In the Name of the Father

by Adam Croft

  Helen’s face looked pained. ‘Honestly? I don’t know. It was in a supermarket somewhere. We didn’t speak. She didn’t see me. But I knew it was her straight away. My parents didn’t see me either. I managed to keep out of the way. I didn’t want any of them seeing me like... like that.’

  Even though Helen didn’t explain what she meant, Jack knew. She’d either been going through a dark patch, was high on prescription drugs or had been drunk. He knew his wife well enough to know that at least one of the three would be going on at any given time.

  Jack looked at his watch. ‘Look, I’ve got a couple more hours but I have to fly back this afternoon. I’ve got some bits I need to sort out. But I can come back over. We can get you well, get you home and start to work through this all together. Alright? You’ve got my support, and I’m sure you’ve got Emily’s support too.’

  Before he could say anything else, he was interrupted by the sound of his phone ringing. He’d switched it on half an hour or so earlier, when he’d popped outside for some fresh air. It had been off all night, and he realised it should probably be on in case work needed to get hold of him.

  ‘Culverhouse,’ he said, not looking at the display as he answered the call. He recognised the voice of Wendy Knight straight away, and listened as she told him exactly what he didn’t want to hear.

  35

  Ben Gallagher knew they needed more. He’d sent out another message to his brother. He hoped the drone had come over as planned the night before, to read the message he’d chalked on the rooftop herb garden. But even so, that call to arms wasn’t going to be enough. It would make Harry realise how serious and immediate the situation was. But convincing Harry had never been the aim. It was the police they needed to convince, and that was proving to be a whole lot more difficult.

  The trouble was, Ben knew what had been going on. He’d been feeding that information out through his brother, but they needed more than that. They needed proof. They needed evidence. And there was only one way they were ever going to be able to get that evidence: Ben had to get it himself.

  He was sure that Amy Kemp must still be inside the medical centre, whether dead or alive. His living quarters were closest to the medical centre. He knew he would’ve heard someone moving a body in or out of there. He couldn’t be certain, but he was pretty sure. Either way, there must be some sort of evidence there — something he could find which would help him to blow the whole place apart.

  His only worry was how he was going to do it. Creeping around in the dead of night would be one thing, but the farm was deathly dark at night. There was no way he’d be able to get in there without some sort of help in the form of light. Light that other people would be able to see. Light that Father Joseph’s henchmen would see. Any sort of noise at night would be spotted straightaway as suspicious, too. That only left one possibility: He had to go in during the day. And there was no better time than the present.

  He stood up and smoothed down his shirt with his hands. Taking a deep breath, he pushed open the door and squinted as the bright light of the day streamed in and hit him square in the face. He raised his hand to his forehead, blocking out the worst of it as his eyes adjusted, closed the door behind him and allowed himself to breathe calmly.

  The sound of his footsteps on the ground seemed louder and crunchier than usual, mixed with the deep thudding bass of the blood pulsing at his eardrums. Everything seemed far more vivid, far more real. His skin felt hypersensitive and he swore he could taste the inside of his mouth. The short walk to the medical centre seemed to take much longer than usual, too, as if time had slowed down. Everything seemed to be accentuated.

  When he finally got there, after what seemed like an age, he considered for the first time what he was actually going to do. He hadn’t thought that far ahead. On the face of it, there wasn’t much thinking ahead he could do: he had no idea what he should expect when he got inside. All he knew was that he needed to find some evidence of what had happened to Amy Kemp, but he had no idea what that evidence might be.

  He put out his hand and pushed at the front door. Worth a shot, he thought. To his disbelief, the door began to swing open, creaking on its hinges as it did so. He stood for a moment, half-expecting something dramatic to happen. When nothing did happen, he stepped inside. He gave his eyes a chance to adjust to the relative darkness inside, and closed the door behind him. He half-felt his way through the dark, stone corridor. At the end, on the right, was an opening into a large space that could — at a stretch — be called a room.

