Blood Atonement

by Dan Waddell

  'I'm not sure how long these will last otherwise.'

  'You're quite right,' the vicar explained. 'It's on my to-do list.'

  Nigel sat on a small wooden chair. Carefully he opened the first volume, beginning in 1908. Almost immediately he came across the burial entry for Horton Rowley in 1909. Simply the bare details, his name, age and date of burial. He continued through the volume and sure enough, in 1913, he found details of Sarah Rowley's burial. But the information gave him nothing new.

  'You don't have a graveyard here. Where would these people have been buried?'

  It might be worth a trip to see if there was anything interesting inscribed on the grave - but the weather and time might have claimed it, and he was not carrying the necessary materials to render epitaphs decipherable.

  'East Ham cemetery on Marlowe Road. They have a register there, too.'

  Nigel made a note of the address. Closed the volume.

  'Do you have any copies of the vestry minutes?' These were the details of parish meetings; like many of their kind they recorded only the salient points, though they did occasionally yield a genealogical jewel.

  The vicar shrugged. "I think they're kept elsewhere, but I really must be honest and say that I have no idea where,'

  he said, face reddening. 'Our verger Audrey Cantrell might be able to help. Unfortunately, she's away on holiday with her family at the moment. Sorry about that.'

  This appeared to be another cul-de-sac.

  'However, there is one thing,' the vicar added. 'He stepped over a few boxes and pulled away a piece of dark blue cloth, of the type that might cover an altar. Beneath it was a large wooden chest. "In here is a number of documents and packets of papers that belonged to my predecessors, going right back to George Burch, the first vicar of this parish. I haven't gone through it in any exhaustive detail but there are all sorts in there. Feel free to have a look.'

  A rummage through the parish chest was a phrase used to describe merely looking through church records, usually in an archive; never had Nigel literally hunted through one. The vicar unlocked a large bolt and lifted the lid. It was piled high with folders and boxes, barely a loose piece of paper.

  'Most of the stuff in here is old hymn and prayer books, but there's some other stuff, too. It's not in date order, but you should find boxes or packets belonging to many of the vicars. Some accrued more than others.' A thin smile appeared on his face. "It depended on how many press cuttings each of them kept.'

  'I thought worshipping the Lord was reward enough,'

  Nigel said.

  'Let's just say a few of those in my profession are not averse to the oxygen of publicity.' He glanced at his watch. "I have a few small items of business to attend to.

  Feel free to have a look and take as long as you wish. I'll be back in an hour or so. If you need me in the interim, give Shirley a shout in reception and she'll call me on my mobile.'

  A vicar with a mobile? It didn't feel right. Nigel thanked him and turned his attention to the open chest, leaning over and inhaling a familiar scent: the smell of old paper.

  He picked up the first packet. Clive Hawley 1956--72. He slipped a few of the documents out, just to see what sort of material lay within. There was a host of press cuttings, almost all from the local paper, yellowing, dry and faded.

  Very little else, save the odd hymn sheet. Still, he burrowed deeper into the chest searching for anything relating to George Burch, taking out and stacking old books that were falling apart at the seams.

  Eventually he found a tatty file, bound with string. He opened it up. The first item he came across was a newspaper report. Dated 2 June 1908, it was a small report from the local paper noting the laying of the final brick of the church and mentioning the appointment of Mr Burch.

  The second consisted of several sheets of notes written in a neat copperplate hand, dated 7 September of the same year. It was a letter from a Mrs Winifred Shillingford of the same parish offering what seemed to be a critique of the vicar's performance during worship. It praised his delivery but complained about his frequent divergence from Bible scripture. "I think you will understand that for many of your congregation such contrivances are not welcome. We come to hear and celebrate the word and love of Our Saviour. Not to be handed lectures on the iniquities of the modern world nor to gain a greater understanding of current affairs,' Mrs Shillingford fulminated.

  The world's first trendy vicar, Nigel thought.

  Going through the collection revealed other personal correspondence; some seeking or offering help, giving praise or criticism, or merely letters of thanks for sermons delivered. Dotted among them were notes written in the vicar's hand. At first he took this to be a form of private correspondence with God, but then realized that they were actually rough notes for sermons and eulogies; words were crossed out, amended, barely legible scrawls placed in the margin. For many funerals there was a short biography of the deceased, in note form, listing several biographical details and personal achievements. He felt a sense of rising excitement; the premonition that he was nearing the critical point of the chase. He went through each clipping, letter and note. No mention of Horton Rowley, but in 1913 he came across mention of a woman named Sarah Read. Next to it, in brackets, was the name 'Rowley'.

  A coincidence? He doubted it.

  There was a page listing details: her children's names and ages, her age, even details of Horton, the date of his death. Reading the next page made his heart beat even faster, however. It was an outline of the eulogy the vicar must have delivered at her funeral, written in a light, almost delicate hand. The first paragraph or so contained the usual obsequies; loving mother of three, formerly loyal wife to her beloved Horton, with whom she would now be reunited, and dedicated member of the parish.

