‘He calmed down when he realized he was safe,’ the Sister said hastily. ‘Cried his eyes out, though, and kept asking for his friend Nat.’
Seeing that Markham was beyond speech, Noakes took over. ‘Julian’s mum and stepdad are abroad. We’re trying to locate them. Nat’s back at school being looked after.’
‘Well,’ the Sister’s voice was determinedly bright, ‘let’s hope Nat can be some comfort. It’s good that the tears came. Means he’s not so emotionally numb that we can’t reach him.’
Markham found his voice. ‘Julian’s very reserved. Turns everything inward.’
Like you, thought Noakes.
The DI shot him a flinty look as though he’d spoken his thoughts aloud. Flustered, Noakes asked. ‘How long can we have with him, luv?’
‘Well, I’d be grateful if you didn’t overtire him. Quite apart from the abduction, I’d say he’s been in a state of unconscious nervous tension for a good while.’
Noakes frowned. ‘You mean he’s lost his mind?’
‘Oh, Julian’s a long way from that.’ The note of authority was unmistakable. ‘No, it’s more a case of overstrain. Living all this time with something fearful beneath the surface of his mind tormenting him.’
‘A secret,’ observed Markham, his eyes clouded and remote.
The observation won him an approving look. ‘Exactly, Inspector. I imagine he was bribed, or more likely threatened, not to tell anyone what was going on. And I think he was afraid not only for himself but for Nat – terrified that they might start on him too.’
She sighed. ‘Some good angel must have been watching over Julian. For all the trauma, there’s something innocent and unselfish about him. He would have done anything to protect Nat. I think he would have died for him.’
Again, Markham’s throat was too full for speech. Filled with a quick vision of his own little brother, long since lost to drink and drugs, he was overwhelmed by a wave of grief quite startling in its intensity.
I didn’t manage to save you, did I?
As the silence lengthened, Noakes stepped into the breach.
‘Right then, miss, reckon we’re ready to see the lad now.’
Julian was in a private room with a uniformed policeman standing outside.
In the pool of light cast by a bedside lamp, his handsome face, stamped by a forlorn wistfulness, broke into a hesitant smile at the sight of the two policemen. The DI noticed the small, wet ball of a handkerchief clutched tightly in the boy’s hand, his red-lidded eyes fixed unwaveringly upon the visitors as if they alone held the key to unlock his prison.
Looking at the earnest, tear-stained face, Markham swallowed hard.
The squeaking of Noakes’s boots sounded unnaturally loud as he manoeuvred himself into one of the two fabric-covered tub chairs placed at right angles to the bed. Markham took the other, indicating to the DS by an almost imperceptible nod that he should take the lead.
‘Good to see you, mate.’ As always at moments of high emotion, Noakes’s voice was gruff. ‘Thought we’d lost you for a bit back there. But you can’t keep a good man down.’ He gave a clumsy laugh ending almost in a sob. ‘Feel like we should have brought you grapes or summat.’
Julian flashed a watery grin. ‘Oh, I won’t be staying long, Mr Noakes. I want to get back to Nat and the rest of ’em at St Mary’s.’
No mention of mother or stepfather. It was clear where his allegiance lay.
‘D’you feel able to tell us about it?’ The DS was very matter-of-fact. ‘Just between the three of us for now. Then mebbe later, you can help us put the bad guys out of circulation.’
Noakesy’s good at this, thought Markham. Doesn’t say much, but somehow makes kids feel safe.
The skinny body went rigid under the bed clothes then relaxed.
‘It started about a year ago, Mr Noakes, with Blavatskya.’ With heart-wrenching pride, he informed them, ‘That’s St Mary’s History Society. Me and some of the other fellows would have meetings and debates—’
Suddenly he faltered.
The silence stretched but Noakes made no attempt to fill it, just held Julian’s eyes with his steady gaze.
Julian gulped and took up the thread again.
‘Sometimes the meetings were at Sir Philip’s house. Miss Gibson would take us down there and then disappear off to the back parlour with her marking.’ He smiled reminiscently. ‘She said we could only have a proper old ding-dong once she was out of the way.’
Markham stiffened. Cynthia. Was she complicit in the abuse?
