by M. A. Hunter
‘I replaced the late Reverend Peter Saltzing, and he was the vicar here for’—she puffs out her cheeks—‘at least twenty years before he retired. It’s possible he might have heard of this… sorry, what was his name again?’
‘Chesney Byrne, but he may also have been known as Cormack Fitzpatrick.’
‘Yes, I’m sorry, but that name certainly doesn’t remind me of anyone specific within the parish.’
We thank her, and step away from the door as she closes it.
‘I guess we can go door-to-door next then,’ Rick suggests, leading us back along the path and through the cemetery back to the car.
‘Hold on,’ I say to him. ‘What if we’re looking at this all wrong, and the reason the postcode was etched into the image is because this was his final resting place? What if there’s a Chesney Byrne buried in the cemetery?’
Rick shrugs. ‘Well, as we’re here, there’s no harm in checking the gravestones. The cemetery isn’t very big, so it shouldn’t take too long.’
We split up, moving systematically from one gravestone to the next, reading the names, but there isn’t a plaque to a Chesney or anyone with the surname Byrne anywhere. We meet again in the middle, but it does seem this trip to Hayling Island has been a waste of our time.
But then a thought fires in the back of the mind, and I quickly begin scanning gravestones again, with Rick following clueless behind me.
‘What are you looking for?’ he exclaims. ‘I’ve checked all of these, and there is no Chesney Byrne.’
I can’t explain it, but when I find what I’m looking for, the breath catches in my throat. Even more so when I see the fresh bunch of flowers that has been laid on the grass beside the eroded stone.
‘What’s so special about this one?’ Rick asks, unable to read the weathered name on the tombstone.
I don’t respond at first, taking tentative steps towards the flowers, and instantly recoiling as I read the inscription on the card.
‘What is it?’ Rick asks, dumbfounded.
‘We need to call the local police immediately,’ I whisper. ‘I believe we may have found Chesney Byrne’s final resting place.’
I point at the date on the tombstone, which is a match to the one on the back of the photograph, and then I show Rick the card attached to the flowers, which reads:
Rest in peace, Chez.
Chapter Thirty
Now
Hayling Island, Hampshire
My mind is working overtime as I bang my hand against the door of the vicarage. Whoever left those flowers at the graveside could very well be the same person who sent me the image of Chesney/Cormack. Whether they intended to leave the postcode imprinted on the image remains unclear, but if their plan was to steer me towards this particular grave, why not write the postcode in ink like the name and date?
‘Hello again,’ the vicar says as she opens the door and recognises Rick and me from a few minutes earlier. ‘Was there something else I can help you with?’
‘Does the cemetery have any CCTV cameras that we could take a look at?’
She eyes the two of us suspiciously and grips the door tighter.
‘Some flowers have been left beside one of the gravestones,’ I continue, attempting to put her at ease, ‘and I really need to know who left them.’
Her eyes don’t leave Rick’s as she responds, ‘There isn’t any CCTV on the cemetery; we like to allow mourners their privacy.’
‘Would you have records of who is buried in a particular plot?’ I persevere. ‘Or when they were put there?’
She shelters behind the door. ‘What is this all about really? Who are the two of you?’
‘I’m a writer and investigative journalist,’ I tell her. ‘I have reason to believe that the young man we are looking for may have been buried in that grave, so that’s why I want to know when it was dug.’
The vicar narrows her eyes, studying my face. ‘Would you mind waiting for one moment?’ she asks, closing the door.
I look over to Rick who is moving from one foot to the other. ‘Am I being crazy?’ I ask. ‘The date on the gravestone is the same as the date on the image sent to me, and the flowers reference “Chez”, but could this just as easily be someone’s idea of a practical joke?’
He frowns. ‘A pretty twisted joke if it is.’
‘But I just keep thinking back to Tina Neville, and how we were all so willing to buy her story that Jo-Jo had been snatched, when all along she was just pretending. What if this is all someone else’s elaborate ruse to have me trekking across the country looking for false clues?’
