“And you Paul,” he said to Ferris, “start going through those computer records of yours or whatever it is you do. Look for anything to do with Speke Hill that might tell us what may have taken place there during Remington and Proctor's youth.”
“I'm on it sir,” Ferris confirmed.
“Okay everyone. What are we waiting for?”
There followed a scraping of chairs on the floor as everyone rose to go about their allotted tasks, a hubbub of voices accompanying the departure of the murder team as Ross led Drake and Bland out of the building to the car park, ready to begin their investigation into Speke Hill.
Chapter 18
St Luke's
Iris Redding had done the priests proud. Breakfast had been a wonderful concoction of bacon, sausages, fried eggs, tomatoes and hash browns, sufficient, both priests agreed, to feed the two of them and probably half the church choir too. Mrs. Redding, her face bright and cheerful, simply ordered the Fathers to eat as much as they wanted. She'd make up some sandwiches for her husband from the leftovers. Tom Redding would soon be arriving to tend to the gardens and trim the grass around the graves in the churchyard, and bacon and sausage sandwiches would suit him down to the ground for a lunchtime snack.
After she'd cleared away the breakfast pots, she dusted the living room, vacuumed the carpets and then left the priests with a cup of coffee and the morning newspapers as she went about the business of cleaning the rest of the house.
“We'd be lost without that woman,” Byrne observed after hearing the dulcet tones of her footsteps as she made her way upstairs and out of their hearing.
“We would indeed, Father,” Willis agreed. “Not only that, but she probably thinks we'd starve too, if she didn't ply us with mountains of food every morning for breakfast.”
Both men laughed, the pair in relaxed mood, enjoying a rare quiet morning with no services to conduct and no pressing engagements until the afternoon.
“Can I ask you something, Father Byrne?” Willis asked, the question coming at Byrne completely unexpectedly.
“But of course, Father,” Byrne replied.
“You've been having the nightmares again, haven't you? I'm concerned for you Father. They're coming frequently aren't they? You'll never tell me what they are about, but they disturb you greatly, that much I do know.”
Gerald Byrne didn't reply at once. He hadn't been aware that his continued nightmares were becoming a regular disturbance to the other priest's sleep.
“I'm sorry, David. I really am. I assure you there's nothing for you to worry about, though I'm upset if I'm causing you loss of sleep as a result of the dreams.”
“But, Father, they're not just dreams, are they? I've heard some of the things you shout in your sleep. You seem to be describing some terrible event from your past. Forgive me for intruding, but on the couple of occasions when I've gone in to attend to you, you have indeed sounded quite terrified at what you were seeing in your mind.”
“David, listen to me please. When you've been in the priesthood as long as I have, been to some of the countries I've been to, and witnessed man's inhumanity to man to the degree that I have, then you might just begin to understand that the human mind is like a great repository of memories, not all of them good ones, and that sometimes, the only way the mind can deal with those memories is to replay them in a man's dreams, for I believe if we did not dream of such things and bring them to mind in such a way, those memories just might become all consuming. In his wisdom, our Good Lord allows us to relive them in a way that makes us realise they were once real, not to be forgotten, but not to be confined to the deepest recesses of the mind, where they may fester and turn us bitter and twisted. I have walked in places in this world, David, where God was truly forsaken by those who inhabited such lands and where the sights would truly have given you nightmares had you seen them.”
David Willis heard the older priest's words, all of which made sense, so why, he wondered, didn't he wholeheartedly believe Gerald Byrne? Not wanting to press the matter, however, he merely replied,
“I understand Father, I think, but if such things are troubling you, do you not think it wise to seek help, perhaps a talk with the bishop, or maybe even medical help if the dreams are causing you such mental anguish?”
“I'm fine, David, really. I appreciate your concern, honestly, I do, but there's nothing for you to worry about. I pray to the Lord every day for his help in reconciling what I've seen with the words of our Father in Heaven. Perhaps you'll join me in prayer right now and then we can move on with our day.”