He pulled himself back to Julian’s narrative.
‘…we usually went into the library.’
The boy faltered again before plunging into his story anew with the desperation of a drowning man.
‘B-b-but…’ He was stuttering now and clutching the damp handkerchief more tightly than ever.
‘Sometimes there were v-v-visitors there too. Grown-ups.’
Another pause.
‘I didn’t really take much notice of them. Thought they were teachers.’
Drops of perspiration stood out on his forehead.
‘One day I had to go into another room with two of them away from the rest. I d-d-didn’t really like it, but the canon said it was an important life lesson.’
Markham’s hands curled into fists.
‘I don’t remember their faces.’ Sheer terror had wiped out the memory. ‘Just that one of them smelt of Vicks and the other,’ he gave a convulsive shudder, ‘had fat little hands with fingers like chipolatas.’
Julian had begun to talk in a sing-song tone, like someone in a trance.
‘Sir Philip gave me something to drink. It burned. They put something over my eyes so I couldn’t see. They touched me and they made me do things to them. Dirty things. They were sweating and dribbling. I heard a voice say our bodies are temples of the Divine Being. I think it was the canon.’
Dear God in Heaven.
Julian’s face seemed suddenly ancient and careworn, his despair filling the room.
Markham’s heart was thudding in his chest, but he willed his features into an expression of benign tranquillity.
‘Afterwards, Mr Woodcourt told me they were helping me and talked about the tree of good and evil. He said never to tell and I’d get into terrible trouble if I went blabbing. An’ no-one would believe me anyway…’
Julian’s voice had grown fainter and fainter during his terrible account until it had sunk to a whisper.
‘Well, we believe you, mate. One hundred per cent.’ Noakes spoke softly.
Julian looked trustfully up at him.
‘Sir Philip said there were other special souls at St Mary’s who needed a guardian spirit.’
The Night Watchman.
‘Nearly done now, mate,’ Noakes said gently. ‘Did you have to be with those men again?’
A mute nod.
‘But you never said a word?’
Another nod.
Noakes waited.
‘Though I threw up once in the minibus when Mr Preston was taking us back to school.’
Preston. Cathedral architect. Keeper of the grottoes. Guardian of the catacombs.
‘Helping Miss Gibson out, was he?’ The question was very casual.
‘Oh, he liked coming to the history meetings.’
The room was very still. Not by the flicker of an eyelid did the two men show their intense interest in Julian’s answer.
‘Once when I was in the library with … them… I thought I heard Mr Preston. But then I realized it couldn’t have been him cos the voice sounded rougher and deeper… Anyway, they called him Ned…’Sides, Mr Preston wouldn’t have let them do those things to me…’
Ned. Short for Edward.
Something in their faces must have alerted Julian. With a shivering effort, he raised himself up in bed and looked from one to the other uncertainly, his eyes troubled and a shadow stealing over his face.
‘N-n-not Mr Preston?’
With
a pang, Noakes thought of his visit to St Mary’s grottoes. He recalled how proud Nat and Julian had been of the architect’s notice – translated into the seventh heaven of bliss at the prospect of hitching a ride on the works digger. Now Julian looked as if the world was crashing down about his ears.
Carefully avoiding Markham’s eyes, Noakes moved to the bed and put an awkward arm around Julian’s shoulders. The boy did not flinch, nor did he move away. He simply gazed up at the shambling figure with a confiding expression.
‘There’s nowt so queer as folk, lad,’ Noakes pronounced. Then he added firmly, ‘Whatever happens, just remember you did nothing wrong.’
‘My mum said I had a black streak and would turn out badly,’ came the mournful reply.
‘Then she needs setting straight!’ Noakes was indignant. ‘I’ll be giving her a piece of my mind!’ he exclaimed, punctuating his words with hearty thumps.
‘That I must see,’ drawled the DI. ‘Now let go of Julian before you karate-chop him to death!’ A half-smile lurked at the corners of Julian’s mouth, and the sombre mood temporarily lifted.
‘How did you end up down in the undercroft?’ Markham took over the questioning as Noakes resumed his seat.
