And yet… Looking down, Nat noticed that his friend’s hands were bruised and criss-crossed with scratches.
Julian saw him looking.
‘Punched my locker when I was feeling a bit wound up,’ he said with an embarrassed laugh and averted gaze. ‘Then I fell over in that patch of nettles round the side of Chaplain’s House… I’ll get some ointment later.’
It sounded unconvincing. Nat thought that Julian might have made those scratches himself.
There was nothing of the sneak about Nat, but at that moment he decided he would have to tell someone about Julian. Someone who would know what to do. Someone who would say the right thing and not blab to everyone.
Mr Woodcourt.
Yes, that was his best bet. He’d know how to get Julian to open up. Nat always felt better after he’d brought a problem to the canon. ‘There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so,’ he liked to tell Nat.
Awkwardly, Nat clapped his friend on the arm, happy now that he had made his decision. ‘Joan’s sure to have some cake left over from tea,’ he said. ‘I’ll go and nick some for us to take upstairs later.’ Smiling reassuringly, he headed for the kitchen, leaving Julian to his thoughts.
12. On Our Watch!
The cathedral service for the Second Sunday of Advent went without a hitch. Greatly relieved not to have muffed the solo vocals for ‘O Come, O Come Emmanuel’, once the opening hymn was over, Nat felt he could relax.
Mr Sharpe was usually very strict about the choristers maintaining what he called ‘custody of the eyes’, but today for some reason the Director of Music sank into the choirmaster’s stall without even glancing in their direction. Nat took advantage of this unusual lapse to steal a few glances at the congregation. There was Mr Noakes a few rows from the front, looking rather uncomfortable, as though his tie was strangling him. The big, bossy-looking lady next to him, must be his wife. Her hat was so big, it looked like she had a rhododendron bush on her head. The people sitting behind didn’t look very pleased. Julian gave a warning cough from the other side of the aisle, which made Nat realize he had been staring. Smothering a grin, he tried to look prayerful and devout.
Nat was happy to see that Julian was looking brighter than on the previous evening, though something about the set of his head and the way he squared his shoulders – as if settling some load upon them – suggested he was making a conscious effort.
He wondered what Julian had done. Something so dreadful that he couldn’t tell Nat about it.
Nat’s mind began to race. He thought back to the recent craze for voodoo that had swept St Mary’s. Maybe Julian had put a curse on his stepdad – made a doll and stuck pins in it like Timms Minor – and something bad had happened. Then there was that craze for the occult and Ouija boards. What if Julian had been contacting dead people or, even worse, worshipping the Devil? Mr Woodcourt had said you got excommunicated in the Middle Ages for unleashing dark forces and stuff like that.
Nat didn’t like to think of his friend doing anything dodgy, recalling that Julian had been unimpressed by his fascination with Harry Potter style wizardry. Myths and legends, or tales of chivalry, were more to the older boy’s taste than what he scornfully dismissed as ‘hocus pocus’.
No, on balance he didn’t think Julian’s trouble was anything to do with the black arts… Perhaps he’d been a grass and snitched on another fellow… Perhaps he’d stolen something, or lied, or cheated… But Nat couldn’t imagine Julian doing any of these things, or anything mean and sneaking for that matter cos he was as honest as daylight.
He thought back to how Julian had cringed away the other night at his touch. Almost as though he was afraid Nat would catch something from him! What if he had done something bad with another boy? Nat wasn’t sure precisely what this might entail, but he knew from certain sly winks and nudges, as well as from scraps of conversation overheard in the locker-room and various embarrassing allusions to ‘abomination’, that such things were possible. Perhaps it was like leprosy and you got something horrible from doing it. Just like the Black Death. Nat broke out in a cold sweat at the very thought.
Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me.
The psalm rang out clear and true. This was the lay vicars’ moment, and they did the sonorous text full justice. Distracted from images of buboes and pustules, Nat revelled in the glorious sound. Looking across at Julian’s face – his countenance as sternly remote as that of the recording angel on the altar reredos – it was impossible to imagine him being yucky.
