Shepherd's Cross

by Mark White

  As he walked back to the table, King grinned at the thought of Sergeant Jennings discovering the two mutilated bodies in their cell. That will serve the bastard right for poking his nose into other people’s business. Last night, he had accompanied Blackmoor to the village, where they had indulged themselves in some light-hearted entertainment at the church. How they had laughed at the pitiful sight of the priest on his knees in the snow, begging for his God’s intervention. They should have murdered him then and there, King had said, but once again, Blackmoor had instructed him to be patient. ‘The priest carries the weakening faith of the flock’, he had told him. ‘It is not yet time to relieve him of that burden’.

  They had approached the Police Station as night drifted into day, relishing the task that lay ahead of them. Unfortunately for King, he had no other choice but to appreciate the unfolding events from the side-lines: he didn’t yet have the skill to have been able to follow his friend into the basement. The cries and screams of the boys as Blackmoor teased them were like music to his ears. If only the sacrificial lambs had realised the contribution that their deaths would make to the greater cause; perhaps then they wouldn’t have been so vocal in their opposition to Blackmoor’s presence. Naturally, the halfwit Policeman hadn’t believed the boys – why would he? The narrow-minded fool; a shepherd as cowardly as the sheep he endeavours to protect.

  As they finished breakfast and sat back to enjoy their coffee, King was barely able to conceal his happiness at the memorable night that had passed. It had been an unquestionable success in every regard; exactly as they had planned it. Nevertheless, the blood of two young men would not be sufficient. There would need to be others. And soon.

  Chapter 6

  11.00am: Sergeant Jennings cursed at his Land Rover’s inability to climb the final hill that led to the entrance of Moorland Farm. He’d been fortunate to have made it this far, requiring the assistance of his heavy-duty snow chains to navigate the treacherous, abandoned roads. He pulled over and switched off the engine, hoping that the journey back to the village would not be as precarious.

  He stared out of the window at the short, steep hill that rose before him, contemplating the devastating news that he would shortly be delivering. Everyone who knew of Mick Carter was aware of his reputation as a bad-tempered bigot, but that didn’t prevent Jennings from feeling sorry for him. No father deserved his children to die like that; even if the father in question had spent considerable time laying into them when they were alive. Being a messenger of doom was one of the many parts of Jennings’s job that he could do without, especially when it involved the sudden, unexpected loss of a loved one. He could never tell how they would take it; everyone reacted differently. He just hoped that Carter wouldn’t become violent: he’d had to endure more than his fair share of trouble for one day without needing to defend himself against a grieving father.

  And so it was, with a heavy heart, that he climbed out of the car and began walking towards Moorland Farm, his boots sinking into the snow, impeding his rate of progress as he stumbled his way awkwardly up the bank.

  The dark grey sky and withered, skeletal trees cast a sombre atmosphere as he approached the cattle grid that marked the entrance to the farm. A single track, bordered by a hedge on one side and a broken old fence on the other, stretched the two hundred yards or so to the dilapidated buildings. Through squinted eyes, Jennings thought he could detect the vague outline of a man walking around the side of the house, only to quickly disappear behind it. He couldn’t be entirely sure - the falling snow blurred his vision - but the faint sound of a door banging shut in the distance supported his hunch that someone was home.

  The walk up to the house was lonely and daunting, but there was no escaping the conversation that lay ahead. As he churned the words he intended to use over in his mind for the final time, the sound of a chainsaw erupting into life violently broke the silence and shook him from his thoughts. He took a deep breath and headed in the direction of the snarling growl of the saw. Taking his time, he skirted around the side of the building to the rear yard, where he was met by the sight of Mick Carter slicing into a length of tree trunk held firmly in place by a wooden A-frame; a torn pair of overalls masking his tough, sinewy physique.

  If Carter was at all surprised by the sudden appearance of Brian Jennings, he certainly didn’t show it. He didn’t even flinch: instead, he placed the chainsaw on the ground, its engine still running, and folded his arms; his innate disdain for authority evident on his face. ‘Sergeant Jennings,’ he said, without the slightest hint of a welcoming smile. ‘What brings you here?’

