Through a Glass Darkly

by Bill Hussey

  For Daddy and his friend – Mr Funnyface. Love Simon xxx.

  Dawn felt herself go cold. The sense of entrapment heightened. Standing there, a prisoner in the spaces between light and darkness, Father Garret’s words came back to her:

  ‘… Peter Malahyde … He died just before Simon was born …’

  Twenty-one

  As incompetent as Pat Mescher was, Jack had to admire his people skills. Here he stood, four months after the abduction of Oliver Godfrey, as clueless now as he had been at the outset, and the parents of the dead boy were thanking him for his efforts. It was sick. When he caught sight of Jack, Mescher smiled and the burst vessels in his cheeks stood out angry and red.

  ‘Jim, Eileen, may I introduce Jack Trent.’ Mescher steered the bereaved couple across the room. ‘From today, he will be taking over the case.’

  ‘You will still be involved, won’t you, Pat?’ Mr Godfrey asked.

  ‘No, no. I’ll give Jack any help he may require, but DCI Jarski thought it best to put together a new team. Rest assured, though, Jack here is a fine detective. He solved the Greylampton case single-handedly. So the story goes.’

  Mrs Godfrey looked at Jack as though he might strike her at any moment.

  ‘I will not forget Oliver,’ Mescher said, enveloping Mrs Godfrey’s small hands in his flabby grasp.

  ‘Gentlemen, ladies!’ Jarski had mounted the platform. ‘Are we ready?’

  The press room was packed. A few nationals had got wind of a new kiddy killer and sent their crime correspondents. The local hacks watched the London pros like a cluster of schoolgirls viewing the pretty new addition to the class, with a mix of suspicion and grudging admiration.

  Mescher enfolded Mr and Mrs Godfrey in a bear hug before they ascended to the platform. Just as Jack was about to follow, Mescher touched his elbow.

  ‘Watch yourself, Trent,’ he spat in Jack’s ear. ‘I might not be in Jarski’s team, but I’m watching. If you slip, it’ll be you giving talks to pre-pubescent pot heads.’

  ‘Listen to me,’ Jack’s quiet voice shook. ‘Your incompetence allowed that bastard Greylampton to gut those little girls, one after the other. I won’t let you jeopardize a life pursuing some vendetta against me. You understand?’

  Mescher’s jowl trembled. Bellicosity and colour drained from him.

  ‘Settle down, please.’ A fragile kind of hush followed Jarski’s instruction. They were all seated now at a long table: the DCI, Jack, the Godfreys and a police press officer. ‘Now, as you’re all aware, the body of Oliver Godfrey was found early this morning at a lay-by on the Saxby Road. In a moment I will hand over to Officer in Charge, DI Jack Trent.’ Murmurs from the crowd. Jack thought he heard the name ‘Greylampton’ muttered somewhere in the hall. ‘He will fill you in on the person we are looking for. We have a physical piece of evidence to connect this man, Mr Simon Malahyde, to the crime but, and I must stress this, Mr Malahyde is not an official suspect at this stage. Indeed, we are very concerned for Mr Malahyde’s own wellbeing. If anyone out there has seen this gentleman, or has knowledge of him, we would appeal for you to contact us. Now, I’ll pass over to DI Trent.’

  Autumn sunshine glanced through the dirty windows of the signal box. Brody rubbed sleep-starved eyes. He put down his pen. Long hours of writing had cramped his hand but at last the tale was told. Now he prayed that he was right. That somewhere in these pages lay that vital undetected clue to the Doctor’s destruction. The clue that the prophesied stranger must now find. Yet, as a familiar pain teased at his heart, Brody knew that he could be sure of nothing. All he could do was follow the same old Crow Haven pattern: grope around in the dark and hope for the best.

  He reached into his bag for the ball of string and the packet of brown paper he had bought en route to Regrave Forest. Then he began wrapping the depositions into their three bundles: one for each phase of his life in Crow Haven.

  As he packed up the last of his manuscript, the horror of his story and of what was to come began to overwhelm him. The old priest tore his collar loose and went to the door of the signal box. Outside, the forest crowded him. The trees chattered in the wind. Their ceaseless conversation chilled Brody to the core. He had to leave this place. Had to be among people before this forest drove him mad.

