by Robert Gott
‘Homicide would have been over it with a fine-toothed comb.’
‘Different eyes. Different comb. And we know a bit more now, so there just might be something, the significance of which was missed.’
Joe almost said something about whether his policeman’s brain was up to it, but knew that self-pity was an unattractive emotion and that Helen would have little patience with it.
FISHER’S FARM WAS already beginning to have an abandoned air about it. The overcast skies and persistent drizzle didn’t help. It had only been a couple of weeks, and the horrors perpetrated here had kept vandals at bay, so no damage had been done. Nevertheless, there was something palpably desolate about it, and as Joe walked around the house, he thought he wouldn’t like to spend the night here. Not that he believed in ghosts, but places where cruelty had been inflicted and suffered retained their power to unsettle. How, he wondered, could anyone live comfortably, when the war was over, in the shadow of those places whose names he’d seen in the newspapers — Treblinka, Auschwitz, Dachau? He stood near the place where Fisher had blown himself up.
‘We are truly dreadful,’ he said out loud. The walls of the outhouse had been knocked down by the blast, and the drop toilet was alive with the hectic hum of flies. Joe moved away, not wanting one of those creatures, carrying some tiny, ghastly morsel from the excrement, to land on him.
He climbed the stairs to the veranda, and stood where Emilio Barbero’s body had hung.
He could see across the paddock to the neighbouring orchard where Zachary Wilson and his wife lived. The front door of the house was locked. The back door was open, and Joe entered. He waited in the kitchen, and listened. The house was silent. He didn’t know why, but he felt compelled to make as little noise as possible, as if a sudden sound might rouse something hideous. Perhaps he was more susceptible to superstition than he’d thought he was. He moved through various rooms, opened drawers and cabinets, and looked under furniture and behind gewgaws. If Fisher was God, God had execrable taste in knick-knacks. There were no pictures on the walls, and no religious ornaments. Had someone stripped the house of such objects, or had Fisher imposed on the family a severe, Baptist-like abhorrence of representation?
He left the bedroom until last. Its door was closed. With reluctance, Joe turned the doorknob and opened the door. The smell was awful, even so many days after the murders. He put his handkerchief to his nose and entered. There was a woman lying on the filthy sheets, her head on a pillow that was brown with Deborah Fisher’s dried blood. The woman was on her back, her hands by her side, her eyes closed. Joe’s heart lurched, but didn’t lose its rhythm. Was she dead? Joe moved closer. She was breathing. Joe recognised the tunic. He’d seen it being worn at Prescott’s farm. Why was this woman here? How could she bear to be in contact with the awful evidence of Deborah Fisher’s murder? And the smell — how could she tolerate the smell?
Joe was uncertain what to do. The decision was made for him when the woman opened her eyes. She sat bolt upright and screamed, ‘You’re dead! You’re dead! Monster!’
Joe held out his hands in a placatory gesture.
‘It’s all right. It’s all right. You’re quite safe. I’m not here to hurt you.’
At the sound of his voice, the woman calmed down. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, but didn’t stand up.
‘I thought you were him. Who are you? What are you doing here? Are you like that woman, poking around?’
‘What woman?’
‘There was a woman. I pushed her over.’
‘My name is Joe Sable. The woman’s name is Helen Lord. I haven’t come here to do anyone any harm.’
‘You’re doing harm just by being here in this room. This is a holy place.’
‘Holy? A terrible thing happened here.’
The woman lay back down on the bed, and again settled her head on the foul pillow.
‘That pillow isn’t clean.’
‘It’s my sister’s blood, and my sister’s blood is sacred.’
‘Deborah Fisher …’
‘Her name was Truth.’
She closed her eyes. ‘I’ve seen you before,’ she said. ‘You came to the Master’s house with a friend.’
‘Guy Kirkham, yes.’
‘Absalom.’
‘I’m going to visit him.’
‘He isn’t there. He left last night.’
