‘God, no.’ Markham yawned. ‘Right, better get the bill before I end up face down in the cassata and Giuseppe tells me never to darken his door again!’ He hesitated, somewhat embarrassed. ‘I left Noakes holed up in the office doing some research and…’
‘…you want to check with him before coming home.’ Olivia punched Markham playfully on the arm. ‘And they say romance is dead!’
Arm in arm, the couple weaved their way somewhat unsteadily to the door and were eventually allowed to depart in a flurry of affectionate arrivedercis.
Outside, they stood for a moment looking up at the gauzy, navy blue sky pricked with myriad gem-like constellations. Markham found himself hoping passionately that the poor victims in his current case had now left evil far behind and found peace.
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less.
Olivia slipped her hand into his and squeezed it. There was no need for words.
Back at the police station, DS Noakes was also contemplating the night sky from the window of the CID office, though his thoughts were running on potential opportunities for overtime rather than anything more poetic.
Wearily massaging the back of his neck, he turned back to his desk, cleared away the detritus of his lonely fish and chip supper and reflected with some satisfaction on a good evening’s work.
He thought he might be on to something with the canon all right. Cross-referencing Crockford’s Clerical Directory against missing persons and unsolved homicide indexes had thrown up such a glaring set of coincidences. that it seemed incredible no-one had ever made the connection.
But to Noakes it was clear as day. Wherever Woodcourt had served, one or more young boys subsequently went missing. A couple had eventually turned up in waterlogged trenches, but in such an advanced state of decomposition that the forensics were worse than useless. It was all there for the guvnor on the spreadsheet. Dates, locations, the lot.
Noakes picked up one of the sheets of notes that he had made and glanced over it. In all cases, Woodcourt had figured as a volunteer of information.
Stephen Harper, aged twelve, had sung in the choir of St James’s, Cedar Hill. ‘He was a dear, devout boy,’ said the Reverend Mr Woodcourt, thirty-two, vicar of St James’s. ‘Only a madman could have contemplated harming such a child.’
Then there was Henry Lewis, aged thirteen. ‘He was a shining light here at Holy Trinity,’ said the rector, the Reverend Mr Woodcourt.
It was the same story with other lads who had somehow slipped through the church’s net.
Woodcourt was invariably on hand to offer a soundbite.
What was it they said about Jimmy Savile? Hiding in plain sight. Well, the same could be true of Woodcourt too. The ultra-respectable clergyman living a double life.
The DS thought back to Nat’s shining-eyed hero worship of St Mary’s Chaplain. He had been curate, then vicar, and rector. Why had he suddenly decided to do chaplaincy work? All right, he was made a canon, but he wasn’t running a proper parish. Was he lying low, out of the limelight? Replaying his conversations with Nat and Julian, Noakes felt the undigested chip supper churn inside him. Come to think of it, Julian hadn’t appeared to share his friend’s enthusiasm for Woodcourt. Possibly the older boy had picked up on signals that went right over Nat’s head…
It occurred to Noakes that Woodcourt had pulled the wool over his own eyes as well. Not your typical sky pilot, and he’d been taken in by the lack of airs and graces. Markham too, he reckoned.
They’d have to do any investigating of Woodcourt on the QT. Apart from the fact that it wasn’t their job to re-open old crimes, they could hardly charge around turning out every cupboard in the canon’s life over the past twenty years. Slimy Sid would never stand for it. And the church would no doubt batten down the hatches at the merest whiff of scandal, whisking Woodcourt well out of reach. What they needed was someone discreet, someone on the inside…
And he knew the very man! Steve Sinnott. When Sinnott had announced he was leaving the police to train for the Anglican priesthood some fifteen years previously, Noakes had been as bemused as the rest of CID. But they’d stayed in touch over the years, exchanging Christmas cards and the odd e-mail. Muriel had derived a certain cachet from the connection, peppering her conversation at the Women’s Guild with references to ‘George’s friend the vicar’. Well, time for His Reverence to do Noakes a favour. He looked at the office clock: 10.30pm. Not too late to make a phone call. After all, it wasn’t as if the guy would be out whooping it up. He’d probably be glad of the diversion.
