Reprobation

by Catherine Fearns

  The record covers abounded with religious imagery but the overriding theme was always that of a dark figure holding a double-headed axe in front of a wrought-iron gate. She looked up some of the lyrics, which were peppered with expletives and sexual references, but also with quotations from the Bible, from St. Augustine, even from the Canons of Dort. This person had done a lot of theological research, with a particular focus on Calvinist doctrine. How fascinating, she thought. Why is God drawing me towards this? Today there had been too many signs and wonders, and she was overwhelmed. It was long past midnight now, so Helen shut down the web browser and, without really knowing why, she cleared her browser history before turning off the computer and the lights and going back to bed.

  She was still unable to settle, the images of the day flashing past her closed eyelids like an old movie projector; a crucifix, a symbol carved in blood, that expression of unimaginable horror and sadness on the corpse’s face, despite his closed eyes. The detectives and their odd manner; the Deaconess at her shoulder, touching her arm; the band members staring out at her with their heavily-charcoaled eyes that attempted to bore into her soul. And then other images, the ones for which her whole life was a penance.

  This would be one of those nights, she knew, when sleep would not come. She had learned to accept it. It was always this time of the month, it seemed; when she was never quite dry down below, and she would writhe and yearn and her hands would slip down towards her thighs. But she would stop herself; her fingers would grip the sheets and she would pray and wait in patient frustration for the dawn light.

  2.

  The next morning Crosby police station was alive with the buzz of hushed urgency as Detective Inspector Darren Swift came striding in, take-away coffee, bacon sandwich and files in hand. Things were moving and he had a new sense of purpose; perhaps he wasn’t going to screw up his first murder investigation after all. DC Colette Quinn followed him through the desks to the front of the room with her facial expression steeled against the inevitable jocular whispers of ‘Go ’ed Colette!’ She stood next to Darren as he faced his new handful of staff, mustering as much confident authority as he could.

  ‘Right, can I have everyone’s attention please? Lads? Right, as you know we’ve got a category B homicide on Crosby beach, Merseyside Police want to keep things in the area for now, so the murder investigation is going to happen from here. You can basically treat this whole station as the incident room.’ There were murmurs and mutterings and a few arms raised, but he put his hands up to quell any questions and continued.

  ‘I’ll be the Senior Investigative Officer on this case. For those of you who don’t know me, my name is DI Darren Swift; I grew up in Crosby and started off at this station ten years ago, so I recognise a few faces.’ He nodded and smiled awkwardly as a few hands waved at him: ‘Alright Dazza. Nice to have you back Swifty.’

  ‘I was down at the Met for a while, and more recently on Vice at Canning Place. DC Quinn here will be my deputy—’

  At this there were more murmurings of ‘Wahey, nice one, Colette.’

  ‘…and we’ll continue assigning tasks at the end of this meeting, but thanks everyone for a great start.’ Swift was inwardly buoyed by the general atmosphere of support, but behind the banter he knew that everyone felt the seriousness of the situation: ‘Lads, this is a murder, bit of respect, OK. We’ve already made significant progress – Quinn, do you want to fill everyone in on what we do know?’

  Colette cleared her throat and stepped forward. It was bizarre to hear her own voice speaking out to her peers:

  ‘Right, Forensics and Path were on fire yesterday, so this is what we’ve got already: Missing Persons brought up a probable ID on the body, which was formally identified last night. The victim’s name is Jason Hardman, aged twenty, lived with his mum and brother in Seaforth. He spent a year at Tomlinson Young Offenders Institution aged seventeen for drugs offences, but has been in the clear since and worked as a barman at Zeus. That’s the gay club on Seel Street for those of you who don’t know. He was reported missing by his family a month ago, and was last seen at work the same day.’

  ‘Anything on social media?’ someone asked.

  ‘He had an open Facebook page but he wasn’t very active on it and last posted over a month ago, nothing significant so far. Mobile phone records and other social media will be the next stage.’

  ‘Do we have a cause of death?’