  Forever glancing this way and that, he left the signal box. Forty minutes later, he was sitting in the nearest pub outside Crow Haven, sipping a pint of yeasty ale and cradling the bundles in his lap. His sense of unease had just begun to subside when he noticed the television above the bar. A ticker passed across the screen: POLICE PRESS CONFERENCE: CHILD MURDER LATEST. Brody asked the landlord to turn up the volume. The picture focused on a man identified by an onscreen caption as ‘Det Insp Jack Trent’.

  ‘… you may have unusual information,’ said Inspector Trent. ‘You may be reluctant to come forward, thinking you would not be believed. I would believe you. Please, Father Asher Brody, contact me. I need to speak with you. You can call me on …’

  Brody heard no more. He stared at Jack Trent and knew that this was the man he had waited twenty-six years to meet. The scar – a crooked white bridge that spanned the gap between the stranger’s eyes – told him all he needed to know. Brody offered up a prayer of thanks. He had found him.

  After Jarski and Mescher had put the Godfreys in a taxi home, both behaving as if they were placing fine crystal in packing cases, the DCI asked Jack to join him for a tête-à-tête (Read: ‘bollocking’, Jack thought). Jarski adopted the old good cop bad cop shtick, swinging between the two with schizophrenic ease.

  ‘I know your methods are a little … different,’ he said. ‘I didn’t interfere with you during the Greylampton case, and I appreciate the results. But you can’t handle a press conference that way. PR. Police work is ninety percent PR these days.’

  Jack, propped up against the wall, gave way to a full-body yawn. On reflection, he supposed, that wasn’t the best way to receive Jarski’s discourse on modern policing.

  ‘This is exactly what I fucking mean,’ the DCI exploded. ‘People fucking skills, Jack. You just stand there yawning at me like a mardy tart. When I handed over to you in there, I expected details of this Malahyde bloke: height, weight, appearance, last seen. I wanted you to impress upon those arsehole scribblers that, as we’d found a piece of evidence to link Malahyde with the killing, we needed people to come forward with sightings. You barely mentioned him. Just went on about this fucking priest who, it seems to me, has hardly anything to do with anything.’

  ‘Fine, Roger. Now, I do have a case to deal with.’

  ‘Fuck off,’ Jarski said. ‘And remember, I want a full progress report tomorrow.’

  It was now nearing quarter to eight. There was little chance that Dawn and the forensics team would still be at the house. The search of the woods, as it was only an evidence gathering exercise, would have been abandoned long ago.

  The time had come to tell her everything. The whole Biography Channel, Sixty-Minute Story of My Life deal. In glorious technicolour lunacy. Even if she didn’t believe him, he had a moral duty to give it to her straight. Before the discovery of Oliver Godfrey’s body, there had been a thin strand of logic, twisting in his mind, which had told him: steady, wait and watch, it might all be coincidence. But, as the case progressed, and increasingly stranger things came to light, that rubbery strand of logic had wound tighter and tighter. When the corpse of the boy he had seen in the catacombs had been found this morning, logic came to the end of its elasticity and snapped. This was all real. Jamie was going to die. She must know.

  Jack opened the door to his office. Under the aching glare of the halogen lamp, missing person reports were spread across his desk. Dawn sat by the window, framed by a nightscape of smog-blurry stars.

  ‘Something weird happened at the house,’ she said. ‘Weird is your department.’

  She passed him a scrap of torn, nicotine-yellow paper. In the centre of the page stood a clown, dressed in a gaudy suit, ball
oons or lollipops spinning around him. Two stick figures had been drawn standing behind the clown. The dedication below read: For Daddy and his friend – Mr Funnyface. Love Simon xxx.

  ‘I’ve checked: Peter Malahyde died three weeks before Simon was born,’ Dawn said.

  ‘Well, children do write letters and draw pictures for dead parents,’ Jack said.

  ‘Do you know where I found this? In the bricked-up room. The room, according to Mrs Malahyde, that has not been opened since Peter’s death.’

  ‘What are you suggesting?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Dawn cupped her forehead with one hand. ‘Nothing. I just scared myself, I suppose. I got stuck in that room and freaked out. One of the forensic guys had to get me out … Maybe Simon did manage to get in there when he was a boy. Left the present for his dead father. He was probably craving affection, I’m sure he got none from his mother … It’s probably nothing.’