‘There’s only really one way to know for certain.’
I’m grateful when the vicar returns and her nervous energy is gone. The smell of burnt incense hangs like a cloud above our heads, and reminds me of the vigils held in honour of Anna for those first few months after she left. I can’t even remember the last time I stepped inside a church. Maybe prayer is the one remaining avenue I’ve yet to explore.
The vicarage isn’t as I would have expected. Where I would have imagined seeing rickety old furniture and a home in desperate need of modernisation, instead I recognise several pieces from the IKEA catalogue. The walls have been recently painted, and are covered in framed artistic impressions of flowers and beaches.
‘I’m Victoria,’ she says after a moment, ‘and am known as Vicar Victoria locally.’ The grey streaks in her short bob glisten in the light flooding in through the large bay window in the main room. ‘So, back to your problem then: you believe that this young man you’re looking for could be buried in our cemetery here?’
‘Maybe,’ I reply. ‘He went missing from Gosport in 1996 having withdrawn all his savings, and was never seen nor heard of thereafter. Today I received the picture I showed you of him, but in that image he’s older than eleven – his age when he disappeared – which suggests he wasn’t killed back in 1996. On the back of the photo, whoever sent it wrote the date 19th January 2000. Looking through the cemetery, we came across a grave with that date of death, where someone has left a bunch of flowers with a card reading “RIP Chez”.’
‘I see,’ she says. ‘Well, I can tell you nobody has been buried in our cemetery since 2010, as it’s now full, but give me a moment and I will go and dig out the grave records, no pun intended.’
By the time Vicar Victoria returns, carrying a cardboard box on top of which sits a large leather-bound book, I’m convinced we’ve made a mistake in coming here, and that someone is using my obsession with Anna’s loss to lead me on a wild goose chase. And the most irritating part is that I allowed myself to succumb.
‘I’ve found the register of plots and graves,’ she says, lifting the large green leather-bound book and flicking it open. ‘It’s ordered by plot, by date of burial, and by name,’ she explains. ‘When they say we have to fill it in in triplicate, they really mean it.’ She chuckles to herself, and adjusts her glasses, beginning to flick through. ‘You said the date of death was January 2000?’
‘Yes, the 19th.’
She flicks through several pages. ‘Okay, I have a Jean-Claude Ribery who was interred the week after on Tuesday 25th January, which would probably tie in with the date of death. The next burial after that wasn’t until May of the same year.’
‘Does it say who oversaw the service?’ I ask.
‘Yes, hold on… Looks like it was my predecessor, the Reverend Peter Saltzing.’
‘Is there any further information about who attended, or who paid for the burial?’
‘No, I’m sorry. It was dealt with by one of the three funeral directors on the island. Grady’s is a family-run business. If you contact them they may be able to confirm more details for you. I have a business card of theirs around here somewhere that I can let you have.’
‘Thank you. Is your predecessor still around? You said he retired when you took over?’
Her face drops. ‘He passed away not long after he retired, I’m afraid. Left under a bit of a cloud, by
all accounts.’
My spidey-senses are tingling again.
‘In what way?’ I ask as casually as my growing excitement will allow.
‘Well, rumour had it that he had been involved with that boys’ home in the Midlands; you know, the one where there was all that business about abuse? There was a court case about it a couple of years ago.’
My blood runs cold, and I struggle to get the words out of my mouth. ‘You mean the St Francis Home for Wayward Boys?’
‘Yes, that’s the one. He was working there briefly as a pastor, providing spiritual guidance to the boys. I don’t think he was ever accused of being involved in what went on, but the fact that he was there at all and didn’t pick up on what was happening… Mud sticks, doesn’t it?’
Why does everything keep looping back to that place? Freddie’s comments about Pendark also echo in my head: I’d put money on there being more victims undiscovered there too.
‘After he died and I was having a proper clear-out, I found this box in the small loft above the kitchen. Some of Peter’s old things, I believe. It didn’t feel right to just throw them away, but I didn’t know what else to do with them.’
