by Peter Laws
Matt gave him a sympathetic nod.
They tried another option and walked towards the tall wooden side gate. Fenn pressed the handle down and was about to speak when the handle suddenly whipped from his fingers. The gate flung inwards with a loud and snapping crash, and they all braced themselves for whoever had dragged it open. But there was nobody there except the wind that seemed to enjoy taking humans by surprise. An overstuffed wheelie bin spat out bits of torn cardboard, swirling into the air.
The house had a side door, and it was wide open. Matt could see the blood from here.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Fenn held up a finger of caution and started walking towards the door. The other officers followed, and so did Matt. They started to see the kitchen lino, which had two thick smears of crusting red, sticky with dried leaves from outside. Fenn pointed to the ghost of bloodied fingers that had grasped the door handle as Tom, no doubt, had sprung out of it and vanished into the garden, and off into the fields.
The other officers headed through first.
The blood on the kitchen floor looked like pure spillage, but as they crept further inside they saw the messy outline of bare feet.
‘Matt,’ Fenn said. ‘Don’t stand in it.’
I wasn’t planning to, Matt thought. He nodded and took a deep breath.
They followed the prints into the hallway and found a thin yellow carpet punctuated with dark, ragged footmarks. The walls, painted with classic magnolia, had intermittent prints of a single bloodied hand. Always with a sharp smear off the fingers. It gave the impression that the hand must have had claws. Though in reality, it must have just slid each time, dragging trails of blood from the fingertips.
One handprint had smeared across a glass picture frame, toppling it to the floor. It lay shattered on the carpet, and as they passed through in a deep, solemn silence, Matt saw Justine Riley’s distorted face, beaming up through shards of glass. She was smiling with pride, getting some sort of hairdressing award on a stage.
They’d been silent up until now, so when Fenn called out her name again, it filled the hallway with a grenade of deafening sound. ‘Mrs Riley?’ he hollered, and Matt blinked. ‘Mrs Riley? Can you hear us?’
The bloody footprints stopped at a door under the stairs, and Fenn nodded to the officer to tug it open. Matt braced himself for a hoover, ironing board, or a sliced-up corpse to come tumbling out. But it opened to some stairs, descending, and a long strand of fairy lights, wrapped around the bannister. They were switched on, beaming a pulsing, cosy glow. Only some of the bulbs were red. They were soaked in red.
He could smell hairspray. Lots of it. But it mingled with the now heavy stench of blood to nauseating effect. And he could hear music too, as they all headed softly down. The soft slink of panpipes and synth pad, and in the background, the occasional cry of whale song. The steps creaked as they slowly reached the bottom, and Matt saw two hairdresser chairs, and two mirrors, framed with bright, glowing, showbiz bulbs.
Matt’s heart ached a little, just then. He pictured Justine fixing up these lights, and hanging all these black and white, Toni and Guy headshots on the walls. He glanced at the sweepable lino floor and the hand-painted sign she’d hung across the mirrors that simply said ‘Headmasters by Justine’. Which was both corny and sweet and profoundly heart-breaking all at the same time. Because he could smell her in the air. Even though he’d never met Justine Riley, and never really would, he knew the smell of her now. The reek of her. All it took was to follow the trail. The whales sang on, like sirens guiding men to a cold, rocky, dangerous shore.
There was a moment. A very brief, blink of an eye moment, that Matt had a dumb, cruel sense of hope. Because there was a curtain covering a recess, and he assumed she might be hiding in there. But when the officer slowly pulled it back, they saw nothing but brooms and a hoover and a stack of Tresemmé conditioner still sealed with cellophane. There was a long mirror in there too, and a light switch, which Fenn clicked—
Oh …
He saw her. Trapped and screaming forever in the mirror.
They all stared at the reflection, the new light now showing a previously blacked-out corner behind them. It was now bathed in trendy, harsh spotlights. He heard himself mutter a loud trembling gasp against his wrist. The other two said nothing of reprimand. No mockery that a civilian should react with a great, gulping yelp. Because they had sucked all their own breath in too, in their own way, when they saw her in the mirror.