  There was little to distinguish it from most of its kind, either before or since. A passage lower down caught his eye:

  Sarah was a loyal servant of God, as many among you will know. A more pious member of the community it would be difficult to imagine. Yet what was remarkable about her faith was that it remained so despite many trials and tribulations.

  speak not here of the profound loss of her much-loved husband, hard as she found that obstacle. Many of you here who knew Sarah will know of her struggles to escape the clutches of cultists from across the ocean, an experience itself that would cause many of us to turn away from the Lord's loving embrace. Not Sarah Read, as we knew her.

  Her experiences had the contrary effect; far from rejecting the Lord after such an event, it brought Sarah and Horton closer to him, for they knew in truth the dangers of worshipping false idols, celebrating the occult and the wickedness of those who stray from the true word of God. After Horton's sad death, seeking sanctuary, shelter and safety, Sarah moved from her previous home and into the bosom of our parish, where she brought the certainty of her faith, despite all her trials. For that she will live on in our hearts as surely as she will in God's kingdom.

  Nigel read it through once more to allow the meaning to seep in. 'Cultists from across the ocean'? The truth was emerging from behind an obscuring cloud: the couple had fled a foreign country. But what cult and where? One that worshipped false idols and celebrated the occult like some form of voodoo? And why had she changed her name?

  Was she still being pursued?

  At the back of the packet was a series of sepia-tinted photographs. Two pictures of the vicar outside the new building, looking awkward and aloof, a pose Nigel knew well from the time, people still adapting to the novelty of having their picture taken. Another appeared to be of a parish ladies' outing -- three rows of behatted ladies.

  'Ladies' Temperance Outing to Margate, August 1911'

  was noted on the back in writing similar to the vicar's.

  Beneath it he'd scribbled the names of the featured parishioners.

  Nigel flipped the photo back over; but he didn't need to find Sarah Rowley's (or Read's) name. He was sure that was her, sitting tall and proud in the
middle of the front row. The family resemblance to pictures he'd seen in the press of Katie Drake was startling; the same full lips and proud pose. She would have been in her late thirties when the photo was taken, and though the years had taken some toll she was still a handsome and charismatic presence.

  She seemed to possess a darker skin than the other women present; duskier, more exotic, next to their porcelain pale skin. The more he gazed at her, the more indomitable she seemed. He could sense her strength, picture the way she moved, even assign her a voice.

  It never failed to amaze him how an old photograph could summon the dead.

  3

  Foster fixed himself his first cup of tea of the morning, waiting for a murky dawn to emerge through the window of his kitchen. As the tea bag steeped in the mug, he wondered where to turn next. Harris and his crew appeared to be leaving him to his own devices. So far all the Gold Group and Senior Management Team meetings had been held without him; they were often held outside his restricted hours, either early morning or late evening, and he sensed Harris was happier calling the shots without him being around.

  It was Friday. Naomi had been missing almost four days. Vickers had been dropped as a suspect, and the other source of likely suspects had grown scarce -- every pervert and paedophile they dragged in had an alibi.

  Frustration had bled into desperation. The main investigative team had resorted to bringing in teenage youths who'd been collared for under-age sex, irrespective of the fact that most of them had been under the impression the lipsticked Lolitas with whom they were consorting were above the age of consent. Yet Susie Danson had been right in one respect. If this was a sex crime then they had three or four days. That was about to pass and the sense of despair was like damp, permeating all levels of the investigation and rising even to Harris at the top, who patrolled the main incident room with a haunted, hunted expression as the media continued to howl for the girl's safe return, or at least some evidence of a breakthrough.

  Foster,

  hunched over his steaming cup, did not share their resignation. Something told him this was about more than sex. Something told him Naomi might still be alive.

  He sipped at his tea, watching helplessly as the clock on his kitchen wall ticked past 7 a.m. Foster hated watching time slip away but he wasn't due in until nine, as advised by his action plan, and there was little he could do until then.

  He'd been up most of the night, digesting what Gary Stamey had told him about the man who had visited their house, in particular the book he had given Leonie featuring Joe and his secret treasure. He scoured the Internet for websites about comics and graphic novels but found nothing matching the description.

  From the hall he could hear the muffled sound of his mobile phone vibrating as it rattled across the surface of the sideboard - he'd taken to switching it to silent, so irritated was he by the ring tone, or the way it bleeped chirpily whenever a message came through. He reached it just before the caller was diverted through to his voicemail. It was Heather.

  'Hi, did I wake you?'

  'No,' he said, feeling affronted. 'I've been up for a while actually.'

  'Good. Listen, I've just got in and it's been logged there was a call for you last night. From Carol Stamey, Martin's wife.'

  'What time?'

  'Just after eleven.'

  He cursed. He'd still been up then. 'Why didn't they pass it on to me?'

  'They've been instructed not to bother you, remember?

  They said you were off duty and asked if she was willing to speak to someone else, but she hung up. I thought you might want to follow up this morning.'

  He thanked her and ended the call. Back in the kitchen he drank his tea and then called Carol Stamey back. No answer. Probably still asleep. He had no mobile number for her. Why had she hung up last night? Maybe she was calling without her husband's knowledge and he'd walked in and caught her. Or what she wanted to say was for Foster's ears only.

