by Wes Markin
She smiled. She was trying to keep the conversation light but was obviously shaken up. She and Tyler were first responders at a crime scene. Their responsibilities were huge, and not just with logging. They had to assess and protect the scene without interference.
Additionally, she knew the victim, Ryan Simmonds - not incredibly well because they were based in different stations around Wiltshire - but well enough.
She looked down. ‘I just heard from the hospital, Ryan is not out of the woods yet. He’s lost a lot of blood.’
‘Can they reattach it? His tongue?’
‘Sorry … sir, I thought I’d explained that to you. It’s not been recovered. There’s a lot of blood, but no tongue.’
‘Shit,’ Topham said. ‘This is far too surreal for me to make any sense of at the moment.’
She gestured with a flick of her head at an elderly man and a younger woman on the back pew just behind her.
‘Marie Holt who was about to become Marie Simmonds. She is with her father, Jason Holt.’
Topham looked over again. Marie was burying her head into her father’s chest and sobbing.
‘I was going to give her a couple more minutes with her father and then take her out to the ambulance,’ Willows said. ‘She needs to be treated for shock. I was hoping the uniforms could clear the masses before she left.’
‘No such luck at the moment,’ Topham said. ‘They’re lingering. Probably think they can do some good. As soon as you’ve run me through everything, you should head back out and instruct them all to return home. The press will be here shortly, no doubt, so the last thing we want is a crowd.’
‘Okay,’ Willows said and led him to the police tape strung up between the final two pews, explaining what Marie had witnessed as she walked down the aisle. Along the way, Topham glanced up at the sculpture of Jesus Christ hanging from a concentric arch; he wondered what the messiah would think of the events that had recently transpired here.
Willows explained the incident with the smiling priest and Topham stopped in his tracks. ‘So, you are telling me that the person responsible for all this depravity was here?’
Willows nodded.
‘Standing right there?’ Topham pointed at a pulpit draped in purple velvet.
‘Yes. Exactly as Marie and Jason Holt described it to me.’ She threw open her notebook and scanned her scribblings. ‘Much younger than the priest that was going to marry them … Father Simon was in his sixties … this one was in his late twenties … do they start that young? … anyway, he was rather handsome … Marie said he had a smile that seemed to pierce you, although she didn’t specify whether that was in a good or a bad—’
‘And he was standing right there?’
‘Yes, and—’
‘So where is he?’
Willows shrugged. ‘Marie and Jason don’t know. They were tending to Ryan while they waited for the ambulance. They assumed he’d upped and left.’
Another two officers were being logged in at the door by Tyler. Topham summoned them over. ‘Listen, carefully.’
They immediately threw their shoulders back and stood up straight, looking purposeful. Being tasked by superior officers at a crime scene was obviously still new and exciting.
‘I want you to escort Marie and Jason Holt outside. Tell them they need some fresh air. I want you to ask them if the priest who was going to marry them today is present in that wedding crowd, plain clothed or otherwise. Not the original priest …’ he looked over at Willows.
‘Father Simon,’ Willows said.
‘Not Father Simon … the stand-in priest.’
‘And if we see him?’ One of the young officers said.
Topham paused to consider and then went with his gut. ‘Arrest him.’
‘Okay sir,’ the other officer said. Her eyes widened; the assignment had given her day a real purpose.
Topham and Willows watched the officers escort father and daughter out of the church past a growing group of white-suited SOCOs; then, they continued their journey down the aisle to the pulpit.
Willows looked at her notes again. ‘It was here that the smiling priest handed Marie a key.’
Topham flashed her a confused look. Willows pointed at a chapel several metres away.
‘Where Simmonds came out?’ Topham said.
‘Yes. After she unlocked it for him. Before that, Jason Holt said it sounded like there was a small elephant in there.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ Topham said, feeling his heart flutter in his chest, ‘after being mutilated in that way.’
Willows nodded, keeping her head held high, and eyes wide, desperate to deliver a carefree attitude. The tremble in her eyelids and lips betrayed her veneer.
