‘Come in! Can you help me?’ He ran ahead. He bounded up the stairs, his heart still full of joy. He pushed the door open and stepped back. He wanted to see their faces when they saw what he had done. They moved in quickly and he moved in behind them. His mother was facing up. Her skin was still the same grey tone. Her lips purple in contrast. They caught your eye. One of the police officers put two fingers together, he pushed them into her neck. He stood over the other side of the bed. The officer looked up. His eyes ran over the oxygen machine — it was the size of a bedside cabinet but on wheels. Wires from it ran across the floor and chased up the bed. Then the officer looked at him sadly.
‘I’m sorry, son. I don’t think there’s going to be much anyone can do.’
He threw his hands over his face. Both of them. He sobbed behind them. He felt a light touch on his shoulder. It was Sergeant Kemp. There was a shout from downstairs; the ambulance crew had arrived. They were shown in. He was led out. Someone made him a cup of tea. It was almost an hour before more people turned up. They wore black suits and they carried a stretcher up the stairs. Sergeant Kemp came down to see him. He spoke in a low, sad voice. He told him he was sorry. He said they were going to have to take her away now. He said he had taken her wedding ring off. He handed it over. It was a dull gold. He ran it over in his hands a few times. He didn’t know what to do with it. He stuffed it into the front pocket of his hooded top.
He was still in the living room when the men in black suits walked back past. The stretcher was heavier now. It carried a long, black form on it. His mother. Finally she was at peace. She was free. His heart fluttered with excitement again, his hand fell to his back pocket, feeling for his phone. He would finish up and then send another update as soon as he could — for, truly, he was merciful!
Sergeant Kemp and all of the police officers left shortly after. The sergeant had asked a few questions while the other officer bagged up a lot of his mother’s medication. They both said again how sorry they were. They shuffled uncomfortably from one foot to the other. He was given phone numbers to call if he needed to. Then they left. The silence was glorious. The machine that had hummed, gurgled and hissed as it constantly fed his mum with oxygen was silenced along with her constant dry cough and the rasping voice that he had come to so despise. There was nothing here now but the silence.
He made himself a hot drink and a sandwich, making sure he made an extra one and wrapping it in a sheet of greaseproof paper. He took a small bottle of water out of the fridge. He tidied up his cup and his plate. His mother had always hated it when he had left anything out. He slipped on his hiking boots and pulled open the back door. The sun felt warm. Spring was starting to assert itself. The garden was long and thin. There was a row of conifers halfway down; his dad had cut an arch in them before he died. His dad had liked the garden. It was a little overgrown now. His dad’s shed was at the very bottom, past the old coal shed. On the other side of the lawn was a rough area of scorched earth where he liked to set fires. He unclipped a heavy padlock from the shed door and pulled it open. It wasn’t large, but there had been enough room for his dad to use it a workshop. He had liked to work with wood and was a cabinet maker by trade. His lathe was silent and dusty now — just a home for spiders that scuttled from the sudden flood of light. He stepped in. To his right was the workbench, adapted from an old war-time Morrison shelter, it had a solid metal top and sturdy legs. It hadn’t taken much to turn it into the perfect place to store a body. The work surface was hinged to act as a flip-open lid and this was secured with a padlock. He’d also found a solid, Victorian clothes iron in the shed and lifted this on top as extra weight. He closed the shed door and shut out the sun before switching on the light. He unclipped the padlock and heaved the iron from the bench lid. It flipped up.
‘It’s okay! They’re gone!’ he said. ‘And they’ve taken her with them!’
The energy-saving bulb took a while to warm up to its full power and didn’t quite reach into the depths of the box. His eyes were still adjusting. He heard a scuffling sound, then a murmur. Though he’d given her quite a dose she was now coming round. There was more light now and he could see her. She was lying on her side, her head turned towards the noise. She blinked at the light. Her beautiful blonde hair fell over her face. She smacked her lips and made a moaning sound. He reached in his pocket for the extra sandwich.
