Bad Tidings

by Nick Oldham

  The man’s bolt for the door whilst trying to get his mobile phone to his ear was a bit of a giveaway. Henry spun him round and dragged him to the floor, pinned him face down and spoke into his dirty, hairy, waxy ear.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  Henry cuffed his hands behind his back, then stepped him back up to his feet and propelled him to a door marked ‘Private – Staff Only’. This led through to an office and then, via another door, down some steps to the basement flat where the manager lived.

  The lack of any resistance, the man’s total submission, told Henry what he needed to know. This was confirmed as the three of them clattered through into the lounge of the flat – empty – through the kitchen and into the bedroom to find Liversage dressed only in a grubby grey string vest, sitting on the edge of an equally disgusting grey bed, one hand masturbating his own flaccid cock, his other hand doing the same to a young boy who was tied, spreadeagled to the bed with leather straps, a look of abject terror on his face.

  As good an arrest as it was – one of those lucky chances that often come along as a by-product of a large investigation – Liversage was soon discounted as a suspect in the double murder. But he was charged with kidnapping and a multitude of sexual offences, all of which would ensure that his prison licence would be revoked and he would be sent back where he belonged. Both Liversage and his accomplice, the hostel manager, were handed over to detectives at Accrington when it became clear they might be responsible for a series of undetected sexual assaults in the area over the last two months.

  ‘Ah well, it was a good try,’ Tope sighed.

  ‘Are you getting to like operational duties again?’ Henry teased him as they set off back to HQ.

  ‘No chance . . . when my arse twitches it’s because I’ve found a way into a website I shouldn’t even be on in the first place. I’m not really cut out to be knocking on doors any more.’

  Henry laughed. He knew that Tope definitely did his best work for the Constabulary by looking at a computer, although he also knew that the clock was ticking for such people. It was cheaper to employ civilians to do the work and some were already trained, which Henry found sad. Cops brought an indefinable instinct to jobs like Tope’s and Henry was firmly of the school of belief, no matter how outdated his stance, that civilians would never have that same intuition. But the world was constantly changing, and not always for the better. For the ‘dollar’, maybe. And in that respect, Henry also believed that TJF: The Job’s Fucked.

  Tope showed his value again as they headed towards the motorway.

  ‘Ooh, got something.’ He pulled a few neatly folded pieces of paper from his inner jacket pocket and opened them out. ‘A vicar and a teacher . . . you asked me to see if I could find them . . . re the school?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘The vicar who was attached to Belthorn School is called Bateson – but he’s retired now . . . But his son is also a vicar and the school is still linked with the same church – and Bateson junior is the vicar. The church is in Oswaldtwistle. Looks like a family business.’

  ‘The son’s taken over from the father, dog collar and everything?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘What about the teacher?’

  ‘No luck so far . . . but we’re not far off Oswaldtwistle now. If you fancied, we could call in on spec and maybe the son could direct us to the dad – if he’s still alive, that is.’

  ‘I fancy,’ Henry said, and at the next set of lights he turned towards Oswaldtwistle instead of heading for the motorway.

  They drove through the main street of the little town and soon found the vicarage and church – St Catherine’s. Henry knew where it was, having lived in the area many years before. It was early evening when they pulled up on the long gravelled driveway outside a magnificent, but crumbling vicarage, and knocked on the door. It was already dark and cold, and snow was a probability.

  ‘I wonder if the Addams Family is at home?’ Tope whispered as a bat flitted above their heads.

  From inside they heard the approach of ominous sounding footsteps. The heavy metal-panelled door creaked open, but it wasn’t Lurch who answered, but a boyish-looking man in his late forties, with an open dog collar hanging around his neck.

  ‘Mr Bateson?’ Henry asked.

  ‘Reverend Bateson,’ the man corrected him with a smile.

  Henry showed him his warrant card and introduced himself and Tope.

  ‘May we come in?’

  Puzzled but welcoming, the vicar stepped politely aside and gestured for them to enter. The entrance hall was huge and ancient, with a tiled floor and a dark wood-panelled wall. ‘What can I do for you two gentlemen of the law?’

