Through a Glass Darkly

by Bill Hussey

  ‘From our information, Oliver was abducted on 21st June,’ Dawn said.

  ‘He’s certainly not been dead that long. There’s nothing much in the way of decomposition. I should say he’s been dead no longer than two to three days. Prior to death, he’s been kept chained. You see the bruises on the wrists? The grit and mould under his fingernails are too ingrained to have worked in there after death. So my guess is that, for the last few months, he was kept in a damp, stone building. A cellar or outhouse. His tendons have also been cut, probably to stop him running away. From the uniformity of these smaller cuts, I’d say he was kept naked for some time. The nicks at the corners of his mouth have been made to open it wider, so that the tongue could be removed. Maybe to stop him screaming. It’s my opinion that these wounds were made long before death; you can see the healing on the stump. And then there are these …’

  James pressed against the diamond-shaped wounds.

  ‘They are about three inches deep. Clean cuts, as a surgical knife would make. See, there’s no untidiness as you would get with a serrated blade.’

  ‘Taken as trophies?’ Dawn suggested.

  ‘You’re the detectives,’ James said. ‘But this is interesting, help me turn him over.’

  Despite James’ comments about rigor mortis, Jack expected the body to feel rigid. Instead it was cool and pliant, as if the will to be cohesive had left it. Cut into Oliver’s buttocks were narrower, but deeper, incisions.

  ‘The cuts were taken from high-fat content areas of the body,’ James said. ‘Now, if one looks at similar cases reported from the States, these are precisely the type of wounds one would expect to find. This boy wasn’t cut for trophies. My opinion: I think whoever did this wanted to taste the fruits of his labour. This boy was cannibalised.’

  Twenty

  Dawn had a hard time keeping up with Jack. He took the mortuary steps three at a time and stalked off down the corridor. She called after him, insisting that they return to the station and appraise DCI Jarski of the new development. He would not listen. Her stomach, already cramped after what they had just seen, lurched as Jack drove them, with more than his usual recklessness, to the house in Redgrave Forest.

  From the moment she opened the front door, Jack was brusque, to the point of aggressiveness, with Anne Malahyde.

  ‘We found a child’s body this morning,’ he said, after Anne had shown them into the ivory-white lounge. ‘A little boy. Beaten. Tortured. Cut up. And, right next to the corpse, we found this.’

  He threw the plastic bag containing Simon Malahyde’s key fob onto the coffee table.

  ‘Many people who live with predatory murderers are ignorant of the fact,’ he said. ‘Either that or they build up walls in their minds. Explain away odd behaviour. They avoid looking in garages, lock-ups, tool sheds, because they can’t handle confirmation of those niggling doubts and suspicions. But, looking back, you’ll find there were always signs. What signs did you miss?’

  ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’

  Dawn kept a close eye on Anne Malahyde. To a casual observer, the frosty indifference with which she had greeted them appeared to remain fixed. But the woman drew too often on her cigarette. Moistened her lips too frequently. The listless detachment was segueing into well-masked apprehension.

  ‘Look at these photos,’ Jack continued. ‘Your boy’s handiwork.’

  He spread out a series of Polaroids before her. Snapshots that he had taken of Oliver Godfrey’s corpse before they left the mortuary. Anne blinked, but did not turn away.

  ‘Oliver Godfrey was eleven years old. He was abducted from a church picnic in June. Since then he has been kept, barely alive. His tongue was ripped out to keep him silent. His body was mutilated. His head was smashed in. Look at the photographs.’

  ‘Jack, can you give me a minute?’ Dawn said.

  ‘This boy’s name was Oliver Godfrey. The oldest child of Jim and Eileen Godfrey. He played hockey for his school. He liked fishing on Sundays with his old man. When he was taken, he was wearing a Hull Stingrays T-shirt. He loved ice hockey. Was going to see the team play the week after he was taken by your fucking son.’

  ‘Jack. A word. Now.’

  Dawn steered him down the hall and into a large conservatory.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m not putting on kid gloves to deal with that bitch,’ Jack spat. ‘She knows something, Dawn. You see that, don’t you?’

