Clamped to Preston’s side was Olivia, chalk-white and blue to the lips. They stood entwined in some horrible parody of a lovers’ embrace while Cynthia Gibson cowered a few feet to the side. The expression of naked longing on the teacher’s avid face as she gazed at Preston plainly showed that this was the god of her idolatry. The DI’s heart lurched as, with a lightning flash of insight, he saw Olivia’s safe dependable friend – ‘so devoted to the boys’ – stripped bare.
Preston followed Markham’s glance. The cruel mouth curved up like a razor blade.
‘Yes, Inspector. Cynthia understands me. We’re soul mates.’
Noakes made a disgusted sound.
‘What, so she’s up for torturing young lads and bumping folk off when they get in the way?’
‘It’s a lie!’ cried Preston’s lover, her voice shrill, her eyes feverishly bright. ‘You could never understand. Never!’
Preston held up his index finger. As though hypnotized, she fell silent.
The next moment, there was a knife at Olivia’s throat. A wicked little blade pressed to the porcelain-white skin.
Time stood still. The heavy cloying scent of tallow was thick in Markham’s nostrils, and diabolic shadows danced across the roof of the cavern in the guttering candle-light. Olivia’s hair had come loose from its messy chignon and rippled over her shoulders like a russet waterfall. Despite the pallor, when she looked at him her face was full of love.
She had never looked more beautiful.
A wave of vertigo hit Markham, but he forced himself to stay upright.
‘The ladies and I are going to leave together,’ Preston announced with a ghastly show of courtliness which turned Markham’s blood to ice water. ‘You will instruct your colleagues to let us leave unmolested.’
There was a restless movement from Noakes.
A crimson bead blossomed where the tip of Preston’s knife flicked the delicate skin of Olivia’s throat.
‘We will leave together,’ the architect repeated with no variation of tone. ‘And you will let us.’
Markham raised his hands palm upwards in a gesture of surrender. Looking at Noakes, he gave the silent command, stand down. The two policemen pressed themselves acquiescently against the right-hand wall of the vault. Alex Sharpe moaned and sobbed incoherently, oblivious to what was passing around him.
The architect nodded to Cynthia. Mutely, she edged towards the entrance to the vault. Tossing an auburn lock out of his eyes in a boyish gesture so horribly at variance with his true nature, Preston advanced with Olivia clasped tight. Watching his elegant white hands, with the long tapering fingers, Markham had a sudden shocking vision of them snaking like talons around a child’s throat, squeezing and squeezing…
Wait for us! We’re all here! Don’t leave us in the dark!
It was the piercing scream of a child.
The colour drained from Preston’s face. He jerked backwards as if he had been shot, dropping the knife with a clatter.
Markham sprang like a tiger, catching the architect off balance and sending him crashing to the ground. Dimly he was aware of Noakes joining the fray.
‘Cuff him with the rope, for God’s sake, Noakesy!’
‘On it, sir!’ wheezed the DC, looking down at the writhing figure on the ground with an expression of grim satisfaction.
Markham spun round and caught a fainting Olivia in his arms. ‘It’s all right, I’ve got you now,’ he murmured tenderly, turning her away from the spectacle of Preston trussed like a turkey but still spitting defiance at Noakes amidst fierce kicks and struggles. Cynthia, meanwhile, stood rooted to the spot as though turned to stone.
It was over.
Falling snow swirled round the convoy parked in front of St Mary’s, thick flakes slapping against windscreens and clinging to the tops of vehicles. Uniforms, paramedics and SOCOs stood in a gaggle, stamping feet and clapping hands together, their tracks criss-crossing the white tablecloth which covered the school forecourt.
The DI and Noakes sat quietly in the squad car against a background of wailing sirens and the screech of tyres, shut off from the hubbub as though in an airlock.
Markham had no clear recollection of making it back to the car. He looked around him in bewilderment, vision blurring at the edges, as Noakes thumped and cursed the refractory heater.
‘Olivia,’ he said groggily, ‘don’t leave me.’
