Better the Devil You Know

by James Whitworth

  So far they had unsurprisingly not seen another person, but now Riddle was suddenly aware of the silence. The sound of the town had been muffled at the foot of the steps, now it had disappeared. He strained his ears, but could hear nothing. But he could sense something.

  Miller’s eyes were narrowed. He was vainly trying to penetrate the mist. He thought he could make out a shape a few steps above, but it was impossible to be sure.

  Riddle was now holding his breath as the sound of Miller’s breathing seemed unnaturally loud.

  Miller turned to face him and instinctively Riddle knew what Miller wanted. He nodded his understanding and then suddenly sprang forward, taking the steps two at a time. In the silence his footsteps seemed deafening. He was certain something was ahead. His breath was coming in short bursts, instantly mixing with the mist. Suddenly a shape began to materialise out of the gloom. Riddle increased his speed and then the world suddenly turned upside down. Pain jolted through his body and everything went black.

  Chapter 9

  “Sergeant!” Miller yelled as Riddle’s body suddenly emerged through the mist. In a few seconds Miller was kneeling down by Riddle’s side. There was blood on his face.

  Miller was scrambling in his pocket for his mobile phone when Riddle groaned. “Sorry, sir.”

  “Paul,” Miller said, relief flooding through him. “I thought you were…” he left the sentence unfinished.

  With a groan, Riddle sat up. “It’s just a graze,” he said.

  Miller examined Riddle’s head. There was a small cut along his hairline, but it had bled profusely.

  “Look at the state of my shirt,” Riddle said. “It’s covered in blood. I ordered it online from Jermyn Street.”

  Miller let out a long sigh. “You must be OK if you’re more worried about your shirt than your head. What happened?”

  Riddle explained to Miller how as he had gained on the figure he had missed his step and fallen forward. He has instinctively put his hands out, which must have saved him from any serious injury, but he had caught his head of the edge of the step.

  “Did you see anything at all?” Miller asked.

  “Just a shape. It could have been anyone.”

  “Let’s get you back to the station,” Miller began, but Riddle interrupted him.

  “I’m fine – honestly. I’m sure it’ll hurt like hell tonight, but I’d rather carry on,” he said as he produced a handkerchief from his pocket and started to clean his face. “How do I look?”

  “Like an immaculately dressed hooligan.”

  “Thank you,” Riddle grinned.

  After the two detectives had passed the church and the Abbey, they made their way to Curlew Lane Chapel. Here, on the top of the cliffs, the mist was at its thickest. The chapel only began to take shape as they walked through the creaking gate that led to the graveyard. Turning left, they followed a short path that ended at a thick wooden door.

  Miller pulled a lever and a bell tolled solemnly. He was just beginning to think that no one was going to answer when the large metal hinges protested loudly as the door swung open.

  “Sorry to keep you,” the vicar said. “Ah, Detective Sergeant Riddle. I just had to take a shower, I felt so…soiled. I know it’s selfish, but as soon as your people had removed the body of that poor woman, I felt the need to feel clean again.”

  “Perfectly understandable,” Riddle said. He had felt the same thing before, an irrational need to “clean” himself after witnessing a brutal crime.

  “And this is?” the vicar said, smiling at Miller.

  “This is Detective Chief Inspector Miller. He is heading up the case.”

  “Pleased to meet you. I’m Luke Moore. Please come in.”

  The vicar stood to one side to allow the two detectives inside the chapel. It was cold and there was the faint smell of damp.

  “This way,” the vicar said pointing to a thick curtain, which he moved to one side to reveal a door. Beyond this was a small room, which made Miller think of a prison cell. There was a single bed, a sink, a bookcase and another door that led to the shower room.

  “You live here?” Riddle asked, unable to hide his surprise. “I thought you lived on Henrietta Street.”

  “Some believe such austerity is good for the soul,” the vicar said, “but I must be honest, this is a little too bleak for me. No, as you say, I have a house in the town. This is just somewhere to rest in the day. I usually just use it to get changed.”

  The vicar moved a pile of bibles from the bed. “Please sit down… good grief,” he said. “Sergeant, what happened to you?”

  “Oh, nothing to worry about,” Riddle said, eager to change the subject. If he was honest, he felt he had let Miller down on the steps. If he had not been so clumsy he could have found out who had been so desperate to avoid the police. “We wanted to talk to you about what happened.”

  “Of course, of course. Anything I can do to help.”

  “You told me earlier that you had some experience in…” Riddle searched for the right word.

  “The occult?” the vicar offered. “Not directly, of course. But as part of my pastoral duties I sometimes deal with people who have followed such a path and have repented. They usually just require a little guidance to get their lives back on track.”

  Miller shifted uncomfortably on the bed. “Is that all?”

  “No. I have always felt that to understand a situation one has not been directly involved with, it is important to study it as closely as possible.”

  “And is that what you have done?”

  “To a certain degree. You see one of the problems with this town is that it acts as a magnet for all sorts of disaffected people. They’re mostly harmless, of course. The majority are just looking for something to follow.”

  “And the occult offers them that?” Miller asked. He knew Whitby attracted Goths and others who had all sort of strange belief systems, but it was news to him that the town was populated with occultists, especially after his discussion with Dr Carrs.

