Dark Ritual

by Patricia Scott

  The church was old enough to have seen so much from history, in part destroyed by Henry the Eighth. Viviane recalled something now that she had picked up while reading through some of the historical snippets and facts garnered by her elderly relative: “To test a suspected murderer for his innocence or guilt he would be made to touch the victim’s body and if he was guilty it would bleed...”

  Fowler saw the frozen look on her face as he glanced over at her and wondered what was going on in her mind. Something was giving her the heebie-jeebies. He had been wondering if the killer was sitting there, thinking that they had got away with it so far.

  There was someone he didn’t recognise. Fowler studied a man’s face, on the other side of the church, listening intently to the service. Could he be Rafe Conway? He’d noticed Terri Davies studying him intently too. Must speak to him. A.S.A.P.

  Terri, sitting beside Rosemary Peterson, listened quietly as Martin gave his poem “Death is nothing at all...” with the help of Jessica Robbins, and wept with Rosemary. Alan Peterson also contributed with his happy memories of their daughter Sandra. It seemed that there wasn’t a dry eye in the church as they sang the hymn “Morning Has Broken...”

  The Fox and Goose came to the rescue and put on the buffet and wine afterwards in their restaurant. Her editor, James Masters, had sent flowers. And two of her women colleagues attended the service and introduced themselves to the Petersons who were standing up to it admirably, Viviane thought, sipping her white wine, as she studied their strained grave faces. Not many mourning families entertain the media amongst them.

  Fowler and Peale offered their sympathy once again to Rosemary and Alan Peterson, and then Bob Fowler said with a groan to Viviane. “It’s business as usual, I’m afraid. See you later, Viv, Richard. Can’t stay any longer. I have to speak to someone.”

  “Would that be the handsome man by the window speaking to Terri Davies? Seems like they’re already acquainted.”

  Thirty-one

  The man walked into the incident room slowly.

  “Good morning, Mr. Conway. I’m Detective Chief Inspector Fowler. Detective Sergeant Peale. Thank you for staying over and coming in to see us.”

  “Good morning.” Rafe Conway sat down on the chair with obvious effort. His grave face showed that he knew he was not going to enjoy any of this. “I don’t know how I can help you, Chief Inspector. I have not been in contact recently with Sandra Peterson. But I couldn’t ever forget her...” His dark shadowed eyes were on her photograph when he said it. “So I attended the service even though it means I will have so much to explain after to my wife.” His laughter was hollow. “She’s going to enjoy this.”

  “I didn’t wish to put you in any difficulty at the funeral. We have questioned everyone else that knew Sandra personally. And your name has been mentioned.”

  “I was Sandra’s tutor. We had an affair which became important to me, to both of us. We ended it a year ago. We got in touch occasionally.”

  “So when did you last see Sandra Peterson, Mr. Conway?”

  He frowned. “Let me see now. It would be three months ago.”

  “And where did you meet?”

  “In London. At her apartment. And only after much persuasion for my part. I needed to see her.”

  “Why was that?”

  Rafe laughed. “Why do you think? I’m married, inspector. Sandra didn’t like us having an affair. It meant more than that to her. She gave me up. And refused to see me. I persuaded Terri to fix a meeting for me.”

  “You could have divorced your wife.”

  “I intended to ask for one. Sandra meant more to me than I realized, it’s too late for us now.”

  “Your wife is a rich woman, Mr. Conway?”

  He nodded. “Lauren is very rich and so is her father, and loses no time in reminding me of that. Sandra believed I would never divorce her.”

  Fowler studied him carefully. Rafe Conway was hiding something. Had it really been that long since he’d last seen Sandra? The mobile text had established he’d been in contact with her shortly before she was killed.

  There was the noticeable sheen of perspiration on his forehead as a hunted look took over in the deep set grey eyes. Like the other men before him, they were taking in the crowded information board, his gaze resting on Sandra’s picture. A look of pain flickered over his handsome features.

  “Mr. Conway, I don’t think you are telling us everything. We need your help and as much information as possible. If you wish Sandra’s killer to be found.”

  This evidently hit home. A groan escaped him. He closed his eyes.

