‘Since he left town, have you kept the same clientele as before? The “little old ladies,” as you called them?’
‘Pretty much, yes. A few more have sought guidance after what Henry did, when it was revealed what he had done under our noses. And, of course, those poor girls . . . their families and friends have become a part of our community — the church community, I mean.’
‘Are you aware of anyone who presents in a similar way to Henry? Anyone with that passion or with a bit of a skewed interpretation?’
‘Where are you going with that question, Inspector? We are not a breeding ground for serial killers up here. This is a small, beautiful village with a small, beautiful community of people living in it — good people. We are trying to get back on our feet.’
‘You’re right. I’m sorry, that was worded badly. Henry Roberts strikes me as an influential sort of person. Do you think he had anyone’s ear? Someone he might have influenced?’
‘Is there something we should know, Inspector? This village has suffered a cancer marring its beautiful landscape. That cancer was found, it was cut out and removed. I can’t even imagine what the reaction might be if there was some suggestion that it hadn’t been removed completely. You need to be very careful in what you are saying.’
‘You’re right. And, John, there’s nothing to it. Just me being overcautious. I’m sure you can understand. I popped in here on my way home anyway. I promise, I shan’t be causing any more trouble!’
‘I appreciate that. Safe trip.’ John stood up. He moved through the church towards the main door.
‘This isn’t the first time you’ve been asked these sorts of questions, is it?’ George mused. The two men stepped out into the warm sunshine.
‘It is not. The police made the religious link early on, long before they knew about Henry. I don’t know how. Maybe they found something at those crime scenes. I took question after question. I opened up my attendance books. I even found myself looking at my congregation differently. It was not a good time for me. My role in this world is not to suspect and certainly not to judge, Inspector. That is for a far higher authority. I’m here to guide and to teach.’
‘And did you get questions about Henry having friends?’
‘I had a lot of questions, Inspector. Think of a question and you can be sure I was asked it.’
‘I’m sure. Well, I’m sorry to have taken up your time. And for dredging up memories of what was clearly an unsettling time. Please, forgive my intrusion.’
‘You’re in luck, Inspector. I am all about forgiveness.’
George was fiddling with his wallet. He held out a ten-pound note. ‘For your collection.’
John held out his hands. ‘There’s no need. I feel like I put you on the spot a little. I can’t expect a man just passing through to have concerns for our little village.’
‘Please, take it. You need all the help you can get if you are trying to hold back the forces of nature.’
John relented. He took the note. ‘I suppose I asked for that!’
Chapter 10
George threw his jacket onto the back seat of the car. His phone was tucked away in the arm rest, his wallet pushed into the glove box. The prison staff would just take it all off him anyway. All that was left on him was his police badge with his driving licence pushed into the back — two forms of ID. George was again parked in the street close to Belmarsh Prison. This time, however, he was against the old, stone walls that made up the perimeter of the huge site.
The traffic was busy. Normal people going about their normal lives in the warm sunshine of early spring. Some would be at work, some on their day off perhaps — all of them would be building towards their future. Planning their summer holiday or their next birthday, maybe booking time off for Christmas or even a career change. Step the other side of the four-foot wide, stone walls, push into the deepest confines of that solid building and you had men who could contemplate nothing more than the walls themselves and the rotation of the evening menu.
George knew a little bit about life inside. He had spent some time as an inmate at a remand prison, and not too far from where he was standing now. He knew what it was like to be frozen still, while everyone else got on with their lives around you. You couldn’t see it — or not much of it through the tiny, square windows distorted by wire — but you could feel it. George had been in that position but with the hope that one day he would walk free. He couldn’t begin to imagine what it was like for the men who had nothing. No hope of freedom. No chance. And yet he wished more than anything that he could walk into the confines of that prison and condemn Henry Roberts to stay there for the rest of his life. No chance. No hope.
But his message today was different. The Major wasn’t long off the phone and the decision he’d reported came as no surprise to George, though it hadn’t stopped him beating his steering wheel in frustration as he queued to come off the M25 to head towards central London. He’d calmed down enough to agree to meet with Henry Roberts. There was some paperwork for him and his solicitor to sign that needed witnessing by a representative from the Home Office. George Elms would be acting as that representative.
The twelfth security door seemed somehow heavier than before as he was led along the same corridor. It was the same atmosphere: dust and heat charged with frustration. He made it to the same room with the same magazine. Only this time he had some company.
The solicitor stood up as George entered. He wore black trousers pulled too high by braces so that the hems were a good inch from the top of his heavily polished shoes. He was a tall man; lean, with glasses and thinning hair that had been swept over to cover a bald spot. His white shirt was spotted with sweat. He had dark features. His sleeves were rolled up. The dark hair on his arms was slick against his skin. He offered his hand. George took it up; the man’s grip was limp and his palm sodden.
‘I say, I reckon they should turn the heating up in this place!’ He snorted laughter. He rubbed his hand against his trousers and sat back down. ‘You must be Inspector Elms?’ The man looked down to read the name off some paperwork that was laid out on the table.