  “Well it depends how you define “occult””, the vicar said with a weary smile. “If you mean orgies and sacrifices in the graveyard then no. But if you mean an unhealthy obsession with human nature, then yes.”

  “I understand that you saw the body,” Miller said, eager to get to the point. There was something about the damp chapel that made him long for the cold, but fresh air outside.

  The vicar went pale. “Yes. I had just arrived at the chapel when I heard screaming. There had been a lady walking her dog…”

  “We know,” Riddle said. “It was very distressing for everyone involved.”

  “Indeed,” the vicar said. “So yes, I saw the body.”

  “In which case do you have any theories as to who could have done such a thing or why the victim was left in such a way?”

  The vicar stood up and poured himself a cup of water from the cracked sink. “As to who, I have no idea. But I may be able to offer some insight into the why.”

  Miller sat forward. “Really? You think it was an occult ceremony, perhaps?”

  The vicar shook his head. “I think it was made to look like a Satanic mass, but I find that highly improbable.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, from what I have read, Satanic masses are very rare in this country. They normally involve quite a few people and frankly, they create a lot of mess. Chicken blood, feathers and so on. The grass around the tomb looked pretty much undisturbed.”

  “You noticed that?” Riddle asked, impressed with the vicar’s observation.

  “I read a lot of detective fiction,” the vicar said. “PD James, Agatha Christie, Father Brown.”

  Miller smiled. “Go on.”

  “Well, apart from the lack of physical evidence, there’s also what I believe people now call the elephant in the room.”

  “Which is?” Miller asked.

  “As I said, Whitby is full of people following non-Christian religions, but as far as I’m concerned I�
��ve never even heard of a Satanist. It’s much more likely to be a Pagan.”

  “But Pagans are very different to Satanists,” Riddle said, pleased to be given an opportunity so soon to display his new found knowledge. “Pagans don’t go in for violence.”

  “With respect, sergeant, you sound like a Pagan publicist. It’s true that many modern Pagans are peace loving, but that in itself can cause problems.”

  “I don’t understand,” Riddle said.

  “What I mean to say is that there is a certain kind of person who is attracted to Paganism by what they perceive it to be. They are looking for an excuse to indulge in drink, drugs and worse. When they find what is essentially a nature-based religion, they begin to look elsewhere.”

  “So you feel that the killer may be someone who became interested in new age religion, but wanted to take it beyond what the local Pagans could offer.”

  “Exactly. Look at what this person did to that poor woman. It was almost a cliché. Don’t you think there was something unreal about it?”

  “It looked pretty real to me,” Miller said.

  “Of course it did. Sorry. But what I mean is that it looked more like a staging of a Satanic ceremony. In other words, it looked to me what someone who was drawn to such things would create. It would also explain why it looks as if the killer was operating on his own.”

  “So you’re saying that we need to be looking at someone in the Pagan community who has become obsessed with the occult?”

  “That would be my best advice.”

  “Thank you,” Miller said standing up. “We’ll be in touch.”

  “Anything I can do to help,” the vicar said.

  *

  Miller and Riddle let themselves out. Now that the SOCO team had left the murder scene, the graveyard was quiet. The mist was swirling around the tombstones and light from the vicar’s small room cast an eerie glow across the path. Riddle had the feeling they were being watched, but as far as he could see there was no one else in the area.

  It was now starting to go dark, although the mist meant that any difference in the light was subtle. Miller checked his watch. “We’ve just about time to visit David Higgins.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “Don’t you speak to your wife, Riddle? He is or he was Samantha Thompson’s boss – and more to the point, he’s the man who had an affair with her.”

  “Really?” Riddle said. This was news to him. “Did Tommy know about this?”

  “According to your wife, he knew all about it.”

  “Why didn’t you mention this before?” Riddle asked. Sometimes he could not understand his boss at all. They had already interviewed Tommy Gregory and Miller hadn’t even mentioned Samantha’s boss to him.

  “I didn’t want to let on that we knew,” Miller said.

  “Ah,” Riddle said. “You were lulling him into a false sense of security?”

  “Nothing so melodramatic. I just wanted to see how he reacted to the death without muddying the water with the whole workplace drama. And of course, it was over. Or at least that was what Samantha told your wife.”

  “You think Samantha lied?”

  Miller thought for a moment. The possibility had occurred to him straight away, but he wasn’t sure if it mattered. If Tommy thought something was still going on then the truth of the matter would be immaterial. “Let’s go and find out. Oh and sergeant…”

  “Yes?”

  “Try to be careful on the steps.”

  By the time Miller and Riddle had retraced their steps and returned to the car, any remaining light had disappeared from the sky. The town’s Christmas decorations glistened against the mist. The few visitors had retreated to their cars and coaches and the town seemed to be settling in for a quiet evening.

  As Riddle drove across the bridge to the west side of the town, the car radio changed from Eleanor Rigby to Frosty the Snowman. “More like Fogman,” Riddle said, amused at his own joke.