‘Here. I brought you something to eat. And some water. You must be thirsty?’
She still couldn’t form words; she sounded a little more distressed.
‘It’s okay. You can take it. I brought it just for you. And don’t worry, no one will be coming back now. It’s just you and me!’
She managed to half sit. Her body was still twisted towards him. He reached out to push the hair out of her eyes. She jerked violently at his touch. He could see her eyes now, the pupils were large black discs. That would be the sedative. He hadn’t wanted to give her that. It seemed so cruel and demeaning to someone so perfect, to take away their consciousness in such a manner. But he needed control and he hadn’t wanted to hurt her. He couldn’t have explained that. She would never have listened. So he did what he had to do. Now he could take his time. He could make her see. She could understand better who he was and what he was doing. How he could set her free.
For now he unscrewed the water bottle and pushed it into her soft lips. ‘Drink. It’s just water.’
She reached for it. Those perfect lips pursed and hunted for the fluid. A little spilt down her chin and he wiped it gently away. Her skin was so soft. He would always be gentle with her. When the time came, he was going to take his time. He was going to be sure she was ready and that she knew what was coming so that she could savour it. She took hold of the bottle herself. She tipped it back and glugged at it until it was empty. She breathed out in a sigh. He held out the sandwich.
‘Cheese and pickle,’ he said. She reached out for this, too. Her eyes seemed a little more controlled; she seemed to focus on the food. She took a bite and he watched her intently: those lips; those eyes; the way her cheek dimpled slightly with every chew. She clearly was God’s finest creation. Another few bites and the sandwich was devoured.
‘I’ll be back,’ he said. ‘Soon.’ She was still sat up. He pushed the lid so it fell gently onto her arm. She made another noise as if she was unhappy. She was starting to become more lucid. Soon she would be able to talk. ‘Move your arm,’ he said. ‘Move your arm out of the way. It’s not time yet.’ He leant on it. It didn’t budge. Suddenly she made a louder noise, like a scream but it was guttural — as if she had no control. All her grace and beauty fell away. She sounded just like his mother.
‘Move your arm!’ he said. He pushed down on the lid. There was still resistance. The lid pushed up towards him. She was trying to get up, to get out! He lifted the lid. His right arm thrashed forward and his fist connected firmly with something solid. He glimpsed her hair whipping from her face as her head was thrown backwards. The lid fell shut.
He was breathing heavily as he sat on top of the lid, running his fingers over the solid metal. ‘I don’t want to hurt you. But you need to do as I say. Okay? OKAY?’ He heard nothing. He pushed the bar back in and locked the padlock. This time he didn’t notice how pleasant the sun was as he marched back up the garden and into the house.
Chapter 9
George had found St Dubricius’s Parish church right on the banks of the Wye. The grassy churchyard was so close to the river that some of its randomly scattered tombstones almost threatened to topple into the water. He walked to the edge. The water was clear and it ran quickly, the current stretching out the reeds that clung fast to the floor. It was perhaps forty metres wide at this point. To his left the water lapped against a muddy flat; its levels were low. He turned back to the church.
He hadn’t noticed any clear signs of life. There was one other car, a small Ford hatchback, but he had passed it a bit further up the road. His was the only one in the small, gravel car park.
George was surprised when the heavy wooden door pushed open. Where he was from, churches were locked more than they were open. The building opened up in front of him, as beautiful within as it was from outside. He pushed the door back shut.
‘You can leave that open if you want!’ a voice called out from the direction of the altar. George couldn’t see the source at first, then a man came into view, about as casually dressed as a vicar ever got: corduroy trousers, a shirt with dog collar and a thin jumper. ‘We should let in some of this lovely spring weather after the winter we’ve just had.’
George moved back to the door to pull it back open a little.
‘I can imagine the winters are harsh around here.’