  He took a step into the room and followed the stream of light from the high latticed window as it lit up a square section of the stone floor. Just behind it, huddled against the wall, was Amy Kemp. She was alive — he could see that much from her chest heaving. But she didn’t look as though she was in a particularly bright condition.

  He walked over towards her, hoping that she might recognise him and realise she was safe. As he got there, Amy opened her eyes and looked him. The whites of her eyes were yellow and weak. She opened her mouth to speak but no sound came out.

  Ben leaned forward slightly to try and hear what she was saying. He could just about make out one or two words. It was only at the moment he realised those words were behind you that he felt the crushing blow connect with his skull.

  36

  Jack had always hated waiting around in airports. That was one of the reasons why he was one of those people who only turned up for their flight with half an hour to spare. Just enough time to get through security, have a quick piss and jump on the plane. This time, though, he’d got to Copenhagen Airport much earlier than necessary. It was as if just being at the airport would make the plane leave quicker. Following Wendy’s phone call, he wasn’t sure it could come quickly enough.

  He hadn’t given Hilltop Farm a second thought, save for the chat he’d had with the Chief Constable about it. He was convinced there was nothing untoward going on there. Sure, they were a bunch of freakish hippies and religious loons, but there was nothing illegal about that. Nothing he needed to get involved with. But on hearing about the other reports that had been made in the national papers, it was clear to him that something must be going on. After all, there could be no smoke without fire. And there was an awful fucking lot of smoke coming out of Hilltop Farm right about now.

  Wendy had let him know that they were onto the newspaper to get a list of names and addresses for the informants. They’d split up into teams to interview them, with Jack due to meet Frank Vine back at the station on his return. Together, they’d speak to one of the informants on the list and see what might come from that.

  He knew the pattern all too well. One person would make a report about something that seemed ludicrous, and no evidence would be found. But once that story got out, others would come forward and the allegations would have a lot more credibility. One snowflake can’t break a tree branch, but a build up of snowflakes makes an avalanche. He’d seen it happen many times. Policing in the UK had been rocked to the core in recent years. The claims about politicians, entertainers and celebrities abusing young children had seemed ludicrous at first. But when the real extent of the culture of abuse perpetuated by people like Jimmy Savile had come to light, it seemed incredible that it was ever covered up. Sometimes, the most preposterous and magnificent claims and theories were the ones that were right. And they were the ones that were least likely ever to be investigated, purely because of their presumed absurdity.

  He’d had all this — and more — on his mind as he waited for the almost two-hour flight home. On any other occasion, he would’ve bought a newspaper and read that to pass the time. But that wasn’t an option today. He’d find himself getting frustrated by reading about how inept they thought his force was. Either that or he’d end up allowing the newspaper articles to inform his judgement before he’d even got his teeth into the case. Neither option would be ideal.

  Instead, he sat in silence and gazed out of the window as the plane skipped ov
er the northern tip of Germany and soared over the North Sea. Lost in his thoughts, the flight didn’t seem to take as long as he expected. Before he knew it, he was tugging his bag out of the overhead locker and squeezing himself down the aisle to the front door of the plane.

  His thoughts turned to Emily as he queued at Passport Control. He’d have to try and make the interview with the informant as quick as he could. He’d promised Emily he’d be back late afternoon, early evening. And he knew he couldn’t break that promise. He’d broken enough in the past.

  Once he was through security, he followed the snaking corridor round towards the main terminal exit. He dodged the wheelie suitcases and slow-walking pensioners with their trolleys and got to the main arrivals hall. As he came through the archway, he clocked the waiting relatives and taxi drivers with surnames written on bits of card. Before he could register anything else, he was taken aback by the sound of a woman calling his name.

  ‘DCI Culverhouse, do you have a moment?’

  Just as he was about to answer, a man came up the other side of him with a microphone.

