Tony Blair. Really? Should I just have let him lift his shovel, turn his back, and walk away? Maybe he didn’t commit those first three murders, but then I blundered in to more or less tell him his wife was an adulterer, and he decided to take his revenge, sweeping Kallas up in the tumult as he went.
But really, a killer called Tony Blair? Ha! Just another name on a list, another herring in the net.
I lean forward, rest my head on the pew in front. Fucking idiot. Fucking loser. Fucking fool. Where’s Jesus now, laughing with me as I bust the lock on the door, and enter His house to plunder His sacred booze?
Fuck it.
Straighten up, look around, eyes becoming adjusted to the dark.
Yep, it’s kind of fucking creepy, I’ll give it that.
I get up, force myself to be positive, stop for a second while I could go either way, and then turn and walk down the aisle towards the altar, or, more precisely, the door to the side of the altar that leads to the vestry.
The corridor is pitch black, no light shining from beneath a door. I did wonder if she’d be here, my delinquent minister, slowly getting hammered. As I take my phone from my pocket and walk down the corridor, leaving the door to the nave open behind me, I can’t help feeling the utter childish stupidity of this.
Clink!
A funny little noise. I turn quickly. Heart suddenly thumping, I swallow. Look back into the nave, then lift the phone and shine the inadequate torch towards the cavernous gap. The torch picks up nothing.
It was a small sound, a safe sound, though I can’t imagine what it was. Not a heavy footfall, not someone bumping into something, not someone creeping around behind me.
I swallow. Body tense, ears attuned to any disturbance in the silence, but there’s nothing. The sound, whatever it was, came and it went.
I suddenly think of the dark corridor behind me. Hesitate before turning, and then I swivel quickly, torch shining into the small dark space beyond, and there’s nothing. No one. No sound.
‘Jesus,’ I mutter quietly.
What in the name of fuck made me think this was a good idea?
I try the vestry handle, and the door opens. Shine the torch in, and the room stares blankly back at me. The chair is empty, the desk is tidy, the minister is not here.
I close the door and turn on the light, an internal room that will not betray itself to the outside. Here we are, the detective and his prey, a quiet room with a drawer containing vodka. What else could anyone need?
And what now? No point in stealing the drink and heading home. You have drink at home. No point in doing nothing.
This would be a fitting end to my career. To be found asleep and drunk in the vestry by the local minister. Or better, she sees the locks have been busted, she calls the cops, and over we troop from a hundred yards away, and I’m found in all my hopeless, plastered glory by a couple of my subordinates.
That has me smiling for the first time since the car park, and then I wonder if I should do something else stupid. Throw caution to the wind. To be found not just drunk, but naked! Naked, and having done something wonderfully and grossly vulgar, like masturbating into the vicar’s gown.
I slump down into the seat, aware that I’m infecting everything with dripping water. Pull open the large desk drawer on the right, and there it is, splendid and perfect and delicious, just waiting for me. A half-full litre bottle of Absolut. I lift it out, then clink the two glasses together lifting them with my thumb and forefinger, and place them on the desk, then pour a healthy shot into both of them. Perhaps the act of pouring the second glass will summon company, in this house of miracles.
My phone vibrates, the sound still turned off.
I take a sip, what was meant to be a sip, but the glass doesn’t leave my lips until it’s tipped all the way back and it’s been emptied.
God, cutting through the ugliness of the leftover vomit, it tastes wonderful. More, vicar, more!
I pour another glass, I clink it against the glass on the desk, as though my other half is here, and take a quick drink from the second glass.
Kallas. I was supposed to be thinking about Kallas. Where she’ll have gone, and my part in her rescue. Except, of course, it’s liable to be far too late to make the rescue. If she’s been taken by Tony Blair, or Gill Blair, one of the Blairs! if one of them really is the killer, and Eileen sounded reasonably sure, then there’s little chance of Kallas being found before it’s too late.
Why keep the police officer alive? It just encourages them. Makes them think they’re on to something, that they’ve still got a chance.