  If it was the former, he didn't want to make it awkward for her by phoning, in case Martin Stamey answered. So he showered and dressed, got in his car and drove out to Purfleet. He doubted he'd be missed, and if they did call him then he'd make up an excuse about being at a physiotherapy session, which wouldn't be much of a lie since he did have an appointment that afternoon.

  A fine drizzle was falling as Foster pulled up outside the house at 8:15 a.m., the beam of his headlights still strong.

  The sort of day when morning and dusk were interchangeable.

  He cursed when he saw two cars parked in the driveway, a silver Jaguar at the front. He'd hoped Martin might be out at work and the kids on their way to school. A red Alfa Romeo that presumably belonged to Carol was parked behind the Jag.

  He got out of the car and straightened his jacket. He could always call on the pretext that he had a few more questions. She would tell him if it was no secret from her husband. If it was, he would leave his mobile number and hope she called him on it later. He walked up the drive.

  Despite the gloom, there was no light on in the house. He rang the doorbell, expecting to hear the frantic barking of the dog. Instead there was silence. He rang the bell again and waited. No answer.

  Foster stepped back from the house, looking at the upstairs windows. The curtains were drawn. Had they gone away? Yet Carol had called from the house late last night.

  He wandered across the front lawn to the side of the house where there was a wooden door. He gave it a firm push. It swung open to reveal an alleyway leading to another wooden door. Along the side of the house were two dustbins, a few crates filled with empty wine and beer bottles and a stone flower vase teeming with spent cigarette butts. He walked along the alley, expecting at any moment to hear the dog, wondering what he'd do if it took him as an intruder and set about him. He'd not seen it the other night, merely heard it. And it sounded the size of a lion. He was not a dog lover and, from the attitude of most dogs he'd met, it appeared the feeling was mutual.

  The heavy wooden door at the far end of the alley was open, too, sitting slightly ajar. Odd, he thought, for a crook like Stamey to leave the entrance to the back of his house so accessible. He looked back at the first of the doors. A Yale lock and two deadbolts, neither of which had been used. He walked through and found himself at the far corner of an enormous garden secluded by a high wall that ran around its entire perimeter. In the centre of a huge expanse of lawn was a swimming pool, covered by boards for the winter. To his right was a conservatory, beyond it a large, raised stone patio studded with garden furniture and a cover that shrouded a barbecue. At the opposite side of the garden was a stone feature or a fountain, which was switched off or no longer worked. But his eye was drawn back to the lawn.

  Two bodies lay face down.

  Foster hurried over. Both were dead. The first, arms out by his side, face down, was Martin Stamey, naked. The back of his head missing, ravaged by a bullet. Five yards to his south lay the body of a young boy in pyjamas -- presumably the son, though his face had been almost destroyed by being shot at close range. From each body lay twin trails of blood that slicked the lawn, leading to a set of French windows. One of the doors was wide open.

  Using his mobile, he called Heather, told her where he was and to get in touch with the local force.

  'What's happened?' she asked, bewildered.

  'I don't know,' he said and put the phone down. That's what he needed to find out.

  He went to the open door, stepped inside, parting the curtains. It was the room where he and Heather had sat and spoken to Stamey the other night. He glanced around. Nothing out of place. A door to the right led to the conservatory. Again, everything was intact. The large adjoining kitchen, too. He wandered back into the room, then into the hall, which led to the front door.

  There was another room to the right. A sort of dining room with a large antique table, and a grandfather clock that ticked loudly. It smelled and looked as if it was rarely used.

  He followed the trail of blood.
It went from the French windows to the hall and up the wide, gradual steps. Foster's feet were cushioned by the thick carpet.

  At the top he stopped. He listened. No sound, save the hushed sweep of traffic along the nearby dual carriageway and the ticking of the downstairs clock. In front of him was a bathroom. Empty. He turned left. There was a door on the right. From the picture of a young pop star on it he guessed it was the daughter's, a feeling confirmed when he opened the door and was met by the sort of paraphernalia he'd last seen in Naomi Buckingham's room. The bed was neatly made but empty. No blood trail.

  A scarlet track led to the last door on this landing while another splattered path went up a set of stairs to an upper floor. The door was ajar. He opened it and caught a sight of the reflection in the mirrored doors of a set of floorto-ceiling cupboards. He took a deep breath and turned into the room.

  Carol Stamey, spreadeagled and naked. At first he thought the sheet beneath her was scarlet but then realized from one clean corner that it was white and sluiced in her blood. There was a matting of red blood in her hair where the bullet had entered the back of her head. From the amount of viscera spread across the sheets he could see her husband had been killed beside her then dragged outside. He went upstairs; the boy's stained sheets told a similar story.

  A few minutes later Foster stood in the garden as the crackle and bustle of a murder-scene investigation went on around him. He was oblivious to the fuss. As he stood there, trying to absorb what he had seen, a jet-black 4x4

  pulled up as near to the house as it could. The young girl he'd seen watching television at the Stameys' house two nights before jumped out from the vehicle, dressed in her school uniform, worry and panic etched on her face. She began to run towards the house, followed by a dark-haired woman in her late thirties, who began screaming at her to stop.