Corn Dolls

by K. T. Galloway

  Page snorted loudly.

  “Yeah, I know. But apart from their set-up being totally middle ages, there’s nothing to suggest that this would make them likely to abduct two young females. My work on this is still ongoing though.”

  “O’Malley?” Swift nodded at her.

  Annie’s stomach shrank at the thought of speaking in front of the team. But she wasn’t going to let a little imposter syndrome and borderline glossophobia beat her.

  “The symbols we found in Orla’s bedroom, the trinity knot and the encircled five star,” Annie said, half up out of her seat, not knowing if she should stand at the front like everyone else. “I’ve just been doing some more research on what they mean. They’re the symbols of an all-powerful being and the devil, respectively. They’re originally pagan. What affiliation are The Angels, if any? Are they similar in beliefs; any signs of paganism or the occult? Are they a church with new-age beliefs? Or is that just a cover-up for their sexist misogyny?”

  Tink smiled at Annie and she felt encouraged.

  “I looked at all their paperwork,” Tink said. “Flyers, notepads, stationery etc, and there were no symbols anywhere on them. Except the Angels of the Water logo.” Tink pointed to a printout tacked to the noticeboard depicting the logo that Annie recognised from the flyer she’d found in Maggie Finch’s house.

  It had an ink outline, teal blue on white, with three singular wavy lines depicting the sea rolling along the bottom. The naked, busty outline of a woman rose from the water, her arms raised to the heavens, wings spreading out to the edges of the paper. The wings, alone, were coloured in, the same teal as the line drawing. It certainly made an impact.

  “Okay, thanks Tink,” Annie said, dropping back into her seat. “There’s something linking the church and the two girls, I can feel it.”

  Swift nodded slowly. “I think you’re right. What aren’t we seeing?” He looked at the board and the ever-increasing papers tacked to the blue fabric.

  “Apart from what I told you yesterday,” Tink added. “There’s no new stuff on Grey Donovan yet. There’s been no sightings and he’s not given himself up. We’re waiting on forensics from Barclay’s clothes.”

  “Get them to hurry it up,” Swift said, rubbing his face in his hands before turning to the rest of the room. “Thanks guys. Right Annie!”

  His barking her name made Annie jump.

  “Yes, Guv?”

  “Do you want to tell the guys what we found yesterday?”

  Annie nodded and stood back up again. Upright this time, with gusto.

  “As you know, Swift and I went to pay a visit to the North Norfolk church leader Peter Johnson,” she began. She talked the team through the interview and the revelation about Tim Barclay that Johnson had hit them with right at the end. She then described the house owned by the church and what they’d found inside. The incongruous rooms, the smell of decay and faeces, the drugs, the half dead father of Orla Finch. But no sign of the missing girls.

  As Annie was coming to the end of her story, the phone rang, shrill across the now quiet room. Tink slunk away to pick it up and eyes returned to Annie.

  “And that,” she finished. “Is pretty much it.”

  Page gave a wince. “Can we bring Johnson in on anything, if he called Grey Donovan to warn him you were on the way?”

  Annie looked to Swift for the answer to that one.

  “Neither Donovan nor Johnson have technically done anything illegal. So no.”

  “Obstruction?” Page asked.

  “Possibly,” Swift conceded, with a shrug. “Maybe possession if he knew about the drugs?”

  “Why else would he call to warn Donovan?” Annie asked.

  “That,” Swift said pointedly. “Is the million-dollar question. Was it just because of the drugs, or was there something else? Donovan didn’t exactly take his time to clear the drugs away. Which makes me think it’s the latter.”

  “Let’s get Johnson in on obstruction, then. And get his phone records checked. He will probably cry for a solicitor, but we’ll make him stew for a bit first. Page, get a call out to patrol to go and bring him in. Annie, you and I are going to find out the hierarchy of this bloody church and head right to the top.”

  “No need to radio patrol, Guv,” Tink shouted from across the room, slamming the phone down. “It’s Peter Johnson. He’s waiting for you in reception.”

