“Proctor was a troublemaker?” Ross asked. “So far everyone has told us what a great teacher he was and that he was a really lovely man.”
“People change, Inspector. When I came back to Speke Hill, Mark volunteered to show me around, showing off all the new stuff they'd incorporated over the years. We swapped a few stories from our time as kids there, and I think I only saw him a couple of times in passing during my occasional visits after that first day. As a child, Mark Proctor was a bit of a bully to be honest and would often hang around with the older boys, and got involved in a few scrapes in his time. He was a useful junior boxer but as he grew older he started to put on weight in the wrong places, lost his fitness and ended up having to quit the ring. I'm not surprised nobody told you or your detectives about him. You have to remember that all of today's staff have only been there a few years at most. They wouldn't have known Mark's record as a child unless they'd deliberately looked up his records. I'd have thought Miss Manvers and Charles Hopkirk and probably the headmaster would know though. Surely they'd have checked back on his time at Speke Hill before he was accepted on to the teaching staff.”
“Yes, you'd think so, wouldn't you?” Ross mused. “I wonder why nobody mentioned it.”
“Respect for the deceased? Not wanting to sully his name because of some childhood misdemeanours?”
“You're probably right Father, thank you.”
Ross decided to take a chance and think out of the box for a minute.
“Father, I'm sure you heard about a young girl's suicide at Formby soon after Matthew Remington's death?”
“I saw something in The Echo, yes, such a tragedy. It didn't say much really.”
“Show Father Byrne the photo, please Izzie.”
“Oh, no,” Byrne exclaimed as he looked at the photograph of Lisa Kelly.
“So, you did know her?”
“Yes, that's Kelly. She started coming here not long after I arrived. She told me she wasn't happy attending her Mother's church any longer. I never knew her surname. The newspaper didn't identify her and I'd no reason to think it was poor Kelly. That poor dear child.”
“Her real name was Lisa Kelly, Father. She obviously kept her real name from you. She was raped by Matthew Remington, found she was pregnant afterwards and then had a termination. She simply couldn't live with the feeling she'd committed some terrible sin and became deeply depressed. You know the rest.”
“That's just terrible news. I now realise I only took the poor girl's confession that very morning, not that I knew it was her when I read about the suicide of course.”
“I'm afraid the mother didn't help the situation” Ross said rather accusingly.
“I'm guessing from your attitude she was something of what we might call a religious zealot?”
“Exactly. She made her own daughter feel dirty, rammed it home to her she was an unworthy sinner and had the nerve to say that because Remington had started going to her church and had repented his sins, he should be forgiven, and Lisa just couldn't handle it.”
Byrne looked genuinely horrified at Ross's short summary of Lisa Kelly's last days on earth.
“I'm only guessing, but from the way you tell it, I assume Remington wasn't prosecuted for his attack on Kelly, sorry, I mean Lisa?”
“That's right Father. Her mother virtually accused her of inviting the rape by wearing short skirts and provocative make-up. I suspect Remington may have got away with more than just the rape of Lisa Kelly.”
“Oh, in the name of all that's Holy. She was little more than a child, experimenting with her own feelings of growing up. I can see why she left her church and came here. She must have been looking for help. I just wish she'd trusted me enough to tell me about it. I may have been able to help her.”
“Without judging her, Father?”
“I don't judge anyone, Inspector,” Byrne stated firmly, having now dropped the 'Detective Inspector' and reverting to the usual shortened version most people used when speaking to Ross. “That's a privilege reserved for our Lord in Heaven. I promise you, I'd have done all I could to help the poor girl, and I'm saddened that I will never have that opportunity. I don't mean to pry, Inspector, but if it's not confidential information, may I ask what church she originally attended?”
Ross saw no harm arising from giving Byrne the answer.
“It was The Church of St. John the Baptist.”
“Ah, that would be Father Joe, real name Father Giuseppe Albani. I've met him a few times since I arrived, at the regular monthly meeting held at the Bishop's Palace. I know now why the mother was so committed to the old-time faith. Although many of us in the Catholic church have embraced a certain degree of liberalism in the last few years, I'm afraid Father Joe is very much of the old school. His way could almost be described as being deeply entrenched in Catholic fundamentalism. Sin is sin, and redemption can only be achieved by total acceptance of the literal word of The Bible.”
“And you don't believe in the literal word?”
“We live in a world where we are all, priests included, allowed to question certain things in the good book, Inspector. Perhaps the hottest potato at present is the subject of the Creation. Do we accept it as being literally as told in Genesis, or is it in fact a wonderful but stylised rendition of the story of how our world began?”
“And the Catholic Church is actually debating the subject?”
“Indeed it is.”
Ross found this all very interesting but he realised the conversation had drifted off course and he heeded to return to the reason for being here.
“Tell me Father Byrne, do you feel that all is well at Speke Hill?”
“How do you mean, Inspector?”
“Look, cards on the table, Father. You're new in terms of how long you've been there as a priest. Has anything struck you as odd, or has anyone behaved in a way that has given you any cause for concern on any of your visits?”
