Pilgrim

by Devon De'Ath

  The cat loving officer’s male companion, PC Blake, took Bill aside to ask a few more questions. “Have you and Miss Lambert been together long?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have any idea if anyone bore a grudge against her? A previous boyfriend or partner?”

  Bill scratched his head. “Not that I’m aware. Vicky’s a driven career girl. Not a big one for relationships.” He caught a raised eyebrow as PC Blake jotted down items of interest in his pocket notebook. “What I’m saying is: I don’t think it’s an ex-partner. We sort of fell into our present association out of the blue. Unusual for her.” He attempted to assuage any suspicion with his characteristic humour. “Someone up there must like me, hey?” It was bullshit. They weren’t an item. But Bill hoped to carry it off as an explanation and avoid further probes.

  PC Blake remained neutral. “A burglar killing a woman’s cat, then arranging it for her to find? I’ve dealt with some nasty pieces of work, but this one takes the biscuit. Are you sure she’s experienced no threats nor mentioned concerns about someone stalking her?”

  Bill shifted on the spot. “Do you know DS Tony Quarry?”

  “I’ve met him once or twice. Why do you ask?”

  “Vicky and I filed a report with him about a murder we witnessed, the day we met.”

  PC Blake blinked and almost dropped his PNB. “Murder? Do you have a crime report number?”

  “No. From what I understand, there’s some dispute about the accuracy of our statements, even though they tally. I’m awaiting an update. So far you've uncovered no evidence to corroborate our story. No body, either.”

  “What does that have to do with this break-in?”

  “I’ve suffered two break-ins myself. One at my office, the other at home. I can give you crime report numbers for those, if you’d like. Vicky was looking out for the wayward teenage daughter of an acquaintance, when we stumbled upon the murder. Or ‘alleged murder,’ as far as you guys are concerned. It appears the perpetrators of our allegations have discovered our identities.”

  PC Blake paused. His suspicious expression revealed an obvious deep scan of Bill’s face. One prudent perusal to assess whether he was having his leg pulled. “I’ll have a chat with DS Quarry. If he wishes to link this incident with his investigation, he’ll make that judgement call.”

  Bill slouched, happy there was nothing further to offer for now. “Fair enough.”

  Later that afternoon, Bill helped Vicky dig a pit next to her favourite rose bush in the back garden. They laid the slain animal in a comfortable box, along with his favourite toy - a fluffy ball with eyes. Vicky remembered when she first brought the abused tabby home. It took a while for him to grow in confidence. But once he understood his new owner would never hurt him, she became a best friend for life. Vicky thought back to unwrapping the fluffy ball for him during their first Christmas, as if Chuckles were her child. They’d played together with it on the living room carpet for ages, the cat springing from side to side with newfound excitement.

  Vicky reached into the makeshift coffin to touch his damaged ear and stroke his head one last time. Soft words of anguish caught in her throat. “All those people have ever done is harm the things I love. First my biological family. Now my only remaining family.” Her cheeks reddened. “I want to take the fight to them, Bill. I’ve had enough of being their victim. Enough of hiding in shadows, scared of discovery.”

  Bill helped her close the lid and lift the box into the pit. “The fact we’re both still breathing, suggests they’re cautious about blatant murder. There’d be too many public questions. That doesn’t mean they won’t attempt to make something appear like an accident, if we keep pushing. If you want to take the gloves off, it might serve us well to dig our own graves in advance.”

  Vicky scowled. “I’m not afraid.”

  Bill remained calm and soft of voice. “I’m not saying you are. But if our adversaries are well-connected enough to cost Philip Stokes his job without appeal, there’s no reason to think they can’t rain down loss upon us both. You don’t know what it’s like on the streets. I’d rather not go back.”

  Vicky bristled. “Are you saying this is where we part company?”

  “No. I owe those bastards some payback, too. Not as much as you, but I intend to see it through, regardless. Just be sure you’re ready to sacrifice everything you’ve got left. This will be a fight with powerful shadows. One we’ve not much chance of winning.” He stepped back from the edge of the pit. “Do you want me to leave you alone for a moment?”

  Vicky shook her head. “No, it’s okay. We’d best fill this in now.”

