Stations of the Soul

by Chris Lewando

  ‘Sarah?’ Robin was bemused, his gaze flicking from her to Joel.

  ‘Oh, I think you get it,’ Joel said. ‘It took me a while to believe it, being fairly convinced souls were the invention of religious zealots. But, as it turns out, when people die, their souls are released. And we harvest them; like angels, I guess. Only my sweet Sarah persuades them to go on to wherever souls go, which is a waste of a good resource. What she hasn’t realised is that the more souls you harvest, the stronger you get.’

  ‘You don’t let them leave?’ Sarah was obviously shocked. ‘Is that possible?’

  ‘They believe it when I tell them there’s nowhere else to go.’

  ‘So, Joel, where is he?’

  ‘Oh, in here somewhere. More confused than usual, I’d say.’

  Robin closed his eyes, briefly. This was no stranger than anything else he’d experienced recently. ‘So, when you died, you went into Joel’s body, and eventually took over. That’s unreal.’

  Joel grinned. ‘It’s a miracle, all right. I nearly put Joel down when I realised he was moronic. The only reason I didn’t, was it kept Sarah under control. And just think, all those years, trying to come up with a solution, and I’d found it, only I didn’t know until Sarah killed me.’ His lip curled as his eyes turned to her. ‘I should thank you, really. My body was on the way out, and look at me now!’

  ‘That’s not your body, it’s Joel’s,’ Sarah said morosely.

  As Joel’s long, neat fingers wrapped around the mug, Robin could imagine them equally at home playing a violin, or squeezing the life out of someone. Sarah was silent. It was one thing for her to have a kind of love-hate relationship with her brother, it was another to discover he was actually her sociopath dad. But if Joel was still in there…

  ‘So, what happens now?’ he said softly.

  ‘Yes, that rather is the question, isn’t it?’ Joel said. ‘You present me with a conundrum. It seems Sarah’s turned you into one of us, and I’m trying to figure out whether you’re more use to me alive than dead. I’m curious to know how that happened?’

  ‘She saved my life. Gave me blood after the pile-up.’

  ‘Well, that’s ironic. And interesting. I came to get Sarah back, and dispose of you, but I’m rethinking. Turning up wildcards all adds to the spice of the game.’

  ‘This isn’t a game, and you don’t own me,’ Sarah snapped.

  ‘Actually, I do. I created you.’

  ‘Like Victor Frankenstein’s monster?’ Robin suggested.

  He was amused. ‘She’s not quite so monstrous, I think.’

  ‘But it turned out, after all, that he had free will.’

  ‘And look what he did with it. One’s creations need to be trained to not bite the hand that created them.’ He pushed the mug aside and rose, a single, smooth movement that made Sarah jump. ‘We’re all going to stay here for a bit, one big happy family, while I decide what to do next.’ His eyes grazed Robin, as a lion would assess its prey. ‘So, don’t do anything stupid. I haven’t decided to kill you, yet, but I would have no hesitation.’

  Sarah’s’ eyes flashed, and she half rose. ‘If you so much as touch him…’

  ‘You’ll what?’

  ‘I killed you once, I can do it again.’

  Joel laughed out loud. ‘A daughter after my own heart! Shame you weren’t a boy. I would have liked a son to inherit the old place. Not that it will ever happen now. But we can find somewhere better, when I decide how to best use this unexpected legacy.’

  He stretched his fingers, and flexed them, as if still not quite believing they were his.

  Chapter 47

  The detectives searching Wood Hall found tyre tracks that confirmed the locals’ comments that Joel had driven a big four-by-four, possibly a Defender. Joel had disappeared, though, as if forewarned. It seemed that ownership of the hall had never passed to a daughter called Sarah, whose birth had been registered over fifty years ago. There had been some discussion as to whether their Sarah was, maybe, her daughter, but they could find no further evidence that the earlier Sarah had ever married or had a child, so ownership of the estate was presently hanging in the hands of the state. If no heir could be discovered, it would end up sold – probably at vastly under-priced rate, to the solicitors managing the affair – the proceeds disappearing into the empty tax coffers without a trace.

