by Jonathan Day
hid. Then he stayed with me when the lid fell down.’
Tweet assumed that the trauma was making the child fantasise and relieved when medical assistance came. Her instincts may have been many, but mothering wasn't one of them.
As the boy was checked over and taken away in an ambulance, DI Bolton arrived. He looked at his mud-spattered, dishevelled DS like a queen bee annoyed at an unruly worker. ‘What the hell persuaded you to come here, Sparrow?’
‘That young man.’ She pointed to where he had been standing. But her hope of a more intimate encounter had disappeared.
‘I think it was just another of your barmy hunches.’
‘No honestly, boss, there was this rather tasty young man.’
‘Oh shut up. You're beginning to sound hormonal.’
‘Nothing in my terms of service says I can't lust every now and then.’
‘Not surprised he ran off. For pity's sake clean yourself up and get back to the station.’
‘Can I buy some chips first? I'm starving.’
‘No. It’s a wonder all those black belts are long enough to go round your waist.’
‘It’s muscle!’
‘It’s too many fry-ups and creams buns.’
Then her superior realised why she was more dishevelled than usual. ‘Did you actually manage to crawl through one of those pipes?’
‘I was being thorough.’
‘Wonder you didn’t get stuck.’
After a quick tidy up, coffee and chips, Tweet returned to the station determined to persuade DI Bolton that the subject of her non-romantic encounter existed. It wasn't until she had printed out the snap she had taken of the young man that he believed her.
His reaction was totally unexpected. As he examined the fair, fine features of the stranger, Maurice Bolton’s expression fell as though he had been doused in cold water.
‘You know him?’
He gave her one of those penetrating looks usually reserved for the worst villains. When in the best of moods this man, in his ridiculous striped pullovers, resembled a cross between Mr Pickwick and a bumblebee. When challenged, out came that sting which immediately quelled the impression. ‘You're not pulling my leg, are you Sparrow?’
She was baffled. ‘'Course not boss. For some reason the image didn't come out well. Must have been shaking with anticipation.’
DI Bolton always knew when his subordinate was telling the truth and placed the print in his pocket. ‘Think you could find him again?’
‘Sight of my boobs probably scared him off for good. Don't tell me he's a felon of some sort? Won't believe it.’
‘No, far from.’
Tweet went home that evening, phoned her mother who was busy polishing the porcelain as usual, and father in the Caribbean bar he ran, tidied the lounge, ironed the pile of clothes that had accumulated over the last month, and sewed on buttons.
About 9.30 there was a knock at the door of her basement flat.
She opened it.
It was DI Bolton. He looked about her unusually tidy residence with a wide, smug smile. ‘You all right Sparrow?’
‘'Course. Why not?’
‘You really fancied this young fellow, didn't you?’
There was a deep voice behind the detective. ‘He was a very attractive young man, but too shy to take advantage of it. Don't think he ever did have a girlfriend.’
‘This is DCI Coleridge.’
‘Long retired,’ added the elderly man. ‘The knees may have gone, but I can still remember a face, especially this one.’ He held up the photo she had taken.
Tweet ushered them to the settee. ‘I'm teetotal at the moment. Tea or coffee?’
DI Bolton's grin became even smugger. ‘We will have a glass of that sherry you keep tucked away for a new boyfriend. Must have matured to a nice vintage after all these years.’
‘Bitch… ’ she muttered under her breath as she went to the cupboard.
‘I'm very sorry,’ Manny Coleridge called after her, ‘but you might as well drink it now because you’ll never see this young man again.’
She brought the bottle and three glasses to the coffee table. ‘So who’s this mysterious stranger then?’
Maurice Bolton turned to his retired colleague, his mood suddenly sombre. ‘Are you sure you want to do this?’
‘His name was Matthew... Matthew White.’
‘Was?’ interrupted Tweet.
‘He was my oppo in the early 80s.’
She missed a glass and poured sherry over the TV remote. ‘What?’
‘Murdered by Justin J Kaynam. It was all kept quiet. Connections in high places. That sort of thing happened back then.’ Manny Coleridge took a folded A4 sheet from an inside pocket. ‘Journalist I knew wrote the whole thing up against the chance of it being made public. Never happened though.’ He handed the page to her. ‘I ensured he didn't get too purple for the sister's sake.’