  ‘Are you still the vicar responsible for Belthorn School?’

  ‘Responsible is too big a word. We’re paternalistic, maybe,’ he said. ‘These days, the phrase “church school” doesn’t really mean very much.’ He clearly wanted to launch into something more about modern times, and the way that religion was viewed in society and the church’s lack of influence in education. Instead he said, ‘I try my best.’

  ‘I believe your father held the same position?’

  ‘I took over the parish when he retired, which includes Belthorn School, of course . . . and others.’

  As delicately as he could, Henry said, ‘Is he still with us?’

  Bateson laughed. ‘Very much so. Eighty-five and still as strong as an ox, though his mind is . . . you know.’ He made an ‘eek-eek’ sound.

  ‘Oh, great . . . we’re investigating the deaths – murders, actually – of some of the pupils who attended the school in the late seventies and I’m speaking to people who might have known them back then, just to see if they remember anything that might give us a hint as to why they were murdered.’

  ‘You mean murdered recently?’

  ‘Yes, over the last three years. It’s just too much of a coincidence they all went to the same school, so I need background on them, even though it’s so long ago. Someone like your father might know something.’

  Bateson looked doubtful. ‘You may certainly speak to him. Whether he’ll know anything, or be able to recall anything, is a different matter.’

  ‘Alzheimer’s?’ Tope asked.

  ‘Old age, bad temper and awkwardness and general disagreeability.’

  ‘Could you give us his address?’ Henry asked. ‘We don’t have to disturb him tonight, but maybe we could arrange to see him tomorrow. And if you wanted to be present, that would be fine,’ he explained.

  ‘No need for that – he lives here.’

  The vicar led the detectives through the house, via what Henry would guess was called a drawing room, to a huge Victorian-style conservatory jutting out into an overgrown garden at the back, though now the trees and shrubs were bare. It was cool, but not chilly, and an old man sat on an armchair, his feet up on a stool, a blanket draped over his legs, reading a large print hardback book. He laid this down and looked at his visitors through thick-framed spectacles.

  ‘Dad, these gents are from the police. They’d like to have a chat with you, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Ahh . . . my years of rape and pillaging have caught up with me then?’ He laughed croakily, adding, ‘I wish.’

  Bateson junior shot Henry a short, warning glance and laughed nervously. ‘They want to talk about Belthorn School . . . when you were there.’

  ‘What is Belthorn School?’

  Henry thought, Oh-oh, not a good start, but then the old man said, ‘Just kidding.’

  He gave his son a look of scorn. ‘He thinks I’ve lost my marbles, so I just humour him. My mind is as sharp as it’s always been, it’s the body that’s letting me down, particularly my liver. Take a pew,’ he said to Henry and Tope, smiling wickedly, and Henry warmed to him. He made an expansive gesture towards a cane sofa for two opposite him. To his son he said, ‘Brews all round – and make mine a double.’

  The vicar smi
led good-naturedly. ‘Can I offer you two gents a drink? Tea, coffee, something stronger?’

  ‘Tea for me,’ Henry said. Tope said he would have the same.

  ‘I thought you said you were cops?’ the old man said.

  ‘On duty cops,’ Henry said.

  ‘Bollocks.’ To his son he said, ‘You know what I want.’

  ‘Oh yeah.’ He turned away muttering, ‘Burying in your own graveyard.’

  ‘My hearing’s good,’ his father said, tapping the discreet hearing aid curled behind his right ear. ‘And this thing’s turned right up.’

  Bateson junior walked away, still muttering, his head rocking from side to side as though he was having an animated conversation with his father.

  ‘Gay, you know,’ the old man said. ‘Well, not married . . . makes you wonder. My wife’s dead, by the way.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Henry said.

  ‘Don’t be. She was an ultra-bitch.’

  Henry chuckled and shook his head.

  ‘Whaddya want, guys?’