  “Did you know she had been pregnant, Mr. Conway? Is it possible you were the father of her child?”

  “Not till recently,” he admitted reluctantly. “I texted her to meet me a number of times.”

  “She told you that you were the child’s father, Mr. Conway? How did you feel about it?”

  He cleared his throat. “I believed I was. And I was pleased. My wife cannot have children.”

  “Really. So when she told you, you were quick to tell Sandra that you were pleased about the baby?”

  “I wanted to see her. Sandra meant a great deal to me.”

  “Are you quite sure about that, Mr. Conway?” Peale intervened quickly. He’d made up his mind that this could be his motive for getting rid of Sandra.

  “Of course. I loved her.”

  Peale came in again quickly. “You have seen her recently? You were worried about your wife and what she would say if she found out. You didn’t want the child. You told Sandra that.”

  “That’s not true!” The effect on Rafe Conway was dramatic. He paled visibly and shook his head. “No! I didn’t. I begged her to keep it. I hoped she’d listened to me.” He was looking desperate now.

  “There were texts on her cell phone from you, Mr. Conway. Several in fact.”

  “That’s right. I wanted to see her. When I discovered she’d come here I drove over and stayed in Higher Milton. Stayed at the Maypole pub. Thought I’d best not risk staying here. Too much media reflection and she’d get known on TV.”

  “So would this be on the weekend?”

  He nodded, leant forward twisted his wedding ring round on his finger. “Yes that’s right. I felt it was my last chance. I had to persuade Sandra that we belonged together. I was prepared to leave my wife and to ask Sandra to marry me.”

  “So you were persistent.”

  “Of course, when I discovered she was having my child. I am old fashioned enough to know that their place was with me.”

  “After you divorced, Mrs. Conway.”

  “That’s right. Or before that. I wanted to be with her when the child was born.”

  “You could have ruined your career at the university.”

  “I didn’t care. I knew I couldn’t go on any longer with Lauren.”

  “So did you actually meet up with Sandra in the end?”

  “Yes. We had a meal together.”

  “When was that, sir?”

  “On Friday evening when I first arrived there. It was like we’d never been apart.” He shook his head. “She gave me fresh hope that we could make it together. She promised to see me again.”

  “But you didn’t meet again, did you, Mr. Conway? We have seen your text.”

  He groaned. “If only she had done as I asked. She wouldn’t tell me what it was. But said she had to do several things that were important to her.

  “And I was angry.” He looked up at her picture again. “I told her I was divorcing Lauren and that she thought more about Martin Robbins than me. I even accused her of having his child.”

  “How did she behave on hearing that?”

  “She slapped my face hard. Walked out on me. Left me in the restaurant feeling foolish.”

  “No, Mr. Conway, when Sandra told you she’d had a termination. You snapped, caught up with her on Sunday night and you killed her,” Peale said triumphantly. “You left her slaughtered in a field.”r />
  “A termination! God no!” he said, his voice was strangled and he stood up from the chair and leant over Fowler. “No, she wouldn’t do that! She couldn’t do that to me! She loved me. I loved her.”

  “Sit down please, Mr. Conway.”

  He sat down and leant back in the chair. His face was a mixture of desolation and disbelief as he stared back at the detectives.

  “I don’t believe this. She wouldn’t do this to me. She wouldn’t kill our child!”

  “I’m afraid she did, Mr. Conway. She must have felt she had little choice.”

  “No! She promised me she’d think about my proposal. I begged her to wait, to give me a chance to be with her and the child.”

  “But it was too late. She had already had the abortion before she came down to Lower Milton.”

  The devastated look on Conway’s face showed that it had been news to him. He shook his head. “And I’ve believed up till now that the killer killed my child, too. Could this have been their intention?”

  “I think you’re telling us porkies. You must have known she would do this,” Peale added sharply. “She didn’t speak to you again after your meeting on the Friday? Are you quite sure about that, Mr. Conway?”

  “I am. I never saw or spoke to her again after Friday night. She wouldn’t answer my texts.”