Look at my phone. It’s not from Eileen as I’d assumed. Instead, Leia Fisher.
The text reads simply: We’re here all week if you want to do that again.
Have barely given her any thought since leaving the place, but now that the suggestion is there... holy shit, that might not be a bad idea. Might as well make the most of my suspension. All in on the downbound train! Toot toot!
The phone goes again. Leia Fisher again.
Derek sent me the list. Seventy-nine names. Here you are. See you later! : ) xx
Fucking hate that smiley thing. And see you later, the fuck does that mean?
She’s copied the list of names into the message, and I scroll down, a quick look through, glass of vodka in my hand, a sip corresponding to roughly ten entries. Trying not to rush, don’t want to miss anything, knowing that it might, in any case, be utterly meaningless.
What does a name on this list mean anyway? The person is interested in niche Cambuslang and Rutherglen news? Big fucking deal. I mean, it’s sad, but it’s barely of significance.
I stop.
Blink a couple of times. Drain the glass, lay it back down, don’t immediately refill.
Scroll through the rest of the names, all bland and unrecognisable, and then go back up to the name that stopped me in my tracks.
There are no coincidences, that’s what Taylor and I used to say, right?
Don’t think about Taylor.
Everything happens for a reason, everything you do, every decision you make is for a reason. And now, here I am, sitting in the vestry of the church of a fucked up, distraught and overworked minister, who’s had the year from Hell, and her name pops up on a list.
No way, no way, I can hear some detached voice in my head.
Of course the minister’s on the list. Why wouldn’t the minster be on the list? She needs to know what’s going on in society, she needs to know what’s going on with her parishioners, and she can’t get it all from gossip at the bake sale.
If it’s nothing, explain that uncomfortable feeling in your stomach, then, you fuck.
I open the drawer again, start raking through the papers. I don’t know what I think I might find, but I’m looking for it anyway.
Nothing in this side, open up the large drawer on the left. Jesus, an unopened litre bottle of Glenfiddich. Classy. You’ve got the moves, babe.
More paper, more church business, a book with a list of addresses. Now the two shallow drawers at the top. A Bible, and pencils, pens, a hole punch and a stapler, and the standard detritus of office life, and I rummage around and there’s nothing there, not even anything that’s slightly scandalously interesting, nothing filthy like I would imagine this vicar possessing in her office drawer.
Push the chair back, open the large cabinet to the right, the only other piece of furniture in this small room, bar the desk and chairs. Where’s the box of plastic face masks, where’s the box of crippling evidence?
Not in here. Gowns, three different colours, and other ceremonial garments. Jesus, I didn’t realise a Church of Scotland minister wore all this crap. Maybe she’s a secret Catholic. Ha! There’d be plenty around here who’d think that worse than being a secret serial killer.
I close the cupboard door, look over the small room. Stare at the vodka bottle. For the first time in I don’t know how long, I don’t want any. The thought of it tastes sour in my mouth. Look at t
hat. Drinker Has Had Enough Shock!
Bollocks. I’ll be pouring myself another glass in about five minutes if I’m still here.
Hands thrust in damp pockets, as I look around the room. What do I have to show for my brilliant plan of breaking into the church?
Fuck it, I got the booze, that was why I came in here, right? I didn’t know the minister was on the list, I didn’t come here expecting to find a vital piece of evidence, or a thing, or Gill Blair tied to a table, or Kallas sparked out on a chair, waiting in line in the laceration queue. I came for drink, I got it, and now what?
I’m freezing. With the end of the game for the evening, comes the cold, and the shiver, and the awareness that I still feel like shit. Funny how drinking vodka on top of an on-going drunken hangover doesn’t make you feel any better.
I look at the still-full second glass, all of thirty seconds after deciding I didn’t want any more.
Thirty seconds. You lasted that long, eh? Jesus...
Rub my hands across my face, damp and cold, notice my fingers are starting to turn white.
The phone goes again, even the vibrate on the table loud and grating in the late night silence. Leia Fisher: Did you find what you were looking for?
