The Mills of God

by Deryn Lake

  ‘Here we are, sir. This should be alright.’

  The Buddha was heavy but they managed to get it into the bag.

  ‘Do you think a woman could have done this?’ asked Tennant, catching his breath.

  ‘If she was strong, yes I do.’

  ‘Take a look at this.’ And the inspector produced the piece of paper in its bag.

  ‘It’s some religious nutter, I’m sure of it.’

  Tennant shook his head. ‘We can’t be certain. Maybe that’s a deliberate bluff.’

  ‘Well, if it is, he – or she – is carrying it off pretty well.’

  ‘Do you think the wording means they intend to commit ten murders?’

  ‘Sounds like it, sir.’

  They reached the bottom of the stairs, carrying the Buddha between them, and thankfully handed it over to the forensic team. The inspector removed his disposable gloves and his protective gear.

  ‘Now then, where’s the cleaning lady? The one who found the body.’

  ‘She’s gone home, inspector, in the company of a WPC. Poor old soul was weeping and carrying on about getting her grandson out of bed to go to the job centre. In the circs we thought it was best to let her go.’

  ‘Quite. What’s the address?’

  They told him the number in Love Lane.

  ‘That runs parallel to this one, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Yes sir. We’ll get the car out.’

  ‘Don’t bother. Potter and I will walk.’

  Instead of going out of the front door the inspector made his way down the garden and through the gate in the fence at the bottom.

  ‘Love Lane,’ he said triumphantly. ‘She doesn’t have far to come to work then.’

  ‘No, sir. Now what number was it?’

  They found the cottage halfway up on the right. A peculiar shape, it almost seemed to go round a corner. As they approached the front door both men could hear the sound of raised voices. A particularly nasal youth was shouting, ‘I can’t help no bleeding murder. I ain’t gettin’ out of bed. Sod it.’

  A quavering female answered something inaudible to which the youth responded. ‘Bugger off and leave me alone.’

  Tennant turned to Potter. ‘Sounds as if we have a right little jerk to deal with.’

  ‘The grandson?’ mouthed the sergeant as he raised the knocker and gave it a hearty bash.

  It was opened almost at once by the policewoman who was wearing a particularly strained expression.

  ‘Trouble?’ Tennant asked quietly.

  ‘It’s the grandchildren,’ she whispered back. ‘Poor old dear lives with them and it seems that the boy gives her hell, sir.’

  ‘Um,’ said the inspector and marched into the house looking profoundly grim.

  The old lady was sitting in a chair sobbing silently into a handkerchief on which was embroidered the initial D in vivid emerald green. From upstairs came the sound of speakers blaring out garage music at absolute top volume.

  ‘Excuse me, I’ll just go and deal with this,’ Tennant announced and marched upwards with Potter following close behind.

  They entered a bedroom so indescribably untidy that it beggared belief. There were heaps of clothes everywhere, including several pairs of underpants in various stages of dishevelment. Dirty jeans abounded, topped by T-shirts with mucky necks. On the walls were large posters of various bands and singers, none of which Tennant recognized with the exception of one of the late Michael Jackson.

  In the corner of the room was an unkempt bed with an even more unkempt individual lying in it, smoking a rolled-up fag. He looked round, moon-faced and startled at the sound of someone coming into his lair.

  ‘Out!’ said Tennant, and seizing the bedclothes pulled them off him.

  ‘’Ere,’ answered the other, outraged.

  ‘Police,’ Potter stated maliciously. ‘On your feet or I’ll charge you.’

  ‘Wot wiv?’

  ‘Perverting the course of justice, that’s what. Now stand up when you’re being spoken to.’

  Reluctantly the youth did as he was told, stubbing out his cigarette in an overflowing ashtray.

  ‘Put some jeans on for God’s sake,’ Tennant said harshly. ‘You ought to get out-of-doors more. You’re white as a slug. And turn that music off while you’re at it. I can hardly hear myself think.’

  The grandson opened his mouth to make a snappy response but caught the look in Tennant’s eye and rapidly shut it again.

  ‘And now,’ said Potter grandly, ‘I would like your full name please.’ He produced a notebook from a pocket and looked official.