  ‘Can you comment on the allegations about potential murders and abuse at Hilltop Farm?’

  ‘Do you think it’s acceptable to go on holiday while you’re in charge of a major investigation?’ another voice asked as a flashbulb went off in front of his face.

  Before long, the voices all merged into one, building to a crescendo.

  ‘Were you on holiday?’

  ‘Would you say you fiddled while Rome burned?’

  ‘Who’s in charge of the investigation now?’

  Ducking and avoiding the journalists, photographers and interviewers, Jack side-stepped into the toilets. He shoved his hand into his pocket to find a twenty-pence piece for the barrier. Without looking behind him, he headed straight for the cubicle on the far end of the gents’. He pushed open the door and locked it behind him.

  He leaned back against the door and let his body slide down it. His chest heaved with silent sobs as he buried his head in his hands.

  37

  It had taken far too long for Wendy to convince the national newspaper to hand over their list of informants. They had many excuses, but she suspected the primary one was pure spite. Initially, they’d trotted out their usual ‘duty to protect our informants’ line. She’d rebutted that with her usual ‘illegal to knowingly hinder an active police investigation’ response. It was the usual merry dance, and one she’d seen many times in the past. When she’d finally convinced them they’d have to hand over the information, they’d pushed everything back to square one by pointing out that Wendy was a mere Detective Sergeant. They could only consider a request from a Senior Investigating Officer of at least Detective Inspector rank, they said. With Culverhouse AWOL, that had meant a call to Malcolm Pope.

  Malcolm Pope was a man universally despised within Mildenheath CID. Fortunately for them, he was based twenty-odd miles away at Milton House, the county’s police headquarters. He’d long been a thorn in the side of Jack Culverhouse, always pushing for the final amalgamation of Mildenheath CID into county HQ. Mildenheath had — so far — stemmed the tide, bucked the trend. But Malcolm Pope was more than keen to see Culverhouse’s unit brought under his wing, leaving him to rule over the county’s CID roost. Mildenheath CID’s success rate, the town’s serious crime rate and the ageing Chief Constable’s dislike of mergers, though, had enabled the status quo to remain. For now.

  Pope had, of course, taken a couple of hours to comb through all the information and consider Wendy’s request. She knew damn well that if one of his own Detective Sergeants had put a form on his desk and asked him to sign it, he would’ve done it blindfolded. But when the request came from someone at Mildenheath, there were games that could be played.

  It was four o’clock in the afternoon by the time Wendy had a list of three names and addresses. By then, the team had managed to formulate the questions they wanted to ask each of them. Wendy had decided that she and Ryan Mackenzie would visit one, Steve Wing and Debbie Weston another and Frank Vine was to wait for Culverhouse to return before the pair visited the third.

  The three informants were all people whose families were still living at Hilltop Farm. They had been keen to keep their anonymity in the newspaper article, and would likely be shocked when the police came knocking. For that reason, they’d decided not to call ahead and spook anyone, but to just turn up at their doors. When dealing with people who’d spent a lifetime being petrified of authority figures, it was best not to allow them the chance to disappear.

  Wendy and Ryan drove the sixty miles to the home of Sandra Kaporsky. Sandra was a woman in her fifties who’d been working as a missionary, or recruiter, for the church before deciding to abscond. The newspaper article had detailed how the missionaries were the only people who’d be allowed to enter and leave the farm almost of their own accord, as was necessitated by their role in recruiting new members and bringing them to live on the farm. Because of that, the recruiters tended to be the more hardline, dedicated members of the church. It wasn’t a role that was given to just anyone, but instead was handed to people who’d displayed their true devotion to the church. Wendy realised that would mean Sandra must have had furthest to fall in terms of losing her faith in the church, so she wanted to visit her personally.

  Sandra’s house was small and unassuming, a mid-terrace house nestled in a street of many other similar houses. Wendy supposed that Sandra wouldn’t have had much money on leaving the church, so it was pretty impressive that she had a roof over her head at all.