  “Was it your child? You are quite sure of that.” Peale was determined to run this through. “She was an attractive young woman, who could have her pick of the men she met. The father could have been someone else she met at work.”

  “Sandra never lied. The baby was mine. I loved her for that. I’d made up my mind. I wanted to take care of her.”

  “Didn’t you believe her when she threatened to abort the child, Mr. Conway?” Peale asked.

  “You aren’t listening to me. She didn’t tell me!”

  “We only have your word for that, Mr. Conway.”

  “So when you couldn’t find her on Sunday night. What did you do, Mr. Conway?” Fowler stepped in again. “Did you look for her?”

  He shook his head. “My car broke down and I fell asleep in it. There was the storm wreaking vengeance outside. Drank some whisky from my flask, woke up again about six o’clock. Got some help for the car at last. Went back to the pub, shaved and washed. It was after breakfast when the news broke. I was still trying to get in touch with her. So I never found out about her death, not immediately.”

  “So you drove back to Bristol?”

  He nodded. “I knew I couldn’t stay away for the funeral.” He gestured with his hands. “My marriage is washed up now. And I don’t care. I can’t stay with Lauren. Reminds me too much about what I lost with Sandra.”

  “You may go, Mr. Conway.” Fowler ignored Peale’s look of annoyance. “That’s all for now. Thank you.”

  He couldn’t help feeling sorry for the man. Rafe looked as if his world had caved in on him. But despite it all, he’d stood up to Peale’s barbed questioning. Fowler wondered perhaps if Rafe had only been more forceful with Sandra, he might have prevented what had happened to her. And more than likely Rafe felt that too.

  Thirty-two

  Bob Fowler sat at Viviene’s kitchen table.

  “So where are you now with the case, Bob?”

  “No bloody wiser, Viv. We can strike out the Bells, and Macey, probably. Could get him in again. Peale’s first choice was Martin Robbins. Sandra had a row with Alan Peterson on Friday. Then with Rafe in the evening, after she’d had a disagreement earlier with Macey, I think. She slapped Rafe’s face in the restaurant when he became too demanding. He didn’t know till today that she’d had the termination.”

  “Oh — how sad for him to find that out especially now. Maybe she was feeling bad herself. Perhaps regretted it when she saw him again. It’s no easy thing to do that, you know.”

  He spoke quietly now. “Tell me about it, Viv.”

  Startled, she stared back at him. “Sorry?”

  Fowler paused a moment then said, “Julie got rid of ours.”

  She gasped. “What! Didn’t she talk to you about it first?”

  “Not a bloody murmur.”

  “Bob...”

  “And I discovered it when it was much too late to stop her, Viv. Her girlfriend let it out accidentally over friendly drinks in the bar, said that she had accompanied Julie to the clinic the day before. Asked me if I’d minded. Minded! Like hell I bloody minded!”

  “What did you do?” she said quietly.

  “I smashed up some of her precious Doulton china ornaments in the apartment. That was after she said, when I questioned her, that she didn’t think I could be bothered to be a father. That I was much too wrapped up with my work to care.”

  “Sorry, Bob. I don’t know what to say.”

  What have I done? She bit her lip and put her hand across the table. As she made to withdraw it again, he clasped it and squeezed it tightly for a moment before he released it again.

  Thirty-three

  It was Monday morning, and Viviane was once again deep in thought as the library van passed the corn field. It had now been opened again to the public to view the crop circle. Two weeks after the discovery of Sandra’s body there, despite all traces of the crime scene being obliterated, it was still a target for photographs. The media cameras and journalists were still present in smaller numbers now but as inquisitive as ever. They probed the police force with constant questions daily, and the protesters on the Kilernee Hill were thinning out. No longer able to claim all the publicity, they would move on soon to the next place, the next protest...

  How long was it going to take Bob Fowler and his team to solve the crime? Could it even be solved though? Or would it be like the others two hundred years ago, and remain unsolved and shelved indefinitely?

  Viviane watched her readers making their usual visit to the library mobile. She couldn’t get it out of her head that it was like nothing had happened at all. It seemed like a stage scene, the village was showing its best face that day. Untroubled, the river shone in the morning sunlight, and Viviane wished that she could see Sandra Peterson come into view, riding her bike across the green and over the bridge.

