by Helen Fields
He was going to cut her, too. That was why he was rubbing the cream into her belly and back. She would end up nothing more than a small rag doll, made from her own flesh. A miniature of herself, just like the scale model of the perfect house-to-be that sat on her desk at work.
The man had insisted on talking to her in spite of her closed eyes and tightly shut lips. When he entered the room, she didn’t even like breathing the same air as him. He whispered insults as he rubbed her stomach, and eventually she’d had to ask. How could she not? If she had to die, it seemed ridiculous not to at least demand an explanation. In the end, only a single word from her had been necessary to kick-start his diatribe of hate.
‘Why?’ Caroline had asked, trembling as she spoke, terrified she might set off some unstoppable train of violence.
‘Dirty,’ he’d replied, bringing his head close over her face. Even with her eyes shut, she’d known how close he was to her. She could feel the heat of his skin, smell meat on his breath, feel the spittle landing on her forehead as he’d spoken. ‘Dirty girl. Letting the infidel touch her. You like that? You enjoy having a man like him touch you? Filthy, bad girl. Tainted, Rachel says.’
Who was the infidel? That was what she’d wanted to ask. Why did he think she was dirty? She was anything but. The man she was engaged to was her first and only lover. While other friends had skipped from one partner to another through their twenties, she had stayed loyal and faithful. Was she here because she’d been mistaken for someone else? She wanted to know and yet couldn’t bring herself to say the words out loud. She didn’t want him to speak to her again. Didn’t want to feel his breath blowing into her nose again. But she did want to know who Rachel was. It wasn’t someone she knew. Her mother had a friend called Rachel when Caroline was little, but she’d passed away years ago. Was Rachel a name the man called himself – a second identity that crawled out when he was looking for affirmation or a scapegoat? She imagined herself screaming at him, demanding answers, not caring whether she lived or died. She imagined letting her rage explode at him, demanding he cut her loose, even headbutting him as he leaned over her, but she knew she would say and do nothing. Nothing except keep her eyes shut, her head turned to the side, the tears dribbling down her frigid cheek to splash on the grubby wood beneath.
For now, though, she remained alone. Caroline could open her eyes and stare at the greenish glass ceiling. He didn’t come to her in the darkness. Small mercy. She didn’t think she could take being trapped with him while it was dark. The spiders were bad enough, but even the largest of them couldn’t raise the nausea that his touch did.
‘Zoey,’ she said aloud. Finally, she had managed to dredge one of the dead girls’ names up from her memory. ‘That’s it. Zoey.’ It was like finding a sliver of forgiveness. At least she could put a name to some of the cells on the table, share a moment. ‘I’m sorry, Zoey. I should have read your story. I should have learned about you, and grieved for you. I hope you weren’t as scared as me,’ she said, letting her tears come for the hundredth time, knowing they were in good company with others shed there before. ‘I hope you didn’t feel it when he cut you,’ she sobbed. ‘I wish I could have met you, and told you that I know how it feels. I wish we could have been here together and held one another’s hands. I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.’ She cried out into the dark. Death was a slowly creeping monster, and the terror was almost unbearable. If she’d had a gun, she would have aimed it at her own head. Poison, a fall, hanging – none of it seemed anything other than a blissful release compared to the atrocities she knew were coming. ‘Can you hear me?’ she asked the air. ‘Zoey, is part of you still here? I need you. I need someone to hold me. I wish I’d been here to hold you.’
The sobs trailed off into hopeless sniffles. The tears ran out. She was arid. Nothing left. He would come in the morning, and next time she would ask him to just end it for her. Quickly. Perhaps if she begged, he would make it faster, painless. If she screamed at him, perhaps she could send him into a rage that would end with a rock smashed over her head. And perhaps, in spite of whatever she did or didn’t do, there would be a doll after all. A tiny Caroline doll, with bright eyes and shiny hair, who would smile forever and ever and ever. Eventually, she slept.
