by David Blake
‘As I told the reporter, I’ve got no idea where he lives. For all I know, he could have died years ago.’
Tanner stared at him for a moment, before asking, ‘Can you at least describe what this so-called reporter looked like?’
After gazing up at the ceiling, the bookshop owner eventually came back with, ‘Well, he was young, probably in his late twenties, a bit taller than me, thin, scruffy, short hair.’
‘What colour?’
‘Light brown.’
‘Anything else?’
‘He had one of those goatee beard-type things.’
Turning to Jenny, Tanner said, ‘Give the Norfolk Herald a call and ask them if they have a Kevin Griffiths matching that description working for them.’
Nodding, Jenny left to step outside the shop, leaving Tanner to focus his attention on the bookshop owner.
‘When was the last time you saw the second witness; Marshall, wasn’t it?’
‘Minshall,’ corrected Birch. ‘Not since shortly after he’d testified.’
‘You mean, back in the Seventies?’
‘Not since then, no.’
‘And yet you were able to remember his name?’
‘Well, yes, but I’ve always been good with names, and Michael Minshall was an easy one to remember.’
‘And you’re sure you don’t know where he is?’
‘Not a clue, sorry.’
‘What about Martin Isaac?’
‘What about him?’
‘Did you hear what happened, at the cemetery where he was buried?’
‘I heard that his mausoleum was struck by lightning.’
‘And that a girl was murdered, just beside it.’
‘That too, I’m afraid.’
‘How about the story of the hooded monk seen rising from his grave?’
‘I have the Norfolk Herald pushed through the door just like everyone else, so yes, I did.’
‘And what did you think of the story?’
‘The one about the hooded monk?’
‘That one, yes.’
‘Well, I suppose I thought Martin would have enjoyed it.’
‘And how about the other members of your cult? What do you think they’d have thought about it?’
‘I’m sure they thought exactly as I did, that Martin would have seen the funny side.’
‘But you must have been pleased, though?’
‘Pleased?’ Birch questioned, looking confused.
‘That people are being led to believe that he’s managed to cheat death?’
‘Why would that please me?’
‘Because it’s what your cult would want people to think, isn’t it?’
‘If there was an element of truth to it, then maybe, but unfortunately the Norfolk Herald hardly has the best reputation for factual reporting.’
‘So, where’s his body then?’
‘Sorry, I’m not with you.’
‘What have you and your satanic chums done with his body?’
‘Why would you think we’ve done anything?’
‘Because, as I suspect you already know, it’s been removed from what most people would have considered to have been his final resting place.’
As he spoke, Tanner studied the bookshop owner’s face for his reaction to the news. He was expecting to see a hint of wry amusement, or maybe even a sign of knowing guilt. But what he actually saw surprised him. It was fear hiding behind his eyes: pure, unadulterated fear.
‘But - that can’t be,’ he spluttered. ‘There was nothing about it in the news.’
‘It was deliberately kept out. So, anyway, Mr Birch, where’s his body being hidden?’
‘How the hell should I know?’
‘Because you and your cult friends are making the rather sad attempt to make it look like he’s risen from the grave, as he said he would in his book.’
As blood began draining from his face, Birch leaned over the counter, and in a muted tone, asked, ‘Haven’t you considered the other alternative?’
‘What other alternative?’
‘That the story is true?’
A mocking smile spread over Tanner’s face. ‘Surprisingly, that’s not one of the lines of enquiry we’re currently pursuing.’
‘Don’t you think it should be?’
He was sorely tempted to tell him not to be so stupid, but swallowed the words. ‘For now, we’ve decided to focus on the human angle, which leads nicely into my next question.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘Where were you last night and in the early hours of this morning?’
‘I was here - upstairs, in my flat.’
‘Can anyone vouch for that?’
‘Nobody, no.’
‘And your satanic cult worshipping chums?’
‘I’ve got no idea what they were all doing.’
‘So you don’t meet up every night to bite the heads off chickens?’
Taking offence, Alan blurted out, ‘As I’ve already told you, we only sacrifice animals on very special occasions.’
‘Hardly special for the animal, though, is it?’
‘Do you have any idea how many millions of animals are butchered every single day in order to feed the planet’s population?’
‘Not really no, but at least they’re being killed for a reason, and as humanely as possible.’
Alan collected himself for a moment, before speaking in a calm, more deliberate fashion. ‘Forgive me, detective, but assuming you didn’t come all the way over here to give me a lecture about animal sacrifice, are we done?’
Tanner said nothing, but continued to stare at the man.
Behind him, Jenny came back into the shop.
She hurried over towards the counter, and in a voice easily loud enough for both Tanner and the bookshop owner to hear, said, ‘I was able to speak to someone at the Norfolk Herald. They’ve never heard of Kevin Griffiths.’
Glaring over at the bookshop owner, Tanner said, ‘Nicely done. You’ve successfully managed to provide a possible serial killer with his next victim.’
With a look of panicked desperation, Birch said, ‘But - he said he was doing a story for them!’
‘Evidently not. Anyway, you can begin to make amends by coming with us to the station to give us a statement. You’ll then be able to spend a few happy hours with us putting together a facial composite of this so-called reporter.’