Topham’s eyes fell on the flagstones ahead. There had been enough bloodshed to turn the cracks in the stones to blackened veins. For a moment, in his mind’s eye, he saw the groom on his knees displaying the inside of his destroyed mouth to his bride-to-be. This time his heart beat like the wings of a raven.
‘Let’s not go any further. Let forensics work the immediate area. Around the chapel, this pulpit,’ he gestured down at the floor. ‘There’s so much fucking blood. Is he going to be okay?’
‘I don’t know, sir.’
‘Did you try the rectory for the priest? Either of them?’
‘Yes. Neither were there.’
Topham surveyed the scene and his eyes fell to a small door to the left at him, adjacent to the end of the front pew. A convenient exit, Topham thought, merely strides from the pulpit. He pointed it out to Willows and asked where it went.
‘I haven’t been here that much longer than you, sir. The church garden, perhaps? The graveyard?’
‘Wait here,’ Topham said and headed for the door.
Along the way, he glanced down at the order of service. A little pink booklet with a picture of Ryan and Marie preparing to commit their lives to one another. He thought of Neil for a moment and considered the civil service they’d been giving a lot of air time to in their conversations of late. Admittedly, it was an inappropriate time for him to be considering this, but given the context of this evolving situation, he could probably be forgiven for being reminded of it.
He stood at the door which had been left ajar and trembled slightly in a breeze. On exiting, he felt the sudden transition from cold to hot again. He felt as if he was stepping into something burning. Now that he was buried in his white over suit, he would have to wilt for a few moments.
Willows had called it right. A graveyard. An orderly, well-dressed graveyard. Mowed grass and unbroken gravestones in parallel lines. Interlocking yew trees shaded the eternal sleepers. It seemed strange to renovate graveyards, but that surely must have been the case. He thought of the graveyard attached to his Church of England primary school as a kid – a terrifying place with smashed gravestones, balding ground and dead animals.
Earlier, it had rained briefly, so when he left the flagged path to wander through the graveyard, he slowed down to avoid slipping. He welcomed the shade offered by the yew trees, and turned around the furthest one to face the other side of the graveyard.
There was a man, dressed in white, kneeling on a grave.
A young priest.
Yorke showed many of his colleagues something they didn’t yet know about him. That he knew how to rock and roll.
At least that’s what Patricia had assured him would be the effect of his band’s revival. Now, he wasn’t so sure. Do people really enjoy watching a man in his forties sweat over a string instrument? At least he wasn’t singing. He’d left that unforgiving chore to Nigel, an old friend from his university days, who was currently staging his best Liam Gallagher impression over Rock n Roll Star.
Fortunately, when he descended from the stage, re-tucking his sodden white shirt, Jake was waiting for him with a pint of his favourite beer.
‘Extra cold, how you like it,’ Jake said. ‘I had it put in the freezer just before you went on stage. Special, that was, by
the way. Well done for having the guts.’
‘Did you like it then?’ Yorke said, taking the pint off his best man.
‘I said it was special. Let’s leave it there.’
‘You’re a dickhead, do you know that?’
Jake laughed and said, ‘Yes, I am, but out of all the dickheads you know, I am the only one who is nice to you.’
‘Bloody hell. Where does that leave me then?’ He said and took a large mouthful of beer.
‘Needing that drink,’ Jake said, smiling.
Gardner came up alongside them and said, ‘Nice one, Mike. I even managed a dance when you played the Stone Roses.’
‘It was good then? Yorke asked her with an eyebrow raised.
‘Well … it was better than I could do.’
‘Don’t you bloody start!’
He noticed Patricia was in the distance, talking to a group of friends, so it was a good opportunity to raise his concerns over Topham. ‘Now, I want the truth. No bullshit. I’m still the boss, even on a day off.’
Yorke and Gardner nodded.
‘Where did Mark go?’
They both spoke at the same time. Jake said, ‘Family emergency.’ Gardner said, ‘Felt unwell.’