  Jennings straightened himself and looked Carter directly in the eyes. ‘I need to speak with you Mick – I’m afraid I have some news that you’re not going to like. It might be better if we go inside.’

  Mick shook his head to decline the invitation. ‘My boy Aidan’s asleep downstairs with the fever. Suffering awful bad with it - best we leave him be. What you’ve got to say to me, you can say it out here. And make it quick – I’ve got a pile of logs to get through this morning. Damn fire’s burning through them like they was shit paper. And before you go accusing me of something I’m not guilty of, I can swear on my sons’ lives that I haven’t left this farm in nigh on five days. Now, what have you come all this way to tell me?’

  On this occasion, Jennings was content to ignore the abruptness and ignorance of the man standing before him. ‘It’s your boys, Mick – Lee and Jed. I’ve come to see you about Lee and Jed.’

  Mick looked at him and shrugged his shoulders. ‘Nothing to do with me what they get up to. They’re old enough and dumb enough to fend for themselves. If they’ve been getting themselves into bother again, they can bloody well face the consequences.’

  Jennings steeled himself: ‘They’re dead, Mick. I’m so sorry, but they died in the early hours of this morning, while they were being held in the Station on suspicion of assault. Dr Barratt has been down and confirmed it.’

  As much as Jennings wanted to stare at the ground, to disappear into another world, where he could be alone and without obligation to fulfil the more unsavoury demands of his job, he knew he needed to stand firm and look this man in the eye. No matter what he thought of him, it was right to show him respect. Maybe he even owed it to him; after all, Mick’s sons had died on his watch.

  You could have cut the atmosphere between the two men with a knife. For what seemed like an eternity, they stood looking at each other, like two gunslingers on an empty street, each waiting for the other to make the first move, the rumbling of the idle chainsaw being the only sound in an otherwise silent film scene.

  It was Carter who drew first. ‘What did you say?’ he asked, closing his eyes and pursing his lips, cocking his head slightly to ensure he heard him correctly this time. ‘What did you say to me?’

  Jennings held his ground, knowing that to show fear could be dangerous. He needed to keep the situation under control, to remain calm. ‘I said they’re dead, Mick. Died this morning. They were under arrest for…’

  ‘How?’ asked Carter, his eyes still closed. He began to rock back and forth on his heels; Jennings couldn’t decide whether it was out of anger, shock, or both. ‘How did they die?’

  ‘There’ll be a full internal investigation, of course, but…’

  ‘How did they die?’

  ‘…but the evidence suggests that Lee fatally assaulted Jed before hanging himself from the cell bars. There was nothing I could have done to prevent it. I’m so sorry, Mick. I really am. We’ll know more when the investigation team get here, but that could take a while, what with the weather and the road conditions. Until then, they’re being kept at the Station. I can assure you that their bodies…that your sons…are being treated with the utmost privacy and dignity. Apart from Dr Barratt, PC Jones and myself, nobody knows anything about this. And I’ll make sure it stays that way, I promise you. At least until the investigation is complete and they can be moved somewhere more appropriate.’
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  ‘I want to see them, Jennings. I want to see my boys.’ Carter opened his eyes and looked straight at the officer, staring at him in a manner that suggested that he would be wise to accept his request.