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
ONCE ALAN BIRCH had squeezed himself into the cramped rear seat of the XJS, Tanner drove him the short distance back to Wroxham Police Station and left him with the duty sergeant.
Heading into the main office, Jenny was tasked with the job of tracking down Father Minshall, while Tanner made his way over to DCI Forrester’s office to give him a quick update.
‘The bookshop owner gave us the name of the second defence witness from Martin Isaac’s trial, sir. It’s another priest, Father Michael Minshall. Jenny’s trying to track him down now.’
‘Well that’s something, I suppose.’
‘Yes, sir, although…’
Looking up at him, Forrester asked, ‘Although…what?’
‘By the time we’d got there, he’d already told someone else the same thing, someone who said they were a reporter, and that they were doing a story for the Norfolk Herald.’
‘And that’s a problem, because?’
‘When we checked with the newspaper, they’d never heard of him.’
Leaning back in his chair, Forrester thought for a moment, before saying, ‘OK, I’d have to agree that that doesn’t sound so good. What name did he give?’
‘Kevin Griffiths, but we’re not holding out much hope that it was his real name. We’ve brought Birch in to give a statement, and to help us put together a facial composite of this so-called journalist.’
‘Is there anything else to go on?’
‘The reporter left a business card. We’ve bagged it, and I’m about to have it sent over to forensics.’
&nbs
p; There was a knock at the still open door, through which Jenny’s head appeared.
‘Sorry to bother you, sir,’ she said, looking from DCI Forrester to Tanner. ‘I’ve got an address for Father Michael Minshall. He was in the phone book. He’s the parish priest for St. Patrick’s Church, over in Martham.’
Sitting forward in his chair, Forrester leaned over his desk to say, ‘OK, I want you two to get straight over there. And you’d better give him a call on the way. Tell him to stay inside, and whatever he does, not to open the door to anyone, especially if that person is saying that he’s a bloody reporter!’
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
JENNY DIRECTED TANNER for the short drive through Horning, Ludham and Potter Heigham and onto Repps Road, heading for the village of Martham.
Shortly after the red-ringed speed limit sign of 30mph, flat green fields gave way to an eclectic mix of houses and a series of triangular village greens.
‘His house should be just up here on the left,’ advised Jenny, as they rounded a gradual bend in the road.
Slowing down accordingly, she guided Tanner into a short driveway at the front of a two-storey red brick house under a tired thatched roof. From there they could see St. Patrick’s church looming up above a clump of trees, its angular stone tower rising into an oppressive grey sky.
Pulling up next to an old Skoda, Tanner turned off the engine to say, ‘Let’s hope he’s in.’
‘And let’s hope nobody’s beaten us to it,’ added Jenny, as they each climbed out.
Reaching the front door, Tanner pressed the bell to listen to it chime out from inside.
Having waited in silence for a few moments, he tried again, before standing back to stare up at the windows, searching for signs of life.
Hearing footsteps on the drive behind them, they spun around to see an elderly lady approach carrying a plastic shopping bag.
‘Are you looking for Father Michael?’ she asked.
‘We are, yes,’ replied Tanner. ‘Have you seen him?’
‘Not since Sunday. He tends to keep himself to himself these days.’
‘Any idea if he’s in?’
‘Well, his car’s here, so he should be. But his hearing isn’t as good as it used to be, a bit like mine really. Try using the knocker instead.’
Doing as she suggested, Tanner lifted the cast iron knocker to bash down twice.
When that brought no response, the old lady shrugged. ‘He’s probably up at the church, preparing Sunday’s sermon. The path at the side will take you up to it. Do please excuse me, but I must get on,’ and she turned to head back towards the road.
Seeing the path she was referring to, Tanner and Jenny thanked the lady for her time and headed over towards it. As they followed it up, they stared at the church ahead, taking in its vast square tower, and the angled ridges that ran all the way to the top.
Realising that this was the fourth church he’d visited in nearly as many days, Tanner asked, ‘Just how many churches does Norfolk have, anyway?’
‘Quite a few,’ she replied, climbing the path behind him. ‘Apparently we have the highest concentration of medieval churches anywhere in the world; at least that’s what I was told at school.’
‘And how many’s that?’
‘Around six hundred.’
‘Six hundred churches? In Norfolk?’
‘It used to be over a thousand!’
As they approached the ancient wooden door that had been fortified with a gridwork of wrought iron, Tanner said, ‘I’m assuming they’re not all still in use?’
‘Most aren’t, no. But this one is, and look. It appears to have a visitor!’
Tanner followed her gaze towards the main church car park, where someone had left a grubby black Audi A3.
Turning his attention back to the door, Tanner wrapped his hand around a large circular handle to first pull, and then push at it; but it didn’t budge.
‘I assume churches don’t have lock-ins?’ he asked, as he tried heaving at the handle again.
‘Not that I’m aware of. They normally leave their doors open during the day.’
Giving up, he said, ‘Maybe he’s around the back?’ and crossed to where the path curved around the side.
He was about to round the corner, when the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps forced him to stop.