  ‘Dwayne Saunters,’ the youth muttered inaudibly.

  Beside him Potter was aware of the inspector’s shoulders twitching. He compressed his lips tightly as he said, ‘Middle name?’

  ‘Jason.’

  ‘And you live at this address.’

  ‘Well, I ain’t got nowhere else to bleedin’ go, ’ave I?’

  Potter remained silent as the inspector spoke.

  ‘Are you prepared to answer questions here, Mr Saunters, or would you prefer to come down to the station?’

  ‘I’ll answer ’em ’ere. I don’t want to go to no bloomin’ station.’

  ‘Right then. You’ll put a shirt on and come downstairs. Stay with him, Potter.’

  In the small front parlour, reserved for special occasions, Mrs Noakes, the grandmother, fortified by a brimming cup of tea provided by the WPC, sat controlling her tears as best she could. The inspector took a seat beside hers, waved away an offer of tea and said gently, ‘Could you tell me how Mr Riddell’s house was when you entered it, Mrs Saunters?’

  She bristled very slightly.

  ‘It’s Mrs Noakes, sir. My daughter would insist on marrying Dick Saunters’s son – and a bad lot he turned out to be. But, there, one mustn’t speak ill of the dead, must one.’

  ‘They were killed in a car crash, weren’t they?’

  ‘Always drove too fast, he did. A reckless fool. But my daughter – Wendy, her name was – she was attracted to uniforms, see.’

  Tennant didn’t, but decided not to be led down this path.

  ‘Tell me, if you wouldn’t mind, Mrs Noakes, everything you noticed about the deceased man’s house this morning.’

  The grandmother took a deep swig of tea, then put the cup down and launched into a story which, Tennant had the feeling, she would soon tell with relish to any passer-by who cared to listen.

  ‘Well, as you know, I got up early and went across to get him his breakfast. I do that every morning except on Sundays when he has a lay in.’

  ‘Do you have a key to the house?’

  ‘To the garden door, yes. I go through the gate and across the garden and let myself in that way.’

  ‘Quite so. Now tell me as clearly as you can what exactly you saw.’

  ‘Well, nothing at first. I went into the kitchen and switched on the light and . . .’

  ‘Before then. Did you notice any illumination coming from upstairs?’

  ‘Yes, now you come to mention it, I did. There was a flickering light, like he’d left a candle burning in front of that Buddha of his, and there was a dull glow coming from his bedroom.’

  ‘I see. So you switched on the kitchen light. What happened next?’

  ‘I turned to put water in the kettle – and then I saw him. All huddled up at the bottom of his stairs, he was. There was blood – and stuff – oozing from his head.’

  Tennant shook his head and made a sympathetic noise. ‘Poor you. What a shock. So what did you do?’

  ‘I ran out of the kitchen, still holding the kettle, and into the lounge. Then I come over all queer and had to sit down.’

  ‘I see. Tell me something, Mrs Noakes, did you see anyone in the house or garden? Did anything at all arouse your suspicions?’

  ‘No, sir, it didn’t. I think the murderer – whoever he or she was – had been long gone.’ She rolled a fearful eye in his direction. ‘Is this connected with the kil
ling of the Patels, do you think?’

  ‘It’s too early to say,’ Tennant lied, thinking of the message signed The Acting Light of the World. ‘I take it it was you who went to the mobile police station?’

  ‘No, sir, tell the truth I was too afraid to stay in that house a moment longer. I run all the way round to the vicarage. I thought the vicar would know what to do.’

  Tennant suppressed a smile. ‘And did he?’

  ‘Oh yes, sir. He was ever so good. He made me a cup of tea and went to the police pantech-thing straight away.’

  ‘Was he dressed?’

  Mrs Noakes shot him a peculiar look. ‘Yes, he was. Why?’

  ‘No reason,’ the inspector answered vaguely.

  The door opened and the unlovely Dwayne entered the room wearing a T-shirt with the logo ‘None of Your Firkin Business’ emblazoned across his chest.

  ‘Get us a cuppa tea, Gran,’ he ordered.

