Death Rites

by Wendy Cartmell

“Good work, though,” said Crane. “It’s a good thing that she picked out Clay’s photo, kind of closes the circle on that one.”

  “Not that he’ll ever be brought to justice now.”

  Crane said, “No, but him being dead and all is a kind of justice in itself.”

  “But with him out of the picture, we don’t know who’s behind all this.”

  “Behind the Satanic Church, you mean?”

  “Yeah, if there is a Church at all.”

  “Of course there is, Derek,” said Crane. “Have faith,” and a lopsided grin split his face, chasing away some of the pain etched there.

  59

  Crane had been eagerly awaiting this particular trip out since they’d agreed on it last night. His buoyant mood and just plain out and out exhaustion had helped chase some of the demons away last night and the rest had done his body good. The pain wasn’t gone, though, and Crane doubted it ever would. His other problem was the fact that he’d been sitting down too much over the past few days and hadn’t had time to do the exercises the physiotherapist had insisted he do. At the time Crane had thought they were nothing more than a nuisance, but was becoming to realise the importance of keeping his hip and leg moving as much as possible and he vowed to keep up with the exercises every day in future, although at the moment he had no idea when he was going to fit them into his busy schedule. Perhaps he’d start a new regime once this case was over.

  That thought, of course, led him to think about the future. It was all very well being employed as a civilian expert for this case, but what would happen once it finished? Doubts clouded his eyes and his brow furrowed as he looked into the deep rabbit hole he was teetering on the edge of, and the dark thoughts were threatening to dispel his good mood and tip him over the edge into the abyss.

  “Crane? You alright?” Anderson’s voice pierced the depression clouding Crane’s view of the world.

  “Sorry?”

  “Focus please. This is no ordinary visit we’re about to embark on.”

  “No,” Crane adjusted his position in the car seat, but it didn’t appease the gremlins who were attacking his hip joint with newer, sharper knives. “You’re right. Sorry.”

  Anderson was quiet for a moment whilst he navigated the latest roundabout in the road.

  “Does anyone know where we are this morning?” asked Crane.

  “Only Holly. She gave me the details on Bullock that I wanted this morning.”

  “Don’t you already have those, as his direct boss?”

  “Personnel files aren’t held in offices anymore. They’re all on the computer - somewhere.”

  “Somewhere?”

  “Yeah, and I can never remember where that somewhere is, so Holly got them for me.”

  Crane snorted with laughter as Anderson pulled up in front of a semi-detached house in a quiet residential street in Farnborough. They sat in the car for a moment looking at the 1970’s façade, the pebbledash exterior and the empty driveway.

  Anderson said, “No car on the driveway.”

  “Could be in the garage.”

  “Maybe. There’s only one way to find out. Come on.”

  They walked up the drive in the eerily quiet street. There was no one walking a dog, pushing a pram, or even taking a solitary stroll.

  Crane said, “It’s very quiet here,” as he looked around. “It’s spooky.”

  “Get a grip, Crane. It’s not Wayward Pines.”

  “Wayward Pines?”

  “Cult TV series.”

  “You need to get a life, Derek.”

  “Ha, looks who’s talking.”

  They arrived at Bullock’s front door and Anderson rang the doorbell. Getting no reply, he rang again and then a third time, but there was still no answer and no movement could be seen inside the house through the large picture windows.

  Crane said, “Let’s try next door.”

  Instead of cutting across the grass they politely walked back down the path and then up to the house next door. This time their ring was answered so quickly that Crane thought the neighbour must have been standing behind the door waiting for them.

  “Good morning,” Anderson said to the large woman who stood there, wiping her hands on an apron tied around her ample waist. “We were hoping to speak to Mrs Bullock, next door, but there’s no sign of her.”

  “Who are you?”

  Anderson made the introductions and the woman’s eyes brightened with curiosity.

  “Have you seen Mrs Bullock lately?” he asked.

  “Enid? No, no I haven’t. Bit strange that.”