‘I remember looking round when it was teatime and Nat wasn’t there. Someone said a runner – that’s the fellow who takes messages round school – had come with a note telling Nat to get across to the cathedral sharpish cos Mr Woodcourt wanted him.’
So that’s how the canon lured Julian there, thought Markham. Woodcourt had sensed his fear for the younger boy and exploited it for his own evil ends.
Julian’s face was now flushed, and his voice throbbed with echoes of that earlier panic.
‘But when I went, Nat wasn’t there. I thought I heard noises in the undercroft. We’d had a History Soc meeting in the Bishops’ Chapel – only the older boys. Nat was dead set on seeing the tombs,’ he pulled a rueful face, ‘so I wondered if Mr Woodcourt had promised to let him have a look.’
The climax of the story was approaching. Julian’s flush deepened to a painful crimson as he stammered, ‘Mr Woodcourt was in the chapel by himself. He just stood there smiling at me in a funny way. But it was funny peculiar, Mr Markham, not funny ha-ha.’
God, he was so young.
Markham’s brain began to burn.
‘I said, “Where’s Nat?” but he didn’t answer.’ Julian wrinkled his nose. There was a sickly-sweet smell too. Not regular incense … something else. It made me feel dizzy.’
Chloroform or whatever that sick bastard used to knock him out, thought Markham.
‘Mr Woodcourt’s eyes went all mean and nasty jus’ like a snake. He c-c-called me—’
‘Take your time,’ Markham said gently, ‘and remember, none of this was your fault.’
‘—a detestable sneak,’ Julian concluded miserably. ‘But I’m not a sneak, Mr Markham. I never split.’
Markham fought for composure.
If Woodcourt ever gets out of the funny farm, he’s a dead man.
When he found his voice, he spoke so tenderly that Noakes blinked in amazement at the transformation.
‘We know you’d never do anything mean and underhand, never fear.’
Visibly heartened, Julian said, ‘I didn’t even tell Nat. He’s so young and it would only have frightened him.’
Markham became aware of Sister Green hovering by the half-open door. They were running out of time.
‘Can you remember anything else?’
‘I must have passed out or something. When I woke up, the chapel looked different. There were candles everywhere, like on a feast day. And Mr Woodcourt was wearing purple vestments.’
Julian began tearing at his sodden handkerchief as though he would shred it.
‘I wanted to run but my legs wouldn’t move. Mr Woodcourt started chanting weird stuff about spotless victims, then he said some poetry…’
‘Poetry!’ Noakes was far out of his comfort zone.
Markham shot him a quelling look. ‘Did you recognize it, Julian?’ he asked.
‘I think it was from the Bible. The choir sang it at a service last year.’
Julian thought for a moment then recited, ‘Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth: for thy love is better than wine.’
The ‘Song of Solomon’, the great love-song of the church. Invoked by Woodcourt to justify his perversion. Despite the stuffiness of the room, Markham suddenly felt icy cold.
Noakes looked at his boss. The skin seemed stretched over the high cheekbones and his eyes had a tigerish intensity. Again, he wondered, what’s going on here? The guv’s taking this very personal.
‘I don’t remember anything after that, Mr Markham,’ Julian concluded. Tears were not far away.
Christine Green bustled forward.
‘Time’s up for today, gentlemen. I think our young friend here needs to rest.’
Noakes heaved himself up with a grunt. ‘Look after yourself, fella. The boss and I need all the help we can get. An’ Nat’ll be like a cat on hot bricks until you’re back where you belong.’
Markham smiled, plumping up Julian’s pillows as efficiently as any nurse.
‘Mr Markham.’ Julian’s voice was tremulous. ‘Were there other boys like me? Ones who d-d-didn’t … didn’t make it? Was that why I found the Star Wars toy in the grottoes – cos something bad happened down there?’
‘Yes,’ answered Markam quietly.
Noakes beamed at Julian. ‘But one thing’s for sure. The guv and me, we’ll bust a gut to make sure no other lads get hurt. An’ once you’re well, your’re gonna help us. Cos you know the case from the inside. Here, I’ve got Obi Wan Kenobi with me.’ He produced the little plastic toy from a pocket and handed it over with a wink. ‘You can look after him for us. Be our Exhibits Officer, like. P’raps we’ll even get you on the payroll!’