  ‘We do. Cause of death strangulation, and no sign of struggle so it’s consistent with him being sedated in some way, although we’re still waiting on the toxicology results. There are…’ – and here she read carefully from the pathology report – ‘significant needle marks on both arms, which do not look consistent with drug use but with medical treatment, since they were carefully rather than crudely done. The carving of an upside down axe on the forehead was done with a sharp instrument.’ As Quinn said this, Swift was putting up photos of the body, and as the team took in the gruesome sight, there were audible shudders and a noticeable darkening of mood. Swift could feel that Quinn was tiring of her public performance, so he stepped in to help her out.

  ‘Unfortunately the tide came in between the body being placed and discovered, which has wiped any decent traces of footprints or tyre tracks, and presumably this was intentional. One priority is to figure out how they got the body there – in theory a car could have driven down the ramp and onto the beach, but it’s also feasible that someone strong could have dragged the cross down there from the car park. No fingerprints have been found yet. Whoever it was, was very careful indeed. Right… so there’s a lot to go on. Questions? Thoughts? Theories?’

  ‘Could one person have put up that cross though?’ someone asked.

  ‘That’s a really good question. Unlikely. It points to a team effort, and very likely a male, due to the height involved. We’d need to do a reconstruction at some point, but we can’t do that without making a huge show of ourselves. We need to be careful. Actually that’s another point.’ As new parameters came exploding to hit him, Swift felt that he was making this up as he went along, and hoped that was not coming across too clearly to his team: ‘Community and media liaison – Tracey that’s you – this needs to be handled really carefully. The CSIs had the site covered by sheeting very quickly, but those dog-walkers that discovered the body – you should assume they are going to talk to the Crosby Herald, maybe even the Echo, may have done so already. So get on to the papers and tell them not to report any details of the crime scene. Then I need you down at the site with the uniforms to answer questions from passers-by.’

  ‘Question… are we not closing the beach?’

  ‘No, that’s the worst thing we could do. Keep it on the down-low, I’ve been told. Another Place is a big tourist attraction, it’s a weird crime, there’s no need to panic people.’

  ‘Maybe a stupid question, but why are we not releasing details of… the crucifixion?’

  ‘Same reason – to avoid panic. And because whoever put the body there was showing off. Why did they want it revealed? Warnings like that are almost always drug-related, so let’s get on to Titan and see if they know about anything going down in Crosby.’

  A hand went up, and Swift pointed in its direction. ‘Yes. Dave isn’t it?’

  ‘What’s Titan?’

  ‘North West Organised Crime Unit. Jesus, how long have you been here?’

  ‘Two weeks.’

  ‘Oh right. Fair enough. Baptism of fire, eh?’ For both of us, thought Darren.

  ‘What about the quotation and the carving?’ someone asked.

  ‘Could be gang-related, and again, Titan might be able to help. We’re going to look into visitors to that Calvinist convent in Formby, because apparently,’ – here he shrugged, looking unconvinced – ‘the Biblical quotation had something to do with Calvinism or whatever. But I think it’s tangential in that the locality of the convent may have inspired the killer to use religion to throw us off the scent. Let’s fo
cus on facts – all this religious stuff is only relevant if it relates to forensic evidence and motive. Those timber planks didn’t fit in a car. Dave, see if you can find any vans in the area that night. The nearest CCTV will have been at Hall Road Station – let’s hope whoever it was drove that way. And then let’s contact timber yards, there aren’t that many.’

  Swift could feel himself becoming vague; it was time to wrap up the meeting and start focusing on the next steps.

  ‘Right, Quinn and I are heading over to Seaforth to search Jason Hardman’s house and interview friends and neighbours. HOLMES team carry on, Door-to-Door carry on, and could the rest of you get onto Tinder, or Grinder, or whatever it is, and see if you can find out who Jason met last?’

  Swift sighed inwardly as this was met with a barrage of jokes and banter.

  ‘Eeyarh, put Dave on that, he’s already got a Grinder account…’

  ‘He’s their best customer!’