‘That they are.’ The vicar walked the length of the church and stopped a few metres short of him. He looked George up and down.
‘I’m George Elms. I’m a police officer. There’s nothing to worry about. I just wanted a quick chat if possible?’
‘I know who you are. This is a very small village, Inspector. Talk to one, talk to all. I got told that on my first day here, twenty years ago. I’ve never forgotten it.’
‘You’re not from the village then?’
‘Originally? No. A city boy. It’s taken most of those twenty years to find my place here. People don’t trust outsiders easily!’
‘I’ll bear that in mind.’
‘And so I’ve heard a lot about you.’
‘So you’ve heard I’m not to be trusted?’
‘I’ve heard that no one really knows why you’re here. Which means that whatever story you’re selling isn’t ringing true.’
‘I see. Well, even I draw the line at lying to a man of the cloth.’
‘I’m sure you do, Inspector.’
‘Please, call me George.’
‘Then I’m John. John Lawrence if you need to write anything down. But just John is fine. I’ve spoken to the police a few times over the years.’
‘Mary Pope. She’s the one who squealed me up, right?’ George smiled mischievously.
‘Mary is one of mine. She’s a regular. Always has been. A little more so, though, since young Chloe didn’t come home.’
‘I’m sure the Church have been a great comfort.’
‘I think so. Only so much we can do, though. But it wasn’t Mary. It was her husband, actually. A little upset, I think. Now, won’t you come in?’ John turned away and George followed him down the aisle towards an impressive stained-glass window that dominated the chancel. The wooden pews to either side of them were in stark contrast: most looked dishevelled, the paint flaking; there were gaps where some were missing. He must have seen George looking over at an upturned pew that rested on top of another.
‘They’re both going away today. Restoration. The river . . . she is both our best friend and our worst enemy.’
‘The river did this?’
‘She does it fairly regular now. Through the summer we are the number one choice for weddings and christenings. That river is the backdrop for a thousand smiling newlyweds. But the winter shows her bitchy side. We’ve been flooded quite badly in two out of the last eight years. Seems like we’re just recovering from one when the next tide comes in.’
‘Global warming?’ George offered.
John shrugged as he led George through a vestry door. ‘You read the history books on this place and it’s always been a feature. No telling if it’s worse or better. The collection plate you walked past, it’s for flood defences. Feel free to offer some assistance. Tea?’ The vestry had a desk, lots of leather-bound books and a changing area. It also had two monitors showing what looked like a live picture of the outside of the church. The main entrance was shown in grainy detail, as was the car park where George’s car sat.
‘No, thank you. This doesn’t strike me as the sort of area where the church might need CCTV.’ George gestured at the screen.
‘It never used to be. We got a little bit of trouble down here after someone in the press wrote a story linking the church to what happened to those women. A few cars were stoned in the car park. There was banging on the church doors when we were holding services. Nothing to worry about. I’m convinced it was just local kids who saw it as an excuse.’
‘Enough to get the CCTV system though.’
‘It wasn’t enough for me. The women who run some clubs from here put out an appeal. They raised the money and the system was fitted. I never saw the need. I don’t think we need anyone looking over the church. Not anyone earthly anyway. But it made the people here feel a bit safer. I don’t even know how to work the thing.’
‘That’s okay. I’m not here to ask you to review your CCTV.’
‘No. As I understand. You’re trying to get to grips with our most infamous resident. Am I right?’
‘That’s it.’
‘I won’t bother asking why. I’ll save you the dilemma of lying to a man of the cloth, as you put it.’
‘I’d appreciate that.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t help much, really. Just like I told your colleagues, I knew him. He came here a number of times. But right from the start I could see that he was on the wrong path. He wouldn’t be told. He wanted to learn but he didn’t want to be taught. You know what I mean?’
‘I’m not sure I do.’
‘Well, he came here with what seemed like a lot of love in his heart for God. Which is good, of course. But it was only for God. He spoke ill of his family, of the community, of everyone really. I tried to teach him that God is about understanding. He’s about loving people at least as much as He is about being worshipped. But he wasn’t interested in that. He had studied his bible but had interpreted it the way he wanted to and there was nothing I could do to persuade him of any other way.’
‘So, a devout Christian but a little misguided?’
‘I wouldn’t even say Christian. He was closer to the Old Testament faith in some of his interpretations, but he was all over the place, really. The differences can be subtle but very important. Generally I don’t mind that. As long as you have love in your heart for God you are on the right lines. But we didn’t always see eye to eye. I thought he came to me to ask for my guidance but he wouldn’t listen. He just wanted me to reinforce his interpretation. I couldn’t do that. He wouldn’t hear that he might be misinterpreting or misunderstanding. I could show the path, but only he could choose to take it.’
‘And he didn’t.’
‘He stopped coming after a few months. I’d been used to him coming every day. Then he just stopped. There was no falling out, no point when I realised that he might not be coming back. He just didn’t. I don’t know what changed. I thought perhaps he had moved away.’
‘What was he like? As a person, I mean?’
‘You mean, did I think he might be a serial killer of young women?’ John’s tone carried a warning.
‘This isn’t your fault, John — what happened. Serial killers don’t walk around with it stamped on their heads. Henry Roberts is an intelligent and cunning man.’
John’s body language changed again, like he was standing down from his offensive. ‘I know that. We all know that when the devil appears he doesn’t always have a tail and horns.’
‘He might have an angel tattoo and a passion for God, though.’
‘He might.’
‘I think some people are just born that way. They have that in them, the ability to do unspeakable things,’ George said.
‘Born that way goes a little against what I stand for, Inspector. But I appreciate the sentiment.’
‘No offence. The things I’ve seen . . . it makes it difficult for me to think that a God would make a conscious decision to create someone like that. I think I take comfort from thinking that sometimes nature just gets things wrong.’
‘Whatever gives you comfort. The Lord is mysterious, he can send things to test your faith, your resolve. I thought maybe Henry was my test at first. I mean, here was a man who loved God every bit as much as I
do, but he was lost, desperately looking for a way to serve Him best. He was very intense. That’s the best way I can think of to describe him. I remember trying to be careful when I spoke to him. Everything was literal. He could get fixated too, and he wouldn’t accept the lack of a clear answer.’
‘And religion isn’t like that?’
‘It isn’t. It’s a lot of interpretation. Of reading and listening to other people. Henry certainly didn’t want to do that.’
‘Did he have any friends?’
‘Friends? What, at the church? No, he isolated himself very quickly. The congregation here — before Henry, at least — they were, typically, of the older generation. People that might be coming towards the end of their own lives. They find comfort in the Church, in understanding the afterlife. That doesn’t make them zealots or even very knowledgeable about their faith — it’s more about the coffee mornings, bridge clubs, a bit of company and maybe repenting their sins before it’s too late. Henry was frustrated by anyone who didn’t adore God in the way that he did.’
‘So people stayed away from him? Did they fear him?’
‘I think maybe they did. Looking back, certainly. You get a lot of little old ladies popping in for their Sunday sermon. Henry was an imposing man. A big build, a full beard and those dark eyes. Some of the regulars actively avoided him. This was long before anything happened.’
‘But his appearance was what scared people — not his demeanour?’
‘A little bit of both. It was that intensity again. There was no such thing as a casual conversation with Henry.’
‘And what about you? Did he scare you?’
John took a moment. ‘Intimidated. He intimidated me. Sometimes, when I disagreed with him — if I told him his interpretation was wrong — he would make me feel uncomfortable. Scared? Maybe.’
‘Did you ever see him with anyone? Outside of the church?’
‘I didn’t ever see him outside of this setting. I’m a regular in the pub, at the local store and around the village. I never saw him anywhere but here.’
The George Elms Trilogy Box Set Page 56