  ‘I think it’s something, Dawn. It’s another piece.’

  ‘So,’ she sighed, ‘you ready to tell me what’s going on?’

  ‘Not really. It’s a question of where to begin.’

  ‘Well, like the King of Hearts said, begin at the beginning and go on ’til you come to the end: then stop.’

  ‘Okay. But can you do two things for me first?’

  ‘Stalling again? What is it?’

  ‘First, I want to know how Jamie is. Has he been acting strangely lately? Has he …?’

  ‘Yesterday. He had an argument with my dad. About us, actually. He hasn’t spoken much since.’

  ‘Has he mentioned seeing any strangers hanging around?’

  ‘No. I can’t stand this, Jack. What’re you afraid of?’

  ‘It’s going to be fine, Dawn. Trust me. Now, the second thing: you’ve been going through these reports. I reckon we’re thinking along similar lines. You’ve noticed that odd little detail in the Godfrey file, haven’t you?’

  ‘I think I know what you mean. It was just a footnote, really. Oliver’s sister died a year before he disappeared. Cot death. A week after the kid’s abduction, Mrs Godfrey found that the baby’s baptism dress was gone. Seemed strange, maybe part of a fetish killer’s MO. I’ve been going through some unresolved mispers.’

  ‘We should phone the parents in any missing child case still active,’ Jack said. ‘Ask if any baptism clothes disappeared at about the same time. It’s not the sort of thing they would necessarily report.’

  ‘And then you’ll tell me what’s going on?’

  ‘Promise.’

  They divided a bundle of reports between them. Dawn manned the landline while Jack used his mobile. The hours ground away and, with every phone call, Jack felt the hope and despair that began and ended each conversation press heavily upon him. There was an unintended cruelty in calling these people, who had lost such precious things. Some had seen the press conference and, when he told them who he was, he could hear the conflict in their voices. It had to be bad news. Their child was dead, murdered like little Oliver. There was horror and grief in that, but there was also a kind of relief. Months of waiting, their lives suspended in an emotional amber, was over. Now they would at least know. And here was the cruelty: Jack was not there to free them, to give them permission to grieve at last. He was there only to ask more questions.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Lewis, we are still looking. Good night.’

  That was the last name in Jack’s bundle. He reordered the papers, and was about to start on last years’ batch, when Dawn caught his eye.

  ‘… so, you reported Stephen missing at eleven o’clock last night, Mrs Lloyd? Yes, I understand … Do you have any other children? I’m sorry to hear that. My sympathies. Was Kyle baptised at all? At St Brigid’s …? Now, this may seem an odd question, but has Kyle’s baptism dress gone missing? Yes, I’ll wait …’ Dawn hit the mute button. ‘Stephen Lloyd, supposed to meet his dad last night at the playing fields down Renton way. Didn’t show. I almost overlooked it ’cause it was only put on the PNC this afternoon.’ Dawn punched the button again. ‘Yes, Mrs Lloyd, I’m here … It’s gone? Could Stephen have taken it? No, this is just routine follow-up. Maybe a colleague and I could pop over to see you tonight …? Fine, we’ll see you then.’

  Dawn replaced the handset.

  ‘She couldn’t say whether Stephen took it, but it was definitely at home yesterday afternoon. We better go. You can tell me what I need to know in the car.’

  As Jack grabbed his coat, his phone rang. He answered. A voice cut in before he could speak:

  ‘This is Asher Brody, Mr Trent. Can you speak freely?’

  ‘Just a moment,’ Jack turned to Dawn. ‘Bad reception again. I won’t be a minute.’

  He walked to the lavatory and fastened the door behind him.

  ‘Father Brody, I must talk to you …’

  ‘It’s not the time to talk. At a quarter to midnight, you must be at the door of the Yeager Library. Are you familiar with Jericho College?’

