Corn Dolls

by K. T. Galloway

  “It’s not an easy job, you know.” He sounded defensive.

  “You should try mine!” Swift replied, not having any of it.

  Annie watched the exchange carefully, the creeping sensation that Peter Johnson was not being totally honest with them washing over her.

  “How much do you get paid in this difficult role?” Swift asked.

  “That’s none of your business, Detective.”

  “And this property,” Swift continued. “Where is it and what do you use yours for?”

  Peter Johnson swallowed the last of his espresso, the tiny cup partially hiding his face momentarily, giving him a second’s reprieve to think about what he was going to say.

  “If you think I’ve got a secret harem of women in my sacred church property, you’d be very much mistaken. Like I said, I’m not Richard Able.”

  Annie noticed his question avoidance. Seemingly, Swift did too.

  “That’s not what I asked.” He sounded like he’d had enough of Peter Johnson. “Or do I need to get a warrant to look around the property? Because with missing kids, I can have one in a few hours.”

  Annie had no idea if this was true, but by the looks of it, neither did Mr Johnson.

  “Look,” he said, his shoulders sagging somewhat. “I don’t use my church property for myself. I use it to help others. Any church work I do here. You can see for yourselves that it’s a beautiful place, why would I need a new build stuck in the middle of an estate when I have this?”

  Pompous and judgemental, Annie thought, putting her full cup down on the table with jittery hands.

  “Please use a coaster,” Peter Johnson said, not even looking in her direction.

  She lifted the cup back up and bit her tongue.

  Swift’s patience was clearly not just running thin but was practically see-through. “So, what do you use your church property for?”

  Mr Johnson cleared his throat and mirrored Swift’s stance.

  “I rent it out.”

  “And that’s allowed on the terms of the agreement to you is it?” Annie asked.

  Peter Johnson ignored her and directed his reply to Swift.

  “We’re allowed to use the properties to assist the church’s responsibilities in any way we see fit.”

  Swift and Annie let the silence circle the air. Peter Johnson was the one to fill it.

  “Look, these two men needed a place to live, so who was I to turn them down in the face of adversity?” He jutted his chin out in defence.

  “So you’re letting them stay there out of the goodness of your heart, are you?” Annie probed.

  “Well, yes,” Peter Johnson replied, looking Annie in the eye this time—she knew it meant he was lying.

  “The goodness of your heart and how much rent per month, Mr Johnson?” she added.

  “Look, what is this? I have nothing to do with those missing girls. So I make a little extra money on the side, sue me. It’s not like the church needs it, and I am doing those two men a favour.” He spat the words out with so much disgust that Annie couldn’t help but question why.

  “Who are they, Mr Johnson?” she asked. “And why did they need your help?”

  His flush was full-on red this time, and Swift moved in for the kill.

  “Do we need to get a warrant? What aren’t you telling us?”

  “No!” Mr Johnson shouted, before collecting himself enough to quieten down. “No, please. Look, the first guy came to me through the council. Said he needed a place to stay, to get clean. I thought that drugs were a vice before I joined Angels of the Water, but now I know they are the food of the devil. The second guy has only been there a few weeks. Needed a place to stay in an emergency. He found me through my first tenant.”

  “And you thought you’d offer the house as what, a rehab clinic?”

  Mr Johnson gave Swift a withering look.

  “I’d be charging a hell of a lot more than £600 a month each for a rehab clinic, I can tell you that for nothing.”

  “How generous,” Swift said.

  Annie couldn’t work out if Swift meant the information or the rent. Around here, £600 wouldn’t get you much above a bedsit, and it sounded like the church house was at least a whole house.

  “So, who are they?” Annie asked.

  “Pardon?” Johnson was really starting to get on her nerves now.

  “The names of the two men you have living in your property. Who are they?”

  Pete Johnson rubbed his face with his hand until his skin pinked. “The first guy is a Mr Grey Donovan.”

  “And the second, Mr Johnson,” Annie probed, a cold feeling spreading in her gut. “Who is living there with Mr Donovan?”