  Bill set to work tipping shovelfuls of earth onto the box below. Three minutes later, the top of Chuckles’ coffin disappeared from view.

  Vicky pulled out the mobile phone she’d switched off to avoid distractions. “Nuts, I didn’t call Martha.”

  Bill spoke as he continued to shovel earth. “Someone's informed her about the vandalism by now, I’m sure.”

  A voicemail alert chimed on Vicky’s phone. She paced across the garden, listening to the recording with the slim device clamped to her head. She disconnected and turned to Bill. “That was a message from Martha. She sounds concerned for our welfare. I’d best give her a bell.”

  Bill finished filling in the hole. “Tell her we’ll both be round in half an hour. If you and I are partners in this endeavour, I should meet her.”

  Vicky stopped beside the covered hole, her eyes never leaving it as she phoned Martha.

  Bill put the shovel away in her garden shed, catching nuggets of the conversation from Vicky’s end.

  “No, I’m okay. The… The intruders killed my cat.”

  A gasp of terror in response - compressed into the mobile phone’s bandwidth - was still audible across the garden.

  Vicky took a deep breath. “I’m sorry I got delayed calling you. Bill and I were going to tell you about the spray paint, first thing. If it’s okay, we’ll drop the keys round.” She listened. “Yes. We saw him. No, we're certain it was a him, based on some err… residue he left behind on the wall. You know: the intimate, male kind.” Another gasp crackled in the speaker, causing Vicky to hold the handset away from her ear for a moment. “Bill and I disturbed the figure in the undercroft, but he got away. I took some pictures of the vandalism with my phone. Bill’s camera broke.” She winced upon catching a faint smile creasing Bill’s lips. “Okay. We’ll be round soon.”

  “Vicky, I’m so glad you’re okay.” The genuine and sympathetic expression on Martha Tomlinson’s face reassured them she bore no ill will over their late contact. Martha embraced Vicky, then peeped across her shoulder at Bill.

  Vicky nudged him. “This is Bill Rutherford. He’s the one helping me out.”

  Martha shook Bill’s hand. “Pleased to meet you. If you don’t mind, we need to keep our voices down. My husband, Andrew, is taking a Sunday afternoon nap in his chair.”

  Vicky grinned. “Too much excellent food?” She remembered Andrew was stick thin, unlike his wife. For all that, this wasn’t a house where anyone would starve, thanks to the gentle homemaker who acted as matriarch.

  Martha’s bubbly nature subsided. “It was a quiet Sunday lunch, today. Not that Katie said much in recent months, the few times she was here.”

  Bill shut the front door with a delicate click, to avoid disturbing the man of the house. “Katie hasn’t been home since she left?”

  “No.” Martha led them through to the kitchen. “Can I fix you anything? A drink or snack?”

  Vicky batted the question aside. “No, thank you. We won’t stop long and disturb your Sunday.” She pulled the manor gate and undercroft keys from her pocket. “There you go.”

  Martha sighed. “It’s a shame the vandal got away. I’d like to give him an earful about defacing our heritage.” She hesitated, unsure how to phrase her follow-on question. “Do you think he’s anything to do with Katie’s crowd?”

  Vicky shot Bill a glance.
He nodded and shrugged as if to say: What could it hurt?

  Vicky cleared her throat. “It appears so, from what we know about the group. Has anyone at the manor photographed the damage? You’re welcome to copies of mine, if you’d like me to e-mail them?”

  Martha brightened. “Would you? After this second incident, I’m going to draft an advisory for managers at all UK Templar related sites to remain vigilant. I’ll include the images for reference.”

  Bill leaned against a kitchen worktop. “Are there many sites?”

  “Quite a few. The most famous is Temple Church in London. I know these images will interest Professor Henry Faust, who works there. They get all kinds of weirdos, from treasure hunters to conspiracy theorists misbehaving at their place, from time to time. Worse, since certain novels and films made the Templars more mainstream than before.”

  Vicky brought up an e-mail app on her phone to attach the images and send to Martha. “I’ll bet. What about local sites?”

  Martha considered the question. “As the crow flies, Cressing Temple in Essex is the nearest. Also one of the largest in England.”

  Bill folded his arms. “Sounds like a juicy target for our man.”

