Miller emerged from the bathroom with a renewed sense of purpose. He wanted to talk to Luke Moore again. The vicar had offered his help and Miller had decided that any assistance he could get he should take. He couldn’t remember how long the vicar had been in Whitby, but there was a chance that he may have known Jocasta or her family. And a very good chance that he had known Martin Charles.
The vicar answered on the second ring. He would be more than happy to see Miller this morning as he planned to be at the chapel until late afternoon when he would be taking a Christmas service.
Miller paused to let Stevie Nicks finish singing, then switched the CD player off and headed for the stairs.
Whitby lay under dark heavy clouds. The weather forecast in Miller’s morning paper warned of the possibility of heavy snow during the late evening. The bookmakers had stopped taking bets on a white Christmas. Miller had the growing feeling that if he was going to make any progress he needed to do it before the end of the day.
His conversation with Riddle and Powell the night before had helped clarify some things, while it had thrown up more questions and the revelation of the state of Jocasta Heath’s fingernails. Not that he understood its significance, but instinct told him that it was important.
As Miller drove towards the chapel, he ran over the facts of the two murders again. No matter how he looked at it, he just couldn’t see a link. Jocasta had been murdered three to four years ago. It was impossible to be more precise than that, so she could have been killed months after she had left home on that hot August morning.
Samantha Thompson had been murdered a matter of days ago and had been laid out to suggest an occult dark mass had taken place. The cases couldn’t have been more different. And yet the Chief Super had a point when he had asked what the odds were that the two cases weren’t connected.
Miller turned the car into Curlew Lane and parked outside the chapel. As he got out of the car, he took a deep breath. The air was fresh, cold and clean. The view was breathtaking. To his left behind a low stonewall was the chapel; to his right were the row of cottages where Samantha had lived. Ahead of him were the rolling fields that covered the headland. In the distance he could just spot the gleaming white roofs of the campsite and beyond that the coastal path that led to the lighthouse.
It was at moments like this that Miller was reminded why he had settled in the town. Up here there was a timeless quality to Whitby, something the town below seemed to be struggling to retain. As much as he did not want to admit it, Whitby was finally beginning to change and modernise. His head told him it was a good thing. It was just a shame that his heart disagreed.
“Detective Chief Inspector,” a voice called. Miller was momentarily confused. This had been happening more and more over the past few months. He had always been somewhat prone to melancholy, but recently his dark moods were becoming more regular.
Miller shook his head. “Thank you for agreeing to meet me so early,” he said as the vicar opened the rusty gate that led to the path which wound its way to the main chapel entrance.
“Anything I can do to help,” Luke Moore said. “Shall we go inside? I’ve just boiled the kettle.”
Luke led Miller into the same room that he and Riddle had visited before. The stove was on and Luke expertly stoked it with a short poker. “I’m afraid it’s either too warm or too cold,” he said. “I can never seem to get the temperature quite right.”
“I’m the same with my central heating,” Miller said, aware how strange it was to be discussing such a mundane subject. He guessed the vicar for all his offers of help was none too keen to be reminded of the body that had been discovered in his graveyard.
Miller cupped the mug of surprisingly strong tea in his hands. It was just what he needed.
“So how can I help?” the vicar asked.
“It occurred to me that you may have been in Whitby for a few years now. Is that true?”
“Five years, give or take.”
“So you remember when Jocasta Heath disappeared? It was all over the papers.”
The vicar thought for a moment. “I think I vaguely remember something. Why do you ask?”
“You’ll have heard that a body was discovered two days ago.”
The vicar smiled sadly. “It is almost impossible not to have heard. It’s a small town in many ways. People talk. But I had no idea it was this… what did you say her name was?”
“Jocasta. Jocasta Heath. I thought you might have known her.”
“Really? Why?”
“Her family were very religious,” Miller said, suddenly aware how simplistic that sounded.
“Were they?” the vicar said. “In which case I am sure I would remember them if they had been regulars. But I’m afraid I don’t. They were probably members of the congregation at St Mary’s.”
Miller silently cursed. Why hadn’t he thought of that? The chapel only had a congregation a third of the size of that of the town’s best-known church.
“In which case you wouldn’t be able to think of a link between Jocasta Heath and Samantha Thompson?” Miller hoped it wasn’t too obvious that he was clutching at straws.
“No. Should there be a link?”
Good question, Miller thought. There should be a link, but he was damned if he could find one. Realising he had hit a brick wall, Miller stood up and looked out of the window. The cliff edge was only a few meters away. “It’s terribly sad about the chapel. What’s the verdict?”
“They estimate it will unsafe by next summer. I know they have to be careful, but they seem to genuinely believe the main building could be in the sea in a year or so.”
Miller was sure they were veering on the safe side, but you only had to look at the cliff top path to know how serious the situation was. In the five years he had lived in Whitby it had been moved inland twice. “So what will you do?”
“I’ve been lucky.”
Miller looked closely at Luke Moore. Was he actually blushing?