Part of me doesn’t want to look through the box, but I can’t stop myself reaching for it and sliding it across the carpet. When I lift the lid a musty bubble of damp seems to escape, and as I sift through, I see they are mainly framed pictures and newspaper articles. I pull one out when I read the name St Francis in the headline. I recognise Arthur Turgood standing beside a man in a dog collar and a younger man, the three of them beaming. I’m not sure how much longer I can keep my nausea at bay.
‘Would you mind if I borrowed these?’ I ask, determined to ask Freddie if he recognises Saltzing or the man laughing beside him.
‘You’re welcome to them,’ Victoria says, standing. ‘I’ll go and find you that business card for Grady’s.’
St Francis, Pendark, and Chesney / Cormack – it’s all related somehow, but I’ve never felt so out of my depth. There’s only one person who will understand the significance of what I’m holding, but as I unlock my phone, I see Jack is already calling me.
Moving to the bay window, turning my back on Rick, I press the phone to my ear. ‘Jack, you’re never going to believe—’
‘Emma, there’s something I need to tell you,’ he interrupts. ‘The remains in the suitcase aren’t Anna’s.’
It’s nearly four o’clock by the time we see Jack’s car drive past the bay window of the vicarage and park up. He is in a state of confusion as he rings the bell and is shown through to the front room. As soon as he sees me standing by the window, he crosses the room and pulls me into a platonic hug, squeezing just tightly enough to take my weight should my knees fail again.
‘I’m so sorry I didn’t phone sooner,’ he whispers into my ear. ‘I only found out this morning, but we had to try and tell the victim’s family before I could confirm to you, and it took longer than expected to find a next of kin.’
He smells like strawberries and cream, but I can’t tell if that’s because he’s been eating sweets on the drive down or if he’s been using his daughter’s shampoo. I don’t care either way; I’m just glad to have someone here who understands the pain coursing through my veins right now.
‘Are you going to be okay?’ he whispers next, and I find myself nodding, as if his strength is pulling me back out of the hole.
‘I will be,’ my muffled whispers say, with my head buried in his shoulder.
‘Do you want me to take you home?’
Usually there’s no place I’d rather be than home, but the thought of the silence of my flat leaving me to wallow doesn’t appeal. I need distraction, rather than self-pity. They may not be my sister’s remains, but they still belong to someone, and I am duty-bound to help that victim’s family understand how she ended up in a suitcase, discarded for all time.
‘Who was she?’ I ask, breaking from Jack’s grasp and perching against the window frame.
Jack is about to respond when he suddenly notices Rick sitting in the tall armchair, and his face tightens with concern.
‘Um, this is Rick,’ I say quickly, ‘he’s a Community Support Officer from Weymouth who drove me up here. Rick, this is PC Jack Serrovitz, who, of course, you’ll recognise from my books.
Rick stands and strides across the room, thrusting out an arm and shaking Jack’s hand firmly. ‘Good to meet you, Jack.’
Rick is a good six-to-eight inches taller than Jack, who has to crane his neck to meet his gaze. ‘And you. How do the two of you know each other?’
Rick’s brow furrows and he looks to me for confirmation, but I don’t know where to begin explaining why he is here with me.
‘Um, well, I’m…’ he begins, breaking off while searching for the right noun to describe our relationship.
‘Rick has been helping me with a new investigation,’ I say, choosing not to share details of the Tina Neville debacle. ‘That’s what brought us to Hayling Island today. Rick very kindly drove us here.’
They’re still shaking hands, sizing up one another.
‘You were about to tell us whose remains were in the suitcase,’ I try. ‘Jack? The remains?’ I press.
They both release their grips and Jack turns back to me, still giving Rick an uneasy look.
‘I suppose it will be in the newspapers by morning anyway… The remains belong to a missing girl who disappeared from Oldham in 1998.’
It’s like a sucker punch to the gut, and I have to grip the window ledge tighter as the wind is knocked from me. ‘Faye McKenna,’ I gasp.
