The Lost Shrine

by Nicola Ford

  She edged forward. As she got to the front door she realised for the first time that he’d put the chain across. She could feel the perspiration on her hands. Flattening her palms, she rubbed them down the front of her trousers. Then, putting her hand to the chain, she began to disengage the end of it from its catch. She almost had it fully withdrawn now.

  There was a sudden ‘Ouch, shit!’ from the living room.

  Instinctively she half turned and as she did so the end of the chain slipped from her fingers.

  For several long seconds there was total silence. Then she heard him move. She looked at the front door, but the chain was still in place. There was no time. Turning, she hurtled past the living room door towards the kitchen. The back door. She twisted the handle and tugged furiously. But it wouldn’t budge. It must be locked – and no sign of a key. She could hear him. He was out of the living room now.

  He’d seen her. ‘It’s you. You interfering bitch!’

  There was only one choice left. The bathroom. Turning towards the open door, she caught a glimpse of him in the hallway. He was standing, hands by his sides, stripped to the waist and smiling. He was stock-still and just staring at her. Down the right-hand leg of his jeans there was a large dark splatter of what she presumed must be blood. Crabby’s blood.

  Everything seemed to happen very quickly after that.

  ‘Nice of you to drop in.’ He lunged forward.

  But before he’d finished the sentence she was through the bathroom door. She slammed it behind her, praising God and all the saints – none of whom she believed in – that there was a key as she turned it through ninety degrees in the lock.

  And then he started hammering on the door with his fists.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  ‘It’s down there.’ Jo was gesticulating wildly.

  ‘That’s what you said last time.’

  She glared at him. ‘Trust me. It’s this one. I remember it. Right!’

  He hauled the steering wheel round.

  She was shouting to make herself heard above the sound of the siren, ‘Down at the end, left-hand side.’

  He gestured towards the hands-free on the radio again. She hit the button.

  ‘All units in the vicinity of Compton Street. Officer seeking assistance. Code 1. Repeat, Code 1. 46 Compton Street.’

  The cars were tightly parked down both sides of the street.

  Suddenly, Jo yelled and pointed, ‘That’s Clare’s car. There!’

  The little blue Fiesta was parked up neatly by the kerb a few doors down from number 46. There were no parking spaces. Stone jammed his foot hard on the brake, bringing the car to a screeching halt right outside of Fuller’s house. He flung open the car door. Climbing out and slamming the door behind him, he stuck his head back through the open window and screamed at her, ‘Stay there!’

  There was zero chance of that happening. Jo shot out of the car, tracking Stone’s every footstep to the front door.

  He turned to look at her. ‘What did I tell you?’

  She said, ‘What can I say? I’m a bad listener.’

  ‘Jesus!’

  He turned back towards the door and crouched down, pushing at the flap of the letter box to hold it open. ‘Fuller, Fuller. Are you in there?’

  No reply.

  Jo was squatting down behind him. ‘What’s that banging noise?’

  He turned to answer but before he could reply over her shoulder he caught sight of a pair of uniformed officers climbing out of their car. He waved them towards him. ‘You two. Over here. And bring the battering ram.’

  Within seconds the two were standing beside them at the front of the door.

  Stone yelled, ‘Out of the way!’

  Jo stepped back into the weed-choked front garden. Stone yelled at her again to stand back. This time she complied, shuffling backwards against the thigh-high garden wall.

  Stone ordered, ‘No. Right back. Out of the garden.’

  For once Jo did what she was told and in one movement swung herself over the wall and onto the pavement on the other side.

  The two uniformed officers started to pull the battering ram back into position. But before they’d had a chance to drive it forward, Mark Stone had taken a running jump and with his arm covering his face had launched himself clean through the bay window, glass and all. Within seconds he had the front door open.

  The two constables laid the battering ram down and followed him into the house.

  Jo could hear Stone talking to them. ‘He’s locked this door. He’s in there. She seems to be on the other side of another door. He’s hammering at it with something. Where’s that battering ram?’