Byrne had cleverly backed the younger priest into a corner. Unable to refuse his offer to join him in prayer, Willis felt obliged to let the matter drop, for now.
After ten minutes of prayer, a short silence followed between the two men, broken by Gerald Byrne.
“And how is your work going David? You devote much of your time to the sick and the needy of the parish. I feel remiss at times for not joining you for an occasional morning as you do your rounds. I know you must find it hard sometimes, being up early and out before the crows have taken their breakfasts.”
“Oh, it's all going well, Father, and I know you have enough to do here without having to join me out there. I enjoy what I do, and feel I'm achieving a great deal.”
“Well, there you are then, David. We're both happy, aren't we?”
“Yes, Father Byrne,” Willis replied. “I suppose we are.”
“Well then, let's have no more talk of dreams, nightmares or whatever. I must go and begin work on preparing my next sermon. You, I take it, have places to go and people to see, so I'll see you at lunchtime, when Mrs. Redding will, I'm sure, make certain we don't feel the pangs of hunger during our afternoon's labours.”
Byrne rose from his chair, placing the newspaper he'd been reading on the coffee table in front of him, and strode from the room. David Willis watched him go and picked up the paper he'd been reading. It lay open at the latest report on 'The Churchyard Murders' as they'd been dubbed by the local press. Father Byrne had discussed the killings at length with Willis the previous evening, and appeared to be very interested in the subject of the murders, so it seemed to David Willis.
Chapter 19
Orphans & Demons
The journey from headquarters to Speke Hill would, under normal circumstances, take no more than fifteen minutes, but the traffic was heavy all over the city, thanks to the sudden descent of thick fog, that had made its way inexorably inland from the Irish Sea, enveloping the city in the muffled calm generated by a thick old-fashioned pea-souper.
Izzie Drake behind the wheel, the Mondeo almost seemed to groan at the forced lack of speed as the fog presented motorists with an almost impenetrable grey cloud-like barrier. Small golden-yellow haloes appeared around each of the normally bright street lights, adding a surreal feel to the vista that presented itself to those brave or foolhardy enough to attempt to drive in such weather conditions.
Ross felt an almost imperceptible increase in speed as the unmarked police vehicle began to close the distance between it and the car in front, an old Ford Fiesta that even in the thick fog appeared to be well past its best, with rust and scratches to the paintwork evident to Ross's keen eyes. He knew Izzie was growing impatient and even though his trusted sergeant had passed the police force's own advanced driving course, clearing her to participate in high-speed car chases if necessary, he didn't fancy their chances if she got too close and the old Fiesta suddenly slammed on the anchors.
“Izzie?”
“Sir?”
Please get us there intact. You can't even tell if that old bucket in front of us has got working brake lights. Before you know it we could be wrapped round his rear bumper.”
“I know, sorry, sir, it's just so bloody frustrating, crawling along like this. We should have been there by now.”
“It's the same for everyone, Izzie, and let's not give our guest in the back heart failure while we're at it.”
“Oh, don't worry abo
ut me,” Christine Bland piped up from the back seat. “I'm keeping my eyes shut, so I won't know anything until we get there or hit the car in front.”
Ross and Drake both broke into spontaneous laughter, relieving the tension and boredom of the snail's pace journey. Ross's mobile began ringing, the unmistakable sound of the theme from The Great Escape emanating from the depths of his jacket pocket. He quickly fished around the pocket, retrieving it just before it switched to voicemail. The screen identified the caller as Paul Ferris.
“Paul, hello, I take it this is important? We're stuck in traffic in this bloody fog. Not even got to Speke Hill yet.”
“Yes sir, I think you'll consider it very important.”
“Well, don't keep me in suspense, Detective Constable. Let's have it.”
“The car's turned up, sir, Proctor's Subaru, and we have two suspects in custody, and listen to this, they're a man and a woman.”