  Martha’s brow creased. “Do you think Cressing Temple is in immediate danger?”

  Vicky eyed Bill. “He was speculating, Martha.” She clicked ‘Send.’ “There you go. Now you can circulate the warning to all site managers. Better safe than sorry.”

  “Thank you. What a terrible ordeal you must have experienced today. First an uncomfortable night at the manor in Strood, and then to come home and find…” Her voice faded. “A burglary is bad enough, but who would do such an inhumane thing?”

  Vicky fought the urge to say, ‘Your daughter is a likely candidate.’ Martha’s heart already lay in pieces over the situation with Katie. None of this was the poor woman’s fault. “We’d best be getting along. I’m sorry we couldn’t apprehend your vandal, Martha. We’ve no description of the perpetrator to offer, either. Not other than the hooded, monk-type figure you’ve already heard about. Neither Bill nor I got a look at his face.”

  Martha showed them the door. “You tried. Either way, you’ve confirmed the validity of that report from the gentleman in Dover. Now I have something concrete to pass round about this hooded nuisance.” She coughed. “You said he was relieving himself?”

  Vicky lingered near the door. “Sexually, yes. He got away after Bill and I disturbed him as he finished.”

  Martha flushed. “He sounds like one sick individual.”

  Bill stepped outside and turned. “I’d recommend you warn your contacts to be careful about approaching him. Vicky and I weren’t harmed. Winded and shaken, yes, but okay. Mentally ill people like that can be dangerous, whether or not they intend it.”

  Vicky studied Bill’s professional expression for a moment, her eyes revealing a glint of appreciation for his tact. “I concur, Martha.”

  Martha held the door between uneasy hands. “I'll forward that on. Shall I CC you the message? If you think it needs an amendment, I’ll send a follow-up.”

  “Thanks. Stay in touch if you learn anything new or hear about more incidents.”

  Martha closed the door. The pair got into Vicky’s car for a return trip to Allington.

  “Are you going to be okay?” Bill paused, one hand on the internal front passenger door handle of the Audi. The pair sat parked outside Vicky’s house.

  “I may cry a bit.” Vicky’s eyelids fluttered. “Okay, I may cry a lot. But I’ll get there, Bill. I’m a survivor.”

  Bill pulled the handle. “I’ve no argument with that." He hopped out, shut the door and paced towards his Skoda as she followed. “Call you tomorrow after work?”

  “I’d like that.” Vicky watched him get into the car and drive off. Then she went indoors. Home to a house in which she’d never felt so alone, nor so vulnerable.

  8

  Hitting the Road

  “Vicky, Suzie’s called in sick. Would you mind accompanying me to the quarterly Finance and Procurement meeting over at Invicta?” Jayne Robinson brushed errant strands of nut-brown hair from her face. Tired grey eyes peeked out beneath a fire-brush type fringe.

  Vicky had a soft spot for her boss. Jayne always dealt her a fair hand in dishing out work. If the manager appeared stressed, it was because of balancing a propensity towards kindness for her staff while ensuring the department churned out an impossible work quota. Reconciling the two was like attempting to bridge an ever-widening gap with your body. Eventually you’d have to let go of one side, or fall into the abyss below.

  Vicky secured her computer. “Of course.” She fidgeted in her seat. “I’m not so good at taking minutes, if you need that.”

  Jayne adjusted the slipping shoulder strap of her handbag. “It’s okay. The Business Manager’s PA takes care of the minutes. She’ll circulate them afterwards. Suzie accompanies me in case any new proposals have an impact I’d overlook.”

  “Four ears are better than two?”

  Jayne smiled. “Yes. I’d hate to agree to something that drops all my people in a dark hole. I’m sure you’ll do fine.”

  Vicky grabbed her own bag. “Well, it’s a pleasant day outside. Shall we?”

  Jayne accompanied her to the door.

  The top floor conference room at Invicta House featured smart wood panelling and thick-pile carpets. Vicky noticed the difference, the moment her heels stepped in from the corridor. That transition buoyed her up, as if she’d walked from slums into a palace. In the centre of the room, broad, polished tables were arranged in a square. Chairs to accommodate twenty-four attendees ran six to a side. At the far end of the room, a dais with lav mic stood beside an impressive wide-screen TV, patched into the room’s IT connectivity.