Tweet mopped up the sherry with some tissues, and then sat down to read aloud:-
‘The Blood of Christ
‘In the late seventies a group of aristocrats and influential wealthy decided that the best way to emulate Jesus was to totally invert the Transfiguration into something evil beyond comprehension.
‘The cult formed by Justin J Kaynam had all the respectable trappings of a monastic order - albeit with servants and silverware. They built a chapel at the farm, which was all that left of a member’s estate after death duties.
‘These like minds probably devised this cult as a reaction to the legislation of the socialist government. Instead of sponsoring a reactionary MP, their distorted reasoning decided that it was their God-given right to draw the blood of the lower orders who had voted in Labour - literally!’
Tweet stopped reading. ‘Good God!’
Manny Coleridge indicated that she carry on.
‘The premise on which this sad collection of privileged elite based their cult was that the Blood of Christ ran through the veins of the meek. Any innocent soul who had dedicated his (he had to be male of course) life to the needs of another was deemed blessed. One or two reclusive altruists of no great note had gone missing since its inception and their bodies never found. By the time someone made the connection, too much time had passed for useful investigation... Until DC Matthew White decided to follow up a lead, that was. Years later, one of the servants at the monastic community admitted that he had been ordered to phone the young detective. He was told to come alone and inform no one else if he wanted to learn about the disappearances. The inexperienced officer realised he was making a mistake, yet must have felt he could not ignore a lead which would establish his credentials as a detective. So he jotted down a note for his superior, DI Coleridge, and left.
‘Matthew White's parents had died in a train crash when he was 15, leaving him to raise a 10-year-old sister, despite the efforts of the authorities to move her into foster care. Becoming a police cadet and entering the service enabled them to stay together.
‘The young man believed good of everyone, something his superior attempted, unsuccessfully, to knock out of him. As a consequence Matthew innocently entered that nest of evil where he paid the ultimate price for being a decent, guileless human being.’
Tweet lowered the article. ‘I don’t want to read any more.’
‘Go on,’ DI Bolton ordered. ‘You know damn well shit happens.’
‘By the time DI Coleridge saw the note it was too late. DC Matthew White was dead – his heart cut out. The cult members were arrested and charged with murder. None of them were prosecuted. Matthew White's body disappeared from the morgue and the cult's farmhouse headquarters went up in flames the same night. For years his 17-year-old sister, Alice, was inconsolable, made worse by the fact all charges against his murderers had been dropped.’
Tweet took a swig of sherry. ‘So the case file disappeared as well then?’
‘Oh yes.’ Manny Coleridge removed a flash drive from his wallet. ‘But we did have photocopiers back then.’ He would ha
ve handed it to her, but Maurice Bolton took it.
‘Don't let her have the thing. You've no idea what she's like.’
‘Oh come on...’ Tweet protested.
‘This is mine. You're too infatuated to be sensible.’
‘Matthew wasn't the sort to want revenge,’ added the retired DCI, ‘but his sister deserves closure. Most members of the cult are dead. Justin J Kaynam, knowing he couldn’t be touched, slithered out of the country and built an oil empire. Dead now as well.’
But Tweet was thinking out loud to herself, ‘Why would Matthew suddenly appear to me out of nowhere…? And why now…?’
‘Ignore her,’ whispered DI Bolton. ‘She's away with her father on this tropical island serving hash and mint juleps. Not surprised her mother threw them both out.’ He turned to Tweet. ‘Well, what do you make of it?’
‘That farm where we found Jobey was this cult's headquarters, wasn't it. And all that rubble in the brickfield used to be the chapel. And those pipes meant they were laying a mains sewer to build something pretty big. Don't suppose anyone found out what that was either?’
‘Not a clue. Enough funds were raised to bulldoze the chapel so we never will now.’
‘So that dog walker we thought was senile didn’t imagine that little Jobey was being chased…’ Tweet took a deep breath. ‘This cult is back in business, isn’t it?’
‘There, what did I tell you, what she lacks in charm she makes up for in deduction.’
‘I only wish she had been on my team back then,’ said Manny Coleridge.
‘Her, a black belt in martial arts? She would have beaten the lights out of the murdering buggers, not to mention the blokes on