He Made Me (Booker & Cash Book 2)

by Oliver Tidy

  ‘We’re here now. Let’s at least have a good look.’ The noise in the thick of the wood was approaching deafening, like the mouth of hell had opened up and the tormented souls of eons were howling in their haste to escape. She had to almost shout the words into my face to stop them being whipped away unheard.

  Another five minutes or so of fruitless searching and battling the elements and undergrowth and we came to a low wire fence. The wood ended abruptly. The short pasture of a sheep field characterised the other side. In my thin torch light the grass definitely looked greener.

  ‘What now?’ I said. There was an almighty crash behind us as some rotten tree succumbed to the gale and fell into other trees around it. I couldn’t see where it had happened but it sounded close. Too close for comfort. I had no intention of meeting my end out there, crushed to death in all that on a fool’s errand. I opened my mouth to share this with Jo but she beat me to it.

  ‘What’s that place?’

  In the almost total darkness I struggled to make out where she was pointing. When I did, I said, ‘St Rumwold’s. It’s a church.’

  ‘Do you think it’s normal the lights are on?’

  I didn’t. And as soon as I’d said so I knew what was coming. There was a stile set in the fence. We clambered over it and set off down the hill towards possible enlightenment. Literally, we were out of the woods. Figuratively speaking, I wasn’t so sure.

  ***

  17

  The geography of the area was not unknown to me. I loved St Rumwold’s. One of the most picturesque of the local churches, it sat on slightly elevated ground just off the Marsh proper. It was small, well cared for and in the summer a perfect place to dismount during a bike ride, sit in the sun on one of the graveyard benches and stare out over Romney Marsh. I’d never been around it in thick darkness, pouring rain and gale force winds. I preferred my version.

  We slipped and slid down the slope from the higher ground. At least I did in my ruined, waterlogged and mud-coated trainers. The water ran downhill too, as water always does. In the absence of light I went in one puddle up to my ankle. I was sorely pissed off by the time we got on level ground. I was also wet through and bloody cold with it. If Sigmund was hiding out in the church I was going to give the dick a piece of my mind.

  To get to the church we could either try to jump a normally narrow and vaultable watercourse, which had inconveniently doubled in width when compared with its usual self, or follow the trail alongside the Royal Military Canal, gain the lane and walk up terra firma to the churchyard gate. I couldn’t get any wetter but apparently Jo could. We went by way of the road. I looked up at the church to see a dim light wavering at the windows.

  As we approached the main door at the northern side of the church through the graveyard I realised that the light inside was not created by electricity but by candles. Great, I thought. As if the whole expedition didn’t have enough spooky effects about it already.

  Jo was close behind me. I turned the big cold metal ring of a handle and the main outer door, being unlocked, opened into the covered porch. The door banged back on the wall with a resounding thud, making so much noise that anyone inside should have heard our entry. There was no light in the vestibule except that provided by our torches. I exchanged a look with Jo. Her features were hollowed out and made ghostly and were running in water. Our distorted shadows crept along the walls. I realised I was in an isolated rural church in a graveyard on a stormy night with only a torch. My bowels started making themselves known to me.

  I turned the magnificent old wrought-iron handle of the inner door and in true Hammer Horror style the ancient entrance creaked its way open on protesting hinges. The sound ricocheted around the interior. There was no sign of life, or death, other than the kind traditionally associated with medieval rural churches. Half a dozen stout candles burned quite brightly in the chancel off to our left. Jo and I edged our way towards them without speaking. Pale impressions of us danced on the whitewashed walls.

  A foot behind me, Jo barked out a sudden hello, which almost fast-tracked my curry. I turned to stare at her. ‘Let me know next time, eh?’

  She rolled her eyes and repeated her call. ‘Hello. Sigmund, are you in here? Is anyone in here?’

  We were now standing in the middle of the nave facing the chancel and the altar. I used my torch to look for wet footprints on the stone floor but there were none in evidence. However, a small pool was quickly forming where I stood.

  After some long seconds waiting for something to happen, I released the breath I’d been holding and said, ‘Perhaps they just keep candles burning through the night here. Are we in a period of Christian celebration for anything?’

  I played my torch beam around the place, steering it into the darkest recesses. Jo was still close behind me. I took a couple more paces towards the source of light and, like a beater spooking game into flight, something exploded out of where it had been hiding in the forward pews. I instinctively swung my torch beam around to illuminate the contorted features of Sigmund Swaine bearing down on me, arms raised and clutching something that I instinctively knew would hurt me if he managed to make contact. He was shrieking like a banshee possessed and my fear rooted me to the spot.

  Jo barged me out of the way and I fell to the floor. Sigmund slashed air and stumbled. He whirled around and braced himself for more.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I shouted at him, scrambling to my feet. ‘Your sister sent us to look for you. She’s worried about you, you arsehole.’

  I had him in my torch beam. His eyes were like those of terrified pony – all whites and rolling irises. It was clear he’d been crying. His chest was heaving with the exertions of his breathing. ‘You’re lying. I know what you want. I know why you’re here.’ Some spit hung from his chin. He raised his club again and rushed at me. I brought my arms up to shield my head. I felt my wrist jar painfully as he brought his weapon down hard, hitting my torch. That clattered to the floor and died.