  There were one or two extra book carrying readers this week. Ann Lambdon, the doctor’s wife, now her children had grown up and left the nest, was reading chick-lit. Babs Shipley from the Fox and Goose, mother of four boys, heavily pregnant with her fifth baby, which she hoped was a girl, accompanied her. Gary Brown said Ken Shipley wanted to get a football team. Last time Babs had taken out various books on giving birth in a birthing pool, Viviane remembered. And Babs was making sure these books were returned as the birth was imminent. Viviane hoped it wasn’t too imminent, she didn’t fancy Nick or herself acting as midwives.

  Viviane was looking across the village green. Her heart stopped for a moment and jolted. It looked like Rosemary Peterson on the other side of the village. It was Rosemary. She was parking the range rover and making her way over the bridge. Oh heavens, would she be brave enough to face up to the sympathetic interest she might get from the regular library van readers. She hoped that Mrs. Doughty would be tactful.

  Nick noticed where she was looking and said, touching her on the arm. “Isn’t that Sandra’s mother coming over here, Viv?”

  He’d seen her at the funeral Viviane realized. She warned him with a frowning look.

  “Shush, Nick. Please be careful. Don’t encourage Daisy Doughty to talk about the police investigations, or anything else to do with Sandra,” she cautioned him. “It’ll be difficult for Rosemary today.” She was immediately rewarded by a hurt look from Nick. “I think she must have worried about her books being overdue. She usually visits the Central. I suppose she doesn’t feel like going in there. Not yet. She could have left them though. Unless one of them had been reserved.”

  Nick nodded and got ready with the book trolley. “I promise I’ll be careful. Don’t suppose she wants any books today.”

  Viviane glanced around to see that all was
in order and positioned herself behind the counter as Mrs. Doughty’s grey head appeared round the opening.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Trent. Nice day.” She looked around the van with a pronounced sniff. “You need some windows open. Smells a bit fuggy in here, don’t it?”

  “Good morning, Mrs. Doughty. Open up a window, Nick, please? How are you today, Mrs. Doughty?”

  Daisy Doughty shook her head, dislodging some pins and curling strands of hair.

  “I’ve just taken a tablet, Mrs. Trent. Got a bad head this morning. A touch of migraine. I reckons it’s all the blessed noise they police cars are making. To-ing and fro-ing all day long. You’d better tell your good friend, that Chief Inspector Fowler, to get a move on, Mrs. Trent. An’ you can tell him I said so. It’s high time he charged someone so as we can all sleep safe in our beds at night.”

  Her smile was smug and all knowing and Viviane cursed inwardly.

  “Yerse, that blood thirsty killer will get away with it, could have flit, an’ got clear away by now. The police better buck their ideas up, Mrs. Trent. That inspector’s work here don’t stop with catching they parrot rustlers an’ the like.” She cackled with laughter.

  So she’d heard about that already, Viviane groaned, Nick would catch on to it too now. It was a wonder he hadn’t mentioned it already.

  “I always knew that the La-dee-dah Captain Bell was up to no good, Mrs. Trent. S’pose he did it for the lolly. He must have been earning a tidy sum of money from those little parrot chicks. Tefler will get away with it. His sort generally does. I reckon he knows some folks in high places, he does.

  “An’ that silly Robbins’ boy. He must have been earning a tidy sum from it while it lasted. He should have known better. He’s a good kid though perhaps he thought he was saving those birds for conservation like.” Her inquisitive washed out blue eyes searched Viviane’s face for her reaction to this as Viviane took her books from her.

  “He probably thought that, Mrs. Doughty.”

  Rosemary had arrived in time to pick up the general gist of the conversation. She was pale, but she had a smile for everyone there. “Good morning, Mrs. Trent. Thank you, Mrs. Doughty. Mrs. Shipley. I wanted to thank you all. Everyone has been so kind. It-it was a beautiful service, Mrs. Doughty. The vicar really helped to make it much easier for us. Everyone did, and we’re so grateful. Alan wishes me to thank you too.”