  Shit! Clare was in there with Fuller. And he had her trapped. There had to be another way in. Jo glanced to her right. About four doors away was a side passage leading down the side of one of the houses. That had to go somewhere, didn’t it?

  She ran like her life depended on it, following the passageway down until it hit a T-junction. Then she headed left. How many houses down? It was four. She was sure it was four. One, two, three, four. Looking up she could see the same peeling red paintwork. This was it. The wood of the back gate had long since rotted. She gave it one swift kick and the little that still remained disintegrated. As it did so it revealed a sea of chest-high stinging nettles. Above them Jo could see the back of the house. To the right was what looked like it must be the kitchen window. Someone had installed steel security bars across it. Through the grime-stained glass she could see what appeared to be a table that had been upended and jammed up against a door.

  To the left of the kitchen window was a brick-built extension that must once have been an outhouse of some kind. On its gable end was another window, this one double-glazed and with frosted glass. It must be the bathroom. The window was split into two parts. The bottom two thirds was a single solid pane. But the top third looked as if it opened outwards.

  She cursed the summer sunshine she’d been so glad of that morning. Her denim jacket was still sitting where she’d abandoned it in the site office. Lifting both hands in the air, she waded into the ocean of green. The thin cotton of her T-shirt did little to prevent the hundreds of tiny hypodermic needles from finding their mark. Gritting her teeth, she plunged forward. After the first five or ten seconds she almost ceased to feel the individual stings. The whole of her upper body felt as if it had been rubbed with red hot chilli peppers.

  As she got nearer to the house she could hear a dull thudding.

  It was relentless. He was beating the door with his fists. Again and again.

  She looked around her. The only window was high up in the end wall above the toilet cistern. It was double-glazed, but the top of it opened. Could she get through it? It looked tight. But she’d give it a bloody good go. Clambering on top of the cistern, with the sound of fist on wood behind her, she tried to pull the metal handle upwards. Was it just stiff? She almost wrenched her arm out of its socket trying to force it open. But it was no good. It was locked.

  The key. Where was the key? It must be here somewhere. She climbed down from the toilet cistern and started to rummage frantically through the assortment of old shampoo bottles and shaving kit. Behind her she could still hear hammering, but now the noise was heavier. The sound of metal on wood. This was it. There was no way out.

  Fuller had killed Beth. And he’d killed Crabby too. And now it was her turn. She slumped down on the toilet seat, her head in her hands. On the verge of tears, she found herself mumbling, ‘Crabby, oh, Crabby. Where were your gods when you needed them?’

  Then somewhere in the distance she thought she heard someone yelling. She lifted her head up. It was a male voice. She recognised it. It sounded like Mark Stone. Jo’s text. She’d said, ‘We’re coming.’ Jo and Stone. They were here. Clare felt a sudden rush of fury. Fuller wasn’t going to get her. He wasn’t going to make her his next victim. Because she wasn’t going to bloody well let him.

  Looking back towards the door for the f
irst time, she saw there was a floor-to-ceiling cupboard built in at the end of the bath. She had no idea what she was hoping to find. But when she opened the cupboard door she discovered a washing machine and tumble dryer stacked one on top of the other.

  For a second the hammering stopped. She could hear Fuller in the kitchen, his breathing now coming in erratic bursts. He was dragging something heavy. Scraping it across the tiled floor.

  She had no idea how she would do it but if she could just drag the washing machine and tumble dryer out of the cupboard and in front of the bathroom door she might be able to keep Fuller out for long enough to let Stone and Jo get to her. She grabbed the sides of the washing machine, desperately trying to get some sort of grip. She heaved with all her might and it shuddered, but it was jammed. It was wedged on the bloody bathroom lino. What the hell was she going to do?

  Then she saw the nail scissors. Grabbing them, she set to work. First using them to pierce the lino and then, once she’d made the initial incision, to cut a gash from the end of the cupboard to the wall.

  Fuller was back now, hammering on the door again. ‘Don’t think you’re going to get away from me, you bitch. Not now. You will die. The gods will have their sacrifice.’