  Tennant gave him a sweet smile. ‘Your grandmother is answering a few questions at the moment, Mr Saunters. Perhaps you could go to the kitchen and make yourself a cup.’

  The youth trembled on the brink of giving a rude reply but was somewhat intimidated by the arrival of Potter who loomed behind him in a menacing manner. Giving the inspector a black look he turned on his heel and could be heard distantly trying to chat up the female police constable who was clearly having none of it.

  ‘You must forgive my grandson, Inspector. He’s a bit unruly.’

  Tennant made a non-committal noise. ‘Have you anything else to tell me, Mrs Noakes? Anything that struck you as out of the ordinary in any way?’

  She paused, clearly thinking back. ‘There was just one thing, sir.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘There were two glasses on the table in the lounge – and one of them had a lipstick smear on it.’

  Tennant nodded. ‘Thank you very much, Mrs Noakes. We’ll leave you in peace now.’ He stood up.

  Potter muttered in his ear, ‘What about the boy?’

  ‘We’ll leave him till later,’ the inspector answered, and made his way towards the front door.

  NINE

  The Reverend Nick Lawrence sat at his desk, staring through the french doors at Radetsky who was playing with a fallen leaf in the garden. To say that he was worried would have been an understatement. He was rapidly coming to the conclusion that Lakehurst housed within its apparently tranquil and unsinning walls, a vicious serial killer. Not that he could be certain that Gerrard Riddell’s death was anything more than an unfortunate accident. Yet surely that would be stretching the arm of coincidence too far. The sudden murder of the Patels followed by Mrs Noakes banging on his door in an extreme state of distress to say that her employer was lying dead at the bottom of his stairs had thoroughly unnerved Nick. So much so that he found it hard to concentrate on the paperwork that was spread out before him. In fact he had just picked up a magazine and was starting to flick through the pages when there came a sudden knock at his front door. Glad to be called away from his boring task Nick went down the hall and threw it open. Dominic Tennant stood there.

  ‘Ah, good morning, Vicar. Do you have a spare moment?’

  ‘Certainly,’ Nick answered, and followed the inspector into the living room.

  ‘I won’t keep you long. I expect you’re busy.’

  ‘Fairly. As you know I was called at the crack of dawn by Mrs Noakes shrieking that she had found Gerrard Riddell lying dead at the bottom of his staircase. It was me who rushed to your mobile headquarters. By the way, is it really necessary to have that thing parked in the High Street?’

  Tennant smiled at him charmingly. ‘Yes, I’m afraid it is. The incident room has been set up in Lewes. It was much easier to do that because of the computers, you see. However, a great many police personnel have been drafted into the village – which I trust you won’t find inconvenient – but they must have somewhere central to report to. I hope you understand.’

  Nick felt thoroughly wrong-footed. ‘Yes, of course. Quite so. I wasn’t implying any criticism.’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ the inspector answered, still continuing to smile. He changed the subject. ‘Tell me, what did you think when Mrs Noakes came rushing in?’

  ‘Quite honestly I thought it was murder.’ Nick paused and two pairs of eyes, one like sun ripe gooseberries, the other more like the calm blue sea, locked together. ‘Was it?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  The vicar clasped and unclasped his hands in a hopeless gesture. ‘But who can be doing it? What kind of a lunatic are we up against?’

  Tennant paused, thinking, and said eventually, ‘I’m going to take a risk.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You do realize, Reverend Lawrence, that even a man of the cloth cannot be ruled out of our list of suspects.’

  ‘In other words you think I might have done it.’

  The inspector grinned. ‘No, as a matter of fact I don’t. But that is purely going on my gut instinct. Some of the old school would shoot me down in flames for what I’m about to do.’

  ‘But you are clearly not one of them.’

  ‘No, I’d agree with that.’ From a briefcase that he had put on the floor beside his chair Tennant withdrew a piece of paper sealed in an evidence bag. ‘Have a look at this, would you?’

  The vicar stared at it, tentatively putting out a hand.

  ‘It’s all right. You can touch it.’

  Nick scanned the words. His attention particularly drawn by the signature, ‘The Acting Light of the World’. ‘Where did this come from?’ he said eventually.

  ‘From the dead man’s house. It was pinned on the wall on the landing.’