“I’ve been given the opportunity to work in London.”
“An inner-city chapel?” Miller asked. He could hardly think of a greater contrast to where they were now.
“No. It’s more of an administrative role. Organising conferences, that sort of thing.”
Miller was surprised. From what he had discovered when he was looking into Martin Charles, those sorts of roles were comfortable and well paid. He must have impressed someone.
“I don’t suppose you have heard of Martin Charles,” Miller asked. “He used to teach theology at the university here and now he works for the Archbishop of Greater London.”
“I’ve heard the name,” the vicar said.
Miller sighed. He was getting nowhere.
“And there’s nothing else you can think of that might help?”
“Only this,” the vicar said. He handed Miller a battered paperback book. “I did some more research on the occult. You might find it useful.”
Miller thanked the vicar and stood up to leave. “You’re convinced that Samantha Thompson’s murder is linked to the occult?”
Luke Moore seemed to consider this for a moment. “I know I said it seemed so unreal, but what other explanation could there be?”
Miller had no answer.
*
Although it was still morning, the light seemed to be fading. Looking up, Miller saw that dark, threatening clouds were rolling in from the North Sea. It looked like the forecasts of a white Christmas were going to be accurate.
Miller had left Luke Moore to the preparation of his Christmas service. The last Christmas service the chapel would ever hold. He walked around the back of the chapel where a disabled access ramp had been installed. Miller looked at the plaque: This ramp was funded by an European Union grant, August 2010. Four years ago, Miller thought. The same time Jocasta had disappeared. It seemed that fate was not allowing him a moment’s respite from the case.
He walked over to the tomb where Samantha Thompson’s body had been discover
ed. Despite the quickly fading light, it was still possible to make out the bloodstains where the stone melted into the grass.
Miller ran his fingers over the rough surface. It was only a matter of days, but it seemed a lifetime ago when he had been in the Endeavour with Samantha, Riddle and Maria. He had enjoyed her company. At first she had been a pleasant distraction from his increasingly moribund thoughts about Dr Alice Laine, but as the night had progressed he had found himself warming to Samantha Thompson.
How did it get from there to such a terrible death, just an hour or so later? It was so grossly unfair.
That initial anger had fuelled the inquiry, even when he had been suspended from duty, but what good had it done? Her boyfriend may have been jealous of her boss, but he had turned out to have a solid alibi. Her boss, although Miller had taken an almost instant dislike to him, had a dozen or so witnesses who placed him at his wife’s Christmas party.
For God’s sake, even the vicar had been seen outside his house that night.
Miller knew that Riddle had talked to the so-called occult community, but they had turned out to be largely teenage boys who spent most of their time in their bedrooms playing online games and a handful of single middle-aged men who were as likely to murder someone in a black mass as they were to marry a supermodel.
The Pagan community on the other hand was certainly a real presence in the town, but as Philip Carrs had explained, they were more interested in protecting local woods than doing anything remotely illegal. Besides, if they didn’t believe in a Christian God, it made sense that they couldn’t believe in any devil.
Miller slumped down onto the tomb. In all his time on the Force, he had never felt so adrift. All the usual suspects in a murder – spouse, partner, friends, rivals – all either had no motive or a seemingly watertight alibi. In most cases, they had both. It was infuriating. He could find no motive for Samantha Thompson’s murder. And the so-called motiveless crime – a random act – seemed impossible bearing in mind the way her body was found.
The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that the whole Satanic angle seemed somehow unreal as if it had been staged. But why the hell would someone go to all that trouble? If you wanted to kill someone for the weird kick of worshipping Satan, why Samantha? The killer could hardly have been waiting around the chapel on a freezing cold night on the off chance that someone would walk past. And even if they were waiting for someone who lived at the cottage, Samantha wasn’t following any routine.
However Miller looked at it, none of it made sense. He could find no reason why someone would want to kill Samantha Thompson.
And what of Jocasta Heath? Was it really just a coincidence that her body had been found below the chapel on a strip of sand? And if so, how had it got there? Miller stood up, rubbed the sand from his backside and walked across the graveyard to the boundary wall. The erosion of the cliff meant that there were only a couple of feet between the low wall and the fence. Standing on his tiptoes and using a fence poll to steady himself, Miller strained to look over the edge and down to the foot of the cliffs. He could just make out where Jocasta’s body had been found. The cliffs were sheer here, but it would just about have been possible for someone to climb about half way down. But that would have been one hell of a risk. And why would they go to all that trouble? And more to the point, where had Jocasta’s body been for the past four years?
Miller took a step back and sat down on the boundary wall. His backside was still damp from sitting on the tomb, but he barely noticed. The nagging feeling that he had missed something was coming back and this time it was even stronger than before.
Suddenly, Miller felt very cold. He had the unnerving feeling that someone was watching him and even more disturbing, he could sense a cold malice. It was as if the oppressive winter clouds were stretching out wispy tendrils that wrapped around the gravestones and were slowly edging towards his throat.