  A few seconds after they knocked on the door, it opened and a meek-looking woman answered it.

  ‘Sandra Kaporsky? I’m DS Wendy Knight and this is DC Ryan Mackenzie, from Mildenheath Police. We’re here because we think you might be able to help us with an investigation into Hilltop Farm.’ She noticed that Sandra still seemed a little unsure. ‘Here are our ID cards. Feel free to ring 101 and verify them first of all. We want to make sure you feel completely comfortable.’

  Sandra looked at the cards and shook her head before opening the door to let them in.

  They weren’t offered tea or coffee. To Wendy’s mind, Sandra seemed to be pretty shaken up and nervous. She wondered what the poor woman had been through in her life. To live in perpetual fear of a group of people must eat away at you over time.

  ‘First things first, Sandra. You aren’t in any trouble at all. We actually need your help. We’ve been looking into Hilltop Farm for quite some time now,’ she lied, ‘and we keep hitting brick walls. When we saw the newspaper article we realised there were people out there with information. Information that could maybe lead to arrests and even convictions.’ She left that hanging in the air for a few moments, not expecting Sandra to say much back, if anything.

  ‘I told the reporter everything,’ Sandra said, almost whispering, her voice quivering.

  ‘I know, but we need to get it for our records, I’m afraid. I know it’s not nice going over things again, but we need an official statement.’

  Sandra nodded ever so slightly.

  ‘Now, there are a few comments and allegations in the article that I’ll want to ask you about. But for now I think it’s probably best if you tell your story in your own words. We want you to feel comfortable and go at your own pace.’

  Sandra shuffled in her seat, swallowing hard before she began to speak. ‘I joined the church at fifteen. I didn’t do well at school. Nowadays they’d probably call it dyslexia or something, but back then you were just thick. My parents were so disappointed. They were both doctors. GPs. So I left home and joined the church. I think they were both too work-driven to even notice. The church gave me a home, a purpose. I gained confidence, got an identity. At least I thought I did. After a while I became a recruiter. Our job was to go out and find people who’d be willing to come and join the church. The way they told me everything seemed so normal, but now when I look back it was just wrong.’

  ‘How do y
ou mean?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘I mean things like the sorts of people we were meant to approach. We’re talking homeless people, runaway kids, people in a fragile mental state. It was framed that we would be helping these people and showing them that God gives everyone a second chance. But looking back now it’s obvious they were just vulnerable people. Put it this way: they didn’t get many successful businessmen or architects to join the church.’

  Wendy nodded at Ryan, indicating that she should feel free to ask a question.

  ‘And what was life on the farm like?’ Ryan asked. ‘From day to day, I mean.’

  Sandra’s eyes seemed to drift off to a faraway place. ‘Different,’ she said, eventually. ‘At first it seemed great. It was like The Good Life, you know? That TV series. It was all self-sufficiency, going back to our roots, just us and the community and God. All the confusion and extra layers of life were gone. It was simple. Satisfyingly simple.’

  ‘And did it stay like that?’ Ryan asked.

  Sandra shook her head and smiled. ‘No. Well, yes, it did, but that was the problem. It was missing so much. It was missing soul. And sometimes... Sometimes things happen that can strip the soul out of anything.’

  ‘What sort of things?’

  ‘Bad things. Sorry, do you mind if I take a moment?’ Sandra asked, her voice starting to crack.

  Wendy nodded and gestured that it was fine, and Sandra rose and walked through to the kitchen. Wendy and Ryan shared a look as they heard the noise of Sandra blowing her nose. There were a few moments of silence before Sandra came back into the room, sat down and took a deep breath.

  ‘Nice photo,’ Wendy said, gesturing to a picture on the mantelpiece. It showed Sandra, probably only a couple of years ago, and a large German Shepherd dog. They were standing on top of a rocky cliff-face, tufts of grass teasing up around her ankles.