  Mr Johnson slumped down into the hard-looking leather chair. “It’s Mr Barclay. Tim Barclay.”

  Thirteen

  “Why the hell didn’t he tell us that in the first place?” Annie yelled over the sound of Swift’s tyres screeching on the tarmac. “If he really has nothing to do with the missing girls, why not just tell us outright? He’s shifty, that’s for sure.”

  “Yep,” Swift agreed, his full focus on the road as they sped along.

  “It’s too much of a coincidence. The corn dolls, the occult symbols, the connection with the church or the cult or whatever you want to call it. And now Tim being a lodger of Mr Johnson.”

  Swift took a sharp corner and Annie yelped, reaching for the handle above her head. They sped off down a lane so narrow that Annie was praying to a god she didn’t believe in that they wouldn’t meet another car travelling in the opposite direction.

  “Aren’t you supposed to have blues and twos for this kind of speed?” she cried as they approached cross-roads without much indication that they were going to slow down.

  “Not when there’s two children in danger,” Swift said, his voice steady. “Besides, I’ve done extra training, so don’t worry, you’re perfectly safe.”

  Whether he was being facetious or not, Annie couldn’t stop worrying as they sped over the junction and down another country lane. The grass was so overgrown on the banks at the side that she couldn’t see anything past the windows, and the front wasn’t much better. She contemplated closing her eyes but thought better of it as her stomach was already churning after that McDonald’s and two strong coffees.

  “Do me a favour,” Swift said as they bumped over a small ford. “Get on the phone to Tink and ask her to dig into Grey Donovan. I want his life turned upside down and his pockets shaken out. We need as much info as we can get.”

  “Guv,” Annie said, trying her best to fish out her phone without letting go of the handle.

  “Oi,” Swift said, giving her the side eye.

  Annie rang Tink and relayed the information they had gathered from Peter Johnson without squealing at the corners too many times.

  “I’ve got some interesting news too,” Tink said, and Annie held the phone tighter to her ear. “Angels of the Water is strictly a local church group. They don’t accept people outside of Norfolk, and to become a member of congregation you have to pay, which I think you already knew, but get this, you also have to be female.”

  “What!?” Annie said, repeating the new information to Swift. “But what about the leaders? Let me guess?”

  “Yep,” Tink replied. “All male.”

  “That’s a pretty shitty way to prey on people at the best of times.”

  “Yep,” Tink said again. “Right, I’ll let you know when I’ve found any info on Grey Donovan. Safe travels, don’t let Swift fool you into thinking he’s a good driver.”

  “Oi,” Swift bellowed across the car. “I heard that.”

  Annie dropped her phone in her lap. “What does that mean for these two lodgers then, if all the congregation is female? That’s so weird. It’s making me dislike Richard Able and Peter Johnson even more than I already did.”

  “Yeah,” Swift said, indicating right and turning into a new-build estate on the edge of a posh town that Annie knew had some great sh
ops for those with pay packets that didn’t come from the government. “I wonder if the church knows Peter is renting out his property to these men? We’re nearly there, Annie. I don’t know what we’re going to find here but I’m not going to be upset or annoyed if you want to wait in the car for backup.”

  Adrenaline was coursing through Annie’s veins faster than the thick espresso had done. “Not a chance, Swift, I’m coming in with you. Like you said, I’m part of your team now.”

  Swift momentarily took his eyes off the road and smiled at her. “Yes, you are!”

  Annie could hear her own heartbeat so loudly that she feared it was about to send morse code to the men in the house and warn them that two detectives were about to descend on their hideout. Well, one detective and one psychotherapist masquerading as a detective. Either way, she was about to give their cover up. Swift had told her to stand behind him, so she was peering over his shoulder at the front door of a beige looking new-build in the middle of a street of other beige looking new-builds. Swift hammered at the door with his fists.

  “Police!” he shouted. “Open up!”