  As the car drove along the harbour front, Riddle asked the question that had been bothering him since the discovery of Samantha Thompson’s body in the early hours of the morning. “Why did the killer go to the trouble of removing all her clothes and killing a bird? I mean, I know it looks as if it was part of some ritual, but why there? It may be out of the town, but the coast path runs along the chapel wall and there are those cottages opposite. It may have been the early hours of the morning, but someone could have looked out of the window or just walked past. Surely it’s too public to carry out some weird Satanic rite.”

  The car turned left at the RNLI and began to climb towards the west cliff. “It’s a good question,” Miller said, “and I must admit it’s been bothering me, too. I’ll give you another good question: was Samantha the intended victim or was it a random act?”

  Riddle thought about this for a moment. “She must have been the intended victim,” he said. “I can’t see the killer waiting at the chapel on the off chance that someone whom they could over power just happened to be passing.”

  Miller agreed. “But if that’s the case and she was the intended victim, why not wait till she got to her front door and then kill her? The killer could have carried out the ceremony in her house.”

  “But the tombstone must have been important. The point of the killing must have been to do with the graveyard.”

  Miller thought the same, but they just seemed to be going around in circles. “We’re agreed that the killer can’t have been waiting for someone to pass on the off chance, in which case he or she must have known Samantha would be returning home. But if we take that as fact, we come up against the fact that the killer stood a real chance of being discovered. Not just killing her, but undressing a dead body and killing the bird. That must have taken time. It was one hell of a risk.”

  “Perhaps they got some weird kick out of the chance of being caught,” Riddle said as he pulled the car into a space outside the surveyors’ office.

  “Perhaps,” Miller said, clearly unconvinced.

  *

  The offices of Anstey Surveyors were situated above a cafe on West Terrace. A recently polished brass plate informed the detectives that D Higgins could be found on the first floor. As they climbed the staircase they heard a door open and a figure appeared on the landing.

  “DCI Miller and DS Riddle,” the figure said, looking at his phone screen. “I’m David Higgins, senior partner. It’s terrible. Really terrible. I’ve sent the staff home, of course. They’re all devastated.”

  Higgins was in his early forties, with fashionably cut shoulder length hair. His grey eyes were watchful, but his smile seemed genuine.

  Miller reached the top of the stars, a little more out of breath than he would have liked. “Thanks for waiting for us,” Miller said, offering his hand. “Shall we go in?”

  Higgins stood aside to allow the detectives to pass into the first floor offices. They were exceptionally clean, with the faint smell of beeswax. Everything was well organised with the help of Scandinavian-influenced filing systems and storage.

  The office was open plan with a water cooler at the centre and desks radiating outwards. David Higgins’ desk was in the far right corner. On it was a flat screen computer, a rolled up blueprint and a metal penholder. The surveyor sat behind his desk and gestured to two wicker chairs. “Please, sit down.”

  “I can appreciate this is a difficult time for you,” Miller began.

  Higgins waved the comment away. “Anything we can do to help. What do you want to know?”

  “Were you having an affair with Samantha Thompson?” Miller asked.

  Riddle almost broke his pencil. He knew Miller could sometimes be direct, but this was breaking new ground.

  Higgins looked from Miller to Riddle and back again, opening his mouth and then closing it.

  “It’s a simple enough question, Mr. Higgins,” Miller said. He knew he was pushing his luck, but he was gambling on the surveyor being too surprised to complain.

  “Err… no
. No I wasn’t,” he finally answered.

  “You don’t sound sure,” Miller said. “She was a beautiful woman. I am sure I would remember if I had been having an affair with Samantha Thompson.”

  “Look, DCI Miller,” Higgins said, finally regaining some composure. “I was under the impression that you were investigating the murder of my colleague. I don’t see how your question is relevant.”

  “Allow me to be the judge of that,” Miller said, sounding more pompous than he intended.

  Higgins was recovering quickly, Riddle noted. His steely grey eyes had narrowed as if he was suddenly focused on the conversation and its implications.

  “All right,” Higgins said. “I’ll answer your question. Was I having an affair with Samantha? No. We’d slept together a couple of times, but it was over. Would I have liked it to continue? Absolutely.”

  “It didn’t bother you that she was in a relationship?” Miller asked.

  “It bothered me that she was in an unhappy relationship,” Higgins said.

  “How did you know that?” Miller asked.

  Higgins stood up and walked to the window. He looked down onto the street. A couple of teenagers were going into the off-licence across the road.

  “When you work with someone, you get to recognise the signs after a while. I found her attractive and I would have liked it to go further. But for some reason she seemed loyal to that waster of a boyfriend.”

  At this point Riddle’s phone began to ring. He stood up and walked to the other side of the office.

  “You knew Tommy Gregory?” Miller continued.

  “I didn’t know him, but I met him once at last year’s Christmas party.”

  “Sir!”

  Miller turned to Riddle, his frustration at being interrupted evaporating when he saw the expression on his sergeant’s face.

  “What is it? What’s happened?”

  “That was Newbold. They’ve found another body.”

  Chapter 10

  Whitby’s streets were largely deserted as Miller and Riddle drove towards the east pier. As they navigated the cobbles of Church Street, Riddle explained for the second time what Newbold had told him on the phone.