* * *
When Markham arrived at the office half an hour later, he found his DS looking like the proverbial cat that got the cream. But as he listened to Noakes describe his ‘man in the know’, it turned out the preening was more than justified.
‘Steve’s a diocesan youth leader for North Cornwall, Guv. Ex-job too, so you can count on him being discreet.’
‘Well done, Noakes.’ At last they were getting somewhere! ‘How soon can he get the intel?’
‘I’ve set up an appointment for Tuesday. That’ll give him time to work his contacts.’
Markham ran a hand over his face. He felt sandbagged with exhaustion, but beneath the fatigue was an undercurrent of elation. This had to be the break they were looking for, had to be.
‘D’you think the canon’s still, you know, at it?’
Markham winced. Noakes was never one to beat about the bush.
‘If you’re asking is he an active paedophile, then I think the likely answer to that is yes, Noakes. But it’s complicated, and I can’t work out how all the pieces fit together. What I think we can hypothesize is that Irene Hummles, Georgina Hamilton – and likely those two poor lugs in the grottoes – were killed to stop them revealing what they knew.’
‘What about the kids at St Mary’s? Are they safe?’ Noakes spoke gruffly, but Markham knew that Nat and Julian had somehow wound themselves round his weather-beaten old heart.
‘With St Mary’s being a crime scene, I’ve arranged twice-nightly patrols. Despite the press sensationalism, parents aren’t clamouring to remove youngsters from the school—’
‘Cos it’s a handy dumping ground!’ Noakes was indignant.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Noakes!’ Markham exploded in tones of purest exasperation. ‘Get that chip off your shoulder. We’re not talking Dotheboys Hall! In case you’ve forgotten, this is a choir school. Christmas is the biggest gig of the year. The only thing that matters is who’s going to snag the treble solo for ‘Once In Royal David’s City’!’
Noakes was momentarily distracted from class warfare.
‘They did Bromgrove proud last year,’ he said reminiscently. ‘Sang like angels. Better than Aled Jones, Muriel thought.’
‘There you are then,’ Markham said hastily before the DS proceeded to share further musical insights from Mrs Noakes. ‘It’ll be business as usual for the cathedral.’
‘What about the Night Watchman bod?’ Noakes had the bit between his teeth.
‘Given the level of police scrutiny, I’m willing to bet he’ll take a back seat for the time being. Too risky. But I’ll brief Dr O’Keefe as a precaution.’
Markham swayed on his feet, causing the DS to eye him narrowly.
‘Look, Guv, you’re all done in. You need to head off home and get some kip. Won’t, er, your girlfriend be wondering where you’ve got to?’
Exhausted as he was, the DI was amused to note Noakes’s self-consciousness when alluding to Olivia. No doubt he imagined she had some sort of sexual marathon lined up!
‘You’re right, time to call it a night.’ He bit his lip and turned to go. Noakes would only think he was ‘losing it’ if he articulated his acute sense of foreboding. He suspected five children had been abducted and murdered. Five that they knew of. It looked increasingly likely that there were others. His former mentor’s words kept ringing in his ears like a death knell. The same monster did for them all. Somehow they had to break the perniciou
s cycle.
Saturday at St Mary’s was a half day, usually taken up with choir rehearsals and sporting fixtures. After prayers in the chapel at 5pm followed by tea between 5.30 and 6pm, students generally had the evening free so that they could unwind before the rigours of cathedral services the following day. Then it was lights out – 8pm for the juniors, then the seniors an hour later.
Nat always liked Evensong. Tired out from his exertions on the rugby field, he found something very soothing in the gentle chanting of the cantors and soft diapason of the little organ. Wedged between his classmates, the half hour usually passed in a cosy dream, his scurrying thoughts gradually succumbing to the drowsy antiphonal hum, incense and flickering candlelight. With his eyes shut, he could pretend he had a family and home. Aunt Emily meant to be kind, but Nat knew she found him a nuisance. Here at St Mary’s, there were other boys in the same boat, and Mr Woodcourt always said it was more important to lend each other a helping hand than to shine in class.