  Sixteen

  Peter Johnson’s swagger had deserted him somewhere between the North Norfolk coast and the city police station. He looked a shell of the man Annie had faced up to yesterday. His suit jacket dwarfed him and his trainers were incongruous with the rest of his outfit. Even his stubble looked unruly. Annie eyed him through the glass doors as he sat with his head in his hands on one of the plastic seats in reception.

  Swift had told her to go and bring him through. He thought that a little bit of antagonism would wind him up enough to spill his secrets in anger. And they could both tell from their last meeting that Peter Johnson hated women, especially women in power.

  Annie straightened her jumper and ran her fingers through her hair to try and give it a bit of life. It felt as flat as she did. Who knew hair could be exhausted? Throwing her shoulders back she slid the doors open and strode across the reception.

  “Mr Johnson?” she said, her voice booming. “Come with me, please.”

  Peter Johnson looked up at her, the dark circles beneath his eyes more prominent up close. He dragged himself to his feet; seemingly he’d shrunk a few inches since yesterday too. She wondered what was pulling him down as she led him through the sliding doors with a flick of Swift’s pass on the keypad.

  “Wait here, please,” she said, opening the door to an interview room. “Can I get you a tea or a coffee?”

  “Coffee please, black, no sugar.” He took the plastic chair at the table, his body slouching into the curves.

  Annie remembered the coffee machine and the espresso Peter Johnson had offered them and made a note to get his coffee from the vending machine.

  “What can you tell us about Grey Donovan?” Swift asked, his voice travelling across the interview room as he shut the door and took a seat opposite Peter Johnson.

  Annie took the seat next to Swift and passed a watery black coffee in a thin plastic cup over the table. Peter Johnson’s face dropped when he saw it but, to his credit, he kept his mouth shut and took it without complaint.

  “I knew he was still doing drugs,” Johnson said, collapsing. His head fell forwards onto his hands, propped up by elbows that looked too shaky to support them. “But I didn’t know he had so much gear on him in my house. Honest.”

  “You’re looking at a pretty harsh sentence if you’re found guilty of possession with intent to sell, Johnson,” Swift said, and Johnson’s eyes widened in horror.

  “I came here today of my own accord. I’m not under arrest, am I?” he whimpered. “I’d lose my job and my house, and my church leadership. I honestly had no idea. I thought he was just doing the odd spiff or whatever.”

  “Spliff?” Annie corrected. “You thought it was just weed he was using?”

  “Spiff, spliff, whatever,” Johnson said, shaking his head so much that Annie thought he’d give himself whiplash. “I knew he used to use hard drugs, but they said he’d stopped that. That he just smoked now. I thought they meant cigarettes. I don’t know. I have never even touched the stuff. He doesn’t come across like someone who uses all the time. He goes out, he has a life. I wish I’d never rented him the place, my other tenants have all been great.”

  “Did the church normally find your tenants?” Annie asked, picking up on what Johnson had just said. “Or do you do it yourself?”

  Johnson wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

  “Myself, normally?” he said, his eyes now darting between Annie and Swift. “But sometimes we’re asked by the council, as they have a duty of care to help house people in private accommodation when they can’t provide social housing. But the or
der to house Grey came from right at the top. I couldn’t say no. But he never told me he was dealing to Tim Barclay, or what a state Mr Barclay was in. Is he going to be okay?”

  “Why did you warn Grey Donovan we were on the way to the house?” Swift asked, ignoring the question. “What else did he have there that you needed him to get rid of? Why did he leave and not take anything incriminating with him? Or maybe he did take something with him. Two things. We’re investigating the abduction of two four-year old girls here, Mr Johnson. I suggest you give us some answers.”

  “Surely you don’t think I had anything to do with that?” Johnson sat up in his chair now, his face like a rabbit cornered by a whippet. “This is drugs. Just drugs. Nothing else. I couldn’t take young girls away from their families. Why would I? What would I want with two young girls? Please? You have to believe me. I didn’t know this was going to happen. I thought… I just. Please? This has nothing to do with those girls.”