  “Strange? Why?” Crane asked.

  “Because she’s always in and out of the house, popping over to her parents, shopping and stuff. Gets quiet annoying, her car backwards and forwards every day.”

  “But not lately?”

  “No. Not seen or heard of her for a few days now. Only seen him. Is she alright?”

  Anderson ignored her question and asked, “What type of car does she have?”

  “Well, I’m not normally good with cars, but hers is easy, one of those new Mini things. Bright red, difficult to miss.”

  “And the roof?”

  “Eh?”

  “The roofs are normally a different colour on a mini.”

  “Oh, right, a Union Jack. Very patriotic I always thought. Is she alright?”

  But the neighbour didn’t look concerned for Enid’s welfare, only interest in the mystery and Crane wondered how long it would take for the gossip mill to start grinding. A few seconds after they left was his expectation.

  “Where is it normally parked?”

  “In the garage over night, but it’s normally on the drive during the day.”

  Anderson said, “Thank you, you’ve been very helpful,” and nodding to Crane turned away from the door.

  “Is that it?” the woman called after them. “Don’t I have to make a statement? The name is Mrs Ball, just in case you need me again!”

  “Back to the station?” asked Crane.

  “In a minute, first I want to check the garage, come on.”

  They followed the stepping stone path down the side of Bullock’s house, where they found a back door into the garage. They didn’t need to open it, as a red Mini with a Union Jack roof could be clearly seen through the glass panel.

  “Enid’s maiden name is Underwood,” said Anderson and Crane had to hold onto the garage wall with one hand and his stick with the other, to stop himself falling over.

  60

  DS Bullock was sweating so much he could feel the damp patches under his arms cold and clammy against his skin. The collar around his neck seemed to be strangling him and he loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt, gulping in great lungs full of air, which only served to make his head reel. He had no idea how he’d managed to get through the day yesterday, after being called out by Anderson to the dead body at the tip.

  He’d met Crane and Anderson there, doing and saying as little as possible, standing as far away from the body as he could get and literally hiding behind his notebook as he took down Anderson’s instructions. He didn’t volunteer any opinion, as to be honest he was pretty much incapable of speech. It was as if he had disassociated, watching himself and the other two policemen from a distance. It had felt very unreal. He only hoped that he’d managed to pull it off and that Anderson and Crane hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary. Luckily he wasn’t normally the chattiest of people, so he reckoned he was alright.

  He’d been plagued by visions in his sleep all last night: fires, bodies burning to a crisp and the smell of acrid smoke sharp in the bedroom; images of his dead wife so real that he was convinced he’d heard her snoring in the wee small hours. To top it all, he’d just had to endure the morning meeting. Faced with large pictures of Clay blown up on the screen, he’d nearly thrown up again. Somehow it made what he’d done more real than when he’d been at the rubbish tip. It was seeing the nails buried into Clay’s skull and the look of s
urprise frozen forever on his face, he supposed. Before, killing him had seemed like something he’d done in a dream. He wasn’t really there at the time, not in his head that was. In his head he was just doing what he had to do to save himself. To free himself. To make sure that everything would come alright in the end.

  A couple of people had already asked if he was feeling alright and he’d just mumbled something intelligible in reply before barging his way back to his desk. All he wanted was to be left alone, left in peace, to carry on his work in the Satanic Church. The room started to roll under his feet as he tried to think about what to do next. But he couldn’t think in the office, he had to get away.

  “You alright?” he heard DC Douglas ask. Even though Douglas was sitting opposite him, to Bullock his voice seemed to come from a long way away with an accompanying echo and he shook his head to try and clear his ears.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Dunno,” Bullock said, putting his hands up to his head in an effort to stop the dizzy spell. “Think I’ve got a migraine.” Struggling out of his chair and then clutching the desk for support he said, “I’ve got to go home.”

  “But we’re short-handed, what with the fires and all these bodies,” said Douglas.