Best of all, there was Julian. An instant liking had sprung up between them from the very first day of Nat’s arrival at the school. Almost imperceptibly, the older boy had become his friend, his patron and the comforter of all his woes. Sometimes proud and stand-offish with others, Julian watched over him with a grim protection which never faltered. Any lads inclined to pick a fight with Nat soon found themselves confronted by an opponent whose listless manner concealed a fierce loyalty, with the result that they quickly learned to keep a respectful distance from his fists.
But something was wrong with Julian. Terribly wrong. Worst of all, Nat did not know how to put it right.
Opening his eyes, Nat surreptitiously glanced along the line of boys to where Julian stood, haughty and withdrawn as ever. His face gave nothing away, but Nat knew it was an act. He remembered how he had come upon Julian weeping behind second quad just two weeks earlier, his shoulders heaving with choking sobs which had alarmed Nat far more than any angry outburst. He had been tempted to steal quietly away, keenly aware how little his friend would appreciate being caught crying like a girl; but Julian’s frantic grief compelled him to act.
‘What’s the matter, Julian? Has something happened at home? You can tell me.’
He had timidly placed a hand on Julian’s shoulder, but the older boy had flung him off with something approaching terror. ‘No! Get off me! Don’t touch me! Leave me alone!’ he had cried. ‘You don’t know… You can’t – I couldn’t tell you what I’ve done. You’d hate me.’
He had turned away from Nat, cringing with some kind of shame, and Nat had quietly walked away, his heart pounding with fear.
Since then, Nat had watched Julian closely and seen that he was out of sorts. All his timid enquiries had been gruffly, almost rudely, repulsed, however, and he took it sadly to heart that his chief prop and steadfast supporter would not share his troubles. Julian had seemed cheerier with the arrival of Miss Mullen – going so far as to call her ‘cool’ – but this revival of spirits had alternated with fits of gloom and silent moodiness, so that Nat could not get anything out of him. Even Mr Woodcourt couldn’t jolly Julian out of his depression, despite holding out the lure of try-outs for the cricket First Eleven. If the prospect of sporting glory could not rouse him, Nat reflected, his friend must be in a very bad way.
Nat made a sudden desperate resolution to collar Julian after tea and get to the bottom of it. They’d pull through whatever it was together. They had to.
After tea, Nat looked anxiously around the boys’ comfortable, though rather battered, recreation room situated at the back of first quad. While the other students clustered in front of the television, happily engrossed in Dr Who, Julian sat in the shadows, so preoccupied with his own thoughts that he seemed scarcely aware of what was going on around him. Nat’s heart sank at the realization that his friend was shunning him, when this was usually their favourite moment of the week. Nevertheless, he bravely sat down next to Julian on the sagging overstuffed sofa and summoned up all his courage.
‘What’s the matter, mate?’ he asked in a rush. ‘Are you sick or something? Why won’t you tell me?’
Slowly, as though coming out of a trance, the older boy looked at Nat with a strange expression in his dark eyes. Half-fierce, half-imploring, he muttered huskily, ‘S’all right, I’m OK. Don’t worry about me.’
Nat looked so hurt and distressed, as though bankrupt in the eyes of their small community, that Julian tempered his abrupt dismissal with a clumsy laugh, though the tears stood in his eyes and his lips trembled.
‘Honestly, mate, it’s nothing for you to worry about… Just, well, personal things.’
Nat felt obscurely reassured by this answer. St Mary’s code of honour meant that you didn’t pry into another fellow’s domestic circumstances. He had never said much to Julian about his dead parents or Aunt Emily, so he could understand the other’s reserve about family. He knew Julian didn’t like his stepfather and guessed he was unhappy at home. That had to be the reason why he was so dejected and unlike himself. Nat could not expect any further revelations and would just have to wait until the cloud had passed.
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, worshippin
g 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.
Crime in the Choir Page 14