Byrne looked shocked at the question.
“Well, no, I can't say it has, Inspector. Everyone has been quite normal as far as I've been able to discern, but then I don't spend much time there, I hope you realise that.”
Ross found himself unable to really voice his thoughts without revealing exactly what was on his mind. He tried another approach.
“Father, when you were boys, do you recall whether Remington and Proctor were ever involved in any sort of trouble?”
“What kind of trouble?”
“The kind of trouble that might cause someone to harbour a grudge over the years, something bad enough to cause someone to want to murder both men.”
“Oh,” said the priest.
Ross's instincts sensed that Byrne might know more then he was saying.
“Father Byrne, please, if you know something that could be relevant to these killings, I need to know about it.”
Rather then reply to Ross, Byrne turned to look at Christine Bland.
“Doctor Bland,” he said, hesitancy in his voice. “You're a profiler, but also, due to your title, I assume you're a doctor of psychology or similar, am I correct?”
“Yes, Father, I hold doctorates in both Clinical Psychology and Criminal Psychology.”
“Look, this is difficult and I'm not sure how to say this without sounding ridiculous, but lately I've been having a recurring dream.”
“Please, go on, Father.”
“I had a sister, Angela. We were at Speke Hill together. She was older than me, and lived in the girl's home, obviously but we were still close. Angela died at the age of twenty-three, running away from a man who had tried to assault her, much in the way Matthew Remington assaulted his victims.”
“He tried to rape her, in other words?”
“Yes, that's right. The thing is, Angela got away from her attacker but as she ran away, she ran into the street and was hit by a car. It wasn't the driver's fault. He didn't have time to react as she appeared in front of his car.”
“I'm so sorry, Father, that must have been
awful for you.”
“It was, Doctor. I was at the seminary by then, training for the priesthood and for a time, I admit to questioning my faith, and wondered if I'd ever make a good priest, but that's irrelevant now. The thing is, the dream that's kept me awake for so many nights is a warped, surreal nightmare. I'm a boy again, it's the night after Sports Day, and I'm wakened by a scream. Next thing I know, I'm outside the building on the grass and I can see Angela being held down by Mark Proctor and three other boys. Mark is on top of Angela, trying to force her legs apart. I was too young to understand what rape was at that time, Doctor, so I didn't really understand what was happening, but knew it was something bad. Angela is screaming, and yet there's not a sound coming from any of the boys, or from me, like I'm somewhere else, looking on but not being a part of what's taking place. I try to get closer, but something is stopping me and then, just before I wake up screaming myself, one of the other boys turns and grins at me. Until this morning, I didn't know who that boy was, but since the sergeant showed me that photograph, I now know that boy was Matthew Remington.”
As Byrne paused, Ross asked,
“Father Byrne, are you telling us that Mark Proctor and Matthew Remington raped your sister?”
“No, no, not at all, please hear me out. You see, they were the same age as me, and I certainly wasn't sexually mature at that age, so I doubt they were. And believe me, if anything even remotely resembling a sexual assault had taken place on Angela at Speke Hill, she'd have told me and the staff, and anyway, she was quite capable of taking care of herself and would have put up one heck of a fight against four boys so much younger than herself. My point is this, Doctor,” Byrne again turned to look almost pleadingly at Christine Bland, “no such thing ever happened, and yet the dream is so real. I apparently scream so loudly that it wakes young Father Willis up and a couple of times he's come into my bedroom to make sure I'm alright.”
“Who's Father Willis?” Drake asked.
“Oh, sorry, he's my assistant, my deputy priest. He lives here too. You're not Catholic, any of you?”
They all shook their heads.
“Well, in the Church of England, I think you'd call him a rector, you know, he assists the priest in services, and helps with community work and the general running of the church. He's out doing visits to the sick right now as a matter of fact.”
“I see. Thank you for the explanation, Father. Please go on.”
“Yes, of course,” Byrne appeared lost in thought for a moment or two. “Doctor Bland, the thing that's been torturing me at night and increasingly in the daytime too, as a result of the dream is, could I, as a young boy, have seen something that didn't register logically in my mind and then blocked it out for years?”
“Yes, it is” said Bland. “You were young, and it's quite possible you saw something, maybe only a second or two of whatever was happening, and your mind then either ignored it as irrelevant to your young mind's way of thinking, or you knew it was bad, and your mind blanked it out, as you've suggested. Something must have happened in recent weeks or months to trigger the old memories and the dream has been your mind's way of processing the information by mixing it up with the facts surrounding Angela's tragic death.”
“I see, thank you. I thought I was going crazy.”
“Far from it, Father. Such events are quite normal, I assure you, and happen more frequently than you imagine.”
The wild theory that had sprung into Ross's mind earlier now seemed less fanciful to him.
“Now, that's the kind of trouble I was talking about. It's possible Remington and Proctor were involved in some kind of assault or deviant behaviour as youngsters, maybe in their teens and you saw or heard something, as Doctor Bland suggests. If that's the truth, I want to know why there's no record of it at Speke Hill, or if there is, why nobody there mentioned it when we talked to the Headmaster, Chief Carer and that irritating school secretary.”
“I can't help you there, Inspector,” said Byrne.
“No, but there might be a way to help you remember the facts, the truth about what you saw as a child,” Christine Bland said suddenly.
“There is?” Byrne asked.
“If you're willing, I could organise a session of hypnotism. If you're suffering from a form of retrograde amnesia caused by a mental trauma as a child, it's possible we can unlock those memories under carefully controlled conditions.”
“Hypnosis? I'm not sure, Doctor.”
“It may help us both, Father, by revealing to the inspector something that could help his case, and in your own case, it may help put an end to the dreams.”
Byrne thought long and hard before replying.
“I'm a man of God, Doctor,” he said. “I can't say I'm comfortable with this. Please can I think about it?”
“Yes, Father.” It was Ross who answered. “But please don't think for too long. We've got two murderers to catch.”
“I'll be quick, I promise you, Inspector.”
“Then I think we're done for now, thank you Father,” said Ross, who rose from his chair.
Drake and Bland took his movement as a signal for them to follow his lead and were soon out the door and on their way back to headquarters with the priest's promise to give them an answer later the same day on Bland's hypnotism proposal.
Ross remained relatively quiet on the journey as his latest theory formulated in his mind, becoming more tangible by the second.
Chapter 23
Brenda
Helmdale Lodge Psychiatric Nursing Home stood in its own extensive grounds, on the outskirts of the seaside resort of Rhyl in the county of Denbighshire in North Wales, some forty three miles from Liverpool. A private facility, the Lodge was a small and self-contained unit, with views over the Irish Sea, that catered for no more than thirty patients at any given time, most of them on a long-term basis.
A hundred years ago, Helmdale would perhaps have been described as a private mental asylum, but modern day enlightenment had removed such stigma from the treatment of mental illness and there was nothing of the Speke Hill style Victorian Gothic about its appearance, or in the way its inmates were treated; private rooms with television, comfortable beds and furnishings replacing such Victorian niceties as rubber coshes, water cannon, straight jackets and padded walls.
Built a mere thirty years previously, Helmdale appeared no different to the majority of onlookers than any run-of-the mill residential care home, with the obvious exception of a tall, eight feet high fence that encircled the entire property, complete with closed circuit television cameras mounted at strategic points on the fence, giving staff a constant video stream of the Lodge's perimeter.
Not that anyone had ever attempted to escape from the home. With all the patients being private, only those regarded as 'non-risk' patients were admitted to Helmdale Lodge. Fees were usually paid for by family members grateful to find a place where their mentally disturbed loved ones could be cared for in a pleasant and non-institutionalised environment. Everything about Helmdale Lodge was designed to make patients feel at home and comfortable and the doctors and nursing staff employed by the home's owners were of the highest calibre imaginable. Even the general care workers and ancillary staff were carefully selected, ensuring a sense of harmony prevailed at all times within the walls of the unit.
* * *
The man slowly pushed the wheelchair along the smooth black tarmac path that wound its way through a pretty, tree-lined avenue of poplars and firs, all kept neatly trimmed and at a height that wouldn't cut off the sunshine from those who felt like the walk that led to the extensive gardens beyond the trees. Here, the path opened up to reveal well-lawned, perfectly mown areas to both sides, and as the man arrived at the gleaming, silver painted ornate double gates that opened into the garden, his female companion walked ahead of him to open the gates, closing them after he'd wheeled his charge into the garden area.
The woman in the wheelchair stared straight ahead. If she saw the profusion of summer b
looms that nodded their heads in the soft sea breeze that wafted through the garden, she made no acknowledgement of the fact. Peonies, Roses, Gladioli, Sweet Williams and so many more cast their heady scents into the air, in particular a bower of climbing roses in alternate red and yellow gave the garden the appearance of a place of peace and tranquillity, occasionally enhanced by the buzzing of a visiting bee, gathering nectar at its leisure, to the accompanying twittering of small birds, seeking seeds from various hanging feeders strategically placed so residents could watch the sparrows, greenfinches and other wild birds that regularly visited the garden.
“It's so beautiful here, isn't it, Brenda?” the woman asked, not expecting nor receiving an answer from the occupant of the chair, some ten years younger than herself, though the years spent locked away in her own mind, never mind behind the tall fences of the home had not been kind to her. A casual observer might have put them at the same age, such were the ravages of body and soul that time had wreaked on the younger woman.
It was important to try and engage in conversation with her sister, though, so the staff had always told her, and she never gave up hope that one day Brenda just might show some sign of recognition, might remember who she was and the life they'd once enjoyed as sisters.
“Look at those roses, they're so pretty. You always loved roses didn't you? You knew most of their names too. I just liked to look at them, but you were cleverer then me and used to tell me all about them.”
She pointed at one particular hybrid tea rose bush as the little trio slowly passed it by, the smoothly oiled wheels of the chair virtually silent as they rolled along the smooth tarmac path.
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