The moment he did, a man came charging around the side to plough straight into him, sending him spinning away, smashing his face against the wall’s sharp stone cladding.
With Jenny stumbling backwards, the man sprinted on, heading for the church carpark.
Pushing himself off the wall, with a hand held up to the side of his face, Tanner screamed out, ‘OI, YOU! STOP!’
But apart from a quick glance over his shoulder, the fleeing man did nothing of the sort.
Jenny was about to set off after him, when she noticed the blood running freely down Tanner’s cheek.
‘Are you OK?’ she asked.
Seeing the concerned look on her face, with male stubbornness he insisted, ‘I’m fine,’ and took a faltering step, intending to give chase; but instead of running forwards, he staggered sideways, only avoiding the wall by putting out an unsteady hand.
Realising that he was unable to stand up straight, Jenny said, ‘You’re very obviously not fine, John!’
Looking back, she saw the man had already reached the car park, and was making a beeline for the Audi they’d seen earlier.
‘You’re not going after him,’ stated Tanner, bending to rest a supportive hand on his knee, while keeping the other pressed against a cut above his eye. ‘Not without me, you’re not.’
‘It’s too late now anyway,’ she replied. ‘He’s already at the car, and you’re hardly in a fit state to drive.’
Pulling out her notebook, she continued by saying, ‘Let me take down his number plate. I’m sure someone will be able to pick him up.’
As they watched him jump into his car, start it up and spin the wheels on the gravel to leave nothing but a cloud of dust hanging in the air, Tanner said, ‘You do know who that was, don’t you?’
‘Our mysterious journalist, yes. But I think the more intriguing question is, what was he so desperate to get away from? There’s no way he could have known who we are. But first things first. We need to get you cleaned up.’
Looking at the blood on his hand, he was forced to agree. ‘Fair enough, but let’s have a look around the back while we’re here, shall we?’
Pushing himself up from his knee, after a few faltering steps, together they continued around the side of the church, with Jenny providing a steadying hand on Tanner’s shoulder.
But the view around the corner provided nothing more than row upon row of barren slate-grey headstones, each marking the site where a body lay buried, six feet under.
It was the call of a crow that alerted Tanner to the possibility of there being something up ahead, hidden from view. With cautious steps, he continued to follow the path towards the back of the church.
As they rounded the corner at the far end, they stopped dead, neither of them able to speak.
Amidst the gravestones ahead of them stood a thin bald-headed old man. He was wearing the black suit of a priest, but there the resemblance ended. His face was torn and twisted, his head hung over to one side, and from his neck rose a sharpened wooden post, the top of which glistened with blood.
Daring to follow the post down, Tanner saw it continued into the grass, where the man’s feet hung suspended, just above the ground.
Movement near the priest’s head caused him to glance back up. There he saw a crow, as black as the night, perched on the figure’s shoulder, jabbing its blackened beak into a bulging eye.
Jenny tore her gaze away, gagging as she did, leaving Tanner to continue to watch as the crow lifted itself into the air to clatter off towards the nearest tree, an eyeball held fast in its half-open beak.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
DCI FORRESTER ARRIVED at St. Patr
ick’s carpark about twenty minutes later to find DC Evans and their forensic medical examiner, Dr Johnstone, huddled around DI Tanner, sitting on the back of an ambulance.
Catching Tanner’s eye, Forrester called out, ‘Is it the priest?’
After waiting for Forrester to come a little closer, Tanner eventually said, ‘Unfortunately, we think so, yes.’
Seeing the cut above Tanner’s eye, and a paramedic in the process of treating it, Forrester asked, ‘Are you alright?’
‘Nothing to worry about, sir,’ he replied. ‘DC Evans and I were shoved out the way by that so-called journalist as he did a runner, and I scraped my face against the church wall. But it did mean that we weren’t able to stop him.’
With a rare smile, Forrester said, ‘Don’t worry. We’ve already picked him up. He came off the road in Potter Heigham. Drove straight into a bollard. Nearly ran over a couple of tourists in the process. I’ve told traffic to take him back to the station under caution for dangerous driving, for now at least.’
Observing the length and depth of the cut that was being treated, he continued, ‘Do you think you’ll be up to having a chat with him a little later?’
‘Definitely!’ stated Tanner, wincing in pain as the paramedic dabbed at the cut which eclipsed his right eye.
‘I hate to be the bearer of bad news,’ said the paramedic, glancing over at Forrester, ‘but he’ll need to go to hospital. This cut will need stitches.’
To Tanner, Forrester said, ‘Don’t worry. DC Evans and I can interview him.’
Fixing one of his eyes on him, Tanner said, ‘No offence, sir, but sod that!’
With Forrester raising a surprised eyebrow, Tanner turned to look up at the paramedic to ask, ‘Can’t you just sew it up now?’
‘Well, I can, but it’s going to hurt. And you’ll still need to be checked over for concussion.’
‘I’m fine!’ Tanner stated, once again. ‘And I’m certainly not prepared to spend half my life sitting around some insipid hospital, waiting for a doctor to tell me I am, so I suggest you get on with it.’