  “I know but I can’t think, I can’t see, I’ve got distorted vision. I’ve got to get out of here.”

  Bullock lurched away, nearly falling over a rubbish bin and just about managing to right himself.

  “Oh for God’s sake go home then,” shouted Douglas, “and take a taxi.”

  Bullock lifted his arm in acknowledgement as he half-fell, half-walked through the CID office door, out into the corridor and followed the scent of the freedom that he hoped was just within his grasp.

  61

  As Crane and Anderson got back into to their car Anderson was already on the phone.

  “Douglas, where’s DS Bullock?”

  “On his way home, guv, he says he has a bad migraine.”

  “Migraine?”

  “Well, whatever it is he looked bloody awful. I told him to get a taxi because as his vision was funny he could have an accident.”

  “When did he leave?”

  “I’m not sure, but he’s been gone a while now.”

  “Well he’s not at home. We’re here and he’s not.”

  “Sorry, guv, no idea. Perhaps he couldn’t find a taxi.”

  “Alright, thanks, Douglas,” and Anderson closed the call.

  “So,” said Crane. “Do you want to wait here for him?”

  “And say what? We think something’s happened to your wife? No, I don’t want to alert him to the fact that we’re checking up on him. Let’s go back to the station and plot our next move.”

  Anderson had just turned the car around to return to Aldershot, when his phone rang again. So he tossed it to Crane who answered it and put it on speaker.

  “Guv,” said Douglas. “I’ve just had word from the hospital. Bethany has had a screaming fit. Something’s happened.”

  “Christ! Is she okay?” Anderson screeched to a halt by the side of the road, the car rocking from the ferocity of his use of the brakes.

  “They think so, but they’ve had to give her a mild sedative.”

  “Where was the FLO?” Anderson snapped.

  “Had to go to the toilet, sir, but she thought it would be alright as, um, as…”

  “What is it, Douglas?” Crane said.

  “Um, it seems DS Bullock didn’t go home. He was there at the hospital and he’d said he’d relieve the FLO, while she relieved herself.”

  “Those exact words?”

  “Afraid so, sir. He also said she could pop downstairs to the café and get herself a decent coffee and a cake or something.”

  “And after that, that’s when Bethany started to scream?”

  “Yes, the nurse who was first in the room said she saw DS Bullock, um, he was, um, looming over Bethany with a pillow in his hands.”

  “Jesus Christ.” Anderson closed his eyes.

  “Is she sure?” asked Crane.

  “Positive, sir. I can’t quite believe it myself. What do you think it means?”

  But Crane didn’t reply as Anderson was already turning the car around, yet again, this time pointing it in the direction of Frimley Park Hospital.

  “Put out an APB on DS Bullock and his car. Give his registration number to all patrol cars, we need to find him – now!” said Crane on Anderson’s behalf, as his friend’s sole focus seemed to be the road ahead and his grip on the steering wheel.

  62

  Bullock was having a bad day. A very bad day. After his melt down in the office, well panic attack he supposed it was, his vision had returned to normal once he was out in the fresh air. He’d paused for a moment in the car park and bending over he’d placed his hands on his thighs and taken deep breaths. As his heart rate slowed and became a steady beat rather than a mad jazzy syncopated one, his thoughts had cleared, enabling him to plot his next move. And that simple action, that decision, had helped to calm him, to ground him. The plan he’d decided on was that he’d have to go to the hospital and see Bethany. Only then would he be able to answer the question; had she ever seen him without his hood on? As he’d finally had a purpose, he’d been able to lift his head from his knees and walk to his car, deciding that sod taking a taxi, he was capable of driving.

  Upon his arrival at the hospital, he’d found that Bethany’s parents had gone back to their hotel for a shower and change of clothes and that the only person in attendance was the FLO, Victoria Fleming. Seeing Bullock through the windows, she’d come outside.