Noakes spoke gently as though to a child. ‘No need to worry, Guv, Olivia’s in safe hands. The medics are checking her over. We’ll have to see, but she looked OK to me, so maybe it’s just shock.’ He looked at Markham with an expression of concern and put a hand on his arm. ‘You could do with a once-over as well. You took quite a knock back there when Preston lashed out. Might be concussion.’
Markham shook his head. The wooziness was subsiding, though his whole body was tingling as though he was on fire. With shaking hands, he wound down the window and stuck his head out, holding his face up gratefully to the frosty air.
‘I’m OK, Noakesy,’ he said, eventually retreating to the steamy fug of the interior.
Mercifully, the world seemed to have stopped tilting and the roaring in his head had subsided to a dull throb. ‘C’mon,’ he prompted, gesturing at the walkie-talkie in the DS’s hand, ‘what gives?’
‘Well, if you’re sure, sir,’ replied Noakes doubtfully. ‘HQ wants Woodcourt interviewed as soon as possible.’ He pulled a sour face. ‘Nothing we can use at a trial, obviously, but gives us a chance of smashing the paedophile ring.’
‘Where’ve they got him?’ Markham asked wearily.
‘The Newman,’ was the glum response.
‘Right, let’s get over there. You can drive.’
The drive to the Newman Hospital, a high-security facility situated behind Bromgrove General, later seemed to Markham to possess the quality of a prolonged fugue. Neither man spoke, although Noakes shot furtive glances at his boss from time to time as though Markham was a casualty in triage.
The dream-like feeling of being in an airlock persisted as they passed though the booking procedures at reception before traversing endless sliding doors and corridors fitted with cameras. In this hermetically-sealed, rubber-soled universe, the DI felt mysteriously detached from his surroundings, as though insulated from reality by an invisible wall of plexiglass. He also felt a paralyzing sense of misery; despite the acres of glass and glimpses of brightly-coloured day rooms, there was no disguising the rancid whiff of fear and suspicion which – to his overwrought imagination – seemed to hang in the air like a deadly gas. The further they penetrated into this wracked world with its swivelling lenses, that had to have wide awake eyes upon it twenty-four hours round the clock, the stronger his wish to breathe fresh air. Beneath the pervading scent of pine disinfectant, it was all hopelessness and sweat. Crossing into the section marked Forensic, lined on both sides with heavy locked doors bisected by louvered panels, he felt needle-sharp prickles all over his skin as though caught in the crosshairs of a thousand malignant gazes. Judging by Noakes’s unusually alert bearing, it was clear the DS shared his discomfort.
At last they arrived at what appeared to be a heavily fortified nursing station. A lean sandy-haired man whose badge proclaimed him to be Dr McGrath shook hands.
‘You’ll not get much sense out of the patient, gentlemen,’ he said resignedly.
‘You don’t think he could be shamming?’ demanded Noakes bluntly.
‘If it’s an act, then he’s the best I’ve ever seen.’ The psychiatrist smiled wanly. ‘No, I would say acute paranoia and possibly schizophrenia. At a guess, he’s been suffering delusions and hallucinations for some time.’
‘Did a bloody good job of fooling us,’ growled Noakes.
Dr McGrath sighed. ‘It’s likely he set up mental blocks to protect himself from the memory of what he did to those poor children.’
The terrified stares. The screams.
‘I would imagine the dissociation enabled him to go on functioning as a priest, but
gradually the parameters of his personality came apart.’
Behold, Myself and Heaven, And Hell.
Markham became aware that Dr McGrath was examining him narrowly.
‘I gather you’ve just come from a major incident, Inspector. Can I arrange some refreshment?’
‘Thank you, sir, but we’d better see Woodcourt straight away.’
‘As you wish. Mike,’ the doctor turned to a brawny orderly, ‘can you please take the officers to the interview room?’
‘Where’ll you be?’ Noakes asked suspiciously.
‘Behind the two-way mirror, Detective, following the interview from next door.’
When they entered the interview room, Woodcourt was slumped at a formica table rocking backwards and forwards and muttering to himself, his hands handcuffed and attached to a belly chain. Another warder, a giant of a man, sat impassively next to him.
Markham and Noakes slipped into chairs on the other side of the table.
Gradually, Woodcourt became sensible of their presence and the facile, running babble ceased.