Miller took a deep breath and spun around. No one was there.
Chapter 16
Miller shook his head. Things were really bad if he was letting his imagination get the better of him.
He stood up and slowly walked back across the graveyard. He opened the chapel gate and made his way into the lane. Walking past his car, Miller went up to the first in the line of four cottages. Riddle had spoken to the owner, a retired schoolteacher. She had been a good witness, he had said, but could add little.
Miller put his hands around his eyes and pressed his nose up to the glass. He was surprised and slightly embarrassed to see a pair of intelligent eyes staring back at him.
A moment later, the front door opened to reveal the figure of Iris Green. “Can I help you?” Her voice was quiet, but confidant.
“I’m sorry,” Miller said, searching for his ID card.
“I thought as much,” the woman said. “This whole business has been terrible. Truly terrible.”
“It has,” Miller said. “It must have been particularly terrible for you.”
“Why’s that?” she said.
This rather wrong-footed Miller. “Well, I mean being so close to the scene.”
“It would have been a lot more terrible for the poor woman involved.”
Miller looked closely at the woman. There was more than just a keen intelligence behind those eyes.
“I understand from my sergeant that you didn’t see or hear anything.”
“I’m afraid not. Look, if you want to ask me more questions, would you like to come in? I’m letting all the heat out.”
Miller smiled. “Of course,” he said. “Sorry.”
“No need to apologise, young man. Just make sure you close the door behind you.”
Miller followed Iris Green into her cottage and was immediately taken aback by the interior. There was none of the dark furniture and fussy decor he always associated with people of her age.
Iris was smiling. “You were expecting mahogany and doilies?” she asked.
“No,” Miller lied.
“I’ve always admired innovation,” Iris said. “Old isn’t always better.”
“Not always,” Miller agreed. “You have a lovely home,” he added. He wasn’t just being polite, there were things in here that he would happily have had in his own apartment. Without realising it, he started scanning the room for records. He wasn’t disappointed. In the far corner was a Rega P1 turntable in white gloss. “That’s lovely,” he said.
“Thank you,” Iris said. “You know about record players?”
“A little. Actually I have a Rega P3. It sounds superb. How about yours?”
Iris walked across to the turntable. “Find out for yourself. Put a record on while I make us a coffee.”
As Iris disappeared into the kitchen, Miller knelt down and leaned over to read the spines of her record collection. There was a lot of jazz, mostly 1950s and 60s. Miller was pleased to see a good selection of Sinatra and a couple of Bing Crosby albums. He was surprised to see four Scott Walker records. He pulled out Scott 4 and carefully placed it on the turntable. Sound soon filled the room. The speakers were not as good as his own, but the P1 still gave out a warm and detailed sound.
“Good choice,” Iris said as she came back into the room carrying a tray, which she placed on the glass coffee table.
“I’ve always loved Scott Walker – well at least his early stuff. I have to admit that his more recent work is a little too modern for me,” Iris said with a glint in her eye. “But I don’t suppose you’ve come here to discuss music.”
“Sadly not,” Miller said as The Seventh Seal finished and the next track began. “I just wondered if there was anything – anything at all – that you remember from the night of the Christmas tree service.”
“The problem was that I was in bed with the curtains closed. I had been listening to Book at Bedtime and then I put my headphones on. I like to listen to music late at night and there’s seldom anything on the radio I like.”
“So you didn’t hear anything at
all?”
Iris thought for a few moments. “I think I nodded off somewhere around half way through Ben Webster’s Ballads and woke up around 12.30 with my headphones still on. That happens most nights. I took them off, placed them on the floor and turned over. I think – just think mind you – that I heard footsteps outside. Sounded like a woman – you know, the sound high heels make on cobbles. They seemed to go past then come back again. But to be honest, I could have been dreaming.”
“You didn’t tell DS Riddle this?” Miller asked.
“No,” Iris said, “as I said, I can’t be sure I heard it at all.”
Miller finished his drink and thanked Iris for her help. For the first time, an idea was beginning to form in his mind.
*
DS Riddle was frowning as he looked at his mobile phone. He had the Met Office weather app open and was alarmed to see a continuous line of snow symbols from seven pm. He looked up through Miller’s office window at the darkening sky. A white Christmas was all well and good on Christmas cards and in Hollywood films, but it could be a major pain in reality.
“Looking for inspiration, Detective Sergeant?” Chief Constable Davis said.
Riddle started. How did the man managed to creep up on you like that? He would have made a great undercover policeman. “Just wondering if it’s going to snow.”
Davies snorted. “If I were you I would spend less time on meteorological matters and more on the two murders you’re trying to solve.”
“Yes, sir.” Riddle said, feeling at once guilty and irritated.
“How are things progressing?” Davis asked. He knew it was unfair to ask the junior officer for an update, but he had little choice. Miller was nowhere to be seen, so Riddle would have to do.
Better the Devil You Know Page 12