Yorke rolled his eyes. ‘So, we opted for bullshit then?’ He watched his colleagues exchange glances. ‘Emma, speak.’
Gardner threw back the remainder of her wine, cleared her throat, and said, ‘Operation Autumn. That’s why we didn’t want to say anything. You’re on your honeymoon tomorrow.’
‘You found her?’ Yorke said, unable to force back a slight tremble in his voice.
‘No,’ Gardner said, ‘just acting on a lead—’
‘Which we are not going to be telling you about,’ Jake said. ‘Two weeks in South Africa. That is all you should be thinking about.’
‘It’s hard not to think about a missing seventeen-year-old girl.’
‘Susie Long is our concern now, Mike,’ Gardner said, ‘ours. You need this time off. You have done a fantastic job of delegating it out over the last 48 hours. You cannot keep cancelling holidays … and especially not this one.’
‘Give me a clue as to what the lead is?’
‘No,’ Gardner said.
Yorke noticed Patricia coming his way. ‘Yes, you’re right. Not now.’
Minutes later, Yorke was back on stage with an acoustic guitar, providing the rhythm for Radiohead’s Fake Plastic Trees. During the final verse, while he struck the strings, and Nigel’s voice reached an incredible crescendo despite his forty years, Yorke realised something.
So often, before now, it had always been about others.
But his time was right now. And he deserved it. And it felt good.
‘Hello?’ Topham said, approaching the kneeling priest. There was no reply. So, he tried again. Louder. This time, he wouldn’t just be heard back in the graveyard, he would also be heard back in the church.
Still no response.
He wiped sweat from his forehead and moved closer to the priest. ‘Excuse me father?’
The furthest reaches of the graveyard were older and deteriorating. Gravestones were weathered and inscriptions were becoming unreadable. Grass was yellowing; dandelions crested stones steps, while weeds fractured the foundations.
Clouds started to thicken overhead.
With his pulse racing, he paused and glanced over his shoulder. No Collette. No back-up. He looked back at the kneeling priest. What if he was dangerous? What if he had a weapon?
He thought of his partner, Neil, who, the previous evening, had started to make noises about the risk involved in Topham’s job. Noises he’d never made before. However, he guessed that three years into a relationship, such noises were to be expected.
A metre from the priest, Topham asked again. ‘Excuse me father?’
The priest tilted his head back and moaned. The long moan fluctuated in pitch, suggesting that he was opening and closing his mouth at the same time.
Concerned for his well-being, he stepped forward and put a hand on the priest’s shoulder. The priest stopped the horrendous noise, lowered his head and turned the top half of his body around so he could look up at Topham.
He was early twenties at a push. His lank, sweaty hair was pasted to his forehead.
‘My name is Detective Inspector Topham. Are you aware of what has happened in the church today?’
The priest held out a hand. Topham took it and helped him to his feet. The priest turned as he rose and so was able to take Topham’s other hand.
Topham felt something squishy and wet being forced into his palm. He backed away, gagging, looking down at a lump of bloodied flesh in his hand.
Ryan’s tongue…
Topham let it tumble to the ground and stumbled away from the smiling priest.
2
CHOOSING TO IGNORE the modern convention of waving a smartphone in the air to film the entire moment, Jake and Gardner were content to simply watch and enjoy their boss slow-dance with Patricia to Angels by Robbie Williams.
Jake leaned over and whispered in Gardner’s ear, ‘Actually, maybe we should film it? You know, he almost looks happy. We may need it as evidence in the future—’
Gardner elbowed him in the side. ‘I’m missing it.’
Jake smiled.
After the dance ended, and the DJ turned the sentimental atmosphere on its head with A-ha, Jake and Gardner wandered over to the bar. Along the way, Ewan Brookes, Yorke’s adopted son, strayed across their path. Jake ruffled his hair, and put him into a gentle headlock.
‘Uncle Jake!’ Ewan said.
‘I caught you looking,’ Jake said, releasing him and pointing out a girl, no older than thirteen, swaying alone at the edge of the dance floor. ‘Go and ask her to dance.’