Jack starts. ‘How the hell did you guess that?’
I stagger towards the sofa where my satchel sits open. Reaching for my phone, I unlock the screen and load up the image Maddie emailed to me on Saturday, handing it to Jack.
‘Yes, that’s her,’ he says, ‘at least it looks like her. Where did you get this from?’
I take a deep breath, before telling Jack about the photographs sent to me via Maddie’s office; how they led us here to Hayling Island; and how we now believe that Cormack/Chesney is buried in the cemetery beyond the bay window.
‘Holy shit!’ Jack exclaims under his breath, quickly blushing apologetically. ‘Do you know who’s sending you these photographs?’
I shrug. ‘I assumed at first a family member, but then I spoke to a DC Caroline Knox with Greater Manchester Police this morning and she said Faye’s mum passed a couple of years ago, and she didn’t have any brothers or sisters.’
Jack is nodding along. ‘She told me the same thing a couple of hours ago. Funny thing is, she said I was the second person to be asking questions about Faye, but wouldn’t reveal who else she’d spoken to. I was guessing that was you. Unbelievable – we’ve been looking at the same problem from different ends.’
‘Faye’s picture arrived at the office on Friday, and Cormack’s this morning. They have to be connected, but I just don’t know how.’ The image of Reverend Peter Saltzing flashes before my eyes, and has me reaching for the cutting in the box, which I pass to Jack. ‘And to top it off, the vicar who used to live here had dealings with the St Francis Home. See here? We know that Turgood and the Home have connections to the Pendark Film Studios, so it’s not a huge leap to suppose that Saltzing did too. What if…?’ But I stop myself, because my next thought is too ridiculous to say aloud.
‘What if what?’ Jack questions.
‘I don’t know,’ I say, the blood finally returning to my face. ‘What if those associated with Pendark forced Saltzing to help them hide Cormack’s body? Where better to hide a body than in another man’s grave? Nobody would ever be any the wiser unless Jean-Claude Ribery was exhumed. Loose end tied up. The current vicar said that Saltzing retired under something of a cloud when the truth started to emerge about the St Francis Home. What do you think?’
‘I think we need to exhume the coffin and check,’ Rick pipes up affirmatively. ‘It will prove the theory and tie this Saltz
ing to the mess.’
Jack is shaking his head incredulously, but I speak first. ‘We can’t just dig up a coffin and look inside. There’s an impact on the family of the deceased, an impact on the local community, and we’d need a court order, I would imagine.’
‘Yes, yes, and yes,’ Jack echoes. ‘There isn’t any concrete evidence to suggest that Cormack Fitzpatrick is buried there. The flowers and the date on the photograph aren’t enough. I will ask my boss at the NCA what we’d need, but unless we find something tangible, that grave remains undisturbed.’
Chapter Thirty-One
Then
Basingstoke, Hampshire
‘Stop worrying about it; you’ll be fine,’ Precious told her, squeezing her hand reassuringly. ‘And relax. On the first night you won’t have to… to do anything; you’re just there for show.’
Joanna exhaled slowly and tightened her jaw into a smile of encouragement that she wasn’t feeling.
‘Remember how nervous you were before your first photoshoot, and I told you it would all be fine, didn’t I? Wasn’t yer Auntie Precious, right?’ She chuckled to herself, as if tonight’s party was perfectly normal, and nothing to be feared. ‘This won’t be much different, other than Grey won’t be popping about with his telescopic lens.’
Joanna could still recall the pure terror she’d felt the first time Precious had taken her to the film studio. The barn had stunk of animal faeces, and the tiled floor of the sectioned-off studio had been cold to walk on. Precious had promised she’d hang around in the barn and escort Joanna back to the caravan when the shoot was over. Joanna had naively begged her not to go, but it had been too much and Precious had let her mask of empathy slip. The wide-eyed angry glare had revealed the beast that lay dormant beneath the surface, and although it had peered out several times in the eighteen months that had passed, Joanna now knew the signs, and how to tame the beast.