‘That’s right.’
‘Excellent. I’m Alan Smythe, of Smythe, Smythe and Alexander, solicitors of law. From just up the road there.’
‘You got the short straw then?’
‘The short straw?’
‘Smythe and Alexander had better excuses, did they?’
‘Oh! Oh, I see. Yes, indeed they did. My father started the business — he’s long dead now, of course, and Alexander was his partner. Alzheimer’s for him, I’m afraid, so very much the silent partner. I guess it is just me left from the title.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be flippant.’
Alan waved him away. ‘Don’t mention it. He gave me a good start in this world but we were never close. Now, the matter in hand here today should be a very simple one. It would seem that we have presented a case that has been accepted unequivocally. The details are all in this document, do you need time to read through it or . . .?’ Smythe was sweating profusely: it ran down his forehead, was smeared on his glasses and his shirt was sticking to him. George wasn’t comfortable either.
‘I don’t think so. What do you need from me?’
‘Well, nothing, actually. You simply need to be present when Mr Roberts signs the document. You’re not here to agree or otherwise with its content, just verify that you were here. A bit of a waste of your time, really.’
‘You’re the first person to show any concern about that.’
‘I’m sure. Right then . . .’ Smythe moved away. George watched him. He spoke to the guard. He was careful to put his back to George, his voice lowered, his arms by his side so he gave nothing away in his body language. Solicitors were all the same. Whether they meant to or not, they always played matters close to their chest. He sat back down. ‘He should be just a moment.’
George took a seat too. He couldn’t help but notice that the solicit
or was sipping from a cup of tea. There was no time to make a point. Roberts stooped through the door, then stopped still.
‘Inspector! I told you I would see you soon, right?’
‘You said just that Henry.’ George bit down. He just needed to watch him sign. Then he was out.
‘You can’t fight the will of God.’ The intensity in Roberts’s eyes remained. He stared down at George. He was sweatier still. He still wore a prison-issue tracksuit — top and bottom. The backs of his hands were shiny under the lights. He was pale and clammy. He sat down in front of George.
‘Not long now, Henry. Let’s hope you make it all the way down there. You’re not looking so well.’
Henry coughed. It cut through his smile. The room waited for him to recover. ‘Don’t you worry about me. The Lord has a plan for me and it isn’t dying here. I will make it, and then when the time is right I’ll take up my place by His side.’
‘How are they treating you, Mr Roberts?’ Smythe cut in. He took a seat next to his client. George couldn’t imagine how much he was being paid to represent this man. George couldn’t conceive of any amount that would be enough for him.
‘They’ve been just fine. But this place, it’s not for me. When are we moving? Will it happen straight away?’
‘Not straight away, Mr Roberts. There are some logistics to be worked out. We need to be sure it all goes smoothly. Just a few days.’
‘Ah, yeah.’ George saw an opportunity he couldn’t resist. ‘The logistics. See they’ve put me in charge of the move. So there are a few things I need to get done before I can move you. But rest assured, I mean, I will be working day and night to get it done. Well not night. Not tonight at least. I’ve got a thing, see. And I’m on a rest-day tomorrow. Then Thursday I’m in meetings. But, I will be straight on it. When I can.’
Roberts’s stance was the same as the first time they had met. Sat at the table, his back straight, his hands out in front of him. They were held together by the solid steel of the handcuffs. He leant forward. His hands pushed forward as did the man himself, screwing up the paper document. Smythe tried to reach in, to pull the paper out of the way. Roberts locked eyes with George. Neither man would break contact.
‘This decision has been made far above you, Inspector, and you will be expected to deliver what they agreed immediately. This is the Lord’s will and you, like them, are powerless to stop it. Now . . . make sure you are watching closely.’
He backed away a little and smoothed down the paper. He picked up the pen that Smythe was holding out. He needed to put both hands down on the paper to write. His signature was huge, the letters finishing with a flourish. He underlined it firmly and stood back up almost immediately.
‘Now this is your moment. God is forgiving. Surrender to his will.’ He turned and stooped to walk back out of the door.
‘Will do, Henry!’ George called after him. ‘I’ll be back in touch real soon. Don’t you die in the meantime, okay?’
* * *
George turned the radio station off the second he got back into the car. He drove hard and fast and in dead silence. His phone ringing dragged him out of a sort of trance. He moved to answer it and he realised that he was covered in sweat. His heater was still showing as ‘on.’ He flicked it to ‘cold’ and pressed the screen.
‘George Elms.’
‘George . . . Emma Rowe.’ Her voice was loud through the speakers. He turned her down a little. She sounded stressed.
‘Emma, are you okay?’
‘Did you speak to the vicar?’
‘The vicar?’ George’s mind was still back in the high-security wing.
‘The vicar. Symonds Yat. Our vicar down at St—’
‘Oh, yes. Beautiful place. I dropped in.’
‘You dropped in because it was beautiful, did you?’
George felt himself squirm. ‘Well, no, actually. I mean, obviously you know I was up there to get a good picture. I thought that the church was a good place to finish.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘Tell him?’
‘John Lawrence. We talked a lot during the original investigation, and not always in a good way. He wasn’t happy with the police involvement at his church.’
‘Okay.’
‘So, what did you tell him?’
‘I didn’t really tell him anything. I was there to ask him questions.’
‘Did you ask him if we had any more? If there were any more serial killers attending his church?’
‘Don’t be ridic—’
‘Because that’s the impression you left him with. I’m not sure what Langthorne is like as a place, George, but this is a very small community. Everyone here knows everyone else. You cannot go round shooting your mouth off. Did you mention that there might be a copycat? About the girl that has gone missing?’
‘No! Of course not! I just asked him if Henry had any friends. It was a generic question.’
‘Well, he saw right through it. We have to keep a lid on this. We cannot have any suggestion that there may be more problems in our area. Do you understand?’
‘Look, I understand. And anyway I am out. I am very nearly home. I just thought I would pop in and ask the question. I saw the look in your eye when that Andy South fella went over your missing person. It was a relevant line of enquiry. I’m still a detective, so I asked it. I also asked the prison to provide me with any letters that might have been sent to Roberts and any visitors that have been there. Unfortunately Roberts’s legal team have been all over them so they couldn’t give it to me there and then. They need the right form apparently. I will be scanning that up later today and I should have it by return. Do you want me to forward anything on to you or not? Seeing as how we are both detectives.’
The line was quiet. George suspected Emma was taking her time to think, to compose her answer. He hoped she wasn’t letting her anger build. She came back calmer and quieter.
‘The mountain biker. In her first account, before we interviewed her on tape . . . she mentioned someone else.’
‘Someone else?’
‘When she was attacked. She was dragged a fair way towards a van. She can’t be sure, but she thought the van backed up a tiny bit when they got close. She thinks she might have seen movement at the driver’s side. We pushed her on this and she was never sure.’
‘So Roberts might have been working with a getaway driver?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘And you think he might have given himself a promotion in Roberts’s absence?’
‘I daren’t even consider it right now, George. But we cannot rule it out. When you get those letters and the names of who’s been visiting him, I do want to know. As a matter of urgency.’
‘That’s fine. I’ll call you straight away.’
‘Fine. And you don’t breathe a word, okay? Lord knows why I’m telling you this.’
‘Not a word. And the Lord moves in mysterious ways, Emma. Your vicar told me that.’
‘Sounds like a cop-out to me.’
‘To me, too. And I’ll stay the hell out of your village, okay? I don’t want to be upsetting people.’
‘If they get wind of more women disappearing, George, there won’t be anyone left to upset.’
Chapter 11
George pulled into the area of hard-standing at the rear of a large, white building. It looked freshly painted. He could see Whittaker hurriedly ending a call on his phone. George was surprised by the building. The façade was older than he had expected — of a 1950s vintage, perhaps — and its look overall was that of numerous care homes in the area. For some reason, George had conjured the image of a new build. He was way off the mark. The drive led up the side of the house. George could see large windows to the side and the rear. He guessed they would be just as big at the front where they would look out to sea. They weren’t actually in Langthorne anymore. The town was some way below them. This was the village of Capel-le-Ferne, whose chalky, raking coastline formed part of
the celebrated white cliffs of Dover. Capel was also home to a Battle of Britain memorial; with such a commanding view of the Channel and the French coast it would have seen some spectacular action during the Second World War. George knew the area well. All the houses that tentatively looked over the cliff edge were large and detached. Most of the occupants were retired and affluent. The house he had parked outside was the first in the row and on the Langthorne side of the village. Here, he was over a hundred metres above the sea and the views were uninterrupted. The gardens finished with a low fence and a sharp drop. Access from the road to the row of houses was gated off — private to the occupants.
‘Very nice,’ George said. Whittaker assumed his usual stance: hands behind his straightened back, his chest out. A sea breeze toyed with his tie.
‘I know. It’s bloody shit all this, George. Absolutely bloody shit.’
‘It is at that, Major.’
‘So, I figured it made sense that we have a chat here. This is Roberts’s property — at least, it is for the next few weeks. Or shorter with any luck. I wanted to show you around before he takes up residency. I will warn you, though . . . we have colleagues here from the prison service. They are ultimately responsible for everything that occurs once you walk through that front door. I am aware of that fact because they’ve made a point of telling me three of four times already.’
‘Are they not being accommodating?’
‘Accommodating, yes. Will they appreciate any advice or feedback regarding security or layout? I can say definitely not.’
‘I see.’
‘They are the experts, apparently.’
‘I’m quite happy for them to play expert. I told you, Major, I don’t want anything to do with this. When it all goes wrong, when the media and the families find out, I want to be able to back away with a finger pointed at other people.’
‘I’d like to do the same, George. My concern is that there will be more fingers pointed towards me than away.’
They walked to the large front door. ‘But you oppose this, too. I assume you made it clear in your meeting?’
The George Elms Trilogy Box Set Page 57
