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 gained 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 soci
ety – 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 process.
‘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.
Markham and Olivia had also attended the cathedral’s Sunday service, sitting inconspicuously in a pew right at the back.
The hour is at hand. Let us cast off the works of darkness and put on the armour of light… then on that last day, when Christ shall come again in his glorious majesty to judge both the quick and the dead, we may rise to life immortal…
Advent and Eschatology. The end of days.
As the gloomily apocalyptic clarion call echoed around the cathedral, Markham glanced at a marble statue to the left of their bench. It depicted a fiery archangel, in full armour and with outstretched wings, thrusting his sword into a huge coiled serpent which writhed beneath his feet.
Put on the armour of light.
Looking at the celestial combatants locked in their epic struggle from time immemorial, Markham felt a shiver of apprehension. What if the forces of darkness were too much for him this time? If Noakes was right, then evil had prevailed for decades and its perpetrators had flourished like the bay.
At that moment, a shaft of sunlight picked out Canon Woodcourt on the altar. As though conscious of the DI’s scrutiny, he looked up. It seemed to Markham that the clergyman looked straight at him before once more bowing his head.
Clamorous doubts assailed him once again. Wasn’t it possible that he and Noakes had somehow got this whole thing horribly wrong and that Woodcourt was exactly what he seemed – a decent and devout man of God? Could they exclude the possibility that Woodcourt’s connection to the missing teenagers was simply an unfortunate coincidence? Had he and Noakes allowed themselves to be swayed by popular prejudice against priestly ‘kiddy fiddlers’?
Markham recalled Olivia’s invariable mantra against pessimism. Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell. Well, he would not rush to judgement without proof. Please, God, it would be forthcoming…
The service seemed never-ending. Normally he would have gained pleasure from the richness and beauty of the liturgy, but today the lighting of the advent wreath – four slim crimson candles round a central gold taper – merely served to remind him of lives brutally snuffed out.
Looking up at the stark vault of the cathedral, Markham thought back to his moment with Olivia under the stars the previous night and felt a searing sense of dislocation. What did his poor victims signify in the cosmic scheme of things?
At that moment, Olivia leaned trustingly into him, stray wisps from her ungovernable chignon tickling his chin. Imperceptibly, he felt the tension leave his body, as though magically banished by her touch. Suddenly God did not seem quite so remote. In the silence which followed the prayers of intercession, he sent up his own desperate petition: I believe, Lord, help thou my unbelief!
At the end of the service, Markham felt a mysterious reluctance to leave the cathedral. Watching the retreating backs of the choristers as they disappeared down the processional ramp to the sacristies, he had the oddest compulsion to call the boys back.
Olivia sensed his anxiety.
‘D’you want to pop round to the school and check things, Gil? I don’t mind, honestly.’ She laughed. ‘I know how it is, sweetheart. That motto Not on my Watch runs all the way through you like a stick of rock!’
Markham smiled shame-facedly. ‘Am I that obvious?’
Linking Olivia’s arm in his, he made a snap decision. Best to steer clear of the school today.
The boys were in safe hands, and Woodcourt had no reason to suppose the police were on to him. Time to enjoy a Sunday stroll and the company of his girlfriend like a normal human being…
‘How about the Municipal Cemeter
y?’ he asked.
It was a quirk of Markham’s that, with so many victims of crime consigned to unmarked graves at best and sludge, silt and slurry at worst, he derived curious satisfaction from visiting graveyards where the dead lay tidily at rest in serried ranks under their grassy mounds and sombre headstones. Olivia fancied that this was where he communed with all those discarded uncoffined innocents he secretly held in his heart.
At the cemetery, the couple slowly wandered hand in hand between the graves underneath a sky bleached of colour save for a huge blood-red sun trembling on the horizon.
Olivia preserved a sympathetic silence. She knew that when Markham was ready he would talk. Meanwhile, she contemplated the poignant doggerel on tombstones and wove little histories around generations that lay deep underground.
As he walked, Markham’s thoughts were running on Georgina Hamilton. The autopsy had revealed cancer of the womb, but her GP was unaware. Markham suspected she might have been seeing someone privately, in which case it would take time to unravel the thread. His conviction that Georgina would not have committed suicide remained unshaken – no coward soul hers – but DCI Sidney would no doubt be delighted at the prospect of such a verdict. He kicked a stray pebble on the path, relieving his feelings by imagining that it was a sensitive part of the DCI’s anatomy. Never fear, Georgina, I’ll get justice for you and the others. Judgement Day is coming, I promise!
‘Ouch!’ yelped Olivia.
Crime in the Choir Page 15