He looked up at Markham and a secretive, sly expression stole over the ravaged features.
‘They’ve got me in a living grave now … but I spit on them and always will.’
It was the face of a snared animal with no resemblance to the suave cleric of their previous encounters. The contrast was shocking. Even Noakes was at a loss, the furious accusations dying on his lips as Woodcourt, with a look of low cunning, alternately wheedled and cursed. As he listened, Markham felt perspiration pooling in the small of his back and noticed that Noakes’s face was as bleached as his shirt. The warder, meanwhile, did not move a muscle.
There was evil squatting there in the room with them like a toad, thought Markham. Like something foul and misshapen. All his senses screamed at him to get out.
He met Noakes’s eye. Nothing for us here.
Suddenly, Woodcourt lunged. Steel fingers closed around Markham’s wrist and yanked him across the table. For a moment, the maniac’s breath was hot and fetid on his face. Then the attendant was on his feet, forcing Woodcourt back into his chair.
‘Mors janua vitae… Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo et in terra.’ His mind was evidently wandering to his old life, for he continued to jabber in Latin, without appearing conscious of their presence otherwise than as a part of his vision, beckoning to Markham as to an altar boy. Tears stung Markham’s eyes at the thought of all those innocents who had proudly served the canon’s Mass, unconscious that the paths of glory led but to the grave.
Blindly, the DI rose to his feet and jerked his head at Noakes. We’re leaving.
At that moment, the door of the interview room crashed open and, before anyone had time to react, a tall, bronzed man hurled himself at Woodcourt. It was all over so quickly, that Markham did not realize Woodcourt had been stabbed until he saw blood pumping from his chest.
‘That’s for Jonny, you fucking child killer!’
Two attendants appeared in the doorway, but Markham shouted, ‘Get back, he has a weapon!’
Woodcourt looked steadily at his attacker with an expression which Markham later identified as gratitude. Then, to the horror of all who witnessed it, he emitted a high, snickering laugh which shook him like a paroxysm, making the tears roll down his cheeks and shaking his mortally wounded body with its mirthful abandon. Just as suddenly as the laughter had started, it stopped. The hair on the back of Markham’s neck stood up as Woodcourt gasped in horror, gesticulating wildly with his bound hands at someone only he could see.
‘So, you’ve come for me! Don’t let me burn … anything but that!’ The despair in his voice was so powerful, that no-one moved or spoke. Then his eyes rolled back in his head, his body spasmed, and he fell to the floor.
Markham looked across Woodcourt’s corpse at the father of Jonny Warr.
Justice had been done.
‘It was surely the best outcome, Inspector.’
Markham and Noakes sat drinking coffee at the conference table in Dr McGrath’s well-appointed office. To Markham’s relief, it was well away from the wards and looked onto a large open area free of buildings. Screams of demented fury, wild lamentations and howls of rage had pursued them down the corridors in the aftermath of Woodcourt’s death, as though a legion of deranged souls – though unable to see what had transpired – somehow knew that one of their number was gone. The comparative silence of the office made his ears ring.
‘What was all that stuff about someone coming for him?’ asked Noakes. ‘Gave me a right turn that did.’
‘Ah, that was part of his psychosis, Detective,’ answered the psychiatrist. ‘He continually behaved as though speaking to an invisible presence or answering hallucinatory voices. Sometimes he punched the wall as though in a rage with these imaginary characters. Most of what he said was incomprehensible gibberish, but latterly he kept shielding his eyes from some unbearable sight—’
‘One of his victims, perhaps,’ interjected Markham quietly.
‘Quite possibly he was haunted by the remembrance of his crimes. When your colleagues first brought him in, he was ranting at someone he called Master. Of course, such behaviour is typical of a psychotic in florid mode and he decompensated very quickly, but I had the feeling this was a real person.’ Dr McGrath appeared to weigh his words. ‘Someone whose death triggered overwhelming feelings of guilt and abandonment.’
Markham thought back to Steve Sinnott’s revelations. Sir Philip Soames had stuck to Woodcourt through thick and thin otherwise he’d have been out on his ear. They shared an unbreakable bond. A bond forged in blood. But later, according to Alex Sharpe, the conspirators had argued and the bond was torn asunder.
