Riddle agreed that it must have been. “And you didn’t see anyone else?”
“I’m afraid not. Well…”
“Yes,” Riddle prompted.
“You’ll probably think this sounds ridiculous, but I could have sworn I saw someone dressed in black with a black hood walking away from the lane as I arrived, but to be honest I was in such a rush I didn’t pay them any attention.”
Riddle had a sudden thought. “Was the figure male or female?”
The vicar thought for a moment. “It could have been either.”
“So it could have been a woman.”
“Yes,” the vicar agreed.
“All right, sir. Thank you again for everything you’ve done. You’d better get back to your sermon.”
“Thank you, DS Riddle. And please let me know when there’s any news on DCI Miller.”
Riddle promised to do just that.
After the vicar had walked back towards the 199 steps, Riddle made his way to the ambulance. “How is he?” he asked for the third time in ten minutes. “He’ll survive,” the paramedic said. “It could have been a lot worse.”
“When can I talk to him?”
“He’s weak and we’ve given him something for the pain.”
At that moment Miller’s eyes opened. He saw Riddle and beckoned. “What did Powell say?” His voiced was cracked and hoarse.
Riddle looked as if he was considering keeping the information until his boss was better, but he knew there would be no peace until he passed the message on. “Dr Powell said your guess was right.”
Miller nodded as if he had expected the answer. He beckoned with his finger for Riddle to come closer, and as Riddle bent down, Miller whispered in his ear.
The change to Riddle’s expression was extraordinary.
The shops had now all closed. The final Christmas shoppers had left the town and headed home. Last minute presents were being wrapped and placed under trees, as the town glistened beneath thousands of lights. Above them the stars were hidden behind heavy clouds. It was now snowing steadily.
DCI Miller was sitting on one of the dirty pews at the back of Curlew Chapel. It was seven thirty – three and a half hours before the Christmas service. Beside him sat a concerned looking PC Newbold. Next to her was the vicar, looking tired in the candlelight. He had pulled out a plastic chair that looked incongruous among the stone and wood of the chapel. By the main door, DS Riddle stood looking increasingly uncomfortable. Ever since he had been a child, churches had worried him. He would have been hard pressed to explain why, but because of this he was happy to stand by the door and look out for the imminent arrival of the car and its passenger for whom Miller had insisted everyone wait.
The snow had initially been light, but now the flakes were getting larger and it was beginning to settle. The gravestones were taking on a ghostly aspect. Riddle squinted against the flakes. If he didn’t get home soon, he was going to have trouble getting out of the town at all.
At that moment, Riddle caught sight of lights nearing the Abbey car park. They briefly illuminated the ruined arches, before sweeping to the right. The car was now steering a course for the headland.
Two minutes later, a black Audi TT pulled up in front of the chapel and a figure emerged.
“He’s here,” Riddle said.
Miller stood. Pain shot through his head as he steadied himself on the pew. PC Newbold started to stand, but Miller shook his head. “I’m OK,” he lied.
“But…” Newbold began.
“I have to do this,” he said. “It ends tonight.”
*
Martin Charles stood in the doorway taking in the scene before him. Miller approached him. “Thank you for coming at such short notice. We’re fortunate that you planned to spend Christmas in Whitby.”
Martin Charles shrugged. “I always do,” he said. “London’s so cold at Christmas and besides, family’s what Christmas is all about.”
Miller nodded. “So can we get you a hot drink? Tea? Coffee?”
“I’d rather you explain what all this is about,” he said.
“As you wish,” Miller said, indicating a plastic chair next to the vicar. “Sit down and I’ll explain.”
The vicar and Martin Charles nodded at one another. Miller leaned back against a pew. The pain in his head was getting worse and his vision kept blurring. He squeezed his eyes shut, opened them slowly and took a deep breath.
“Where to begin?” Miller said. “Most people would say at the beginning, but in this case I think we should start near the end.”
Riddle and Newbold exchanged a puzzled glance, but they both remained silent.
“Just a few days ago myself, DS Riddle, his wife, and Samantha Thompson were standing just outside that door watching the Christmas tree service. Within a few short hours Samantha was dead. She was found in the early hours of the following morning by a woman walking her dog. The sight that greeted her will probably stay with the poor woman for the rest of her life. I know it will with me. Samantha Thompson had been stripped naked, inverted crosses had been carved into the soles of her feet and a dead crow had been placed across her chest.”
Miller paused, more because he was out of breath than for effect, but the result was the same. Martin Charles had gone very pale. “God protect us,” he said, his hand reaching for the crucifix he wore around his neck.
“This is news to you?” Miller asked.
“Yes. I mean no. Sorry – I mean I knew of the murder, but I had no idea of the circumstances.” He was shaking and Riddle noticed that his hands were gripping the pew.
“I see,” Miller said flatly. “Extensive enquiries have so far not only come up blank as far as a suspect is concerned, but we can find no alibi.”