Forgetting for a moment that Christine was in the back seat, Ross exclaimed, “Fucking hell, Paul. That was quick.”
Remembering Christine he turned and quickly said sorry but she waved his apology away and he asked Ferris for the details.
“The car was found in Southport, sir, parked on the promenade, in plain view for the entire world to see. Two enterprising traffic cops were making a routine sweep of the seafront and thankfully they'd had the foresight and intelligence to read their alerts and bulletins and recognised the car as being sought in connection with the murders here in Liverpool. Seems they kept an eye on the vehicle under orders from their sergeant back at Southport Nick, and while they waited for the plain clothes guys to turn up, a man and woman came sauntering along the sea front carrying fish and chips and got into the car. Not wanting to risk them driving away and losing them, the two constables left their patrol car where they'd parked up to watch the Subaru, and quietly approached the vehicle and took the pair inside totally by surprise. They had the cuffs on them before you could say 'Cod 'n Chips twice please', apparently. That's the way it was related to me not more than five minutes ago by Sergeant Reeves in Southport.”
“I presume we're getting them back to Liverpool post-haste?”
“We are, sir. I let D.C.I Porteous know of course and he grabbed Tony Curtis and seconded our old mate Nick Dodds who was walking past his office at the time to drive up and bring them back for interview.”
“We have names yet, Paul?”
“No, sir, not yet. Anything special you want us to do with them if they arrive before you and Sergeant Drake return?”
“Just put them in separate interview rooms with a uniformed constable to watch over them. We should be back in a couple of hours, if we ever get to Speke Hill in this bloody fog. It'll give them both time to stew and they should be ripe for questioning when we get back.”
“Right sir, good luck up at the school. Hope you find something that might help us nail these two, that's if they're our killers of course.”
Drake and Bland had heard Ross's end of the conversation and he quickly filled them in on Ferris's input.
“Seems too easy, sir,” said Drake.
“I agree,” said Christine Bland. “So far your killers have shown resourcefulness, care and meticulous planning. It doesn't seem plausible that they'd slip up so blatantly as this.”
“I tend to agree also,” said Ross, “but the pair in Southport were found with Proctor's car, so they are involved in some way, but we won't know anything more until we question them.”
“Well, anyway, we're here at last, sir,” said Drake with relief as she turned off the road and through the entrance gates to Speke Hill, gravel crunching under the tyres as they motored up the sweeping drive, through the arch of trees until the main buildings hove into view. The fog had lifted slightly, enough to give them a decent view of the gothic-style buildings as they pulled into the parking area in front of the largest, central building, a large sign outside listing the various departments inside, including Administration and most importantly, Visitor Reception.
“Creepy,” said Drake as she looked up at the old Victorian walls, and the crenulated roof, giving the place the look of a typical haunted mansion, she thought.
“Very Gothic,” Christine Bland agreed.
“Still looks like an asylum to me,” Ross commented as he led the way through the main entrance doors.
Inside, they followed an arrow on the wall that led to reception, where a cheerful young woman reacted with surprise when they identified themselves and asked to see the Chief Administrator or Headmaster, whoever was available. Five minutes later a rather severe looking woman, no more than five feet three in height, but well proportioned and in good physical shape, wearing a plain grey skirt suit, her hair, greying at the ends tied in a bun at the back, arrived and introduced herself as Vera Manvers, the School Secretary. As soon as Ross informed her of the reason for their visit she led them to her office where she asked them to sit down while she contacted Charles Hopkirk, the Chief Care Officer, and Alan Machin, the Headmaster, as she assumed they'd need to speak to both men.
A short time later, Vera answered the phone on her desk, listened for a minute, then replied, “Right away, Charles,” and turned to the detectives and the profiler.
“Mr. Hopkirk has got Mr. Machin with him in his office, Inspector. If you'll come with me I'll take you there now. It's a terrible business, isn't it? Such a shame about poor Mr. Proctor, and him being such a popular teacher too.”