‘He left? How?’
‘The Master didn’t say. He just said that Absalom wasn’t a believer and that he left in the night.’
Joe’s heart began to race. He tried to keep his anxiety out of his voice.
‘I’m going there now. I have a car. Would you like a lift?’
The woman sat up.
‘My prayers are done. Yes, I would. Thank you.’
She didn’t offer her name. She simply passed by Joe and walked to the front door. As they emerged onto the porch, a car pulled up and parked next to Joe’s car. Inspector Lambert and Constable Forbes got out. Joe couldn’t read the expression on Titus’s face. Was he annoyed to find him here? So focused was he on Lambert that Alexander Forbes barely registered with Joe. He was a uniformed constable, that was all. The woman moved closer to Joe, as if he might suddenly be an ally against these two strangers.
‘These are policemen,’ Joe said. ‘You don’t need to be afraid.’
‘I’m not afraid. I’m not a child.’
She said this quietly so that only Joe heard, and there was a fierceness in her tone that reminded him that he’d yet again made assumptions that were lazy. Helen would never be guilty of making such assumptions. Would his capacity to read people ever improve?
The two policemen came up onto the veranda. Justice stepped back, away from them. She’d lived long enough with Anthony Prescott to have acquired his suspicion of and distaste for all policemen. They meant trouble. They liked to poke around where they weren’t wanted and where they had no business being.
Before Titus could speak, Justice retreated into the house. He didn’t follow her. He’d speak to her after he’d spoken to Joe.
‘Joe, I’m glad you’re here. This is Constable Forbes. He’s helping with the investigation. I thought he needed to get the feel of this place.’
Alexander Forbes held out his hand, and Joe shook it.
‘Joe Sable.’
‘Inspector Lambert has mentioned you. It’s good to put a face to the name.’
Joe couldn’t see why Clara had been so immediately impressed with this young man. He was confident, without being brash, and Joe supposed that that might be an attractive quality. An unwelcome twinge of jealousy passed through Joe. He’d experienced this recently when Guy had declared an interest in Clara Dawson. He hated feeling like a schoolboy with a crush, and after his last encounter with Clara he felt less able than ever to approach her. It wasn’t Alexander Forbes’ fault that he’d caught Clara’s eye in a way that Joe had failed to do, but this produced in Joe a reluctance to like him.
‘Who is the young woman?’ Titus asked.
‘I don’t know her name. She was here when I arrived, lying on the bed — the filthy bed. It was all a bit weird. She’s Mrs Fisher’s sister, and lives on Prescott’s property. I need to get out there. She said Guy left last night, which can’t be true. How could he have left?’
The alarm on Titus’s face was apparent, which made Joe more concerned.
‘I need to talk to her,’ Titus said, and he hurried into the house. He was back on the porch almost immediately.
‘She’s gone. She’s headed off across the paddocks, presumably back to Prescott’s place, although that’s quite a way from here.’
‘It’s about three miles.’
‘It’s time Mr Prescott had another visit from the police. We’ll have a quick look around here, and then go to see him.’
Joe was anxious to ge
t going, and suggested that he go on ahead. Titus thought for a moment.
‘This is awkward, actually, Joe. You can’t come with us on police business.’
‘That woman is going to mention that we were all here together. I told her my name, and Prescott knows who I am.’
‘All the more reason for you not being part of an official visit. What you do after we leave is up to you.’ Titus paused. ‘Just give us a few minutes here. We’ll follow you.’
Joe waited in his car while Titus and Constable Forbes quickly explored the house. When they came out, he said, ‘I’ll park my car where it can’t be seen and wait for you to leave before driving up to see Prescott. He’ll be surprised to see you. I don’t think he’ll be surprised to see me.’
Alexander Forbes took his helmet off and ran his fingers through his hair.
‘Prescott was interviewed by a constable the day after the murders. There was nothing in his report about Mrs Fisher being related to anyone on his farm. At least, I don’t think there was.’