Riddle was confused. It was far from true that there were no suspects. Tommy Gregory was very much a suspect, although his alibi seemed watertight. And just a few hours ago, Miller had summoned Samantha’s boss, David Higgins to the station and accused him of killing Samantha, before promptly letting him go. What the hell was going on?
“My colleagues are probably wondering what I mean by no suspects or motives,” Miller said with a glance in Riddle’s direction. “Perhaps it would be more accurate to say no suspects who do not have an alibi, don’t you think Martin?”
Martin looked confused. “I don’t know,” he stammered. “How would I know?’
Miller ignored the question. “The bottom line is that the people we have spoken to in connection with Samantha Thompson’s murder have all been able to provide alibis. But perhaps more importantly, it is the manner of her death that has caused us most problems.”
“I don’t understand,” the vicar said.
“No?” Miller said. “Well let me try to explain. You said that the way the body was discovered seemed unreal. And despite all the help you provided us with in terms of information on the occult, we kept coming up against the same brick wall. We simply could not marry up the idea that the killing was linked to the occult with the fact that there is no evidence of any such cult in the area. When you combine this with the fact that there were no traces of any group of people in the graveyard that night, we’re left with the conclusion that the murder could not have been premeditated, which means we reach a dead end.”
Martin was shaking his head. “I don’t understand what any of this has to do with me,” he said.
“Don’t you?” Miller said. “Whether you do or don’t doesn’t change the fact that about the only thing we knew for certain is that the murder can’t have been premeditated. Our problem was that we kept going back to the Satanic nature of the killing, but that was a red herring.”
“It was?” Martin said.
“Yes,” Miller said. “It kept us from concentrating on the most important fact. Samantha Thompson could have come home at any time that day. She could have gone home straight from the service, in which case she would have been home by eight at the latest. But she went into the town. She could then have bee
n an hour, two, three… Anyone waiting would have no idea if she were even coming home at all. If someone had wanted to kill her, they could have chosen any other night. You wouldn’t hang about in a freezing graveyard on the off chance that she would turn up. So that leaves us with one simple, but vitally important question.”
“And what is that?” the vicar asked.
“That if the murder wasn’t planned, what the hell was the whole Satanic element about?”
Riddle knew all this. He and Miller had discussed it enough. But for the first time, he was beginning to feel that Miller was asking questions for which he already had answers.
“Once we accept that Samantha Thompson’s murder was not planned or premeditated in any way, we are left with just two possibilities. The first is that the murderer just wanted to kill someone and that someone was Samantha. Perhaps they were a Satanist and saw an opportunity to carry out some sick fantasy.”
“It does happen, God help us,” Martin Charles said.
“It does,” Miller said. “But if that was the case and the killer just happened to be passing the chapel at the time Samantha came home, then why the whole occult black mass? It may have been late at night, but there is a row of cottages opposite the graveyard and the tomb is out in the open. It simply does not make sense. No one would take such a risk.”
Riddle had to agree. It had bothered him from day one. The risk, even for a deranged killer was simply too great.
“So that leaves us with possibility two,” Miller said.
“Which is?” the vicar asked.
“Which is that the murderer had not planned to kill Samantha Thompson.”
“I don’t understand,” Martin said.
“Think about it,” Miller said. “The murderer had not planned to kill Samantha, but she had still been killed. Why?”
The chapel was silent, as everyone thought about what Miller had said. Outside the snow was thickening. The car Martin Charles had arrived in was already covered.
“The murderer didn’t plan to kill Samantha Thompson?” Riddle said slowly. “But she was murdered.”
Miller repeated his question. “Why?”
Riddle thought and then his face cleared.
Miller was nodding. “Because the murderer had to kill her.”
For a moment no one spoke as everyone tried to process what this meant. Finally it was PC Newbold who spoke. “If you’re saying that Samantha Thompson had to be killed that would mean that she knew something.”
“Possibly,” Riddle said. “But why then? Why was she killed specifically then? Why not earlier or later?”
“A good question,” Miller said. “But there’s only one possible answer to that.”
Riddle was nodding his head as he finally began to understand.
Newbold was still confused. “Was it something to do with Jocasta Heath?” She could think of no possible link between the two murders, but she had run out of other possible explanations.
In answer, Miller turned to face Martin. “You asked me earlier what you were doing here,” he said. “Perhaps we could start by you answering PC Newbold’s question.”
“Question?” Martin Charles said.
“Yes,” Miller said. “Perhaps you could explain what the link is between the murder four years ago of Jocasta Heath and that of Samantha Thompson.”
“Me?” Martin said, his voice cracking as beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. “Why would I know that?”
For a long moment, Miller stared at the Archbishop of Greater London’s chief adviser. “Because,” he said finally, “you’re responsible for both their deaths.”
Chapter 19
DCI Miller took another two painkillers. His head was throbbing even more than before. He needed rest, but that would have to wait. PC Newbold passed him a coffee from her flask. He smiled at her and if he had not been in so much pain he might have noticed that she blushed.