  Jennings shook his head to indicate that he didn’t think it was a good idea. His mind couldn’t help but drift to the image inside the cell that he’d been met with earlier this morning: Jed’s pulverised head that had left him barely recognisable, and Lee; his bulging eyes straining to remain in their sockets, puffed up so big that they’d seemed ready to explode any moment, his leather belt tearing into his neck. There was no way that Jennings could let their father see them like that. ‘That wouldn’t be wise, Mick,’ he said. ‘If it’s all the same to you, I would sincerely advise you to wait a while. I don’t think it would do you any good to see them; not…not as they are now. Just give it a couple of days, please. We’ll have them…’

  ‘DAMN YOU, JENNINGS. I WANT TO SEE MY BOYS!’ The words echoed around the farm, as if they’d been screamed from the top of the barn. The volume and intensity of Carter’s demand took Jennings by such surprise that he was forced to take a defensive step backwards, almost falling over in the snow. As he struggled to compose himself, he saw Carter taking a step towards him, his fists tightly clenched by his sides, undiluted anger on his face. Jennings knew immediately that he had no other option than to attempt to appease his attacker: he did not have the strength or the ability to defend himself against someone as incensed as Carter; someone as motivated as he was by raw grief and rage. Besides, the man had a legal right to see his sons if he wanted to. Jennings would have preferred the boys to have first spent some time in the company of a skilled undertaker, who could have at least made them slightly more presentable. He recalled the words of Fred Leechmere, an undertaker in Newcastle, whose craftsmanship was often used by the Police for the more ‘grisly’ suicide and murder cases – ‘you can’t polish a turd,’ Fred had said, ‘but you can sprinkle a little glitter on it’. But whatever he thought best; it was not in Jennings’s power to deny Carter his wish to see his children.

  ‘Alright, alright!’ he shouted back, stretching out his arms and holding his palms up in an attempt to calm him down. ‘You can see them – this afternoon.’ Carter stopped in his tracks and silently urged Jennings to continue. ‘I just didn’t want you to see them as they are, Mick. I wanted you to see them as you remember them; as much as possible, anyway. But it’s your choice, I can’t stop you.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Three o’clock this afternoon. I’ll be there to meet you. Just you - I don’t think Aidan should see them yet. Jesus Christ, Mick; I honestly don’t think you should be seeing them yet. I really don’t.’

  Mick walked back to the chainsaw and bent down to pick it up. He looked at Jennings. ‘I couldn’t give a flying fuck what you think,’ he said, his words spoken slowly and clearly to emphasise his hatred for Jennings. ‘And when I come down to the Station this afternoon, I want to know exactly what happened last night. And what you did to prevent it from happening. And God help me, if you had any part to play in their deaths, I swear on my life that I’ll not rest until justice is done, do you hear me?’

  As Jennings turned to leave, he stopped and faced Carter for the last time. ‘I can’t pretend to understand how you must feel, Mick, and I can see why any man would react this way to such devastating news. But I didn’t have anything to do with the death of your boys. All I did was lock them up for the night for a serious assault on someone who didn’t deserve it. What they did, they did to themselves. I just wanted you to know that.’

  Mick Carter raised his chainsaw and thrust its blade threateningly towards him. ‘I’ll make my own mind up about that,’ he replied, moving a step closer towards Jennings. ‘Now get the fuck off my farm before I run you through.’

  Jennings backed away. In light of the news he’d just delivered, he was prepared to forgive Carter’s hostility towards him. Not that he had any choice in the matter – he sensed that the man would have quite happily cut him open without battering an eyelid.

  As he began making his way back along the track to the car, his mind was drawn once again to the indelible image of Jed and Lee. Maybe it was his fault; maybe their blood was on his hands, and if any retribution did come his way, maybe it would be nothing short of what he deserved.

  Chapter 7

  12.30pm: Cara Jones cut a sad and lonely figure as she made her way across the crowded village green, looking for all the world like she’d just been diagnosed with a terminal illness. Her thoughts were dominated by events at the Station; events that would have shocked even the most experienced Police officer, let alone a wet-behind-the-ears rookie like her. Up until that point, her fledgling career had moved along at a leisurely, predictable pace: she’d steadily expanded her portfolio of investigations, cautions and arrests; developing the necessary skills and experience that would enable her to eventually slot comfortably into a more demanding city posting. It was fair to say that she hadn’t exactly been thrown in at the deep end – a few hours earlier, she wouldn’t have believed Shepherd’s Cross to have even had a deep end - but what was so wrong with that? She was perfectly content with the shallow gradient of her learning curve; plodding her way forward under the capable and supportive supervision of Sergeant Jennings. Why force the pace?