  “Tim Barclay is the dad of Orla Finch, one of the missing girls. Don’t you watch the news?”

  The whites of Peter Johnson’s eyes were bulging in their sockets. “What? No. No. I had been told that the police were looking for Tim, but I had no idea why.”

  “Who told you that?” Swift barked.

  “Donovan,” Johnson sobbed. “He told me they’d lay low for a bit. I thought it was the drugs. Nothing else. Oh bloody hell. What should I do?”

  Annie was almost starting to feel sorry for Peter Johnson. Almost.

  “Tell us why you called Grey Donovan to give him the heads up that we were on our way,” she said.

  Tears ran down Johnson’s face and he made a futile attempt to wipe them away with his jacket sleeve. But it just spread them further.

  “I thought he needed to move Tim out of the house for a bit. Even though I’d told you he was there. If you couldn’t find him immediately, there was a chance he could get rid of some of the drugs before you did find him. I thought I was helping him. Helping them both. I need the income from the house. And the church told me I needed to look out for him”

  “Thanks for coming in today, Mr Johnson,” Swift said, standing abruptly. “We’ll be in touch if we need any more information. And don’t leave the country, will you?”

  Annie and Swift left the interview room. Swift barked orders at the PC manning the door to show Mr Johnson out of the station.

  “Grab your coat, Annie,” he said. “We’re going to find the head of this bloody church and work out what’s actually going on.”

  Seemingly, the funds for the Angels of the Waters didn’t trickle down to its followers, rather it was shoved upwards in vast quantities. The house of Amadeus Hyde, the registered company director of the church, was at the end of a driveway longer than Annie’s entire street. It circled around in front of the building, enclosing a fountain that trickled with fresh, clear water. The building itself looked like it had been plucked from the National Trust brochure. Annie yanked the bell pull and they stood back as the ringing sounded out past the thick wooden door and the gothic Victorian red brick.

  “I wondered when you’d get here.” Amadeus was a small man who reminded Annie of a mouse. He pulled the door back to reveal marble floors so clean they dazzled. “Please remove your shoes and use the hand gel supplied.”

  Annie looked around. There was no furniture in the echoey hallway. Just glistening bannisters and polished doors, and the abrasive smell of bleach. Amadeus wore a smoking jacket that made him look like Hugh Hefner and white cotton gloves that made him look like he belonged on a psychiatric ward. He stood right back, not getting within three feet of either Annie or Swift as they slipped out of their shoes, or kicked them off in Swift’s case, and pumped the sticky gel onto their hands. The strong smell made Annie wince. Amadeus led them through to a room straight off the hallway, much to Annie’s dismay — she had been hoping for more of a tour. The room was as sparse as the hallway had been. Three white sofas were placed around a white rug, and a small side table held yet more hand gel. The hairs on Annie’s neck were already standing to attention.

  “Please take a seat.” Amadeus stayed standing, carefully inspecting each sofa first but obviously finding something untoward that stopped him sitting down himself. “Now officers, tell me how I can help.”

  His syrupy voice sent chills down Annie’s back. She glanced sideways at Swift, who also seemed to be out of his depth. A look she’d not seen on him before.

  “Can you tell us what you know about Peter Johnson?” she asked, feeling okay about making the first move.

  “He’s been an Angel leader since our conception. Coming up to ten years ago now. We have a large celebration planned with our congregation this weekend.”

  He spoke in clipped sentences that made Annie feel seasick.

  “And did you know that Peter Johnson was renting his house out to a drug dealer?” Swift asked, still standing, his hand rubbing confrontationally on the back of one of the sofas.

  “Do you have any proof that the man living there was dealing the drugs?” Amadeus asked, unperturbed.

  “Why else have thousands of pounds worth of gear if you’re not going to flog it?”

  “Why indeed,” Amadeus answered. “But that in itself? Not proof. There is nothing. Nothing to tie the church to this. Our leaders are individuals. Perfectly capable of their own actions.”

  “Why did you want Grey housed in Peter Johnson’s house?” Swift continued.

  “Would you not want to help a young man in need?”