Draining the cup in one go, he stood back up and turned to face Martin Charles who was slowly shaking his head.
“Let me take you back to that summer four and a half years ago,” Miller said. “You were teaching at the university here in Whitby. Jocasta Heath was one of your brightest students. Perhaps you saw something in her that convinced you she had real potential. Or perhaps helping her with all that extra reading had another motive.”
“What are you trying to say?” Martin said. His eyes widened like a hunted animal.
“Would it be more accurate to say it was her mother you were interested in?”
Martin looked to the vicar as if he was pleading for help. The vicar looked away.
“You know about that?” he said.
“Of course I know,” Miller said. He saw no reason to let on that he only found that out the day before from the cuckolded Simon Heath.
Martin’s shoulders sagged. “It wasn’t planned,” he said weakly. “She was a very devout woman. I had been round to the house a few times and we had hit it off. Then one day when her husband was out, she opened a bottle of wine and then another and then…” he trailed off.
“How long did the affair last?” Riddle asked.
“Until Jocasta went missing.”
“And then you left Whitby for Rome?”
Martin nodded. “I just couldn’t continue after that. Martha was in such a state.”
“So what you’re saying is that the affair ended when Jocasta went missing?”
“Yes,” Martin said.
Miller was shaking his head. His was breathing faster and anger had filled his eyes. “How the hell do you square the lies you spout with your so-called faith? Don’t you even feel the smallest amount of remorse? How dare you!”
Miller slumped back against the pew. Riddle rushed to his side, but Miller brushed him away. He poured himself another coffee and Riddle thought he smelled whisky.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Martin said, his voice uneven.
“Then I’ll explain,” Miller said. “What you somehow seem to be forgetting is that the affair didn’t end because Jocasta went missing, but rather Jocasta went missing because of the affair.”
Martin Charles buried his head in his hands.
“She looked up to you,” Miller said. “She had even taken on all that extra reading because she thought you recognised something in her. Then she found out you were sleeping with her mother.”
At this Martin visibly recoiled. “You know?”
“Oh yes,” Miller said. “And I know so much more.”
“Oh God,” Martin said.
The wind was picking up outside the chapel. Snow was swirling against the windows. Miller had moved forward and was now sitting next to Martin Charles.
“Your job is very important to you, isn’t it?” Miller said.
Martin shifted uncomfortably. “Of course. I’m sure your job is important to you.” He had meant it as a challenge, but he was losing the will for the battle. He sounded tired and miserable.
“You’re right,” Miller said. “My job is important to me. But I wouldn’t kill someone to keep it.”
“What? You’re suggesting I killed this poor girl?” Martin said. “You’re out of your mind.”
“Am I?” Miller said. “We may live in so-called enlightened times, but do you really expect me to believe that the job of chief adviser to the Archbishop of Greater London would have still been available if it had become known that you were having an affair with a married woman?”
Martin opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it again.
“Of course it wouldn’t,” Miller said. “It’s clear how much your job means to you. Prestige, money, power. They’ll all powerful motives in their own right and your job guaranteed you all three.”
“So?” Martin said. He sounded petulant and frightened.
“Where was Jocasta going on the morning she disappeared?” Miller asked. “According to her parents she had something she needed to do, someone she needed to speak with. What do you think was
so important?”
It was Riddle who answered. “She was going to tell someone about your affair with her mother. She would have felt angry, betrayed.” He was visualising that summer morning four and a half years ago. Jocasta upset about her mother’s betrayal and angry with the tutor she thought was interested in helping her get on. Then the realisation he just wanted to get close to her mother.
“Who was she going to see?” Miller asked. “Someone at the university? But it was August – there wouldn’t have been anyone there. And besides, you already had plans to leave that job. No. I think the person she was going to see was someone she trusted. Someone she wanted to confide in. Perhaps even challenge.”
Suddenly, Martin stood up. “You think I murdered Jocasta, don’t you? Why don’t you just come out with it?”
Miller stood motionless, letting Martin’s anger wash over him like the waves rolling across the beach below the chapel.
“You don’t know what it was like,” Martin said, the words tumbling out. “Jocasta was a gifted child. She had real potential. Most of my teaching career had been made up of dealing with adequate minds. Do you know how rare it was to find someone with a mind like Jocasta’s at that age? And she wasn’t just intelligent. She had a deep humanity. She cared for people. Why would I harm her?”
Tears welled up in his eyes. The anger was gone as soon as it had come. Martin slumped back onto the pew. He looked exhausted.
“So why have an affair with her mother?” Miller asked. “You must have known the effect that would have on her.”
Martin shook his head slowly. “I don’t know,” he finally said. “It just happened.”
“It just happened?” Miller repeated. “That’s nonsense and you know it. Things like that don’t just happen. You were weak. That was what happened. And then Jocasta found out.”
Martin nodded. “Yes,” he said. “She found out.”
Better the Devil You Know Page 14