‘There wasn’t,’ Titus said. ‘It was quick interview, a part of doorknocking in the area. A wide area admittedly, but we interviewed everyone within a five-mile radius. It is interesting that Mr Prescott failed to mention such a pertinent fact. Let’s go and ask him why.’
Joe pulled over into the spot where he knew his car wouldn’t be seen, and allowed Constable Forbes to drive past him. At the gate, Titus got out and opened it, and Joe watched as the car headed up to the house. No one came out to meet the visitors. Titus knocked on the door, and when no one answered it, Joe saw the two policemen walk around to the back of the house. Joe ought to have stayed where he was, but his impatience was too great. There seemed to be nobody about, so he began walking towards the house. His approach went unnoticed. The woman he’d met at Fisher’s place couldn’t have made it back yet, but where was the other woman?
Keeping close to the side of the house, Joe made his way towards the back. He stopped when he saw Titus and Alexander talking to three men. They were some distance away. Prescott was leaning on a shovel. The other two, one of whom was the old man, held pruning shears. They were each wearing tunics and were bare-legged. To Joe’s left, there was a bungalow. To reach it, he would need to cross open ground. There was a risk he’d be seen if one of the men glanced this way, but they were each turned slightly away, and seemed to be focused on Titus and Alexander.
Joe crossed to the bungalow. There were two rooms. Joe checked each quickly. Neither door was locked. The second of the rooms was unoccupied. The two bunks had been stripped of their bedding. The first room smelled of human occupation — stale sweat and dirty socks. Both bunks were made up. Between the bunks was a wardrobe. Joe opened it. It was divided into two sections marked by a block in the middle of the hanging rail. There were clothes on either side. Joe recognised Guy’s shirt and coat. The neatly folded trousers were also Guy’s. He checked inside the hat that sat on the trousers. ‘Guy Kirkham’ was written on the band. The previous night had been cold and wet. If Guy had left, what on earth had he been wearing?
Joe left the small room. There was now no sign of the five men, and Joe assumed they’d gone into the main house. He returned to his car to wait for Titus and Alexander to leave. He’d then drive up to the front door and confront Prescott.
WHEN NO ONE answered his knock, Inspector Lambert was tempted to try the doorknob and let himself in. With no reason to enter private property, however, he decided against this. Instead, he and Constable Forbes walked around to the back of the house. There were three men working among pear trees, and the two policemen began walking towards them. One of the men noticed them and called to the other two, who looked up and moved to join him, so that by the time Titus and Alexander had reached them they stood side by side. They each wore tunics of rough, sturdy material. Two of them, the youngest and the oldest, held pruning shears, and the third, whom Titus took to be Anthony Prescott, held a shovel.
‘We knocked,’ Titus said. ‘There was no answer.’
‘And who is “we”?’ Prescott asked.
‘Inspector Titus Lambert, Homicide, and this is Constable Forbes. We’re investigating the deaths at Peter Fisher’s farm. You are Mr Anthony Prescott?’
‘So some people call me. A policeman has already been here to ask questions.’
Prescott’s tone was perfectly pleasant. He didn’t demand to see any identification.
‘Let’s go inside and complete the introductions there. You’ve come a long way from the city. I’m sure you’d like a cup of tea.’
As he said this, he saw a figure cross the space between the house and the bungalow. He gave no indication that he’d seen this, but politely ushered Titus and Alexander towards the house.
In the well-furnished front room, Anthony Prescott introduced his companions to Abraham and Nepheg. Titus asked if these were their real names.
‘While they live here, this is who they are.’
‘I’ll need their real names.’
‘Abraham is my real name,’ said the old man. Before I was Abraham I had a name that meant nothing.’
‘I was no one before I was Nepheg.’
‘Make these gentlemen a cup of tea,’ said Prescott.