  ‘Yes, I was a student at …’

  ‘Forget what you think you know. At the Porter’s Lodge ask for ‘Willard’. When you are let through, take a right at the Primary Quad. Follow the Cloister, keeping your shoulder always to the back wall. Just before the tower of the Watching Window, there is an archway. You will pass through it and enter an older part of the college. A quad …’

  ‘Do you mean the Cardinal Quad? But …’

  ‘It will be dark. You’ll have to feel your way. When you come out of the arch, you may see lights from rooms away in the darkness. Do not stray from the wall. You’ll reach the Yeager Library soon enough. Ring and wait for the librarian. Ask to see The Transmigration of Souls. Read it quickly. You must leave the premises at the stipulated time. The librarian is quite particular. Tomorrow, I want you to visit Geraldine Pryce, the headmistress of Crow Haven School. After that you will be prepared for the story I have to tell. Ready to know what Simon Malahyde really is.’

  ‘I’ll do as you say, but I must …’

  ‘Good. And, Mr Trent, be on your guard. If I have identified you as the one who might bring an end to this, rest assured he has too. He will attempt to tease out your weaknesses and set your fears against you. I wouldn’t be surprised if he has tried already. Goodnight.’

  Jack left the lavatory. The light was still on in his office. Dawn’s silhouette grew large against the glass. He crossed the hall, eased open the fire exit door and started down the stairs.

  Twenty-two

  A hoarse croak descended from the heights of the Damascus Gate, Jericho’s looming tower entrance. Jack found it difficult to pick out the bird from the array of mythological beasts set on plinths around the walls. Then something shifted, and he saw a crow perched on the scorpion tail of a manticore. As he passed under it, the bird cried out again and circled down to the cobbled street. It paced to-and-fro, keeping a tiny eye fixed on him. Stepping through the gate, he heard a final bad-tempered squawk and the clapping of wings.

  Jericho accepted few lodgers, but the place was unnaturally quiet nonetheless. Beyond the gate-tower, the crew-cut Primary Quad was illuminated by electric lights set in antique lanterns. The Lodge was in darkness. Jack rapped on the visitor’s window. From nowhere, the porter appeared and drew up the sash. Even in these ancient surroundings, the sallow-faced man looked comically antiquated in his Edwardian-style clothes. He leant across the sill and thumbed the brim of his bowler hat.

  ‘I’m here to see Willard,’ Jack said.

  ‘What? What name did you say?’

  ‘Willard?’ Jack repeated.

  The porter pulled down the sash. Through the single plate window, he tapped his pocket watch and mouthed: ‘Go through.’

  The light in the Lodge went out. Jack entered the open court and stepped into the cloister that ran along the northern edge of the Primary Quadrangle. On the opposite side of the court was the Master’s Lodge, the Combination Room and the Lower Library. Lights and laughter came from some of the dorms. A low hum
of conversation and the chink of glasses echoed out of the Combination Room.

  Keeping his shoulder to the wall, Jack moved along the cloister. A cold wind whistled through the arch at the end of the covered walkway. The lanterns, slung from the cloister roof, rattled nosily. Jack reached the base of the tower abutting the archway and looked up to where the Watching Window was situated. The panes were as black as the lead that held them. He saw no face pressed against the glass.

  He remembered the tale of Jericho’s ghost from his student days: a story he had thought of as mere superstition. Professor Rowland Mewes, fellow of the college in 1850-something, had been engaged, for his own amusement, in an archaeological project. He had been trying to trace the location of the lost Cardinal Quad. Before the University acquired the land, a sect of Thomist monks had built a library on this fabled quad in the late fourteenth century. A group of fellows at the University had been desperate to acquire the land of these learned brothers. Neither promises of advancement nor threats would part the monks from their library. And so a whispering campaign against the brethren was begun, citing their use of arcane lore and even witchcraft. There are no records of how things escalated but, on Christmas Eve 1392, the entire order was herded into its library by a cadre of masked men. The doors were barred and the place burned to the ground. The Cardinal Quad was destroyed and the new college was built on the land.

  Five centuries later, Professor Mewes began his researches. He was convinced that the brothers had been aware of the danger threatening their lives. And so, desperate to protect the knowledge they had accumulated, the monks secreted their most valuable books in a vault beneath the library. Fired by the desire to unearth some of the treasures lost in the Dark Ages, Mewes spent three years scouring the land that surrounded the college. At last, he came to the conclusion that the site of the hidden chamber was beneath Jericho’s stable yard. He applied for permission to excavate the area. A convocation of the Master and senior fellows turned down his request, due to lack of proper evidence.