  She was also worried about the effect that this would have on Jennings. She was aware that he’d been around the block a few times, that he hadn’t always been a friendly local Bobby patrolling a few peaceful villages in the remote countryside, but she also knew that he had a heart of gold. Something like this would hit him hard, and she would need to be there to support him and help him pull through it, just like he had supported her during the previous four months. She only wished that she hadn’t accepted his decision to go alone to Moorland Farm; she should never have allowed him to go up there by himself. What if Carter lived up to his hot-headed reputation? Jennings wasn’t getting any younger, and while she had confidence in her superior’s ability to handle almost anything that was thrown at him, there were no guarantees that he would be safe up there by himself. She just had to cross her fingers and have faith in his experience.

  And if that wasn’t enough to worry about, to top it all off she had a best friend who was seeing ghosts in her bathroom and hearing things that go bump in the night. Whatever the reason for her erratic behaviour, whether it was due to fatigue or cabin fever or maybe even sleepwalking, it was simply not like Bronwyn to act like that; she was far too level-headed and self-confident to go around behaving in such a way. She certainly wasn’t the type to seek attention - her good looks and warm heart ensured that there was no shortage of that in her life - nevertheless, her creepy claims only added to Cara’s growing sense of unease that all was not well in Shepherd’s Cross.

  Her concerns were abruptly kicked into touch by the impact of a well-aimed snowball smashing against the back of her head; ice-cold fragments sliding down her neck and under her shirt collar. The shock caused her to scream, but her voice was drowned out by over-excited children, relishing the opportunity to pelt each other with hardened snow in the name of fun: begrudgingly supervised by shivering parents and grandparents, who appeared more preoccupied with how soon they could return to the comfort of their warm homes than the extent to which their little darlings were enjoying themselves.

  She turned around to see who had dared to throw the snowball at her: intent on informing the guilty party that she was not in the mood for fun, and that the next throw would be their last. She was greeted by the sight of an apologetic Ben Price, his sheepish face and hands behind his back incriminating him beyond any doubt. Cara’s expression quickly changed from one of anger to one of undisguised happiness. If nothing else, it provided her with the chance to temporarily shift her thoughts away from darker, more serious matters.

  ‘Whoops!’ he said, his coy smile not managing to disguise his obvious pleasure at seeing her. ‘Sorry about that, Cara.
I thought you were someone else. Please accept my most humble apologies.’ He feigned a deferential bow as if addressing royalty.

  ‘Get up, you idiot!’ she replied, laughing as he straightened up and moved closer towards her. ‘You thought I was someone else? How many people do you see walking around here in a bright yellow jacket with POLICE stamped over the back?’

  ‘Ahh...the calculating mind of a high-flying inspector! I should have known you would be too smart for a lowly criminal like me.’

  ‘One - I’m not an inspector; and two – you don’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to tell by the look on your face that you’re up to mischief, Mr Price. I have a good mind to charge you for armed assault on an officer of the law.’

  ‘Well, maybe I wouldn’t mind being arrested by you.’ He blushed, conscious that he was flirting with her again; enjoying once more the natural chemistry that had passed between them the previous evening.

  Cara felt her cheeks reddening, wondering what she must have looked like to anyone watching her. In spite of everything else weighing her down, she couldn’t deny feeling flattered by his attention. He was certainly handsome - there was no escaping those penetrating blue eyes that bore straight into her, and the cheeky grin that was just the right side of sexy – but it was more than that. Most people she met never seemed to be able to see past the uniform, treating her as a Police officer first and a woman second. Which in most cases was exactly how it should be. But it was different with Ben – it was so refreshing to be with someone who was more interested in the person than the job.

  ‘You’re in luck,’ she said. ‘I’m not in the mood for arresting people today. To be honest with you, I could do with this weekend being over and done with.’