  Near the thick double doors, abundant pastries, biscuits, urns of tea, coffee and jugs of juice and water rested side by side on a low table.

  Jayne Robinson made a beeline for a Danish and a glass of orange juice. She wasn’t overweight, but the big boned woman approached the refreshments as though they were long-lost friends. She waved a frantic hand for Vicky to join her. Vicky complied. Jayne sipped her drink. “Don’t stand on ceremony. Dive in. How often do you get a freebie on the council?”

  Vicky’s nose wrinkled. She poured herself a glass of water and selected a modest, shortbread biscuit from the catering pile.

  A rich, confident male voice sliced like a blade between the female colleagues. “Hello, Jayne. How are you?”

  Jayne wiped some pastry flakes from the corner of her mouth with a poorly manicured finger, the nail of which she'd chewed regularly. “Christopher. I’m well, thank you. Yourself?”

  “Full of the joys of the season. And who’s this lovely young lady you’ve brought with you? I was expecting Suzie.” He turned to Vicky who studied his toned, beefcake body and trunk-like neck with some uncertainty.

  Jayne put down her glass of OJ. “Suzie’s off sick today. This is Victoria Lambert, Suzie’s colleague. Vicky, meet Christopher Warwick, our Business Manager.”

  Vicky nodded a polite hello. An unusual light flickered behind Christopher’s eyes that caused fine hairs to raise on her skin. He kept his gaze fixed on her as he spoke. “Victoria Lambert.” Those words slid off his silvery tongue at a sluggish rate, like thick molasses. “I'm sure I’ve heard the name before.”

  Vicky remained silent.

  Christopher’s stare grew in intensity. “What’s the matter, Victoria? Cat got your tongue?”

  Was it her imagination or did he place greater emphasis on the word ‘cat’ than normal?

  Jayne peered around his shoulder to study her subordinate. “Are you okay, Vicky? It’s not like you to act coy.”

  Christopher’s posture eased back. His eyes softened. “Is this your first time at a Finance and Procurement meeting, Vicky?”

  The assumed use of her informal name jolted Vicky as if she’d stuck two fingers in a light socket. She had to say something
. “Yes.”

  “Well, don’t let the plush surroundings intimidate you. We’re quite laid back about our discussions, isn’t that right, Jayne?”

  Jayne nodded, caught halfway through sinking her teeth into a second Danish.

  Christopher’s cocky, lopsided smile set Vicky’s teeth on edge. He winked at her while addressing Jayne. “I must pay a visit to Social Services, one of these days. How many other examples of feminine splendour have you been hiding away from me?”

  Jayne rolled her eyes. Christopher Warwick had a way of using inappropriate and unprofessional terminology in the workplace towards the fairer sex. Yet he always got away with it. Whether this arose from charm, power, luck or a combination of all three, Jayne couldn’t decide. Either way, his comments were forty years past their ‘sell by date’ in a modern office.

  It was during his offhand compliment that Vicky noticed another woman lingering eight feet away. She stood clutching a pad to an understated chest with milky white arms. Long black hair drizzled over her shoulders. A pair of hazel eyes burrowing into Vicky’s head might ordinarily be described as playful. But another weird light danced behind the pupils, like those of her boss. Eyes that had seen or allowed in something Vicky couldn’t place her finger on, yet which felt eerily familiar.

  Christopher half turned to her as he poured himself a cup of strong, black coffee. “Aren’t you having anything today, Wendy?”

  Wendy shook her head.

  Christopher went on. “This is Vicky Lambert from Social Services. Vicky, meet my PA, Wendy Stokes.”

  That name brought a crushing emotional avalanche of realisation down upon Vicky. She tried not to let it show on her face, holding back the muscles to offer Wendy a closed-mouthed acknowledgement to the introduction. It’s Philip Stokes’ wife. Has to be. Which means these are the pair Bill followed to Hirsig House, the night we met. Her suspicions about Christopher’s emphasis on the word ‘cat,’ resurfaced. Could they know what happened to Chuckles? Were they involved in the crime, beyond guilt by association with the murderous cult?