  ‘What I see is you throwing this case away. If there even is a case: you know as well as I do that the key makes only the flimsiest of connections between Malahyde and the dead boy. You also know you can’t conduct interviews like that, not unless you’re going to bring her in and question her formally. Anything you get from her on these terms would be inadmissible. Now, tell me, what the hell’s getting to you?’

  ‘The kid,’ Jack said, scraping his shoes against a stone imp. ‘Seeing him, I just …’

  ‘Bullshit, Jack. You’ve handled child murders before and stuck to the book … Christ. You know, I think all this has something to do with us. I’ll be honest: I’m worried you’re losing it. We need to talk this out properly.’

  Jack shrugged and turned away.

  ‘Then I’ll go to Jarski, tell him I’m concerned about your objectivity.’

  ‘Dawn, I’m leaving. I told you, after this case, I’m gone. If you’re worried I’m cracking up, fine, just please let me finish this before you strap on the straitjacket, all right?’

  He barged back into the glazed corridor. Dawn kicked the green mottled imp. What the fuck was she going to do? Her gaze travelled over the rows of untended flowerbeds, each colonised by straggling weeds. A small balcony, jutting out of the back of the second storey, caught her attention. Through its rusted rail wound a rotten grapevine and a stringy weed with white trumpet flowers. The balcony door must lead into the isolated wing of the house, Dawn guessed. Into the room with the bricked-up windows …

  When Dawn returned to the lounge, she found Jack replacing the Polaroids in his pocket.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Malahyde,’ he said, ‘for being … overzealous.’

  Anne made no sign of accepting his apology.

  ‘Mrs Malahyde, do you have any idea why your son’s car keys should be found next to this little boy’s body?’ Dawn asked.

  ‘I can tell you this,’ Anne Malahyde said. ‘Simon is not a killer. He’s an innocent. A victim of …’

  ‘That remains to be seen,’ Jack said, a touch of the former acidity entering his voice. ‘I should warn you, we will have a warrant sorted before lunchtime. I want this house searched. Top to bottom. If Simon is innocent …’

  ‘Sorry, sir. The front door was ajar.’

  A uniformed officer poked his head into the room.

  ‘DCI Jarski wants you back at the station. Right away, he said.’

  ‘I’m not taking the case away from you, Jack; I’m just taking over line manager duties. You’ll have responsibility for the day-to-day running of things.’

  DCI Jarski spread out his hands, in what he hoped looked like a conciliatory gesture.

  ‘We don’t need a team, sir,’ Jack replied. ‘The investigation will lose its focus.’

  ‘Not your decision, Jack.’

  Fuck him, Jarski thought, I’ve a good mind to hand it over to that fuckwit Mescher … Oh, good judgement, Jarski. Cut off your nose to spite your face.

  ‘Look, this isn’t a common or garden missing person case anymore. It’s a fucking child murder. You’ve got a good task force, a great Scene of Crime Officer, fresh out of forensics training. A fully kitted out incident room downstairs. You’ll use these facilities, Jack. Understand?’

  ‘But, Sir, listen: this case doesn’t need man-power and gizmos thrown at it.’

  ‘You know your trouble, Jack? Not a team player. You’re what, thirty-six? You could be the youngest DCI this station, fuck the station, this force, has ever seen. You’re
a good detective. No unresolved files, no Code D4s. Since you came over to CID, every case you’ve worked on has been successfully prosecuted. You know how rare that is? You know they call you Sixth-sense Trent, both uniform and our lot? But you won’t get early promotion. Know why? Because you’re a loner, a misfit. Won’t share the ball. Example: you should’ve come straight back here after seeing the Godfrey boy this morning. Should’ve done exactly what I did when I heard about it: set up the team, organised the media. Well, you’ll share in my playground, sonny, or you’re off the case, got it?’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘And call me Roger. You’re my only DI who calls me ‘Sir’. Makes me feel like a fucking headmaster. Now, I think a search of the house and woods where this Malahyde lived. I know, as it stands, we’ve only got the car key to link him, but what with his suspicious-as-fuck vanishing act I don’t anticipate any problems with warrants. Okay, you’ve been downstairs to the incident room, yes? What name did that gingery git DC give the case?’