I read it without thinking. Brain not really firing, after all.
Try to switch on. Why does she care? Why is she looking for me to text at midnight? Then I have a wait, what? moment. Wait, what? What does it actually mean?
Your mind creates stories when it’s in this fractured, late night state.
Does she really mean did I find a name on the list, or does she know I’m here, searching through random drawers?
How could she?
See you later.
Lean forward on the desk, head racing – insomuch as any head which has taken this much abuse can race – trying to think of their set-up at the hotel in Gleneagles. How easy would it be for her to sneak out of there, late at night, without anyone from the hotel noticing?
A ground floor suite. The double doors. She could walk out of there in a second, through the woods, nip across a fairway, she’d be at the main road in a few minutes, and she could have a car parked. No record of her leaving, all the time in the world, leaving behind the perfect alibi. We can’t know the depth of their relationship, but she certainly knows plenty about Champlain that Champlain doesn’t want widely known, so she’d have that threat to dangle over her should she refuse to cover for her. The lover doesn’t need to know what Fisher’s doing.
Dammit. I should’ve handed it over to Kallas last night, when I had the chance. Now here I am, always the last clown left sitting in the clown car.
So, could Fisher have followed me down? Planted a tracking device on me? Maybe they opened my phone when I was in the shower. Could I just open some fucker’s phone? Not a chance, but it doesn’t mean she couldn’t. If she’s capable of everything we’ve seen so far, she’d be capable of that.
The light goes out.
Breath catches in my throat. Heart stops. I fumble for my phone, fumble like a fool, bring up the wrong screen, and again, finally open the torch app. Shine it at the door.
The door stares blankly back at me.
Then, from somewhere in the church, there is a loud, single clang. Deep. A sound that booms through the building and echoes off into the far distance.
Then, nothing.
44
Jesus, this sobers you up faster than a bucket of ice water.
I stand by the desk, phone held up, light on the door. Every muscle tensed, straining to hear any sounds from the building. An approach from along the corridor, the scuttle of feet.
A sudden thought that maybe it’s just the police. A couple of plods from our place, investigating a reported break-in. Maybe I tripped a wire. Maybe they killed the lights to throw the robber off his game.
Maybe, fucking maybe.
Grit my teeth, ignore the reflex to get a shot of vodka before action, then walk to the door, slip my phone into my pocket. I don’t turn off the torch, just place the light against my leg so that it’s not visible, yet easily accessible if required. Fingers on the handle, final steel of the nerves, and then I slowly open the door.
Braced for there to be someone there, but I’m greeted by darkness, no sense of anyone else.
Another pause, another swallow, another moment before stepping forward into the fire.
‘Come on Hutton, don’t be a pussy,’ I murmur quietly to the night, and then I’m out of the vestry and into the short corridor, and walking towards the nave.
Wondered if I might see torchlight all over – that would likely be the case if this was the coppers – but the nave greets me with the same darkness as it did earlier.
Altar at the front, next to a low pulpit, the rows of pews stretching beyond, with two small side sections, and a large central area. So much shadow and darkness. So many things hidden.
I start walking back down the left-hand aisle. What’s the plan now, Genius? Get the fuck out of Dodge? Call the cops? Really? Or wander around like a lemon in the dark, waiting to get jumped.
I feel completely owned by the situation. It’s dark. Impenetrable. I could hide, I could wait, I could be the deliverer of the jump scare; but here I am, on the back foot, wandering, searching, hoping.
Freeze. The noise again.
Clink!
What was that? Something tapping against metal? Water dripping onto a pipe? Just water. A drip, echoing through the silence.
Or blood. It could be blood.
Calm the fuck down.
But suddenly I can smell it, sense it, sense the other person here in the nave, lurking somewhere in the shadows.
I stop, turn, look around. No one behind, creeping up on me. Heart pounding. Imagination rampaging through the night. Damp clothes sticking, cloying, clutching, starting to feel warm, uncomfortable.
Phone vibrates again. She’s fucking taunting me. Phone out, bring the message up.