  “What can you tell us about Richard Able?” Annie asked, when Amadeus didn’t get a reply to his question.

  A shiver ran through Amadeus’s whole body at the mention of the man’s name.

  “Mr Able is…” Amadeus started, wiping an invisible speck of dust from his immaculate shoulder. “Somewhat unorthodox.”

  Pot and kettle, thought Annie. The height of Swift’s eyebrows indicated that he shared her thought.

  “In what way?” she asked.

  “The way he lives,” Amadeus answered.

  “Not in the way he conducts his church business?” Swift interrupted.

  “He is free to tend to his congregation the best way he sees fit.” Amadeus said, his voice level. “Like I just said. Our leaders are their own person.”

  “And what can you tell us about Orla Finch or Jodie Carter?” Swift asked, running his hands along the back of the sofa, Amadeus’s eyes following the movement with a rising panic.

  “I’m sorry, who?” he asked, regaining his composure.

  “The missing girls,” Annie replied, taking a step towards Amadeus. “Surely you’ve seen the news? One of the girls lives near Richard Able, the other happens to live near Peter Johnson.”

  “Coincidence, I’m sure.” Amadeus seemed non-plussed at the mention of the missing girls. But he seemed nonplussed at most of the conversation. The only thing getting the slightest change in emotion was the noise of Swift’s hand as it glided across the back of the white material.

  “We have reason to believe that the church is somehow connected to the abductions, and we will do everything in our power to find those girls,” Swift said, wiping his face with his hand before putting it back on the sofa. “Even if that means coming back here with a warrant to search these premises thoroughly. And we’re not tidy about it.”

  Swift had had enough, he moved towards the door. Annie started to follow him but the sound of Amadeus laughing had her rooted to the spot. The cold, calculated gurgles chilled her right through.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, her brow furrowed, her heart pounding. “Is there something funny about two abducted toddlers?”

  Amadeus finished laughing before he spoke. The very act a show of how much power he felt he held.

  “You have me wrong,” he said, his dead eyes burrowing into Annie’s. “I’m not laughing at the girls. I’m laughing at your colleague’s arrogance. I’ll see you out.”

  “We’ll see ourselves out,” Annie
said, following Swift out the door and slipping her shoes on as quickly as she could.

  Something was very wrong in this house. Annie needed some fresh air and she desperately wanted to go home and have a nap. She was feeling totally exhausted as she dragged the front door towards her and stepped into the heat of the sun.

  Swift was right behind her, his phone beeping in his hand. He shook his head and took some deep breaths before glancing down at the screen.

  “Tim Barclay is awake,” he said, looking up at Annie, and she shelved the idea of rest for another day.

  Seventeen

  Annie crept through the door of Tim’s room. The sounds of the machines littering the place were loud and incessant, Annie had no idea how he could sleep through the beeps and whirs. But sleep he did. The charge nurse had given Swift and Annie the run-down of how Tim had been awake for a couple of hours earlier, but his demeanour had been withdrawn and he’d barely spoken to anyone. As he’d already fallen back to sleep by the time they got there, Annie had offered to wait for him to wake again. Swift had gone to clear the bleach out of his nostrils with police station coffee and find out how far along forensics were with the clothes and drugs from the house of horror.

  Lines of painkillers, antibiotics, and fluids ran from the three bags above Tim’s bed to the cannula in the back of his wrist. Wrapped up in his standard issue, NHS blue waffle blanket, Tim looked a lot older than his twenty-five years. Annie pulled over a chair and sank into the wipeable cushions. She had started to nod off when Tim’s voice woke her from her daydream.

  “Miss O’Malley?” he croaked, shuffling upright onto his elbows.

  His face was gaunt; his cheeks caved and his teeth prominent. Annie tried not to stare. He looked like he was still on the brink of starvation. Bandages hid the track marks up his arms, but nothing could hide the fear in his eyes.

  “Wait a minute,” Annie said, hunting for the remote for the bed and lifting its head so Tim could take the weight off arms that looked like they might snap at any second. “There, is that better?”