Titus waved away the offer. He was exasperated by the nonsense about the names, and his exasperation increased when Prescott said, ‘Outside this place there are people who might want to call me Anthony Prescott. Here, in this place, I am David. As guests in my house, I would ask you to call me David.’
‘I don’t care if you choose to call yourself King Kong, Mr Prescott, but please don’t expect me to play along.’
This didn’t get a rise out of Prescott. Alexander Forbes noticed that the old man bridled at Inspector Lambert’s frankness. It was a slight movement in the muscles of his face, but it was definitely there.
‘Why are you here, Inspector?’
‘I want to know why, Mr Prescott, you didn’t mention to the officer who spoke to you that the murdered woman was the sister of a woman who lives here with you.’
Forbes was watching Prescott’s face closely when Titus asked this question. The man’s discipline was remarkable, but there was a narrowing of the eyes and a tiny shift in the nostrils that hinted at the unexpectedness of the question.
‘I told your policeman that I knew Mr Fisher, as a neighbour, and that Mrs Fisher was known to me. There’s no mystery, Inspector. The woman you’re referring to, the woman who lives here, is indeed Mrs Fisher’s sister. Given that there is no connection between this fact and the ghastly murder, I saw no reason to mention it. Justice’s grief is profound. The last thing she needed was to be interrogated by some clumsy, inexperienced constable. Or are you suggesting that Justice had something to do with their deaths? Because if you are, I can assure you that at the time these murders took place, all five of the people who live here were on the property. We can vouch for each other on that point.’
‘What was the nature of your relationship with Mr Fisher?’
‘He was a neighbour.’
Titus deliberately let his annoyance show.
‘Do you imagine, Mr Prescott, that we are such dullards that we don’t know about this …’ He paused, and chose a word he knew would irritate Prescott. ‘… establishment? We know all about the Church of the First Born, and about Peter Fisher’s absurd claims to have been the Messiah.’
‘With the greatest respect, Inspector, you know nothing about the Church of the First Born.’
‘You are, I believe, its current Messiah.’
The contempt in Titus’s voice caused the old man to clench his fists. Forbes saw this, and saw, too, that the young man’s face flushed pink. Prescott, however, was unfazed.
‘I am as you find me. Nothing more and nothing less. Your conscience and your beliefs are your affair, Inspector. I don’t presume to judge them. You might apply that c
ourtesy to this place and the people who choose to live here.’
‘I’m not interested in your religious beliefs, or anyone else’s for that matter. I am interested in the deaths of four people just a few miles from your doorstep.’
‘No one here can help you. As I said, we were all here and accounted for at the time of the tragedy.’
No one had sat down during this discussion. Constable Forbes knew that Inspector Lambert was in control of his emotions, despite his apparent shortness with Prescott. He’d made no mention of Guy. Given that Joe Sable was about to pay these people a visit, this made sense. He didn’t want Prescott to know that there was any connection between him and Joe. That connection would be established when the young woman arrived, but Alexander figured it would take her at least another half an hour to cover the distance on foot. Inspector Lambert needed to give Joe this time to question Prescott. He was relieved when Titus indicated that he had no further questions for the moment. Prescott was gracious as he accompanied Titus and Alexander to the veranda.
As they drove down towards the gate, Titus said that he’d wait until Joe had finished with Prescott, and that he’d return to the house and question Abraham and Nepheg separately, and the two women.
‘The other woman must have been somewhere on the property, and the one we met should be back soon. Give me your impressions, Constable.’
‘Prescott is a smart man. The old bloke, Abraham, he didn’t take his eyes off you, and he wasn’t looking at you with affection.’
‘And the young man?’
‘He looked mostly at Prescott, with what I’d describe as an uncritical gaze. He didn’t strike me as being very intelligent.’
‘And Prescott, apart from being smart.’
‘You have to admire his composure, but it’s self-control, not some beautiful state of grace. He’s a shyster, a sideshow huckster.’