  ‘Boss?’ Dave put up his hand. ‘How do we do that?’

  ‘Right you need to contact Merseyside Police head office and find out who their SPoC is.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Single Point of Contact with the CSPs.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Communication Service Providers. For fuck’s sake. Don’t let me down people.’

  Swift was out of his depth like one of the bronze men on the beach, the tide rising up to engulf him. But unlike the figures on the beach that stood firm and implacable, he felt an ominous sense of panic. The blind leading the blind, he thought. Come on, you can do this.

  ***

  Jason Hardman’s family home was a red-brick terraced house on Curran Street in Seaforth, one of the veins of Liverpool through which its working-class lifeblood had flowed since the eighteenth century. Each of these streets seemed to flow towards the docks, where the ghosts of prosperity stalked on blue metal legs. Curran Street ended at the roaring flyover, beyond which the tanks of Seaforth Cornmills, piles of rusty Maersk and Hainan shipping containers and giant yellow gantry cranes, crowded the horizon. It was a street where every house looked the same, two windows and a door; occasionally a shared alleyway. Each dwelling was given character by the level of pride put into the frontispieces and tiny gardens. Some were drug dens, with piles of rubble outside, boarded windows, graffiti. Others were scruffy student houses, wheelie bins overflowing, bicycles optimistically chained to the railings. This one was immaculately kept, a miniature citadel of fierce pride in the midst of dilapidation. In the cramped front room dominated by a ruched leather sofa suite and a flat screen TV, every surface was littered with family photos: holy communions, weddings, holidays, nights out – artefacts of love. Mrs Hardman sat comforted by her other son. Swift and Quinn sat on matching armchairs either side of the fireplace, awkwardly clutching cups of tea. Everything was infused with nicotine, and Mrs Hardman’s hand shook as she balanced her cigarette over the ashtray. Above the electric fireplace hung a wooden crucifix, which nobody had yet thought to take down.

  Swift began. ‘Mrs Hardman, I know this is a terrible time for you, but we need to find who did this as quickly as possible. Did your son have any enemies? Anyone to whom he owed money?’

  ‘No, no, nothing. I mean I know he got up to some hi-jinks in the past, he was no angel, but he was just a lovely, lovely lad. Especially since he got out of Tomlinson; that place was great for him. He had his whole life ahead… he was saving to go to university…’ She broke down and was silently comforted by her son.’

  ‘Jason was at Tomlinson Detention Centre for a spell two years ago; did he keep in touch with anyone from there?’

  ‘None of the inmates, no. He wasn’t friends with any of them. He really wanted a fresh start when he got out. Absolutely no drugs at all, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘There was that teacher though,’ ventured her son.

  Mrs Hardman nodded. ‘That’s right, yeah.’

  ‘Teacher?’

  ‘He started taking A-levels in there and he really enjoyed the science, you know, he was very taken with the teacher. He wasn’t in there long enough to sit the exam, so they kept in touch afterwards. He used to go over for lessons and then he took A-level Biology. Got a B as well.’

  ‘Go over? To the detention centre?’

  ‘No, to the teacher’s place.’

  ‘Do you know where that was?’

  ‘No. He was an adult, we didn’t keep tabs on him.’

  ‘Did your son have a boyfriend, Mrs Hardman?’

  ‘Not that we knew of. Nobody who came over. But he kept his personal life to himself really. And with working in a nightclub his hours were, you know, irregular, he was often out all night.’

  Colette’s eyes wandered to the mantelpiece above the fireplace. ‘That’s him in the Communion photo isn’t it? He was so handsome. Was he religious himself, Mrs Hardman?’

  Mrs Hardman looked at them, stirred suddenly, and she and her son released each other from their comforting clutch. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Well… because of the nature of the crime scene…’

  ‘He had started talking about it. A bit. About Heaven and Hell. About how he needed to change. He wouldn’t go into it, but we just couldn’t imagine… He’s always been so happy with himself, and so were we – weren’t we?’ She broke down in tears.