Chapter Forty-Two
‘What’s the time?’ Ava asked Callanach, perching next to him on an ancient pew at the rear of the chapel.
He glanced at his watch. ‘Five forty-five,’ he said, ‘and we’ve got virtually nothing. The font had water in it, and the stone has been confirmed by the owner of the estate as marble. If you take a vial of the water and hold up a torch to it, you can see some of the flecks shining, like on the dolls.’
‘We’ve found nothing else on the estate,’ Ava said. ‘The owners let a squad go through every room of the manor, including the loft and cellar. They couldn’t have been more helpful.’
‘So why is this place being let out at weekends?’ Callanach asked.
‘They’re atheists, and even if they weren’t, the days when they could expect a vicar or priest to come to their chapel and hold a service for a handful of people have long since passed. They maintain the building because of their love of history, they said, but they don’t feel it has any religious relevance to them. They seemed genuinely pleased that it was being used by a church group. Horrified, obviously, when I told them what we suspected, but they had no idea that anything other than mainstream Christianity was being practised here.’
‘Yeah, well, Tripp says this group has a very strict new member test. It’s more like one of those off-the-wall American sub-cults. There are a few odd comments online about it. Someone reporting they didn’t like the way the group handled apparent insider infractions, and wanted to leave. Didn’t go down too well.’
‘Really? Can we trace who left the comment, see if we can get some more details?’ Ava asked.
‘Not easily. It was an old chat group, now closed, with a thread that hadn’t been active for more than a year. All pseudonyms. Tracing it certainly won’t help in the timeframe we have available.’
‘Speaking of tracing,’ Ava said quietly, ‘thank you. I appreciate what you did in the Melanie Long case. I may have sealed my own fate as far as my job is concerned, but it was the right thing to do. Tell Ben how much I appreciate it, will you?’
‘How did you know?’ Callanach asked. ‘I asked Ben not to involve you.’
‘Detective Sergeant Graham brought me the text messages Ben got from the mobiles. They led us to a witness who wasn’t physically involved, but who is prepared to give a statement about what she knows. By now we should have at least two of the boys in custody, and Pax will be executing search warrants that should also give us Noah Alby-Croft. Not that it’s my case any more, but at least I can walk away knowing justice was done.’
‘DS Graham?’ Callanach asked. ‘I asked Ben to send whatever he found to Lively.’
‘Lively?’
‘Ma’am, sir,’ Tripp called to them. ‘Could you come and have a look at this?’
They followed him through into a tiny space – no more than a large closet – set into one wall of the chapel. Previously, looking at the old wrought-iron hook on the wall, it would have provided an area for the priest to have prepared and hung his garments. Now, there was a noticeboard, a small safe and a bin. Tripp, gloved and suited, pointed to the bin.
‘There were a few notices in there – times and dates for Bible study, plans for community events and a church-cleaning roster.’ He held up a crumpled piece of paper. There were six names on it. ‘These people all have access to the church at any time.’
‘But the estate owners said there’s only one key for the main door and that it’s handed to their housekeeper on a Sunday evening and collected again the following Saturday morning,’ Ava said.
‘That’s right,’ Tripp said. ‘But there’s a second door.’ He walked to a large tapestry and pulled it back, revealing a newer door with a modern lock. ‘The estate had
loaned them this key previously, but the current arrangement is that the key to this door isn’t given out at all. I’ve spoken with the good shepherd Mr Ashton. He confirms that the people on the cleaning roster actually do have copies of that key – made, he says, in case the main exit was not accessible in a fire.’
‘They all have keys?’ Ava asked.
‘That’s right. There are currently six church group key-holders with permanent access to this building. Vince Ashton didn’t tell us about it at first because he was aware he was in breach of his agreement with the estate owners and didn’t want them to revoke his rental.’