  Jo grabbed him from behind and was trying to get some kind of lock on him. But he was strong, scared and demented – a potent combination. He bucked her off and she crashed into a pew. Her torch bounced away and we were back to candlelight. There was nothing romantic about it.

  I got myself ready for another assault but Sigmund had other ideas. He bolted towards the west end of the church. There is an arched doorway set in the west wall and he threw himself at it. If he was trying to escape he should have just gone out of the door we came in through.

  Jo and I got to our feet. She’d found her torch and it was still working. We moved towards him. I left the talking to Jo.

  ‘Sigmund. We’re not here to hurt you. Just listen to me.’

  He abandoned his rattling of the door fittings and turned to face us. Jo waved me to stop where I was. She continued edging towards him.

  ‘Your sister is worried about you, Sigmund. Look, I have my mobile phone here. You can talk to her.’ Jo took out her phone and held it up for him to see. Rather than having the desired calming effect, the man seemed only to panic further.

  ‘Liar!’ he screamed. ‘Get that away from me.’ He threw his weapon in our direction. It sailed high and wide to clatter noisily on the flagstone floor behind us. Then, with a surprising agility, he jumped up on to the back of a pew, reached up and used a hefty timber bracket angled away from the wall to haul himself up so that after some scrabbling he got himself over the handrail and was standing on the gallery that ran the length of the west wall some fifteen feet above us. There was nothing for him up there. No escape route I could see. But he had put himself out of our reach. I wasn’t sorry. My wrist was pounding.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ I said.

  ‘Nothing. Let’s back up a bit. Give him some room. Let him see we’re no threat to him.’

  We did that. Sigmund was squatting down on his haunches with his head in his hands. I’d have bet money on him being on medication. And I’d have doubled it that he’d missed his m
eds recently.

  ‘And now?’ I said.

  ‘I’ll phone his sister. She can come over here and talk him down.’

  Before Jo could make the call Sigmund stood and came to the front guardrail of the rickety-looking gallery. Jo still had her torch pointed in his general direction. He grabbed the handrail with both hands and leant far forward. Even from that distance and in that light the tracks of his tears were clearly visible. ‘I know what you want. I know why you’re here,’ he repeated. Sigmund Swaine hopped up onto the handrail, demonstrating incredible balance for someone clearly unbalanced. It put another three feet on his height. In a hoarse, pitiful voice that was made terrifying for its raw and undisguised emotion, he said, ‘You can’t blame me. He made me.’ And then he pitched off into space. He knew what he was doing. He led with his head. He made no attempt to bring his arms up to lessen the impact. The dull sickening thud of his skull connecting with the medieval stone flooring gave me little hope he’d survive it. His body crumpled over awkwardly. We rushed forwards but it was quickly evident that if he hadn’t caved his skull in on impact he’d certainly broken his neck. Jo’s torch picked out his open wet eyes and his tear-stained cheeks before I could turn away. And the heartbreaking image was emblazoned on my retina.

  ***

  18

  Jo dialled nine, nine, nine. She walked away from me to attend to the details. I sat in one of the pews at the front and shook from the cold and wet and the shock of it.

  Rebecca Swaine called Jo’s phone while we were waiting for the emergency services to arrive. Jo let it ring. She’d seen her fair share of dead people, she’d even killed a couple that I knew of, but she took Sigmund’s death particularly badly. Maybe it was because he had been her client’s kin. People didn’t employ investigators to locate their siblings only to have them instrumental in their sudden deaths. It would look bad on Jo’s CV, put prospective clients off.

  Jo had felt his neck for signs of life and found none. The church was colder than the weather or the season. It was also deathly quiet. The only sounds were our limited movements and my breathing and the high winds creeping in to whine at what we’d done.

  As much to make some noise as anything else, I said, ‘What will we tell them?’

  She looked at me strangely. ‘The truth, of course. Never lie to the law.’

  I considered myself rebuked but had to ask: ‘Even what he said?’

  She tested me: ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Something about he couldn’t be blamed, someone made him. Made him do it, I suppose.’

  ‘That’s what I heard. Mean anything to you?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Me neither. The ramblings of a confused mind,’ said Jo.

  ‘And what will we tell his sister?’

  ‘I’ll deal with that,’ she said. She ran her fingers through her hair. ‘I’m sorry, David. I’ve involved you in something that I shouldn’t have. I’ve had training in this sort of thing. I’ve got experience. I can deal with it. You don’t need this in your mind, in your nightmares.’

  ‘Jo?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Shut up. Right? No way I’d have let you come out in this, looking for him by yourself. You didn’t force me into anything. You asked for my help and I gave it willingly. If you ask me the same thing tomorrow, I’ll still come.’

  She softened a little and smiled at me. ‘Thanks. You’re a good egg. A good friend.’

  Rebecca Swaine called again, shattering the silence with a burst of something wholly inappropriate, and still Jo didn’t answer. She was right not to. No one should hear about the sudden death of a loved one over the telephone. And I suppose that Jo didn’t want to have to deal with a potentially distraught family member descending on the church to complicate matters.