So, if it wasn’t that, what was it?
He’d been fast friends with Julian since, well, forever. Couldn’t be any closer, not if they were blood-brothers, just like the Spartan warriors Miss Gibson had told them about. They hadn’t taken an oath or cut each other’s veins, but they knew it just the same.
At that moment, Nat remembered the scratches on Julian’s hands, the ones he said he’d got by falling in nettles – the ones Nat thought he’d done himself. From a distance, they didn’t look so sore and angry any more. But what could have made Julian hurt himself like that? Perhaps he wanted to give another fellow a black eye, or pummel him senseless for some slight or insult, but couldn’t because it was against the rules, so he worked off the anger by taking a pen-knife to his hands. Julian was someone who could stay pent up for a long while before exploding in rage; maybe when in this mood, he figured it was safer to punish himself rather than pitch into a classmate.
Nat became aware of a pair of kindly eyes fixed on him in some concern. Oh Lordy, everyone else was standing for the collect while he remained seated. No wonder Canon Woodcourt was staring at him. The Director of Music’s expression was altogether less indulgent. Julian drew a finger across his throat to indicate that Nat would ‘catch it’ after the service. This gesture of complicity, and the accompanying smile, suddenly made Nat feel much better. It was a glimpse of the old sunny Julian, the one he knew was still there behind all the storm clouds. After the service, he would speak to Mr Woodcourt about his friend and ask for help to find out what was wrong. The canon wouldn’t just bang on about God or quote the Bible like their Religious Studies teacher. No, he could be counted on to do something.
Ducking his head apologetically in the direction of Mr Sharpe, Nat prepared to listen to the Gospel.
* * *
After the service, all too aware that the Director of Music would be on the warpath, Nat exited the robing room in double quick time and whisked round to the vestry. Technically it was out of bounds, but he hoped by some fluke to catch the canon’s eye.
Luck was on his side. Almost as if he had been expecting Nat, the canon had removed his heavy vestments and was looking across the room to the door. Jerking a thumb upwards, Mr Woodcourt mimed the words Forty Martyrs, which Nat interpreted as a signal for him to go to that chapel once the coast was clear.
Melting into a gaggle of altar servers, he disappeared into the outer sacristy and waited anxiously until the post-service hubbub had subsided. The echoing of many voices, the clattering of many feet and the clinking of precious vessels being removed by the sacristans, all swelled forward in a mass like the heave of waves withdrawing across the shingle. Finally, Nat felt it was safe to emerge and climbed the stone steps to the balcony of The Forty Martyrs Chapel where the canon was waiting for him.
It was where they had sat before.
‘Nat, my dear boy.’ Mr Woodcourt’s voice was very gentle. ‘I thought we’d lost you during the service. You seemed to be in another world!’
Nat’s face began to work at the mild raillery.
‘Oh sir,’ he cried, clasping his hands in consternation, ‘I’m frightened about Julian and don’t know what to do!’
The canon was very still. Eventually he spoke in the familiar steady and compassionate tone.
‘What makes you think there is something wrong with Julian, my boy?’
‘He’s just not the same anymore.’ Nat’s voice g
ained in conviction. ‘I think something very bad has happened cos he has these moods and things.’
The canon’s expression of kindly concern never altered.
‘I nearly got it out of him the other day, sir,’ Nat continued headlong, the words tumbling out of him. ‘He said he’d done something – something that would make me hate him if I knew… I’ve seen him crying as if his heart would break… An’ he’s got cuts on his hands – he said it was nettles but I think he did them himself, sir.’
Nat put his head in his hands. When he looked up, he was half-blind with tears and he could no longer see the canon’s face. Swiftly, he drew his sleeve across his eyes and the scene swam back into focus.
The other clapped him on the shoulder, saying firmly, ‘You did well to tell me about this, Nat. It must have been a great weight on your mind but now you can set it down. I will consult with Dr O’Keefe and, between us, I am sure we can get to the bottom of whatever is troubling your friend. Sometimes family trials—’ he paused delicately, ‘can cause great distress.’