Leia Fisher: You’re no fun, Sergeant.
Jesus, what does she want me to do? Where does she want me? I’m staggering clumsily around, lost in the dark, the beam from my phone a giant target on my head. Fuck me.
Heart galloping, breath catching in my throat, constant movements of my head, not wanting to be blind-sided. Fearing the scurrying attack from behind. From the shadows of a pew. From the balcony looming ominously above.
I need to stop, stop moving, but I can’t do it here, now, in the middle of the nave. I have to get to a wall, set my back against it, wait for the attack, the torch sweeping back and forth.
My breathing sounds so loud now. Horrible and gasping and desperate in the black pit of this place. I can feel the uncomfortable stir of nausea in my stomach, up my throat, driven by too much alcohol and tension, adrenaline and fear.
The phone vibrates again!
You fucking bitch! Enough! Just come at me, for fuck’s sake!
Throat dry, yet tickled by the threat of sick, hand shaking.
A photograph. Leia Fisher on the bed, Champlain beside her, head turned away so her face isn’t in the picture. They’re both naked, gorgeous, beautiful, teasing, promising.
They must have taken it earlier. That’s my first thought. It’s not true. Can’t be true. Doesn’t make sense otherwise, because she’s here.
I swallow. Look up.
That’s when I feel the stab of pain in my leg, the rush of it, as the vomit rises in my throat. I feel dizzy and discombobulated and lost, and I slump forward, phone falling from my fingers, reaching for the back of a pew, missing, slumping uncomfortably and painfully in between the seats.
45
Open my eyes. Blurred sight. Close them again. Open. Blink. Squeeze eyelids. Smell vomit. Close eyes. Gag. Swallow. Open eyes wide, try to move rest of face. Nothing happening. Try to move my arms. Nothing. Stare straight ahead.
Everything slowly beginning to clear, though it doesn’t make sense. Women. Lots of women.
Lots of women?
Take your time, Hutton. Slow down. Think. Count. Break it down, woman by woman. There aren’t lots of women.
Where’s the writer? She should be here. Mental. Batshit. The batshit writer, messing with people’s lives. Mine too. She messed with my life. We had sex. Me, her, someone else. Wasn’t she supposed to be here?
I see the picture of her and the other woman in bed. When was that taken? Earlier. Wasn’t it earlier? That’s what I thought. A Blue Peter photograph – here’s one I prepared earlier – to make it look like she wasn’t in the church, stalking me.
My own fault for going to the church. Should’ve gone home with Eileen.
‘Where’s the writer?’ I say, trying out my voice.
Voice still works, though I don’t recognise it. Don’t recognise myself. Maybe it’s not me.
‘What writer?’
Who was that? One of the women. There aren’t that many.
Wait, I’m naked. Didn’t see that coming. On a wooden chair. Neck feels sore. Must have slept funny. Can’t move my arms, can’t move my legs, maybe because of the duct tape. That’ll be it.
My eyes fall on Kallas. A couple of feet away, also bound. Wrists tied together, ankles tied together, torso strapped to the chair. Eyes closed, head slumped uncomfortably to the side. Not a natural position. That’ll hurt later. She’s not naked. I wonder why that is?
So, who spoke then?
The minister.
The minister. My eyes fall on her. She’s also on a wooden chair. She’s not naked either. Black pedal pushers, white tunic top. Flowy.
She’s not bound.
Wait, she’s not bound. And she just asked, ‘What writer?’
There’s someone else, another woman, but she’s on the table. Like a regular kind of a dining table, but long, long enough to hold the length of a body. This woman might be asleep.
Gill Blair. It’s Gill Blair. The suspect.
Some suspect she’s turned out to be. Never a good look when a suspect ends up a victim.
She’s bleeding. Jesus she’s bleeding. A lot of blood. Maybe she’s not asleep. Maybe she’s dead.
I watch her chest, blood covered pale skin, barely moving. No, not barely, there’s no movement at all.
In My Time Of Dying: DS Hutton Book 5 Page 25