  The police arrived first – uniformed officers, who soon called up for reinforcements of the non-uniformed variety.

  ***

  19

  Naturally, the police had a good many good questions for us. There were two from Ashford CID and both clearly knew of Jo’s reasons for doing what she was doing these days. I might have expected some resentment from them for the meddling of the private sector in their world but quite the opposite seemed apparent. They were friendly and surprisingly human, which just goes to show that it’s always who you know in life that counts. That said, they were also quite interested in what we knew.

  Following her own good advice, Jo told them what had happened in a concise chronological order. No frills. No embroidery. It was another reason the law seemed happy to talk with her. I didn’t hear her repeat what Sigmund had said.

  My part in the unfolding of events was scrutinised for the rule book’s sake but the information that counted was Jo’s. And the evidence to back up our assertions was there for all to see. The only bits of the puzzle that were missing were the whys? Why had Sigmund Swaine sought refuge – sanctuary, perhaps – in a remote church on a dark and stormy night? Why had he attacked us without provocation? Why had he looked so hopelessly terrified of us? And the big one: why had he deliberately taken his own life? No one had the answers to any of those.

  Because Jo was on first name terms with the detective sergeant in charge, we got a lift back to Goldenhurst when the police were done with us. I think the additional fact that Jo offered to be the bearer of bad news influenced her decision.

  No one spoke on the five-minute drive. I was freshly conscious of my soaking, freezing clothing. I hadn’t stopped shivering since Sigmund had expired.

  As soon as the tyres crawled noisily over the gravel, Rebecca Swaine was at the front door. She’d lost the outdoor look. Her blonde hair was pulled back harshly into a ponytail. The little light that filtered out was enough to illuminate her body language, which emphasised her anguish. She watched the four of us get out of the police car. I left the four of them to it.

  The rain had eased but the wind was still a force to be reckoned with. I remembered I had an old jumper in Jo’s car – a relic of a picnic in better weather. While the police and Jo spoke to her I stripped off my top layers and pulled something dry on. I was still bloody cold. I sat in the car and put the heater on. No one seemed to mind my absence.

  In five minutes Jo was letting herself in. She sat behind the wheel and just stared at the closed garage door. I had questions: how did she take it? Did she blame us? What happens now? Could she say what was wrong with him? But I kept them to myself.

  The police disappeared inside and the door was shut. Jo started the car and we left.

  We were almost home before either of us spoke. I said, ‘What happens now?’

  ‘We go into Ashford police station and give our formal statements. Other than that I have no idea. I can hardly hope to be reinstated to investigate her husband’s suicide when I’ve just been instrumental in her brother’s, can I?’

  I agreed with her without saying so.

  It was well past midnight when we got back home. The storm had all but blown itself out. Normal service had been resumed. I let us in. We said goodnight. I took a long hot shower and guessed Jo would be doing the same. Then I put on a clean T-shirt and tracky bottoms, made myself a hot water bottle and went to bed. I was just drifting off when I heard a gentle tapping downstairs.

  ‘Jo?’

  ‘Can I come up?’

  ‘Of course.’

  I put the bedside light on and sat up a bit. She pushed open the door to my bedroom and leaned against the door jamb. She was dressed in loose-fitting sweats. Her hair was wet.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘If I ask to get in with you, will you get the wrong idea?’

  I already had and was struggling to suppress my body’s natural reaction to it. I didn’t trust myself to speak and not say something quite stupid. I shifted over and threw back the duvet. Without another word passing between us she moved in, turned off the light, gave me her back and reversed in. I stayed wide awake well past the time it took her breathing to find an ev
en, deep regularity. Her smell, her warmth, her presence, comforted me and diverted my thoughts from replaying on a loop Sigmund Swaine’s swan dive to oblivion.

  ***

  20

  From the strength of the light in the room, I could tell it was later than usual for me to wake up. Jo was gone. I wondered whether I’d dreamt her visit. Then I found a hair on the pillow that wasn’t mine. It could only have been Jo’s.

  I lay back, comfortable. I didn’t want to get up. I had things to think about, things to remember and I always found staring at the ceiling from my warm pit short on distractions and therefore good for thought.

  In a couple of minutes my phone rang – Jo. We enquired after each other’s health and didn’t mention sharing a bed.

  She said, ‘You around this morning?’

  ‘No plans. Architect’s coming to see me after lunch.’

  ‘Ashford CID want to pay us a visit.’

  ‘I thought we were going there?’

  ‘They’ve changed their mind. It’s a copper’s prerogative.’

  ‘I thought it was a woman’s.’

  ‘She is a woman. A DI I don’t know is in charge. She’s in a hurry.’

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘Talk to us, among other things.’

  ‘Suits me. I’d rather not traipse into Ashford. Parking can be a bitch. What time is she coming?’

  ‘An hour OK with you?’

  I said it was, got up and got dressed.

  An hour meant we’d be open downstairs. I hoped they wouldn’t mind conducting their business in the shop. With hot fresh coffee on hand, I doubted it.

  ***

  21