From this Nat understood that the canon would find a way to win Julian’s confidence and loosen his tongue about whatever was upsetting him – probably something to do with home. Being a grown-up, he would know the right words.
Nat took a deep breath. ‘Thank you, sir.’ An afterthought struck him. ‘You won’t tell Julian I came to see you, will you, sir? Otherwise he’ll think I ratted on him.’
‘You’re quite safe on that score, Nat,’ came the jovial response. ‘Now run along before Miss Gibson sends out a search party!’
With that, the boy pitter-pattered away as the canon contemplated his retreating figure with a look of tender regret.
DS George Noakes wrenched off his scratchy new paisley tie and rammed it savagely into the glove compartment of his Ford Cortina. Running a finger round the inside of his collar, he breathed a prayer of gratitude that Muriel had suddenly decided her presence was indispensable to the success of the cathedral’s Third World Lunch, leaving him to his own devices.
Little Nat had looked a bit peaky and preoccupied during the service, he thought. Kept glancing across at his chum as though there was summat up with him.
Noakes thought back to Julian’s discovery of the little Star Wars toy in the grottoes and their subsequent conversation over tea. There had been something oddly intense and wistful about the lad, and he had looked downright wretched when they were exploring that creepy catacomb. Freaked out, Nat had said. At the time, Noakes had put Julian’s reactions down to claustrophobia. But what if there was more to it than that? What if he was holding something back?
The DS felt a prickle of anxiety. Was it possible that Woodcourt had made a move on Julian? Or did the boy perhaps know something that he was keeping a secret out of fear or misplaced loyalty? The teenager hadn’t seemed nearly as keen as Nat on the canon, but maybe he thought it was uncool to slobber over a teacher. He was such a self-contained lad, it was difficult to tell what might be going through his head.
Then there was Julian’s unexpected request that he should have first dibs on the plastic figurine. The DS had taken it as a reflection of the boy’s lonely and love-starved home life. But now he wondered…
His hands on the steering wheel, Noakes looked thoughtfully across the cathedral car park towards the school buildings. He felt a sudden overpowering urge to check the whereabouts of Nat and Julian and satisfy himself that they were safely tucking into their Sunday roast.
Then he caught sight of his crumpled face in the car mirror and the moment passed. Self-consciously, he rearranged his features and checked to see that no-one had observed him daydreaming. It was Sunday for heaven’s sake! What did he imagine was going to happen to the two boys on a weekend? Everything in CID was strictly need-to-know, and as far as the outside world was concerned they were following several lines of inquiry – not a whisper of paedophilia or sex abuse. There was no reason to suppose Nat or Julian was in any danger, and it would only put backs up if he hung around the school like a bad smell. Might even put the wind up Woodcourt if the police seemed to be taking too close an interest. ’Sides, the patrol boys were keeping an eye out as well. All safe as houses.
With one long parting look, abashed by his curious reluctance to quit St Mary’s, Noakes drove slowly out of the cathedral car park.
Now, what to do with the unlooked-for bonanza of some free time away from the ball and chain?
Whoa… Acacia Avenue … now, why did that name ring a bell?
Oh yeah, he remembered seeing the address at the bottom of one of those booklet thingies – there’d been a little stack of them on a table in the entrance hall at St Mary’s. The Friends of St Mary’s, that was it. He’d picked one up and taken it back to CID. Seemed harmless enough. A few short articles and blurred illustrations of the school magazine variety. There were pieces on signs of the zodiac and the lost race of Atlanta, and another about an exhibition of Kabbalistic manuscripts at the British Museum. All double Dutch to Noakes. Even more mystifying was a weird little item entitled Maha Chohan – not an Indian takeaway, he recalled ruefully, but something to do with spiritual enlightenment. Sounded a bit far-out, but alternative religion was likely on the school syllabus, and anyway Markham had said Sir Philip was majorly into this theosophy hoo ha; he was the school patron, after all, so no surprise that he tried to get the kids interested.