  She ripped at the lino, tearing it away from the floor. Then she heaved at the washing machine. Jesus, it was heavy. It shuddered forward a couple of inches, the tumble drier above it swaying alarmingly. She stopped, took in a deep breath and with a strength she didn’t know she possessed, heaved again. Gradually, a few inches at a time, it was coming. She could do this.

  That’s when she heard the unmistakable sound of splintering wood. She looked up to see the head of the hammer. It had punctured one small hole in the door. It wouldn’t be long now and he’d be through. She gave one last tremendous pull and managed to get the washing machine almost right across the door. But there was a six-inch gap on the side where the bathroom door was hinged.

  ‘They’ve taken Beth, they’ve taken Jack, and they’ve taken Crabby. The gods demand their price. You will pay!’

  Jesus Christ!

  Moving round to the side, she put her full weight behind the tumble drier and pushed. It fell with a resounding clatter of metal and plastic wedging, diagonally between the washer and the corner of the bathroom wall.

  She took a deep breath and looked around her. That window was still her only way out. If there was a key in here somewhere she was going to find it.

  As Jo got within a few yards of the back of the house she suddenly caught sight of Fuller. He’d appeared from somewhere in the corner of the kitchen nearest the bathroom. Jo swallowed hard. He had a hammer in his hand. He threw it down and disappeared out of sight for a second.

  She heard a resounding crash and the splintering of wood. It must be Stone’s men with the battering ram. There was a horrible high-pitched scraping noise. Suddenly, Fuller reappeared. This time he was shoving what looked like an enormous double-fronted fridge freezer in front of him. There was another huge crash and with one push he’d wedged it against the upended table that blocked the kitchen door. Fuller bent down. What was he doing? There he was again. And then he disappeared in the direction of the bathroom, and the hammering resumed.

  The realisation hit Jo like a bucket of ice-cold water. Clare was in the bathroom. And Fuller was trying to smash the bathroom door down. There was no way Stone and his men were getting past that fridge freezer in a hurry. It was going to be down to her to get Clare out. But how? It had to be the window. Except it was shut. Could Clare hear her in there? The window was double-glazed, but there was an old-fashioned air vent just to one side of it. Maybe if she could get close to it she could make Clare hear her.

  She waded the last few feet through the nettles to the end wall of the bathroom.

  Standing directly beneath the vent, she yelled, ‘Hey, Clare. You in there?’

  There was a moment’s pause before she heard her friend’s voice. ‘Jo, is that you? Oh, thank God. I’m in the bathroom. Fuller’s trying to batter the door down. I’ve got it barricaded, but I don’t know how long it’ll last.’

  ‘Do you think you can make it through the window?’

  Clare said, ‘It’ll be tight, but I think so. Although it’s locked and I can’t find the key.’

  ‘Keep looking!’

  ‘What do you think I’m bloody doing?’

  From somewhere inside the house Jo could hear Stone. ‘It’s no good, Fuller. You’re not going anywhere. Give yourself up!’

  Still the hammering continued. There was the sound of splintering wood, followed by metal on metal. As if he was hitting a steel drum.

  Clare yelled, ‘It’s no good, Jo. I can’t find it. I don’t know how long I can keep him out. He’s through the wood to the tumble drier now.’

  The desperation in Clare’s voice was unmistakable.

  Think, Jo, think! Suddenly a flash of inspiration struck her. ‘Is there a loo in there?’

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  Jo said, ‘Open the cistern, Clare!’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Just do it!’ Jo ordered.

  There was a moment’s silence broken only by the crash of hammer on metal.

  ‘Jesus, Jo. You’re a fucking genius!’

  ‘You can thank me later. Just get that freaking window open.’

  There was a pause, then the window swung open. She could see Clare’s head.

  ‘Come on. Shift that skinny English arse of yours!’

  The sound of hammering on wood and metal now was incessant. Clare’s face disappeared from the window.

  Clare shouted, ‘Hang on. This is going to be tight.’

  What the hell was she doing in there?

  A long minute later Clare’s arms appeared through the window, then her head. It was as if she was diving through the opening in slow motion. She wriggled then gave a shove from the other side, accompanied by the sound of something ceramic crashing to the floor. Her top half was naked save for her sports bra and she appeared to be covered in some sort of jello-like substance. She got as far as her hips and then stopped.