Once again, Markham felt a great rush of gratitude towards the big ox-like subordinate for his sure and compassionate touch. Chain of evidence be damned. What mattered was closure for Julian.
With a last reassuring thumbs-up, they followed Sister Green from the room.
Outside in the corridor, the smiles faded.
Markham experienced once again the disorientation – that sense of the cosmic insignificance of humanity – into which he had been plunged when he attended the Advent service in the cathedral with Olivia. An abyss of meaninglessness seemed to yawn before him as he scrabbled to find some, any, redemptive spark in the ghastly story of child abuse, suffering and murder.
Woodcourt, that supposedly devout priest, was the Anti-Christ – absolute for Death, his true deity. Light on top, dark underneath.
Although he was a hardened police officer, inured to the worst depravities, somehow the canon’s crimes struck an unprecedented chill to the DI’s heart.
Suddenly, as he looked dazedly round the hospital corridor, it seemed bathed in the lurid sea-green of Sir Philip’s house.
Green. The colour of Death, his mother always said.
Hell is above ground, Markham groaned to himself.
He felt an overmastering self-contempt, shrivelling inwardly at the thought of the invisible miasma that enveloped him – the ineradicable pollution of childhood abuse.
Then, in that moment of ultimate despair, like an electric shock, a memory came to Markham. Olivia’s high sweet voice recounting the Arthurian myth of Sir Gawain, vanquisher of the Green Knight – Death incarnate. ‘That’s you, Gil,’ said the clear tones in his ear. ‘My knight in shining armour. Bringing good out of evil. Slaying the demon.’
It was as though Olivia’s soul had wandered from its cell to comfort his.
He was himself again.
‘Don’t worry about Julian, Inspector. We’ll take good care of him.’
Christine Green patted his arm and left Markham alone with Noakes.
Markham swayed slightly, light-headed with exhaustion but reinvigorated by the moment of psychic connection with Olivia.
‘Well done in there, Noakesy.’
The DS was gratified but doing his best not to show it.
‘What next, boss?’
‘Back to St Mary’s.’ Markham straightened up. ‘Preston’s still at large. We need to bring him in. Fast.’
‘He’s one of ’em then.’
Not a question but a statement of fact.
‘Yes, I believe he’s Ned.’ Markham’s voice was hard.
‘What do you reckon to Miss Gibson then, Guv? Aren’t she and Preston meant to be a couple?’
Markham thought back to the unsettling conversation that Olivia had overheard. ‘Cynthia could be in denial about Preston’s interest in children. Or she could be an enabler – facilitating the abuse so as not to lose him.’ Markham winced with atavistic anguish and a muscle leaped near his jaw. ‘Worst case scenario, she could be an active paedophile. Whatever the set-up, we need to get to her. Even with the news blackout on developments with Woodcourt, that station’s like a leaky sieve. And if Preston gets wind, then we’ve lost him.’
‘How does O’Keefe fit in?’
‘My gut instinct tells me he’s with us, Noakes.’ Markham strode purposefully towards the exit, the DS wheezing and puffing in his wake. ‘C’mon. We’re about to find out!’
The final chapter was about to begin.
16
Slaying The Demon
The two policemen sat motionless in their squad car. Although early afternoon, the light was starting to fade and snow was falling thickly, muffling the comings and goings around them.
‘A fucking little molesting society!’
Noakes slammed his fist down on the steering wheel.
‘Sorry,’ he muttered. ‘It just really got to me … that poor kid imagining he was to blame and then asking about the ones who didn’t make it.’
Markham thought of the boy they had just interviewed – how Julian would wonder as each birthday came around whether it was OK to celebrate being alive when others were not.
Come, the bright day is done, and we are for the dark.
The air in the car was thick with unspoken words. Markham held his breath, trying to keep what was inside him from igniting.
But suddenly, he understood there was no need to share his own sad story. Beneath what could be said beat the steady thrum of a world that belonged only to darkness. The world of Markham’s childhood abuse and its roar on the other side of silence.
Crime in the Choir Page 19