O’Keefe had got his knickers in a twist because some busybody do-gooder suggested the school society – some poncey-sounding name – was a cover for perviness. For the life of him, Noakes couldn’t see how. The whole thing sounded boringly virtuous and above board. A big yawn in fact.
That was the trouble, he reflected. All this hysteria about ‘historical’ sex abuse meant people were seeing bogeymen all over the shop. Why, even Edward Heath had been suspected of running a satanic sex cult. Edward Heath, Noakes chuckled to himself, I mean, I ask you!
The DS sobered up abruptly at the thought that the current investigation meant he and Markham were having to think the unthinkable. About a highly respected – even revered – senior clergyman and pillar of the community no less. The stakes were frighteningly high. If they got it wrong, Slimy Sid would have them directing traffic for the rest of their careers… But somehow, he felt certain they were on the right track. Those spreadsheets spoke for themselves, and Steve would help them nail the bastard.
Now, what the hell was the address for the Friends of St Mary’s? Come on, think!
Number 32, that was it!
Couldn’t hurt to have a quick dekko. Prob’ly no-one even there on a Sunday.
But Noakes was wrong. As he watched, a tall gangly young man with a long narrow face and dark, dead-looking wispy hair came around the corner and disappeared down the steps to the basement of number 32.
The DS waited five minutes then did likewise. A small metal plaque next to the doorbell informed visitors that this was the Friends of St Mary’s Head (and no doubt sole) Office.
‘Good afternoon, can I help you?’ The young man was surprised but polite as he answered the front door.
Noakes flashed his warrant card and asked if he could come in. The other’s smile of polite mystification deepened, but he courteously led the way into a poky front room, screened from the road by rather dingy net curtains, which obviously functioned as an office. A pervading aroma of Pot Noodle gave a clue as to preparations for Sunday lunch. No wonder he was such a scrawny specimen.
‘I’m Jack King, one of the volunteers, Officer. Sorry about the mess. We’re in the middle of a fund-raising mail shot,’ the young man said, gesturing apologetically at piles of envelopes covering every inch of sludge-coloured carpet. Shifting a pile of stationery from one of the two uncomfortable-looking armchairs, he waved Noakes to a seat.
Nothing doing here, the DS said to himself. Still, no harm asking a few questions.
‘What’s the set up then, son?’ he enquired, plonking himself down and sending up a cloud of dust in the pr
ocess.
‘Well, there are a couple of us Bromgrove Uni students from the Comparative Religion faculty doing a sort of internship here – expenses only, nothing flash. Essentially, we run the admin side of Friends in shifts. Good for the CV and community relations … kind of school-uni outreach scheme. Bromgrove LEA lobs us the odd grant, but basically Sir Philip Soames funds the office.’
The young man was earnest and helpful, thought Noakes approvingly. Not at all your typical hippie layabout. A good advert for higher education.
‘All very worthy,’ he said reassuringly. ‘How long has it been going?’
King scratched his head. ‘God, forever. More than thirty years, I think. There’s a decent subscription list, but we don’t take it for granted – try to do some PR and hustle local businesses for sponsorship.’ Rentokil had taken out a full page spread in the last issue, Noakes recalled wryly.
‘D’you have a list of subscribers I can take away?’ the DS asked. ‘Don’t worry, you haven’t done anything wrong,’ he added as he saw a nervous look come over the other’s face, ‘purely background stuff. Trying to build up a picture of St Mary’s and so forth.’
The young man’s expression cleared. ‘No worries, just give me a sec and I’ll photocopy it for you. I’ll root out the minutes for the last quarterly meeting too and get you some back numbers. You might find it interesting.’ Unlikely.
Ten minutes later Noakes was out on Acacia Avenue, leaving Jack King to his Pot Noodle. Not a particularly productive interview, but then you never knew. He’d slip over to CID (might as well get full value from being off the leash) and review what they’d got. No doubt Markham would be along later.
A passer-by on the other side of the road who had apparently paused to tie a trailing shoelace straightened up, watched the car till it was out of sight and then moved purposefully in the direction from which Noakes had just come.
Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set Page 15