‘Right,’ Ava said. ‘Get addresses. Hopefully Mr Ashton will help us with those given that he withheld other useful information. Have the incident room find out if any of the properties has a dark-coloured minivan registered to them.’ She scanned the list. ‘No Sam or Samuel on the list, though. Three men and three women. We’ll start with the men. Callanach, you take Matthew Yeats. I’ll start at Jacob Lesser’s house. Tripp, take another team and search Paul Moseley’s. Make sure no phone calls are made unless they express a desire to call their lawyer, and then I want numbers verified before those calls are made. Police officers must dial for them. Uniformed officers are to remain in each house with every person on the list until they are all cleared of involvement. Let’s go.’
Forty-five minutes later, three front doors were knocked at the same time. At each house, officers stood guard at the back doors. Garages, loft spaces and a basement were searched. Children were lifted from their beds, bemused and crying. Ava’s presence was met with a hard silence. Tripp was greeted with warm helpfulness. Callanach was called a variety of names that suggested the homeowner was no lover of the immigrant population. But no evidence was found to suggest that any of the girls had been known to any of the householders. No dark minivan was found. Tripp called Callanach, who called Ava.
‘Nothing,’ Callanach reported. ‘They’re all expressing genuine shock at the suggestion the perpetrator could be anything to do with their group. I think you’d probably call it righteous indignation, but it seems real.’
‘Fine. We’ll have to check the women on the list anyway,’ Ava said.
‘Tripp was told by Vince Ashton that Violet Parks is in her seventies and was hospitalised last week with flu. The incident room has since verified that information with the hospital and we sent a uniformed squad to her address. It’s a flat in supported housing. She lives alone. No access to outbuildings and no living relatives, apparently.’
‘That’s one less to check on then. It’s six fifty now. Send Tripp and a full backup unit to whoever’s next on the list and we’ll take the last. Text me the address, I’ll meet you there,’ Ava said.
Ava pulled her car up at the side of the road. She could see Callanach inside his own vehicle, poring over a map. She bolted from her car, coat over her head to avoid the drenching rain.
‘Where the hell is this house? I’ve lived in Edinburgh most of my life and I swear I’ve never felt this lost before,’ she said.
‘The directions said that it was on an unnamed road off the A71, south of Livingston and west of Kirknewton. The postcode doesn’t seem to be helping,’ Callanach said.
‘This is definitely not the sort of woman who gets a lot of mail-order deliveries,’ Ava said.
‘She must get some post, though, right? I’ll get the incident room to speak with the postal service. Perhaps they’ll be able to guide us there.’ Callanach phoned through as Ava got Vince Ashton on the line.
‘No joy,’ Callanach said eventually, after the incident room had called him back. ‘Post for this address goes to a PO box in Livingston.’
‘And Vince Ashton has never been to this address,’ Ava said, ‘although apparently Rachel Jerome has been a church member for some years. He says she’s a widow whose husband died before she moved to this area.’
‘So she lives alone, as far as we know, is extremely religious and doesn’t want the convenience of having her post brought to her door. Why do I already get the impression she might be less than chatty when we turn up? She’s got to be here somewhere. Leave your car here and we’ll go in mine. You look, I’ll drive. This bloody rain isn’t helping.’
They set off again, peering between the trees that rendered one side of the road in complete shadow, checking the ground for tyre tracks and bemoaning the dull grey skies.
‘Do you think Caroline’s still alive?’ Callanach asked as they searched for signs of life.
‘If she is, and her captor is anything to do with this church, she won’t be for much longer. It’s ten to seven now. I can’t gag everyone whose houses we’ve searched today for more than a couple of hours, given that we’ve nothing to charge them with. By lunchtime, every single member of the Children of the Word will know what’s happened. Honestly, if Caroline is still alive, I very much doubt she will be by the end of the day.’
Chapter Forty-Three
The man shook Caroline awake. She stared at him through the groggy haze of exhaustion and dehydration, incomprehension followed by a gasp of panic and a desperate attempt to sit up. She cried out, the bindings on her ankles and wrists having produced sores and swelling.