  Redwall and Jim were back in the office, when news came through that four shallow graves, dating back thirty to fifty years, had been discovered at the back of the property. The skeletons were all women, and it didn’t need Sherlock Holmes to work out that they were women on whom professor Waterman had performed illegal abortions to obtain foetuses for his research.

  ‘How can a professor be a murdering sociopath, and no one realise it?’ Jim asked.

  Redwall shrugged. ‘I think people did realise, though perhaps not the extent. The intelligent ones hide in full view, become Directors of successful businesses, because they are driven by things other than care for their fellow humans. But from what I’ve seen, Waterman’s colleagues knew he wasn’t a nice person. He was shunned, eventually.’

  ‘But he got away with murder.’

  ‘And paid for it in the end,’ Redwall reminded him. ‘If we found who put him in that cell, we’d have to lock him up, when every instinct tells me I’d like to give him – or her – a medal.’

  ‘It’s strange though, that Wood Hall is associated with a spate of old murders, and now there are murders associated with the place again. Almost as if it’s jinxed,’ Jim mused. ‘And we still don’t know where Robin fits into it all. His background indicates nothing out of the ordinary, then suddenly he seemed to be at the core of everything that doesn’t make sense.’

  An officer put her head around the door. ‘Denny Marlin is here. You wanted to see her?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The girl from the shop near Wood Hall, who’s going to try to create a visual of the caretaker, Joel?’

  ‘Ah. Show her in, and tell May she’ll be there in a few minutes.’

  They stood and greeted her. Vastly overweight as they all seemed to be these days, she was squeezed into a pair of pink leggings that Redwall could only describe as obscene. Her tee-shirt barely covered her waist, and at first glance she seemed naked from there down. He blinked, plastered a smile of welcome on his face, and tried not to look. ‘Denny, thank you for coming in.’

  She gave a belly laugh, her moon face gaping, her two chins becoming three. ‘Didn’t have much choice, did I, with the whole village wanting to know what it was like up here.’

  ‘Take a seat. I guess rumour is rife?’

  ‘Well, they’re saying there’s old graves there, that the old prof was a psychopath, and Joel’s some kind of murderer.’

  Well, that about summed it up. How in hell did this stuff get out? Her eyes were all over the office, hoping to find images of graves and dismembered bodies, no doubt. Then she pointed to his notice board.

  ‘Someone’s already done Joel’s picture, then?’

  Their eyes gravitated to May’s impression of the too-pretty-to-be-real guy Robin had seen at the crash site.

  Later, they compared it with the new computer-generated image Denny had helped to create, and the two images bore a distinct similarity, which was hopeful. The new photographic image, however, brought the angelic face to life. It was slightly longer, the lips fuller, the hair blonder, and those dark hazel eyes could have come from something furrier with man-eating incisors. The technician said Denny had been sure of herself when calling the changes, and he guessed she’d ogled him pretty closely, enough to fancy the hell out of him. But if this Joel had tortured Freman, and was the same guy who had taunted Robin when he’d been trapped in his car, it’s just as well he hadn’t fancied her. Mind, she didn’t fit the profile, by a long way. His mind took a sideways shunt. Was this caretaker the Stinger Killer, too? The thought was profoundly disturbing, with not a shred of computable logic to uphold it.
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  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Let’s get the image circulating. Get Freman’s rag to run a front page spread. If the guy really looks like bloody Adonis, it won’t take long to flush him out. Give the paper details of what we found at Wood Hall.’

  ‘All of it?’

  He thought for a moment. ‘No. Don’t mention the prostitute or the possible connection with the Strangler. Dwell on the old murders, and Freman. I have no doubt the paper will connect the dots. They won’t have a better story than helping to track down whoever murdered one of their own.’

  His erstwhile friend would have been amused to have collared the whole front page. Theirs had been a love-hate relationship for so many years, it was sad he couldn’t share the irony.

  Inspector Redwall managed to get home to his wife on time and share the evening meal with her for the first time in weeks. He kissed her lightly on the cheek as he entered the small semi-detached house they’d moved to after the death of their children. The other, bigger house had echoed with a future that had skidded into nonexistence.

  ‘Good day, dear?’ she asked.

  It was a ritual, maintained since the early days, before they had coped with the double trauma of losing their daughter to Leukaemia, and their son in a traffic accident less than a year later, on the new motorbike he’d been so proud of. Redwall recalled saying, Be careful, the day it happened. His last memory was of a big smile, and the careless words thrown over a shoulder, Give over, Dad. You worry too much. I’m always careful.

  ‘Humbling, but rewarding,’ he said. He loved her so much, this caring and gentle wife of his, and never failed to see, behind the fifty-five years she wore so comfortably now, the vivacious twenty-year old he’d met at university. ‘Did you go over to the hospice today?’

  ‘I told you I was booked in.’

  He followed her into the kitchen. She was tireless in her hospice work, as if it would help Wendy. But they both did what they needed to do to try to make sense of a life rather than simply get through it. She pulled plates from the warm oven, already served and waiting to be eaten.

  ‘So, how did it go?’

  ‘Mrs Fenshaw died in the early hours this morning,’ she said, ‘so there was a lot of fuss, even though it wasn’t a surprise. Mr Ramsden did his party trick, taking off his clothes, and causing hysteria with an erection. You wouldn’t believe he was dying, would you?’

  He smiled. ‘He’s proud of it, I’d guess.’

  ‘Well, an erection on public display is quite off-putting. It’s a shame men’s sexual drive doesn’t switch off at menopause. They might think of something other than what’s dangling between their legs.’

  ‘He doesn’t know what he’s doing, though, does he?’ He picked up a potato with his fingers, and popped it into his mouth whole. It was too hot, and brought tears to his eyes. There were other things men didn’t learn.

  ‘He’s forgotten he’s not supposed to be quite so publicly proud of it,’ she countered.

  He grinned. ‘Let’s go and eat in the dining room, shall we?’

  Over dinner, he told her about Wood Hall, with its hidden laboratory and its old secrets. He stopped eating, fork hanging in the air. ‘I wish I could tell Freman what we’d found. He’d have loved that story. I think he’d already guessed some of it. That’s why he was there. But we’ll never know, probably.’

  Her normally placid face betrayed a soft look of worry. ‘You’ll find who killed him. Some people do such wicked things these days.’

  ‘Some people always have, love. What keeps society going is that the majority don’t,’ he said.

  A quote came to mind, ’tis not death which thralls a man to fear, but the manner of its coming. Freman would have agreed with that one – he’d been provided with time to see it coming. But he didn’t say that out loud. He hadn’t told her Freman had been tortured. She was right. The murderer needed to be found, locked up forever. He just wasn’t convinced it was Robin.

  After dinner he leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment, savouring his moment of peace, wondering what tomorrow would bring, then they sat in companionable silence while they drifted through undiluted television for a couple of hours before bed.

  Chapter 48

  There was a fine view from the bedroom window. It wasn’t the cultivated patchwork of fields Sarah was used to, down south, but a broad stretch of rugged grass and rock, dotted with sheep, drifting lazily towards the grey rocks that gave the Peak District its name. Presently the peaks gleamed, polished to steel by a cold morning sunlight, further away and higher than they seemed, begging to be climbed. Even in a small country like England, such scenes lured the ill-clad and unwary towards an unexpected adventure of exposure, exhaustion and death.

  The cottage, once a refuge, though, had become a prison.

  Joel didn’t let Robin from his sight. That, more than chains, kept Sarah close and biddable. Joel didn’t have to state that if Sarah left, he would kill Robin, but neither of them doubted it. He had proved his superior strength just once, placing his pianist’s hands around Robin’s neck, and not even squeezing. Robin had been unable to break free, and Sarah had gone wild, clawing and tearing at Joel. He could have swatted her away, but gave her the full benefit of his devastating smile while she drew blood. She’d been no more than a kitten testing a full-grown lion. The scratches she gouged out of his arm healed within a day. She saw him stretch his arm, and flex his hands, later in the day, examining his perfect body with an intensity that was understandable in the circumstances.

  Behind her, Robin stepped out of the shower, his face drawn beneath a growing mat of hair, made darker by being wet. He wrapped a towel around himself, and hugged her from behind. She stared unseeing towards the view, and after a while, Robin voiced her thoughts. ‘What are we going to do?’

  What could they do?

  He grimaced. ‘You’d better go and get the papers.’

  It had become a ritual. Each morning Sarah would drive out in the old van, taking a shopping list and bringing back essentials and news of the outside world. Joel didn’t want a laptop or a phone, or anything that might help the police to trace them. Sarah had to cover her hair, and not go to the same place twice, so each foray took longer.

  When they got downstairs, Joel was at the stove.

  ‘Two eggs?’ he asked, as if they were on some kind of family holiday, and he was the working male who had suddenly discovered the joy of cooking. Like breadwinners assuming manly control of outside barbecues, Joel’s food was burned on the outside and undercooked inside, but at least it didn’t taste of lighter fuel.

  ‘Thanks,’ Sarah said, not hungry at all.

  Joel, or rather, her father, had a short fuse. Joel’s smiling placidity could erupt into rage at a moment’s notice. She wondered if Joel was still in there, or whether he’d already drifted away. And that was Sarah’s problem. She could kill her father without a moment’s hesitation, but to kill her own brother, who she’d nurtured for fifty years?

  ‘Oh, and get some hair dye,’ Joel added. ‘Not black. Different shades of brown, for all of us. If we need to leave, the three of us together are pretty identifiable.’

  He was right. Even Robin’s hair was losing its colour, and now held a hint of gold.

  Sitting in the van outside the shop, Sarah read about Freman’s body being found at Wood Hall. Tears rose. If he hadn’t saved her, and gone back, he’d still be alive. She should have known he’d go back. It was in his nature. She should have called that Redwall guy, after all. She banged the steering wheel in frustration, wanting to howl her distress, but a passing shopper was looking at her askance, and she put the paper down, and drove away slowly. For the last few days the police had been seeking her and Robin. Somehow, they had made a connection, but what they thought they knew wasn’t clear.

  She found a layby, and took out the mobile she’d bought, and phoned the number Robin had given her.

  ‘Detective Inspector Redwall please.’

  ‘I’m afr
aid he’s not available at this –’

  ‘Tell him it’s Sarah. I’m going to be on the line for two minutes, no more.’

  There was silence for a moment. She imagined the panic as Redwall galvanised people into action before coming on line. She wasn’t sure how traces worked, but felt sure time was the key, she’d seen it on TV.

  ‘Redwall,’ the deep voice identified itself calmly. ‘Sarah, where are you? Please come in and talk to me.’

  ‘I can’t. Just listen. I’m OK. Robin’s OK. Whatever you think, we’re innocent of any crimes. I’m sorry about Freman. I tried to warn him when he let me out. So did Robin.’

  ‘Calm down, I believe you. I heard the message. Where is Joel? Is he with you?’

  ‘Joel’s more dangerous than you could ever imagine. Be careful. Robin and I just want to get out of this alive.’

  ‘Out of what, Sarah?’

  She was cutting the call as she climbed out of the van. She threw the phone down and ground it with her heel. Picking the sim card out of the mess, she snapped it, then threw it into the scrubby hedge, and drove the van over the phone just to make sure.

  Back at the cottage, she threw the newspaper on the kitchen table, ‘You’re famous. Infamous, rather.’

  Joel read the article about the bizarre discoveries at Wood Hall, amused rather than worried. ‘Well, I guess we’d better get going with that hair dye, then. No doubt our images will be on the front page, next.’

  Sarah realised he had to die. This wasn’t Joel. Her brother was gone. They needed to get out of his hands, separate themselves from him, and let the police do their job. What worried her most was when the hunt truly got going, if it closed in, she and Robin were in the firing line.

  Her father didn’t seem to have planned anything other than getting her back, but she didn’t doubt he would now sacrifice both of them to save himself. After all, he knew how to create another like himself, so her value as a lifetime companion in crime had suddenly diminished.