  ‘Did he go to a church?’ asked Swift. But Mrs Hardman just shook her head, buried in her son’s embrace.

  ‘I think me mum’s had enough for today,’ he implored.

  Swift wished he was better at this; expressing sympathy didn’t come naturally to him, and he was relieved that the newly-appointed Family Liaison Officer would soon arrive. He and Quinn left the family to their grief and went to look around Jason’s bedroom upstairs with gloved hands. The room still smelled of his aftershave. There was no laptop or phone to be found. Other than the usual young man’s paraphernalia – toiletries, dance music magazines, clothes – only two items stood out. On his bedside table, in pride of place, a navy leather book, embossed in gold with the words ‘Holy Bible.’ The book was hard-backed but clearly well-thumbed. And in the drawer of this bedside table, amongst packets of paracetamol and Lemsip, keys and nightclub flyers, was a packet of Dexamethasone.

  ‘Dexamethasone?’ said Swift. ‘That’s a steroid, right? Bag that up.’

  ***

  ‘All of us are sinners. All people are conceived in sin and are born children of wrath, unfit for any saving good. Inclined to evil! Dead in their sins! Slaves to sin! Without the grace of the regenerating Holy Spirit they are neither willing nor able to return to God, to reform their distorted nature, or even to dispose themselves to such reform. I say again, All of Us Are Sinners!’

  This last sentence was said with such venom and volume that several members of the congregation who were sitting in the front pews visibly recoiled. Deaconess Margaret Mills always began her Wednesday evening sermons from the pulpit, in a gentle voice tinged with a hint of menace. She would build gradually, moving from the pulpit to the floor, a crescendo of portentous threats as her whole body would come into play. She was a natural performer, with eyes widening and narrowing at just the right moments, catching individuals so that they wanted to look away in shame but couldn’t. Her voice would range from ominous low to shrieking high, the gentle Northern accent sounding impossibly grand in this part of the world. There was no comfort to be had from her sermons, only the fear of God struck into one’s heart, and this was the appeal. For the residents, for the visitors, for Helen. Most of the congregation loved the firebrand thrill of the performance, the horror-film quality of the fear. But for Helen the fear was real, visceral. She craved this punishment, this constant, caustic reminder of her sin. After some more fire and brimstone, the Deaconess softened and brought kindness, a sweet manipulation for her audience.

  ‘Yes, all of us are sinners. And nothing brings the beauty of Jesus Christ to sinful people, believers and unbelievers alike, as powerfully as God’s own Script
ures. The Scriptures are the basis of our teaching, of our Gospel, for the word of God is the only word. And we do not question the word of God. From this comes our happiness.’

  She smiled for a moment then suddenly, spectacularly, turned up the anger again.

  ‘And to those who complain about this grace of an undeserved election and about the severity of a just reprobation, we reply with the words of the apostle: ‘Who are you, O man, to talk back to God?’

  Hey eyes were wild now and ranged from one person to the next in fury. St. Michael’s Church was small, more of a chapel than a church, having been built originally to serve only the Argarmeols family and their employees. There was no division between the nave and chancery, and no room for aisles flanking the nave at its edges. Therefore there was no escaping the Deaconess’s wrath as she stalked the pews, allowing herself to be an eager vessel for the bitter rage of the Calvinist God. The majesty of this church interior lay in its exaggerated height; in typical Victorian Gothic style it had been built to aspire to the sky, drawing the eye upwards and reminding the worshipper how very far above him his God was to be found.

  ‘God’s plan cannot be changed; God’s promise cannot fail; the calling according to God’s purpose cannot be revoked!’

  She sighed with theatrical exhaustion, closing her eyes and raising her hands in supplication, before wringing them and returning to the pulpit. She was disappointed with her flock, this rabble of hopeless candidates for Heaven. She looked from one face to the next, expectant. The Deaconess taught religious education part-time in a local private school, and Helen, sitting in her usual position on the front pew, sometimes amused herself at the thought of the terror she must instil in those teenagers.