  Clare stretched out her fingers, wiggling them in Jo’s direction. ‘Can you reach my hands? I need you to pull me through.’

  Standing on tiptoes, Jo stretched upwards and gripped both of Clare’s hands. An overpowering scent of strawberries suddenly filled her nostrils.

  Then from somewhere behind Clare came what sounded like a clap of thunder.

  Clare screamed. ‘Pull, for Christ’s sake!’

  Jo pulled. There was a brief moment of resistance, then suddenly in one movement Clare fell through the bathroom window landing smack on top of her.

  The two women scrambled to their feet.

  Clare screamed again. ‘Ow! Shit! Bloody hell.’

  Jo was laughing. Uncontrollably.

  Clare just stared at her. ‘What’s so bloody funny?’

  Jo said, ‘You are. If you will go wading through stinging nettles in nothing but your bra and underpants what do you expect? And what’s that gunge you’ve got all over you?’

  Clare broke into a grin. ‘Strawberry shower gel. I told you it was going to be tight.’

  By the time Clare and Jo had picked their way through the nettles and round to the front of 46 Compton Street, Stone and his two men had finally broken through to the kitchen. Neil Fuller was standing in his own hallway with his face shoved up against the wall, spread-eagled and in handcuffs. Mark Stone was reading him his rights.

  Stone all but threw Fuller towards the two officers who led him away, kicking, biting and swearing, into the back of their squad car. Fuller didn’t so much as glance at Clare.

  Mark Stone gallantly offered Clare his jacket which she more than gratefully accepted. ‘I’ll call you an ambulance, we need to get you checked out in a hospital.’

  She shook her head. ‘No need. There’s nothing wrong with me, now that maniac’s under lock and key.’

  Jo gave her a hard stare. ‘L
isten to him, Clare. It won’t do you any harm to let the docs give you the once-over.’ Clare glared at Jo defiantly. But her friend was having none of it. ‘You should see yourself in a mirror – you’re covered in bruises.’

  Stone nodded. ‘She’s right, Clare. You’re still in shock.’

  Clare rolled her eyes and raised her hands in the air in a gesture of resignation. ‘Alright, I know when I’m beaten. But before you pack me off to A & E there’s something in here you both need to see.’

  She padded her way, barefoot, back into the house and pointed to the hall table. ‘It looks to me like the second half of that Roman inscription that Beth found the record of in that journal article. The one that was discovered by the vicar in the nineteenth century. And I’m no expert but that looks like blood to me.’

  Jo turned to Stone. ‘From the shoebox you found at Crabby’s house.’

  He nodded. ‘I think so.’

  Clare turned to Jo. ‘When Crabby told me Beth had said she’d found something that proved the site was important, he was telling the truth.’

  Jo said, ‘I guess he just left out the bit where Beth gave him the evidence.’

  Clare said, ‘She must have realised she was in danger, if she felt the need to give it to someone else for safekeeping.’

  Stone said, ‘But Crabby made a mistake. He trusted Fuller.’

  Clare looked up at Stone. ‘He wasn’t the only one.’

  EPILOGUE

  ‘Thank God that’s over with.’ Glass in hand, Sally turned to David. ‘Are you driving tonight?’

  David said, ‘Before you slammed our guest of honour and esteemed colleague Dame Margaret Bockford’s speech, I was about to tell you that I’ve arranged a little surprise. I’ve booked us into the pub in the village. So neither of us have to drive.’

  Sally chinked David’s glass. ‘Well, at least that was good thinking on your part, Dr Barbrook.’

  The Bailsgrove end-of-dig party had taken on something of a fevered air. When Malcolm had suggested it, no one was really keen and who could blame them? But with Neil Fuller safely behind bars and awaiting trial, Malcolm had reckoned that they needed to do something to try to heal relations between the dig and the village. And so, much against most of their better judgements, the dig team, Mark Stone and Sally, together with most of the local residents, found themselves assembled in the village hall.