have a feeling that we shouldn’t be here, we’re too late. I think we should be with Mrs Fleet. I don’t know why but… I keep getting these goose bumps whenever I think about her. The village shopkeeper said that she was a bit of a one for the men and maybe the vicar was… I don’t know. Maybe it’s just me.”
Cyril got out of the car and called after Owen, who turned quickly. Cyril waved his hand, beckoning his return as he glanced at the church clock. It was 6:50.
“Owen, get in! April, when in doubt, do the courageous thing. What would you have me do?”
“Mrs Fleet, sir.”
Owen did not demur. He could see from April’s expression that she was troubled. The car sped down Clipton’s main street.
The key hitting the escutcheon plate seemed to be amplified within the emptiness of the church making Tracy Phillips jump and then stand. She adjusted the rope that was tied around her waist and picked up the plastic lemon that she had positioned on the end pew. The door slowly opened and she saw Mrs Fleet come in.
She held a small torch. Closing the door, she moved across to the light switch. As the single row of lights came on she turned off the torch and returned to lock the door. After Reverend Fella’s death she could never be too careful. Satisfied that she was secure, she turned. A slight scream of surprise burst from her lips as she saw the bowed and hooded figure standing in front of her. In the distance a deep bark emerged. Ralph had heard the scream.
Tracy looked up and stared but she did not give Mrs Fleet time to speak or scream again. She squeezed the lemon, sending a stream of acid directly into the woman’s face. Mrs Fleet dropped her torch as her hands went immediately to her eyes. As the acid burned, the scream already on her lips intensified. The dog’s deep bark could again be heard.
Tracy pulled the hammer and the horseshoe nails from her bag, slipping three of the nails between her lips like shiny metal fangs, before moving towards the stricken, blind Mrs Fleet. Grabbing her left wrist she forced it against the wooden door. Slumped on the floor as she was, her arms were weightless. Taking one of the nails she forced the point onto the skin and pushed. The nail penetrated Mrs Fleet's flesh between the two bones with ease until it tou
ched the timber. The force of the hammer blow on the nail’s flat head finished the job, pinning her arm to the wood. Tracy quickly grabbed her other arm, spread it out and repeated the procedure. Two small streams of blood began to flow from the punctured skin, running down along her arms until reaching her elbows where they pooled and dripped onto the tiles. Tracy stood back and looked at the crucified woman, who writhed in agony. No scream erupted from her lips, only gasps as she tried to draw in air. Her head hung low to her right owing to her body's position, her feet folded beneath her.
Tracy brought the small, wooden cross from her bag.
“A harlot’s cross. A spy in God’s house, a sinner, but He saw and He knew. You shall be crossed out, corrected just like Kumar, like Fella and like Rhodes. You have all allowed your weaknesses to control your judgements.”
The lights from the car coming down the street flashed vivid colours on the church wall from the row of stained glass windows. The noise of the opening doors accompanied by voices broke the silence. The deep bark from Mrs Fleet’s dog could be heard again, this time, more frantic.
“The church, the lights! She’s in the church!” April screamed as she jumped the wall and ran to the door. “It’s locked, sir.” She banged on the door and heard the sound amplified within.
Owen grabbed Cyril. “My shoulders, you should be able to see into the church.”
Cyril climbed onto the wall. He then placed one foot on each of Owen’s shoulders whilst holding Owen’s hands. They moved carefully until Cyril held the stone mullion on either side of the window. He placed his face close to the glass and rubbed it with his sleeve. He could see in. It took him a few moments to comprehend fully and absorb the scene.
“Bloody hell!” Cyril exclaimed as he stared at Mrs Fleet’s slumped torso. “Hill's crucified Fleet to the door!”
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