‘I wasn’t looking!’
‘Go and ask her what she’s drinking, and then come and tell me.’
Ewan went bright red.
‘Leave him alone, Jake!’ Gardner pulled him back by the shoulder.
Jake winked at Ewan as they continued to the bar. ‘Seriously! Coke or Lemonade? Come and let Uncle Jake know.’
Ewan skulked off, glowing.
At the bar, both Jake and Gardner ordered a Summer Lightning. As they waited, they surveyed the crowd.
‘What a turnout. Glad for him really. Been a tough couple of years,’ Jake said and took a huge mouthful of his pint when it landed. He sighed as the cold ale tingled on its descent. Then, he noticed that Gardner was almost a third of her way through her pint. ‘Whoa! Easy tiger!’
‘It’s been a stressful week.’
She wasn’t far wrong.
Two days ago, seventeen-year-old college student Susie Long, had disappeared. The young lady with pigtails, torn jeans and a new set of braces had been glass collecting on Wednesday night at The Cloisters, a popular public house opposite Salisbury cathedral. She had last been seen by her colleagues at 11:31 p.m. leaving via the back door of the pub. Then, she was caught by the electronic eyes of CCTV in the carpark where her walk home started.
But it never did start because a balaclava-wearing abductor had seized her while she was engrossed in a text message. He’d then bundled her into the back of a transit van. Despite the assailant camouflaging himself head-to-toe in black, the footage was clear enough to suggest that he was male, tall and rather slight in build. Unfortunately, the black van had worn a fake REG plate, but a SOCO had managed to recover Susie’s phone which she’d dropped during the ambush.
She had been texting a seventeen-year-old boy called Johnny West. Or rather, sexting. Johnny, Susie’s first sexual partner, had then been grilled within an inch of his life, yet the consensus was that he’d not been involved. Other bullets of information had come thick and fast. There was the recreational use of marijuana. Although this was common enough, and not necessarily a huge issue, they had still tracked down and shaken up a recreational teenage dealer. As expected, this lead had fizzed out like a faulty firework. Susie’s bank statemen
ts showed an addiction to budget fashion. Again, as common as ever. Mourning neighbours and relatives didn’t have a bad word; they clearly didn’t know about the drug use. She had a small social grouping which revelled in excessive emotion; they were practically drowning in it now that she’d gone missing. Co-workers at the The Cloisters public house claimed that she brought a much-needed sparkle to a place experiencing waning trade. She had excellent grades and was a bright young thing.
So far, a very regular teenager.
A ransom, or any form of contact from the abductor, failed to materialise. The team had continued to dig and had leaned on Angela Long, her mother. Reasonably well-off, but not well-off enough to make her a target for kidnappers. Divorcee. Two children which included a fourteen-year old boy called Francis. Also, a bright young thing.
It was with the father that things had started to become interesting. Marcus Long was an ex-teacher who was now serving time for attempted murder. They’d interviewed him a few times, but their excitement was short-lived, as he maintained that the connection to his daughter was long dead and they hadn’t discovered anything to suggest otherwise.
Still, they’d persevered. They’d interviewed anybody Long had annoyed, or was loosely connected with. Yet, the person they really needed to talk to, the man Long had attempted to kill, had disappeared six months ago. Suspects did not come any firmer, but a lot of manpower had gone into tracking him down. As yet, there was no sign of this individual.
All motes. Dust in the air. Nothing sticking.
They’d be back at it first thing, and Jake had promised himself that he would stop at four pints today. He needed to remain sharp, just in case anything broke today, or tomorrow, in Operation Autumn. If Susie Long was still alive, her life might depend on his sharpness.
‘Do you think Mike knows that we just lied to him?’ Gardner said.
‘Yes,’ Jake said, ‘when was the last time you bluffed him?’
‘Do you think he appreciates it?’
‘No, but I think he knows that it is good for him. Imagine if we’d told him an officer had been assaulted? He’d have left already.’