  ‘Paulownia.’

  ‘What? What the fuck does that mean?’

  ‘Apparently it’s a Japanese tree with heart-shaped leaves.’

  ‘Next one in the dictionary, hey? Don’t like it. Call it operation … Hansel, that’ll do.’

  ‘How very inappropriate, Roger,’ Jack said, halfway out of the door.

  ‘Make a note, boyo: press conference at six-thirty. Mescher will be there.’

  ‘Mescher? Why?’

  ‘He was officer in charge of the Godfrey boy’s disappearance.’

  ‘Fuck-ing great,’ Jack sighed.

  ‘Don’t twist your panties. As usual, Mescher fucked it up. He won’t be in the team, but he knows the Godfrey parents. Best for him to be there, show a familiar face. By the by, a dicky bird told me you’d been over to Brookemoor, asking about a missing priest or some such. What’s that about?’

  ‘Father Brody. He knew Malahyde when he was a boy.’

  ‘Good lad. Hunches like that solved you the Greylampton case, I remember. Anyway, stick it in your report. I expect a full summary of all this bullshit tomorrow. Oh, and, Jack? Have a fucking shave. You’ll be on TV for fuck’s sake.’

  ‘Mescher?’ Dawn said, after Jack had related his interview with Jarski.

  ‘OIC on Greylampton before I took over. Hates my guts. It was before your time …’

  ‘Five girls, all under fifteen, all blond. It was national news, Jack.’

  It was now late afternoon. Jarski’s task force had swung into action with breathtaking speed. Dawn had even managed to coax grudging admiration for the DCI’s organisational skills from Jack, with the caveat that it would achieve nothing.

  As they stood talking in the courtyard, a buzz of activity droned from the house behind them. The Scene of Crime Officer had arrived with a colour-coded plan and organised three forensic teams into ‘hot areas’. A DC had been sent into the local community and managed to muster a small search team that had already begun to scour the forest. Curiously, the volunteers all came from the outlying villages, none from Crow Haven.

  All this activity made Jack strangely petulant. He kicked at the gravel, scuffing his shoes like a moody child. Dawn supposed the news that Mescher had any involvement in the case had not improved his humour. If canteen gossip was to be believed, the Greylampton case was unusual, not only because no-one had ever really figured out how Jack had solved it so quickly, but because of the intense animosity between the two senior officers involved.

  Due to the grisly nature of the murders, the case had been big news. It stayed big news because of Mescher’s inability to find the killer. Five girls had been taken in 2000, all from the Ely area. Mescher’s team had worked for a year, turning up neither credible leads nor suspects. The Chief Constable had insisted that a new task force be brought in. DCI Roger Jarski headed the Major Crime Unit, with Jack Trent as his immediate subordinate.

  Within three days, due to Jack’s efforts, a bank manager named Greylampton was arrested. Trophies taken from the girls were found at his home, pickled in gherkin jars. When Dawn transferred three months ago, people had still been speculating as to how ‘Freaky Jack Trent’ had fingered the nonce bank manager. There were clues alright; small details which often get missed in the chaos of large-scale investigations. Even so, Mescher had overlooked too many. Within twenty-four hours, Jack had drawn them all together and wrapped up the case. He just seemed to know. And now it was common knowledge that Mescher was aching for revenge.

  ‘So where’s Mrs Malahyde?’ Jack asked. ‘Kicked up a fuss about all this, I expect?’

  ‘No, she’s been quiet as a mouse. You probably scared the shit out of her with those pictures. I’m gonna question her again before I leave. Responsibly.’

  ‘Good luck. By the way, did you notice that the morgue guy said Oliver’s body had been dissected using a surgical blade? Remember the knife Doug Winters described to us?’ Jack glanced at his watch. ‘Oh crap, I have to get going. I’ll be finished at seven, if you’re still around?’

  ‘Sure. But Jack, I meant what I said earlier. We have to talk, okay?’

  She expected another fight. Instead, he looked at her intently and she saw the weariness in his eyes.

  ‘Yes, we have to talk. There are things you should know … Jesus, Dawn, I don’t know what to do.’