  Offering to give her a break, he’d shooed her off in the direction of the cafeteria. The conversation had taken place outside Bethany’s room, so Bullock still hadn’t had the answer to his question. He knew he’d have to face his worst fears and so he’d grabbed the door knob and slowly turned it.

  If she hadn’t have recognised him, everything would have been fine, but she had. So he knew he’d have to shut her up. But that had been his problem. He hadn’t had a chance to shut her up. She’d started screaming and he hadn’t seen that she’d had the call button in her hand, so the screaming and the buzzer alerted the hospital staff much faster than he’d anticipated. All he’d managed to do was to back out of the room and run like hell. Luckily everyone was more concerned with Bethany than him, so he’d managed to get away.

  But now he was sweating again and couldn’t think what to do. He nearly ran over a pedestrian who’d started to cross the road on a zebra crossing and he cursed the man for being so stupid. He missed the corner turning left and mounted the kerb, causing all sorts of strange grinding noises to come from the underneath of the car. He knew he needed to calm down. Needed to find a safe place to go. And then he had it. The farm. No one had found that yet and that could be his bolt hole, his place of safety. He would go to ground and plan his long term escape. But first he needed some supplies. He had to have a cup of tea while he thought.

  63

  Crane couldn’t believe what he’d just seen. “There he is!” he shouted and pointed in the direction their car was already travelling.

  “Where?” shouted Anderson, head going from side to side as he scanned the road for DS Bullock.

  “Just coming out of the co-op supermarket on the left side of the road. What the bloody hell is he doing? He’s never been shopping!” Crane could see a plastic carrier bag in Bullock’s left hand. “Oh, now he’s getting in his car. Fuck, he’s seen us!” and Crane ducked below the windscreen, then realising what he’d done, sheepishly raised his head again. “Guess that doesn’t matter, does it?”

  “No,” said Anderson, “it doesn’t.”

  In front of them, DC Bullock’s car pulled out onto the road and a puff of smoke burst from the car’s exhaust pipe as he floored the accelerator of the Lexus, easily pulling away from Anderson’s Ford.

  But Anderson wasn’t to be outdone and rapidly changing down in gears, he viciously jabbed
at his own accelerator pedal, taking the car to the maximum revs every time before changing up the gearbox.

  As they were thrown from side to side Crane said, “Fucking hell, Derek, mind me, I don’t want the other leg and hip broken.”

  Crane grabbed at the hand hold mounted near the roof of the car, on his left hand side, desperately trying to keep himself upright.

  “Trust me, Crane,” Anderson said. “I’ve done the course.”

  “What course?”

  “Advanced driving.”

  “When?”

  “Oh a few years back, well quite a few years actually.”

  “I can tell,” gasped Crane, but he could see that Anderson was gaining on the bigger car, which was now filling the view from their windscreen.

  “How are you going to get him to stop?”

  Anderson’s reply was to hit the back of Bullock’s car.

  The surprise move caused Bullock to brake, allowing Anderson to pull up level with the back wing of the Lexus. Pulling hard to the left on the steering wheel, Anderson hit the rear wing of the Lexus, pushing the back of the car to the left, sending the Lexus into a spin.

  “Like that,” Anderson shouted, momentarily deafening Crane in one ear.

  But the manoeuvre had worked and the Lexus lurched to a stop sideways across the road. Anderson clambered out of his own car and ran to the Lexus as Crane grabbed the radio to call it in, watching with satisfaction as Anderson pulled Bullock from his vehicle and slapped a pair of hand cuffs around his wrists, for once not minding that he couldn’t make the arrest himself.

  64

  Even though Crane had called the arrest in, which had alerted the team to what had happened, everyone still stopped what they were doing and turned to watch DS Bullock being escorted through the CID office to an interview room. As Crane limped alongside Anderson, he got a good look at their faces. The team were by turn incredulous, nervous and embarrassed by the arrest of one of their own. DC Douglas plopped down on his chair as his superior officer was pushed into the room, as though his legs suddenly wouldn’t support him anymore, clearly unable to believe his eyes.