  ‘Written by the murderer?’

  ‘It would appear so, yes.’

  Nick handed the paper back. ‘Do you think it’s the work of a religious maniac?’

  ‘Or someone trying to give that impression.’

  The vicar looked thoughtful. ‘Um. I hadn’t thought of that.’

  ‘Whatever, I find it terribly sinister. It sounds to me as if he or she intends to go on killing.’

  ‘I don’t know if this will be of any interest,’ Nick started, and then related the two incidents he had experienced in the church.

  The inspector looked thoughtful. ‘Thanks for telling me, Vicar. Keep a watchful eye out. But no have-a-go stuff.’

  After he had gone Nick went to his study and copied down the words he had recently been shown. ‘Second of the ten. Where next? The Acting Light of the World’. He stared at them but other than endorsing Tennant’s idea that there was a serial killer on the loose, he could make nothing further of them. He was just about to put them away when there came another knock at his door. Of all the people in the world Kylie Saunters stood there, white as a sail and with panda-rings of mascara under her eyes.

  ‘Oh Vicar, Vicar,’ she wailed. ‘My gran’s ever so upset. They’ve taken Dwayne off to the police station in Lewes and we’re all on our own with a murderer about.’

  ‘Wasn’t there a policewoman with Mrs Noakes?’

  ‘Yes, but she’s had to go. We’ve given our statements and the inspector said that he was finished with us for now. Would you come and talk to her, please.’

  ‘Well, if you think I’ll be of any help I’ll come, of course.’

  They started off down the street but it was like getting through an obstacle course. Everywhere groups of women huddled in tight circles of gossip, talking in subdued voices of one and the same thing. All brightened up as they saw the vicar approach.

  ‘Good morning, Father Nick. Isn’t it terrible? Poor Mr Riddell,’ and so on and so forth were his constant greetings. The vicar pulled faces which he hoped were appropriate, all the time aware that poor little Kylie was pawing at his side like a nervous animal. Eventually he had run the gauntlet and found himself in Love Lane and opposite the cottage. Looking round he saw that the police had cordoned off the garden gate of Gerrard Riddell’s house and tha
t forensics were working on it. Bracing himself, Nick went inside, Kylie scurrying ahead of him.

  Mrs Noakes was sitting in an armchair beside an unlit fire, not crying now but occasionally emitting a low sob which, in a way, was almost worse.

  Kylie knelt beside her. ‘The vicar’s ’ere to see you, Gran.’

  Mrs Noakes did not look up. Nick squatted down on her other side.

  ‘Anything I can do to help, Mrs Noakes?’

  She looked at him. ‘They’ve taken ’im away, Reverend. They’ve taken ’im orff for questioning.’

  Nick shot an enquiring glance at Kylie, who whispered, ‘He was giving ’em cheek, Vicar. That’s why they took ’im. It was to give ’im a lesson, like.’

  He nodded, seeing the picture quite clearly and thinking that for all his good manners it wouldn’t do to mess with someone like Inspector Tennant.

  ‘I expect he’ll be back soon,’ Nick said somewhat lamely.

  ‘I’ll go and get a nice cup of tea while we’re waiting,’ Kylie put in, making Nick think that she wasn’t such a bad kid after all.

  ‘Do you believe they’re going to keep ’im in, Vicar?’

  ‘No, I’m sure he’ll be back soon. It’s only routine questioning, you know. They’re doing it to everybody.’

  He went on burbling the same remark over and over again with variations and had never been more thankful than when Mavis Cox rang at the front door and came bustling in. At this Nick rose, made excuses about parish duties, refused the cup of tea that Kylie waved under his nose, and left the house. Walking up Love Lane he almost bumped into Sonia Tate, who made the most terrible moue at him and batted her eyelashes.

  ‘Oh Vicar,’ she said in a little-girl voice. ‘I am quite frightened by what is happening. Where is it all going to end I keep wondering.’

  ‘I wish I knew,’ he answered solemnly.

  She produced a small diary from her handbag. ‘Now that I have you on your own, Father Nick, when can you have supper with me? I am sure that I can give you a lot of background information on the personalities of Lakehurst.’