‘He kept screaming the same words over and over. “Why did you fall away from the true path? Why did you force me to give you up?”’ The psychiatrist observed Markham closely. ‘I can see by your expression that these words mean something to you, Inspector.’
‘They do indeed, Dr McGrath,’ replied Markham gravely.
Sir Philip Soames was another victim to add to Preston’s tally. Presumably Woodcourt had agreed that he would have to be sacrificed. In all likelihood, the loss of his long-time friend and fellow occultist tipped him into madness.
‘At the end, the patient’s mania centred on an angel hauling a millstone attached to a chain.’
There was a prolonged silence eventually broken by Noakes.
‘He should have been dragged to court to face the families,’ he said flatly.
‘Edward Preston faces a whole life sentence and Cynthia Gibson will at the very least go down as an accessory. There will be some closure.’ Markham’s tone was mild as if he too felt cheated. He turned to Dr McGrath. ‘We’ll be requesting a clinical assessment of Woodcourt’s killer.’
‘I’d like to shake his hand,’ muttered Noakes.
‘Then there’s the chain of events which enabled him to breach hospital security,’ continued Markham, ignoring the interruption.
‘An investigation is already underway, Inspector. I suspect we’ll find he had help from someone on the inside … a relative of one of the victims…’
Markham nodded, his thoughts resting compassionately on Jonny Warr’s avenging father.
Whoever kills a human being, it is as though he has destroyed the world.
If only the worlds of Dick Woodcourt and the lost boys had never met.
‘C’mon, Noakes.’ Markham signalled to the DC. ‘Time to head back to base.’
Bromgrove Police Station resembled an anthill, with uniforms scurrying in all directions like demented termites. Clearly a full-scale operation was now underway to amalgamate cold cases involving missing children and the St Mary’s murders.
Markham spotted Barry Lynch, the slab-faced PLO, preening on the sidelines.
‘Oh God, that’s all I need,’ he groaned to Noakes. ‘That self-important twerp muscling in for a few soundbites.’
‘Bandits at six o’clock,’ was
the DS’s muttered rejoinder.
‘Markham, Noakes! Excellent work!’
DCI Sidney bore down on them in full dress uniform, beaming from ear to ear.
‘The DCC will be along shortly to congratulate us in person.’
Markham noted the DCI’s use of the first-person plural. Smashing a paedophile ring while delivering a massive boost to Bromgrove’s clear-up statistics was PR nirvana. Natural enough, he supposed, for his superiors to want a slice of the action. Evidently, Sidney’s previous instructions to jettison Woodcourt as a suspect clashed with his cherished persona of all-wise commander and could therefore be conveniently expunged from the record.
Markham decided he was more than happy to play second fiddle. All that mattered was justice for the victims of Woodcourt, Preston and Soames.
Sidney was pontificating as though addressing a police conference. Dimly, Markham registered the usual tropes: ‘…tragedy of mental illness … abuse of digital technology … distortion of personality … social breakdown…’
So, Sidney was going to spin this decades-old cover-up as some kind of collective psychosexual aberration. Good luck with that!
Suddenly, Markham realized he didn’t care. The great and the powerful always had their partisans. He and Noakes would do their job regardless, without fear or favour.
Whoever saves a man, it is as though he has saved the world.
Lynch was hovering with various underlings.
‘If I could just have a line for the journos, sir,’ he said obsequiously to the DCI.
Sidney clapped Lynch on the shoulder in an unprecedented display of bonhomie. ‘Just tell them we are delighted with developments at this stage, Barry. Absolutely delighted.’ He turned to Markham, all solicitude, and enquired. ‘Do you feel up to fielding questions from the press, Inspector?’
Markham recognized his cue.
‘If it’s all right, I’d far rather leave that to you, sir,’ he murmured. ‘I’m still a bit off balance, to tell the truth… I’d prefer to get off to the hospital … check on Olivia.’
‘Naturally, naturally.’ The DCI was positively effusive, his earlier invective against ill-advised liaisons quite forgotten.
Crime in the Choir Page 21