  ‘I just thought you might be a good port of call for some gossip, maybe.’ Henry started to explain why he was here, but before he’d even got into telling the story, the old man held up a gnarled hand.

  ‘Let me stop you there. Funny, I always wondered if there’d be any future repercussions. Just a feeling . . . you’re right, I was the vicar for that school and to be honest I found that Belthorn itself was a hive of nefarious activity, shall we say? A mass of secrets . . . adultery, inbreeding, abuse and violence . . . satanic worship . . . oh, yes . . . but mostly behind closed doors. It’s a place with many dark secrets, or was. Just like anywhere else, I suppose. Probably not the same now, because it’s more like a little town than a village these days. And I think I can guess what you’re going to talk about – or at least, who.’

  He stopped talking as his son shouldered his way into the conservatory bearing a tray with two mugs on it, a plate of chocolate biscuits and a glass containing a large whisky. He set it down on the coffee table and rubbed his hands.

  ‘OK – bog off,’ his dad said.

  He turned, left without a sound.

  ‘Names,’ the old man said. ‘Cromer, Peters, Blackshaw, Milner and some others. But they were the main ones. All kids from school. And like kids, very, very cruel to each other. And the cruellest of them all . . . Terry Cromer . . . and the main object of his cruelty, his slightly younger brother, Freddy. Just because they were brothers, it didn’t mean they loved each other, quite the opposite. Now hand me that whisky.’

  Christmas Eve.

  On this special day, the last day of term, the school closed at 1.30 p.m. after the turkey dinner and Brussels sprouts. The children, excited and keyed up for the day after and the holiday ahead, rushed out on the bell. They poured into the playground, screaming and shouting. All thirty of them.

  Strolling casually out behind them all was Terry Cromer and his little band of cronies: David Peters, Christine Blackshaw and Ella Milner. These were the kids who ruled the school when the teacher wasn’t looking – and only when Terry deigned to attend. His truancy was already legend.

  Freddy Cromer had run out ahead with the bulk of the other children, about twenty-five of them. But although he was with them, he was alone because of his difference. His size, his low intellect, his weirdness, his unpredictability.

  Most of the kids dispersed and Freddy stayed at the school gate, waiting to go home with Terry.

  He and his gang were still in the playground, huddled together, discussing something. The huddle broke up and they started walking towards Freddy.

  ‘You comin’, Tel, or what?’ Freddy called to Terry.

  ‘Do you want to come with us?’ Terry responded secretively.

  ‘Why, why, where you going, Terry?’

  ‘Come with us, we’ll show you . . . it’s a secret.’

  Doubt crossed Freddy’s face. ‘But where?’

  ‘You like kittens, don’t you?’

  Freddy’s face brightened. ‘You know I do. I love kittens . . . why, Terry?’

  ‘Want to see some?’ The words could have been spoken by a stereotypical child molester. Terry didn’t really know what a child molester was back then, but he understood the temptation behind the words, the lure of expectation . . . the trap.

  ‘Where are they, Terry, where are they?’ Freddy jumped up and down. He loved little animals so much.

  He was fourteen months younger than Terry, who was eleven then. But there was something about him that hadn’t quite developed, something missing that ensured he wasn’t just right and stayed more childish than he should have been, even at that age.

  ‘Follow us.’

  They dashed across the quiet, narrow road in front of the school and vaulted the stone wall with Freddy following, so excited he wanted to pee. And he did so, cringing as he ran, unable to stop himself, hoping the others wouldn’t notice the stain on his short trousers.

  They were on land owned by a farmer called Jacques. Grazing land for sheep and cattle, although none were present that cold afternoon as flecks of snow started to drift in the air and dark clouds scudded across the sky from the east. The famer didn’t really mind kids on his land. These were the days when health and safety legislation, or at least its implementation, was just a pipe dream and kids on farms, doing dangerous things, were not unusual.

  Led by Terry, the gang raced across the large, wet field, mud splashing.

  The field dropped steeply towards a perimeter wall and soon they were out of sight and hearing of the road, the farm buildings and nearby houses, in a secret world of their own with no witnesses.