  There was no sound from inside the house. No movement through the glass in the front door. Swift bashed again and Annie moved away from him to try her luck at the window. The curtains to the front of the house were all drawn, despite the sun and the fact it was midday. She put her hands up against the glass to shield the glare and tried to peek in. It was useless; the curtains had been drawn together so tightly that there were no gaps. Sighing, she stepped back to Swift.

  Swift tried the door handle. It didn’t move. He lifted the flap of the letterbox. “Hello,” he said through the gap. “It’s the police, can you open up, please?”

  As Swift moved back, Annie could just about make out an entrance hall through the gloom. But there was something else… an overwhelming stench coming through the letterbox.

  “Can you smell that?” Annie whispered.

  Swift nodded and stood back from the house, looking to either side and up to the first-floor windows. Annie knew he was looking for a way in, but the house was giving up none of its secrets.

  “Excuse me?” A voice shouted over the fence.

  Annie turned to see a woman with hair set so firmly it would probably stand up to a hurricane. She followed Swift as he trod down the weeds on the small patch of front garden to get to the neighbour.

  “Are you the police?” the woman asked, and Annie heard Swift sigh.

  “Yes we are,” she replied, before Swift got there first and pissed the woman off. She looked like Mrs Bucket off the television, which made Annie’s lips twitch at the corners. “Can you tell us when you last saw your neighbours?”

  The woman craned her neck to see past Annie and Swift to the house beyond. Not that she’d see much if she managed.

  “They’re a quiet pair,” she said, when she realised there was nothing to see. “Keep themselves to themselves. I did wonder, when the newer man moved in, if that would mean parties and the like. But so far there’s been nary a peep. Except…”

  She stopped talking, almost as though she was suddenly aware that it was the police she was talking to.

  Swift stepped closer to the fence that separated them.

  “Except what, Mrs…?” he asked, his face and voice neutral.

  “Ms, I’m divorced. Ms Parker,” she said, directing that line at Swift. “Except, oh you’ll think I’m being silly.”

  “Of course we won’t, Ms Parker,” Swift said, smiling. Annie gave him credit where it was due. He knew when to turn on the charm. “Now, what were you were going to say? They were quiet except…”

  Ms Parker shifted her weight and leant on the fence, conspiratorially.

  “A few nights ago, I thought I heard crying.”

  Annie’s skin started to crawl up her scalp and over her head. She saw a shift in Swift too.

  “Crying?” he probed, his voice still calm.

  “Yes,” Ms Parker added, looking like she was enjoying this now. “It was weird, two grown men in there and the crying sounded like a woman, or… I don’t know, possibly a child. It was keening, you know? But no one other than the two men went in or out.”

  She looked up from Swift to the sky as though it could tell her a story.

  “Actually,” she continued. “Truth be told, I wondered if they were, you know, gay.” She whispered the word as though it was a secret that didn’t warrant sharing. “Are they in trouble?”

  Swift pushed himself back from the fence, nodding at Annie to follow him.

  “Thanks for your time, Ms Parker, you’ve been very helpful,” he called over his shoulder as he walked back towards the house.

  Annie could tell he was trying not to give away the urgency to get into the place, but his shoulders were taut, and his hands were balled into fists. Instead of hammering at the front door, Swift jumped the gate to the side passage, round to the back garden. Annie followed, glad she was wearing trainers. The back garden was as overgrown as the front and the grass came up to her knees, ripe with nettles.

  The pair stood looking at the back of the house together. Its blank face impenetrable through closed curtains.

  “Do you think they’re in there?” Annie asked, her throat tight, her chest hammering.

  “I don’t know,” Swift admitted. “But we need to get in there. Backup is too far away. Tell me, O’Malley. How do you feel about a little breaking and entering?”

  “I’m all for it if it means saving some lives.”

  They were both over by the patio doors before Annie had finished her sentence. She looked around for a large rock, or a piece of garden furniture they could use to smash the double glazing. She’d heard rumour that hitting new windows and doors in the corner would shatter the glass, and she hoped fervently that it wasn’t just a rumour.

  Swift spotted an old metal garden chair, upturned, hidden in the weeds. It could have been white, in its prime. Now it was a twisted corpse of rusty orange. He pulled his sleeves over his hands and picked it up.

  Annie was about to move out of his way when she tugged the door handle just in case. To her surprise, the patio doors swung towards her, bringing with them a sweet, sickly stench she knew too well. She staggered backwards and Swift dropped the chair and was by her elbow in a second.

  “Woah,” he said, giving her a much-needed prop. “Everything alright?”

  Annie nodded. “Yeah. Sorry. That smell…it just gets right in your pores.”

  Swift’s face creased in disgust as he caught the whiff of sweat and faeces.

  “Are you coming in?” he asked, his hand still holding her elbow. Annie pulled her T-shirt up over her mouth and nodded again.

  They stepped into a dark, dank room that may in better circumstances have been a dining room. A table took up most of the space, its surface littered with blackened tin foil, straps of elastic, empty plastic bottles, dirty cups with layers of mould growing in them, and plates of food gone sour. The stench was chronic, like a cancer filling the room. Annie gagged.

  “So much for rehab,” Swift said, his voice muffled through his jumper. “This way.”

  They exited the room into a small hallway. Annie could see a filthy galley kitchen next to the dining room and a door opposite the stairs was shut.

  “Hello!” Swift yelled the best he could through his makeshift mask. “It’s the police. If there is anyone in the house, you need to make yourselves known.”

  They both stopped; Annie held her breath. But the house felt empty. Swift pulled a blue latex glove from his back pocket and over one hand, then turned the doorknob to the front room. It was like a different house. The carpet was still cream, two sofas were directed at the huge television, even the coffee table was free of stains. A single cup stood steaming in the middle.

  Annie walked past Swift, looking down into the cup, and sniffing strong, good quality coffee. She could feel the heat of the drink on her face. As she straightened up, her stomach clenched in fear. Swift was
staring at her, his latex-clad finger held to his lips. Shhh.

  Annie froze. What?

  Swift threw his eyes to the ceiling. A moment later, Annie heard a muffled thump. The pair ran to the stairs, and Swift threw himself up them two at a time, Annie not far behind him. Three closed doors faced them. Swift bashed open the first door he came to, an empty bathroom that was the hub of the stench trickling down to the rest of the house. The next door gave way to an immaculate bedroom, also empty except for a double divan bed. Annie’s hand was trembling as she grabbed the handle of the last door and threw it open. Despite the dark enveloping the room, and the rotten meat stench permeating the air, Annie and Swift marched in, scanning from left to right. As her eyes became accustomed to the dimness, Annie could make out a figure, curled up in the corner, below the window. The small strip of light from under the closed curtains cut through the figure like a sparkler. Annie didn’t dare breathe.

  “Hello,” Swift said, taking a step towards the motionless figure. He reached out a gloved hand and bent forwards, fingers ready to find a pulse if necessary. “It’s the police. Do you need assistance?”

  As he reached the body, it rolled onto its side, and Annie felt bile fill her throat. The emaciated face of Tim Barclay stared at her through glassy eyes. Then he opened his mouth and let out a blood-chilling wail.

  Fourteen

  Friday

  The knock at her office door jolted Annie awake. Unsure of what had rudely disturbed her, she peeled her eyes open, feeling as though she’d been hit by a bus that had then reversed back over her for good measure. Her head was thick with sleep, her mouth tasted like the rotten stench that had emanated throughout the house they’d broken into yesterday. That house. She took a swig from her water bottle and flipped over onto her back. It was as though she was waking after a night out clubbing. Back when she’d had a life and friends, and time and money to waste on £3 bottles of Smirnoff Ice or Blue WKD. The hangovers the next day had gradually gotten so bad that Annie had pretty much stopped drinking anything that was filled with artificial colours and flavours. Wine never left her feeling like this. But then again, alcohol hadn’t done it at all this time.