‘Stay still,’ he muttered, as he slid his hand beneath the blankets and her gown to smear more cream across her abdomen.
‘Water,’ she croaked, closing her eyes again and looking away.
‘In a minute,’ he snapped, ‘if you make it easy for me to touch your back.’
All thought of rebellion was dormant. Caroline wanted only two things. The first was a drink to quench the throbbing ache in her throat. The second was to survive unhurt for just a little longer. Just another day. She used her fading strength to arch her back, shuddering as his hands slid across the tops of her buttocks and upwards along her spine. When he was done, he lifted a cup with a straw to the side of her mouth and let her sip.
‘We’re going to pray this morning,’ he said.
Caroline frowned, shaking her head. ‘What … what did you say?’ she whispered.
‘Going to pray. You need to repent, to be saved.’ He set the cup on a bench and smoothed down Caroline’s blankets.
‘Why would we pray? You’re going to kill me,’ she said, wide-eyed, her policy of avoiding eye contact suddenly ridiculously outdated. She was going to die. Not looking at the man who would kill her wasn’t going to change that.
‘Not me,’ he muttered, wiping his hands on a rag then dropping it on the floor. ‘I never killed anyone.’
‘Samson, what did I tell you about talking to them?’ a woman asked sharply from the doorway.
Caroline stared at her. She was younger than the man by a few years. Her hair looked recently cut and styled. Where his was showing substantial amounts of grey, hers was a deep brunette, pixie short, neat and well defined. Her face was angular but not harsh, and her eyes shone. In her right hand she held a heavy book, the pages edged with gold. Holding it aloft, she smiled at Caroline.
‘As Luke taught us, Jesus said, “It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick. I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners, to repentance.” I want only to save you, Caroline. You have transgressed. Allowing yourself to be touched by a man of a different race, of different skin. Are you not ashamed?’
Caroline’s heart froze in her chest. Blood rushed to her cheeks, the first warmth she’d felt in hours. Clenching her fists and her jaws, she screeched.
‘Fuck you! Fuck your filthy, racist, disgusting, pathetic, diseased minds. You stand before me with a Bible and spew this hatred? How dare you? If you’re going to kill me, you’d better get on with it, because I’m not going to let you have one single second of peace.’ She glared at Rachel then opened her mouth and began to scream, letting the sound fade and die before taking another breath and starting again.
‘No one can hear you. Our closest neighbour is a mile away. But go ahead and lose your voice. The Lord guides us all. Eventually his ligh
t will touch you, too, whether you choose to feel it or not,’ Rachel cooed.
‘You’re monsters. Psychopaths. You’re worse than other psychopaths, because you do this pretending to be Christians.’
‘I’m going back to the house.’ Rachel smiled to Samson. ‘Don’t touch this demon again today. And remove her blankets. We’ll see if she feels more like receiving God’s grace when she’s a little colder.’
‘Go to hell,’ Caroline shouted.
‘Spoken like a true follower of Satan,’ Rachel said, making the sign of the cross in the air as she left.
Caroline stared at the man. ‘So you just do everything she says? You let her control you? What sort of man are you? That crazy bitch is the one who killed the other girls, isn’t she?’ There was no answer. ‘Isn’t she?’
‘Sometimes I do things she doesn’t like,’ Samson said. ‘I try not to let her find out. When she finds out, I have to pray a lot and punish myself. It hurts.’
Caroline stared at him.
‘You want me to show you the things I do that she doesn’t like? You might like them. I’d enjoy showing you.’ He grinned.
‘No. That’s okay,’ Caroline muttered, the look on his face raising a tide of nausea in her stomach. ‘I don’t want to see.’
‘Maybe you should. Maybe then you’d learn to be a good girl,’ he whispered, leaning over her again.
Caroline turned her head away and closed her eyes. ‘I’ll be a good girl right now,’ she said. ‘I’ll be quiet. Please, just leave me alone.’