  He turned and walked away down the tree-tunnelled drive.

  The crime scene coordinator had not yet designated a team to investigate the bricked-up room but, at Dawn’s request, he had examined its door. He reported that, due to dust deposits and the corrosion of the lock, it was certain that the room had not been entered for many years. Clearly, it had nothing to do with the case. Nevertheless, something about it captured Dawn’s interest. She stood staring at the warped and peeling paintwork, wondering what Jack had to tell her.

  ‘Do you have children?’

  Dawn drew a sharp breath. She had not heard Anne Malahyde approach. Turning, she found that the gaunt face, framed by the ever-present headscarf, was not fixed in its usual distant expression. Anne’s eyes were wide and trembling. Her lips, usually tightly pursed, as if she were concerned that her supply of words was finite and had to be rationed, moved freely.

  ‘You look like you do,’ she said. ‘Mothers know. But don’t you think that’s a name to be earned? Mother? You’re not a mother just because you store a child for nine months. You’re an incubator. To be a mother you have to nurture. Protect. I’m not a mother. I was an incubator once, that’s all.’

  ‘Mrs Malahyde, if Simon did this, you can’t blame yourself. As Inspector Trent said, many people who live with … disturbed individuals, just aren’t aware of the fact.’

  ‘He was just a little boy,’ Anne continued, oblivious to Dawn’s words. ‘And I didn’t see. There’s a kind of cruelty, you know, that’s passive. It’s worse, in a way, than active cruelty, because people who wouldn’t consider themselves cruel can indulge it. I let it happen. Here. In this room.’

  Anne took a key from her pocket and fitted it into the lock. Dawn looked around at the sister door across the hall. She was anxious that no-one should come from the main house to interrupt this moment. With some effort the key turned. The barrel ground and there was a snap as the tumbler restrained the bolt.

  ‘My husband died in this room,’ Anne said. ‘They cut him up afterwards, but they never found out what killed him. He screamed my name every night for months. I overheard the nurses, in the last days, say that he was quieter. But isn’t it eerie, they said, how he chatters away. He really thinks there is somebody that visits him in the night. In the dark.’

  Anne’s grip tightened on the handle. Her voice grew hard.

  ‘I mourned for him for seventeen long years. Now I know, things can come back.’

  A tide of dust flew into their faces. Fingers of light intersected through cracks in the bricked windows. Like a cage of light, Dawn thought. Empty bookshelves stretched along the walls and towered over the bed and
drip feed stand at the far end of the room.

  They must have seen it in the same split second, for as Anne whimpered, Dawn gave an involuntary shudder. Imprinted in the dust, passing through the bars of the light cage and approaching the bed, ran a trail of tiny footprints.

  ‘They took him,’ Anne said. ‘And kept him.’

  Questions tripped over each other in Dawn’s mind as she advanced into the room. What could Anne Malahyde mean? Who was the child that had managed to get into this isolated room? Was this the place that Oliver Godfrey had been kept? Impossible. There was only one set of footprints leading into the room: none accompanying them, none coming back.

  Pinpricks of lights scanned her until she reached the bed. From this distance, Anne looked very small in the doorway. The footprints ended here. There were no hiding places. Dawn knelt down and traced the outline of a shoe with her finger. The print was so small it made her heart ache. Then, through the mesh of bed springs, a square of yellow paper caught her eye. She looked back. Anne was gone.

  A breeze whistled through the cracks in the bricks. The concrete, comforting outside world grew thinner. The door was swinging to. Dawn snatched at the yellow paper, leapt to her feet and started running. She sped through the needle-point beams, her feet slipping on the thick dust. Inches from the door, her fingers brushed the panels. A final effort and … it slammed shut. She groped for the handle but found none. Digging her nails into the gap along the jamb, she tried to prise the door open. It would not budge. The lock must have jammed. Desperation to get out of that dreadful room mounted. She called and hammered. There was no reply.

  To concentrate her thoughts on something other than claustrophobia, she examined the child’s drawing in the beaded half-light. It was a picture of a clown. Nothing out of the ordinary. The kind of effort proudly displayed on fridge doors up and down the country. As her sweat spotted the paper, she saw the dedication: