by Tim Ellis
A young spotty chef appeared with his fish, chips and mushy peas.
She went to stand up. ‘I’ll let you eat.’
‘No, I can eat and talk at the same time.’
‘Really? There’s not many men who can do that. Yes, they can eat and drink at the same time, but talking uses a different part of the brain. In my experience, I’ve found that men can usually only focus on one thing at a time.’ She walked to the condiment tray and brought back vinegar, salt, pepper, ketchup, and a knife and fork. ‘You’ll want these.’
‘Thanks.’
‘My name is Marnie by the way, Marnie Bavington.’
‘Nice name.’
‘For an old woman. In 1963 I was called Juniper Tulip.’
‘No wonder you got pregnant.’
‘Yeah. Whatever happened to those days eh? God we were happy.’
‘And stoned?’
‘That as well.’
‘What did you call your child?’
‘Children. The free love wasn’t so free, after all. I had three children in the end. Cypress Moonbeam, Sancratard Stone and Oakley Zephyr.’
He nearly choked. ‘Do they still visit?’
‘Only just, but they made it clear a long time ago that they’ll never forgive me.’
‘I can understand that.’
After he’d spread liberal portions of vinegar and salt on the fish and chips, he spread the photographs of Luke and Beatrice Norton on the table facing Marnie. ‘Any ideas?’
‘It didn’t take her long to identify the Minister’s wife. ‘That’s Beatrice Norton. Whole family burned to death in the Methodist Chapel along the road.’ She stroked her chin and stared out of the window. ‘Mmmm! When was that?’
‘1989?’
‘That’s right.’ She looked at the other photographs, examined each one in turn and discarded them until she reached the stripped down E-fit. ‘He looks familiar.’
‘In what way?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Okay – no worries.’ He scooped up the photographs. ‘What can you tell me about the fire at the Chapel?’
‘It was a tragedy. The Fire Brigade said it started in the master bedroom. Well, Samuel Norton smoked, and he was a drunkard who used to beat his wife and children. Can you believe a Methodist Minister would do such a thing. Of course, you can imagine what he thought of me and mine. We didn’t socialise in the same circles, I’m afraid. Never went to church – our church was the church of free love.’
‘Samuel Norton?’ Parish reminded her.
‘Oh yes. A strange little man. Always wore a three-piece suit and a shirt buttoned up at the collar, but he never had a tie on. His hair was ginger and slicked down with Brylcreem, and he had a moustache like Hitler. Never smiled, but I suppose you couldn’t blame him. Beatrice Norton wasn’t much better. Used to shout at those children something terrible. Never let the youngest out of her sight . . .’
‘Luke?’
‘Aye, that was him. Wouldn’t allow any of her children to play with the village children – even at school. The teacher was ordered by Mrs Norton to keep the children inside. They had to pray and read the bible while they ate their cookies and drank the free milk. A very strange family, I can tell you. Unlike my lot – they were scrumping apples and pears, swapping people’s dustbin lids over, playing knock and run, and everything else they shouldn’t be doing. They ran me and everyone in the village ragged. I should get a medal for making sure they came out of childhood in one piece.’
‘I’ll write to the Prime Minister on your behalf,’ he said.
‘Somebody should, that’s the God-honest truth. There were rumours, you know.’
‘About?’
‘The youngest – Luke. They kept finding dead animals in the graveyard. Some people said he was killing them, but others argued it was the chapel cat, or ghosts . . . I mean, would you believe it – ghosts?’
‘And what about the fire?’
‘They never found Luke, you know. Some say he started the fire and then ran away, but he was only seven years old for goodness sake. Others say that because they never found him he haunts the Chapel and the graveyard.’
‘What do you believe?’
‘I believe that you need another drink.’
‘I’m driving.’
‘Another half won’t hurt.’
‘If I get stopped by the police . . .’
‘You are the police.’
‘So I am.’
She went to the bar and poured him another half of Guinness, and came back with it. ‘There you are. Don’t ever say you weren’t treated like royalty by Marnie Bavington at The White Swan in Heptonstall.’
He smiled, took a swallow of Arthur Guinness’ workman’s friend and said, ‘I’ll sing your praises throughout the land. So, do you know what happened to the Parish Records?’
‘Gone. The fire destroyed everything, I’m sorry to say. The birth of my hippie children was recorded in those records.’
‘A seven year-old Grant Mottram is buried in the churchyard. Do you know if there’s anything significant about him?’
‘You mean, besides him being murdered?’
‘Murdered?’
‘Yes. His mother found him in his bedroom stabbed twenty-three times. The police thought one of the parents had killed him because there were no signs of forced entry. The only access point was a small open window in the boy’s bedroom that no adult could have got through . . .’
‘You’re suggesting Luke Norton killed him.’
‘You’re connecting the two boys’ names. All I’m saying is that it was a murder that was never solved.’
‘Why would Luke have killed Grant Mottram?’
‘There was a fight at school, apparently. Grant called Luke and his family horrible names, and the two of them ended up fighting in the toilets until they were dragged apart.’
‘Did they suspect Luke Norton at the time?’
‘I don’t think so. He was a seven year-old boy for goodness sake.’
‘You keep saying that.’
‘I’m a mother, and a grandmother as well now. In my world, seven year-old boys don’t kill other seven year-old boys, their own parents and their siblings. Because that’s what you’re suggesting happened, isn’t it?’
‘I really don’t know. That’s what I’m here to find out.’
‘You said earlier that you were investigating a number of murders. Is Luke Norton alive? Have you found him? If you told me now that he was a deranged killer, it wouldn’t come as a complete surprise. That child was stranger than a nine-bob note.’
‘Okay. Thanks for your time, Marnie. You’ve been very helpful.’
‘Just remember that when you write your review on TripAdvisor.’
‘I will.’
The more he found out about Luke Norton, the more he was convinced he was The Family Man. Gilli Allen’s psychological profile was unerringly accurate – the drunkard father, the domineering and controlling mother, the cruelty to animals, the murder of a classmate over a childhood squabble, the murder of his family . . . Luke Norton was a psychopath in waiting.
He thanked Marnie Bavington one more time and left. Outside the pub, he could see the octagonal chapel located off Northgate and decided to walk rather than risk being breathalysed for driving under the influence.
The current Minister was Margaret Risedale, and her husband was an accountant in a small practice in Hebdon Bridge. Together, they had two children – Lucy and Mathew – and a Cavalier Spaniel called George. She stood not much over five feet in height, with short blonde hair and a double chin.
‘People who have dogs are the best kind of people is what I always say,’ Margaret said.
He produced his warrant card. ‘Then I fall into that category,’ he pronounced. ‘I have a Schnauzer called Digby.’
‘They’re well-behaved dogs.’
‘Somebody ought to inform Digby of that little known fact.’
She handed ba
ck his warrant card. ‘How can I help you, Inspector Parish?’
‘Samuel Norton.’
‘Two Ministers before me. Not a very nice person by all accounts.’
‘So I believe. There’s nothing you can tell me about him and his family?’
‘Sorry. I expect you know that the whole family burned to death in the chapel fire?’
‘Yes.’
‘The elders had to rebuild the chapel afterwards.’
‘Nothing left from that time?’
‘No – all gone, I’m afraid.’
‘Would you mind if I took a look at the gravestone of Grant Mottram?’
‘Not at all.’
She walked him round to the side of the church. The ground sloped down towards an oak tree, and underneath was a leaning gravestone with freshly-picked flowers in an urn. Grant Mottram’s name and the dates of his short life were engraved on the stone, together with a short poem:
If Tears Could Build A Stairway
And Memories A Lane
I’d Walk Right Up To Heaven
And Bring You Home Again
‘A relation?’ Margaret asked.
‘No – a victim. He was murdered, and I think I know by whom now.’
Margaret said, ‘Deceit is in the heart of them that imagine evil: but to the counsellors of peace is joy.’
He looked at her. ‘I’ve heard that somewhere before.’
‘It’s from the bible: Proverbs 12:20.’
He remembered that Kylie Woodhouse had written the same words in her journal. Luke Norton had once said it to her as a justification for murdering her and her children.
‘Thanks for your time, Margaret.’
‘You’re welcome, Inspector.’
He walked back to the pub to collect his car. There was one last person to see – Brendan Young – who lived at 26 Hebble End on the outskirts of the village. He crossed over The Old Packhorse bridge spanning Hebden Water, and could still see evidence of the nineteenth century textile mills powered by the water.
A row of terraced houses was situated on the bank of the River Calder. They used to be weavers’ cottages, and on the end terrace he could see the windows to the upper floors where the looms had been kept.
After parking the Tiguan, he knocked on number twenty-six, and was about to give up when the door opened.
‘Yes?’ an old man with a pipe in his mouth asked. He must have been in his eighties at the very least, had fine white hair, knobbly hands and wore trouser button braces to keep up his corduroys.
‘I’m looking for Brendan Young.’
‘Aren’t we all? Lazy good-for-nothing bastard.’
He showed the old man his warrant card. ‘Detective Inspector Parish. Does Mr Young live here?’
‘Used to, but not for a while now.’
‘When was the last time you saw him?’
‘Ooh! I’d say it was 2010 . . . No, it were afore that. Christmas 2009. Aye, that’d be right.’
‘Have you heard from him at all since then?’
‘I’d say I had as much chance of hearing from him as a wax cat in hell.’
‘He’s the registered keeper of a Ford Focus with the registration: YD51 JBM.’
‘Aye, certainly used to be.’
‘Did he take the car with him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thanks for your help.’
‘If you do see the lazy bastard, tell him his old dad won’t be around much longer.’
‘If I see him, I’ll pass on your message.’ But he knew he wouldn’t see Brendan Young. He guessed that the man was long since dead, and that Luke Norton was using Young’s identity and his car as a means of disguise.
He sat in the car and wondered what to do next. Besides catch the train home, of course. He knew the name of the killer, his modus operandi, his background and his motivations. He didn’t know what he looked like, where he was now, or who he was with. The only constant from the time before Kylie Woodhouse and her twins were killed and now, was Brendan Young and the Ford Focus. Was Luke Norton still intermittently using Young’s identity and the car. Norton never knew that Kylie had kept a journal and written the car’s number-plate in a journal entry. Was it that simple? Would the car lead to Luke Norton?
He phoned traffic.
‘Inspector Hollingsworth.’
‘Sam, it’s Jed Parish.’
‘Noah was building his ark the last time I heard from you.’
‘What can I say?’
‘You can tell me what brings you to my phone on this bright and sunny morning.’
‘Two things really. I’m interested in a driver called Brendan Young, and a car he’s supposed to be driving with the registration: YD51 JBM.’
‘Anything I can get on either?’
‘Yes, please. I’m in . . . Jesus!’
‘What?’
‘I’ve just realised something.’
‘What?’
‘Sorry. I’ll call you back, Sam.’
He ended the call and rang Richards, but he was diverted to voicemail – he hesitated, and then hung up. If he left a message she might panic, or worse – do something stupid.
Heptonstall was too far away to get there in time. Who could he ring? He thought about calling someone at Bramshill, but they’d think he was crazy. Instead, he rang Toadstone.
‘You’re early, but . . .’
‘Never mind all that, Toadstone. I already know who the killer is. You’ve got to drive up to Bramshill in Hertfordshire and save Richards.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I’m at Heptonstall in Halifax, the Chief is a jumble of metal on a bed. There’s no one else. You’re the only one close enough.’
‘Me?’
‘This is your chance, Toadstone.’
‘You mean . . . ?’
‘Yes.’
‘I suppose . . .’
‘There’s no suppose about it. Richards told me earlier that when she input a query into the ViCLAS database, a red computer flag briefly appeared. It was warning The Family Man that someone was looking into the murders again.’
‘But that would mean . . . he’s inside Bramshill.’
‘Which is why you have to go up there. She also told me that Runnel Took had signed off on the analysis of the last questionnaire that French and Garnham from Epping had completed . . .’
‘Runnel Took is an unusual name. Runnel derives from Norway, but . . .’
‘Stop being an idiot, Toadstone. I now know that The Family Man is someone called Luke Norton . . .’
‘My God, Sir – it’s an anagram.’
‘Which is what came to me in a blinding flash a few minutes ago, and the reason you have to get your arse over there.’
‘But . . . won’t I need some help?’
‘It’s the Police College, genius. You’ll have more help than you can shake a dirty stick at. Call me when you’re getting near, and we’ll discuss how you’re going to come out of this looking like a prince, and get to marry the princess.’
‘I like the sound of that.’
‘Are you in your car yet?’
‘Nearly.’
He ended the call and rang Sam Hollingsworth back.
‘Sorry about that, Sam. Richards is in trouble.’
‘Anything I can do?’
‘Toadstone is driving to Bramshill. He should be getting into his car now. He’d get there a lot faster under a police escort.’
‘Wait . . .’
Sam was old school. Parish heard him barking orders like a Regimental Sergeant Major on the parade ground.
‘. . . He was just about to drive off, but we got the bugger. We bundled him into the back of our new motorway chase Lamborghini. I’ve been looking for an excuse to road test that little nugget.’
‘I’m sure he’ll appreciate the experience.’
Sam laughed. ‘The least I could do for Dr Toadstone.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
Inspector Sam Hollingsworth called him
shortly afterwards and told him that Brendan Young had picked up a speeding ticket in Farnborough two weeks ago. That was the final nail in the coffin as far as Parish was concerned. He called Assistant Chief Constable Erica Hewitt at Bramshill.
‘I’ve heard good things about you, Parish.’
‘Thank you, Ma’am. Then you’ll believe me when I say that you’re harbouring a serial killer in Bramshill.’
‘Maybe there are two Inspectors called Parish, and you’re the other one. This is the Police Staff College for goodness sake. A serial killer would have to be crazy to come here.’
‘Isn’t that a truism, Ma’am?’
‘Let’s, for argument’s sake, say that I believe you. What are you proposing?’
He told her about Richards and the red flashing flag, about Kylie Woodhouse’s journal, about Heptonstall, about Luke Norton and how Runnel Took had signed off on the questionnaire analysis . . .
‘You’ve lost me.’
‘Runnel Took is an anagram of Luke Norton.’
‘But we don’t have anybody by that name working here.’
‘I know that, Ma’am.’
‘So, who is he?’
‘I have no idea, but I know a man who does.’ He told her about the E-fit pictures, about stripping the three photographs down to arrive at a consensus.
‘And this Dr Paul Toadstone is on his way here?’
‘Under police escort. The Inspector in traffic has a new toy and wanted to try it out under operational conditions.’
‘That’s a weak argument for a joyride.’
‘I was pleased to accept his offer.’ He also told her about Brendan Young and the Ford Focus getting a speeding ticket in Farnborough.
‘That’s just down the road from here.’
‘Exactly, Ma’am.’
‘What do you need?’
‘As I recall, every member of staff has an ID badge, which includes a headshot?’
‘Yes.’
‘Toadstone needs to see those headshots – starting with SCAS and working outwards. He’ll be able to identify Norton.’
‘And then we simply go and arrest him.’
‘That’s the idea.’
‘When will Dr Toadstone arrive?’
‘I would say about quarter to six – give or take.’