They all turned at the same time. The world’s worst boyband, spinning for their final, funky close-up. They twisted on the sticky lino so they might find their audience of one. The flipped reality of what the reflection had promised.
Sinks.
There were two white sinks, near to the wall. Where Justine could stand and stroke the hair of local ladies, and listen to their plans and irritations with their husbands, and their thoughts on this year’s X-Factor line-up, and how they missed their long-dead mums so very much.
Justine wasn’t washing hair today. She wasn’t massaging this time. It was her turn to sit in the chair.
Matt’s hand was on his mouth. It was all he could do to stop what might at any moment rush up from his stomach and hammer past his lips.
Justine, with clothes torn open and underwear showing, lay splayed on the chair, her left arm idly dangling. This left half could have just been her relaxing in her backroom, dreaming of the future of her growing business. But the right arm had been snapped back and completely broken with horrendous, savage force. And the legs too, had the same, vile pattern. Her left leg, naturally bent and sitting, as innocently as any other leg that had ever sat in this chair. While the other, her right, was rammed wide and open as far as it would possibly go, so that the bones of her inner thigh must have cracked very loudly down here. Like he was pushing her legs apart so they might meet full circle round the back.
It was the face, though, that’s what made Matt look away. The ragged cheek and, Jesus Christ … the hair. She had a luscious, beautiful head of hair in those photographs, that no doubt wowed the crowds on her wedding day. And must have filled her customers with so much confidence, because their hairdresser had the follicle prowess of a Hollywood star. Now, he saw great matted clumps of it lying on the floor, scattered around her bare feet, still attached to skin.
Tom must have torn her hair out with his bare hands.
The tongue too. Not that he dared look.
The others were doing that. He could hear them creeping forward, shaking their heads in utter disgust and peering down into her mouth, which was open very wide. Her jaw pulled down so hard it had dislodged completely. It would never close again.
Let them look, Matt thought, as he moved towards the stairs in something not quite a walk, not quite a stagger. That’s their job, he thought. They’re the ones who get paid for this. Not me. Let them be the ones who check if the tongue is indeed gone, and they can tell me later, when I’m far away from this place, and when I can’t smell it.
He started walking back up the stairs on rubber legs and he put both of his trembling hands up to cover his ears. He just wanted to block out that damn new-age music that kept on playing. There was no point in him staying any longer to watch. And there was certainly no need for him to watch what they were doing, gazing down that deep cavernous hole. But still the music played on and he could hear the rising song of that ancient demon Baal-Berith. Who, it turns out, moans with the voice of a lonely, desperate, beautiful whale, trapped in the deepest, coldest ditch of the ocean.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
‘And what time did you arrive?’ Fenn splayed both hands flat on the desk. ‘Well?’
Reverend Perry’s face was now so paper-white that even his freckles seemed to have faded, but his ginger hair and beard looked redder than ever. He took a long breath in, and his green eyes fixed on the top corner of the interview room. The same spot he’d been staring at from the moment Matt and Fenn scraped their chairs up and started firing
questions.
‘Hey,’ Fenn leant forward. ‘I said what time—’
‘Sorry.’ Perry’s eyes flickered. ‘I just … you haven’t … you haven’t told me how she …’ His eyes bore into the corner. ‘… how she died.’
Matt went to speak, lips ready to say in total fucking agony, but instead he said, ‘Reverend Perry. I appreciate this is traumatic but—’
‘Moody organ players, yes. Difficult church meetings, fine. Arguments, premarital affairs, even …’
Fenn’s face crunched. ‘Huh?’
Perry dragged his eyes from the corner and looked at them both. With a nod of understanding, Matt pushed the glass of water towards him. ‘I guess that’s the level of issues you expected as a pastor, right?’
‘Yeah … funerals, weddings, grumpy old people who hate drum kits, of course … but not this. Not murder.’
‘It’s a lot to take in. Have a drink.’
‘But you still need to answer our questions,’ Fenn clicked his pen as Perry glugged. ‘So just give us a picture of your movements yesterday. I want the timing.’
He tilted his glass and gazed into the dregs. ‘I took part in a funeral for one of my old Bible college tutors. That was in London. I was there for most of the day. I didn’t get back to the village until 6 p.m. Then I went straight to the pub to meet my wife.’
Fenn looked down at his sheet. ‘That’s Claire Perry?’
‘Yes. We meet in the pub every Monday because—’
‘Which pub?’
‘… because couples need to invest the time. Are you married, Detective Fenn?’
‘Which pub?’
He sniffed. ‘The Merricot. We had a few drinks. Soft ones. We didn’t stay long.’
‘And did anybody see you?’ Matt asked.
‘What sort of question is that?’
‘A routine one,’ Fenn said. ‘Were you seen?’
‘Of course we were seen. We didn’t drink in the cellar …’ He bit his lip. ‘I’m sorry. That came out sarcastically. It wasn’t meant to. May I have more water?’
Matt reached for the jug.
‘We left the pub at about 6.45 p.m.’
‘You’re quick drinkers,’ Matt said.
‘I promised Tom I’d visit him. He was struggling and I’d been supporting him, pastorally. I dropped Claire at home, then I got to his place at just after, hmmm … 7 p.m. Yes. Seven.’
‘Was Justine home?’
‘No. She volunteers at the Brownies. She’d have been there until eight-thirty, I think. Later, perhaps. I hear she’s very community-minded. I left Tom’s house at about 7.40 p.m., before Justine came back, certainly. I went straight home and spent the evening watching television with my wife. I can tell you precisely what programme we were watching.’ He blinked then sat bolt up, the thought occurring. ‘Gosh, Claire. She’ll be worried about me. Can I—’
‘Soon,’ Fenn said. ‘And you were with your wife the entire evening?’
‘Yes. After TV we went to bed and that was that. Call her and she’ll confirm everything I’m telling you.’
‘We already have. Your times all match.’
‘Really? Oh … well, there you go,’ Perry said.
‘Okay, we’ve got the timing …’ Matt said. ‘So how about you tell us what happened at Tom’s.’
‘That’s rather private.’
‘I think we’re past the point of privacy.’
‘But Tom spoke to me in strict confidence.’
‘Somebody is dead,’ Matt said.
‘I appreciate that, but it’s a delicate pastoral—’
‘Reverend Perry.’ Fenn put his pencil down. ‘Justine’s hair was torn out in clumps. It was ripped from her scalp and left scattered on the floor. And now it’s sitting in sealed cellophane bags a few rooms away. I think you need to tell us everything. Do you understand?’
Perry’s eyes had already closed on the word ‘clumps’. Now he finally opened them and reached a shaky hand for the water. ‘I feel sick.’
There was a litter bin near Fenn’s foot. He reached down and upended the few tissues from it. Then he slid it with his foot towards Perry’s chair. It made a scrape. ‘As you were saying.’
‘Er … okay …’
Matt said, ‘Take a breath.’
He did, a deep one. It seemed to reset him. ‘So, Tom and Justine were having issues. He said they were growing distant … they didn’t spend much time together.’
Fenn turned his finger in the air. ‘There’s more.’
Perry pursed his lips. ‘Fine. He was convinced Justine was having an affair. He’d worried about it for months. And yet there was no evidence to base this on. I told him if he was so sure of it, he should confront her, but he refused.’
‘Why?’
‘He was never one for an argument. Tom avoided conflict to an unhealthy degree. You know, I never saw him raise his voice. Not once. I think he didn’t want to be like his dad, who was very … shouty …’ Perry shook his head. ‘But inside … I could tell Tom had this rage, which he never let out. I told him that bottling it up wasn’t good for him. I was worried for his mental health. I told him to go to his GP.’
‘And did he?’ Matt asked.
‘He did. In fact, I went with him, for support. He was diagnosed with intense anxiety and was put on pills. I think they helped at first, but there was something deeper going on.’
Fenn and Matt shared a glance and Fenn’s voice came out low. ‘Carry on, Reverend.’
‘I saw it most when I prayed with him. That rage of his. We’d read scripture together and I’d see his face start to twist and contort, like he was in a great deal of pain. He’d even swear sometimes.’
‘Lots of people swear,’ Matt said.
‘Not Tom. He was the sweetest, quietest man you could ever meet. I’d never heard a crude word from him in my life, until the last few months. And he only swore when we prayed. Little words at first, but then it just started pouring out of him. A torrent, and terribly vulgar too. Unrepeatable things. It was like the Devil was reaching up inside of him and working his eyes and flapping his mouth. Well, I don’t like to admit it, but …’
‘Please do.’
‘He frightened me. The way he’d sit in my office in his usual gentle, demure way. And he’d be chatting about a new recipe he was working on for the pub’s winter menu and then I’d see this flash of something in his eye. And he’d focus on me with a terrible intensity. He’d start asking me questions. Scary questions like if I was happy with my life, and if I ever wished for more.’
Matt laced his fingers together. ‘Why are those scary questions?’
‘Because it was like if I ever said I did want more in my life, he’d have some way of giving it me. There was just something wrong about it. I’d see him singing the hymns in the pews on a Sunday, just like anybody else, but then I’d catch his gaze and he’d start smiling at me, only it wasn’t even a smile. It’s hard to explain, but it chilled me. I saw him …’ He swallowed. ‘I saw him lick the Bible once, during the Eucharist. He did it in a … how can I put it … a sensual way. I guess that’s when I realised his problems were beyond the medical.’
Matt poured himself some water. ‘Intense anxiety and depression can manifest in unusual ways.’
Perry just frowned at them both like this was obvious. ‘Look, gentleman. I know depression. I’ve seen it up close. My own mother was bi-polar and my brother, God bless him, suffered from anxiety for years. But this thing Tom had … it was something else entirely. It came from a different place. So I knew that the real solution to his problems wouldn’t be found in a bottle of pills …’ That made Perry trail off for a moment, and he clasped his hands together like he was praying. ‘I’m saying he needed spiritual deliverance. He needed something very particular.’
‘And what’s that, exactly?’
‘Why exorcism, of course. He needed exorcism.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Exorcism.
T
here it was. The word Matt could tell was coming at some point in this conversation, just as sure as a cloud will cover the sun. The hissing repetition of the ‘s’ sound fizzed in the air. Exorcism, Possession … both words sound like they’re being interrupted by white noise. Or was it more appropriate to say, entwined with a serpent’s hisssssssss.
‘So you believe Tom was demonically possessed?’ Matt said.
‘Absolutely. I started reading up on it, so I knew what to look for. And my goodness, the evidence was undeniable. The aversion to Christian symbols, the foul language, the swings in mood.’
Matt shrugged. ‘If that’s the criteria, then I’m as possessed as they come.’
Fenn put a silencing hand on Matt’s arm. ‘So you told Tom this?’
‘I suggested it was a distinct possibility, yes.’
‘And did you perform an exorcism on Tom?’
He was staring down into his empty cup.
‘You did it last night, didn’t you? At his house.’
He looked up at the corner of the room again and nodded. ‘When I arrived, I could tell something was wrong. It was dark and very cold outside. Exceptionally so. The winds were coming over the fields, harsher than I have ever seen in my life. I parked and noticed that his front door was open, and I mean wide open. The light was shining down the path. So I went inside and I called his name. I heard Tom calling up for me. He was in the cellar …’ Perry cleared his throat. ‘In the salon, I should say.’
‘So you went down?’ Matt said.
‘Of course. It was dark down there. Pitch-black, in fact. I nearly lost my footing on the stairs, but he must have realised because he flicked a very small lamp on. I found him standing near the sinks. I noticed that even the little lamp was making him squint. He covered his eyes with his hand. Like he’d been down in the dark for quite some time. He was turning one of the taps on and do you know what he said?’
Matt and Fenn both shrugged.