  A place that had been carefully prepared by Terry. At the age of eleven he was already a villain – like his father – who terrorized local old people, openly stealing from them and promising violent retribution should they grass on him. His criminal planning was quite advanced.

  Beckoning them on, he knew he was taking them to a disused chicken coop on the edge of the farmer’s land. It was a place they’d hung out on many occasions and used as a den. Although virtually abandoned by the farmer it was structurally still quite sound, a warm place to go and have a secret cigarette, or get a girl to show her fanny. Some hens still roosted there and laid eggs fertilized by the huge rooster that strutted around the farm.

  Terry had found some eggs in the coop that he had hidden and cared for, kept warm in a cardboard box packed with straw. They had hatched into healthy chicks.

  In another part of the coop – quite a large, sectioned off building – a feral cat had given birth to a litter of four kittens, away from the chickens.

  It was to these newborns that Terry led his little gang – and his brother. His stupid, hated brother.

  ‘Come on, come on,’ he urged them all.

  Terry had stolen a padlock and key from elsewhere on the farm and had used it to keep the coop secure. He opened the door to let everyone in ahead of him and they crowded in excitedly, having to almost crawl because of the low roof.

  With a flourish, Terry revealed the chicks in their box. He had rigged up a lamp to hang over them to provide extra warmth. They were only days old, chirping healthily, gorgeous little creatures, tiny, frail, easily broken or crushed.

  The girl Christine made motherly noises.

  David Peters sneered, not taken in by them at all. He preferred action men and cars.

  But Freddy was entranced, dropping to his knees and gently scooping one of them up, feeling its warm fluffy body in the cupped palm of his big hand. He was mesmerized. ‘Ahh, baby hens.’

  Terry tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Over here. Look at these.’

  Freddy replaced the chick carefully and followed his brother, who slid open a hatch to reveal his next treasures. Four mewing kittens, bundles of fur, big eyes, only weeks old.

  Freddy gasped in wonderment and reached for one of the tiny cats. This time he could feel the delicate bones throughout its body, its shoulder blades and rib cage.
He lifted it gently and started to stroke it.

  Terry stood behind him, head lowered, a terrible look on his face and a three-foot plank of wood in his hands. He gestured for the others to stand back. He needed room, an arc, and he drew back the plank, gripped it tight with both hands and smashed it across the side of Freddy’s head, sending him sprawling.

  Unconscious for a short time, Freddy came to with Terry straddling him, the three other kids holding down his body and legs.

  In Terry’s right fist was a handful of dirt, dust, bird shit and hen feathers that he’d scooped up off the floor of the shack. With his left hand he held Freddy’s face rigid and tried to force open his mouth. Freddy was still stunned and uncomprehending, aware only of Terry’s blazing, hate-filled eyes and the look of determination as, successfully opening Freddy’s mouth, he forced the handful of muck and feathers into it, ramming them down with the palm of his hand.

  He spoke no words.

  Then Freddy started to writhe and fight and he choked on the foul-smelling, germ-laden mixture, until a wave of sheer panic made him buck Terry off and break free, like a wild bear from chains, from the grip the other kids had on him.

  On all fours he gasped and spat and cried and snuffled, inhaling the horrible dust and debris.

  Terry bent low and spoke into his ear. ‘I hate you,’ he whispered. He jerked a come-on gesture to his mates and they left Freddy wheezing in the shack.

  Once outside, Terry quietly locked the door then hurled the key across into the next field, trapping Freddy inside, although at that moment, Freddy did not realize this.

  He lay there in a foetal position, sobbing massive, chest-juddering breaths. A chick walked around him. A kitten mewed in his ear. It took a few minutes for the sobbing to subside, then he sat up slowly, drawing his big knees up to his chin, rocking back and forth.

  He picked up a kitten and stroked it. Then a chick. ‘You didn’t know about this, did you?’ he asked the yellow ball. Then he scooped up another kitten and posed the same question to it.