Ross thought it odd that she hadn't spoken a word to them until that point, but put it down to her rather abrasive and uncooperative demeanour, despite her efforts to appear affable. He was a good judge of people, usually and he simply couldn't find himself liking Vera Manvers.
“Thank you, Mrs. Manvers,” Ross replied, “and yes, a very nasty business indeed. You knew the dead man of course, so we may need to speak to you too after we've spoken to the Headmaster and Mr. Hopkirk.”
“I'll be here in my office, if you need me, Inspector, and it's Ms Manvers, actually.”
She emphasised the Ms, as though Ross had insulted her by inferring she was married.
That's it, she's probably a closet lesbian, hates all men, Ross thought, as he moved to follow her.
“Right, my apologies, Ms Manvers.”
She led them from her office, along a short corridor where she knocked and walked straight into the larger and airy office of Charles Hopkirk. The Chief Care Officer and the Headmaster were both standing waiting to greet them and after a round of introductions and hand shaking, they all sat, chairs having been provided to accommodate everyone.
“So, Inspector, we've been expecting you, of course, haven't we, Alan?”
“Indeed,” the headmaster replied. “As soon as we heard about poor Mark, it was only a matter of time before you arrived, wasn't it?”
“Yes,” said Ross. “How did you hear about Mr. Proctor, by the way?”
He knew the press hadn't released the name of the second victim as yet so it would be interesting to know where the school had got their information from.
“We had a call from poor Melanie Proctor, Mark's wife, Inspector. She was beside herself as you can imagine. She'd contacted us on the morning after his last day at school, telling us he hadn't come home. It was Alan, Mr. Machin, who advised her to go to the police, wasn't it, Alan?” said Hopkirk.
“Yes, I did. It was totally out of character for Mark to simply disappear, Inspector. He was devoted to Melanie and I was sure he must have been in an accident or something. He'd never have made her worry like that, not deliberately”
“Right, okay,” Ross was thinking as he replied. He needed to move as swiftly as possible into the youth of Proctor and Remington but wanted the two men to feel at their ease first. Truth be told, Ross felt rather intimidated by the old asylum, despite its current mode of use. The sooner he could get back to headquarters the better.
“Well, gentlemen,” he began, “I need to ask a few questions. I'll try not to take up to
o much of your time, but it's important you tell me all you know about Mark Proctor. How long had he worked here as a teacher?”
“About five years,” Machin replied. “He was recently appointed as head of the P.E. Department as a reward for his hard work with the pupils. He was a popular and efficient teacher.”
“And did that popularity extend to both the boys and girls he taught?”
“Yes, of course. What an odd question, Inspector.”
“I just want to learn as much as I can about the man, that's all, Mr. Machin. That means asking some questions you may find strange, but I assure you they're all relevant. Did you ever feel there was any animosity shown towards him by any other of the staff members?”
“Never,” said Machin. “Like I said, he was a popular teacher.”
Ross looked at Drake, a signal for her to enter into the interview. She didn't hesitate, sticking to their pre-arranged plan.
“Mr. Hopkirk, as you are responsible for maintaining all the records of Speke Hill as I understand it, I believe that Mark Proctor was an orphan himself and actually lived here and attended the school?”
“Well, yes, that's quite correct, Sergeant. Mark was very proud of that fact, having been a student here and ending up as head of department.”
“And is it also correct that at the same time as Mark was at school and living here, you also had a pupil by the name of Matthew Remington?”
“I don't know, I'd have to check the records. The name sounds familiar though.”
“Matthew Remington was the first murder victim, Mr. Hopkirk. His body was found in the churchyard of St. Matthew's church.”
“Oh, God,” Hopkirk exclaimed. “And you think there may be some connection between the two men?”
“Yes, I do, sir. How long would it take for you to check your old records and confirm that both men were in residence and in education here at the same time?”
“Oh, well, the old archives are still on hard copy. They are planned to be put onto computer but we've never got round to it, yet.”
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