‘So maybe you’re wrong about them being a cult at all,’ Beresford suggested. ‘Maybe what you’ve uncovered isn’t the clear evidence you seem to think it is, but just a series of coincidences that—’
‘They didn’t just leave Whitebridge at the same time,’ Crane interrupted, ‘they arrived at the same time. Five years ago, none of these people lived in the town – and then, suddenly, they all did.’
Beresford did still not seem convinced. ‘I wonder if we’re only taking this so seriously because we need to feel we’re doing something positive,’ he said. ‘And I wonder if perhaps it’s not just a waste of our time. DS Higgins has the motorbike rider in custody, and is convinced that he’s our killer.’
‘Yes, Higgins does have the man in custody, but only because he was pointed in that direction by the work Jack did,’ Meadows said, with a hint of indignation. ‘But there are holes in the case he’s trying to build up that you could drive a double-decker bus through.’
‘Like what?’ Beresford asked.
‘Barry Hodges’ fingerprints aren’t on the picnic basket, for a start. Now, if he is the killer, how is that even remotely possible? When he says he sold the bike on Saturday night, can we say for certain that isn’t true? Maybe he just lent the killer the bike for the day, and is now too scared to admit it.’
‘How do you know his fingerprints aren’t on the basket, and that he says he sold the bike?’ asked Beresford, who, until that moment, had believed that DS Higgins was playing his cards very close to his chest.
‘I have my sources,’ Meadows said, enigmatically.
Of course she did, Beresford thought – and no doubt the particular policeman who’d given her this information, had once whipped her, or allowed her to whip him – or whatever else it was these weird people did behind closed doors.
‘All right, we’ll stick with it for a while longer,’ Beresford said. ‘Am I right in assuming that you both have theories revolving around this idea of a cult?’
‘You are,’ Crane agreed.
‘Then let’s hear them.’
‘I’ll go first, because my theory’s shorter and far less complicated,’ Meadows said. ‘Actually, it’s not really my theory at all. It was Mrs Brown who came up with it. She thinks that one of the members of the cult killed Mary Green. I suspect, though she didn’t say in so many words, that she thinks Roger Smith is the murderer.’
‘And why would Roger Smith have killed her?’ Beresford asked.
‘He’d have killed her because she broke one of the cardinal rules of the cult, by having a relationship – every Sunday afternoon – with someone who wasn’t a member.’
‘All right,’ Beresford said, ‘so what’s your theory, Jack?’
‘The killer washed her vagina out with tea, but everyone involved in the investigation seems to want to overlook that,’ Crane said. ‘And why do they want to overlook it?’
‘Because it doesn’t seem to lead anywhere?’ Beresford asked.
‘Because if you accept it as part of a ritual – and what else could it possibly be? – then all these theories about revenge killings and punishment killings completely collapse.’
‘So you think it’s a ritual killing?’
‘Yes.’
‘What kind of ritual killing?’
‘I couldn’t say, exactly, but I’ve been looking at some possibilities. Ritual killings, it seems to me, are often an attempt to come to terms with outside forces, either by neutralizing them or propitiating them.’
‘Stop right there,’ Beresford said, holding up his hand. ‘Don’t say any more until I’ve been away and got myself a degree in anthropology.’
Crane grinned. ‘You’d like me to keep it simple,’ he said.
‘I’d like you to keep it very simple,’ Beresford replied.
‘There’s this tribe in Papua New Guinea who have had very little contact with the outside world,’ Crane said, ‘but once every three years, they send a girl to the copper mines, which are a few miles away from the tribal area. The girl stays at the copper mine for three days, during which time she’ll sleep with any man who wants to sleep with her. It is, most anthropologists think, a ritualized bribe to the copper company to leave them – and their way of life – alone. Anyway, at the end of the three days, she returns to the tribe. Once there, she’s purified with sacred oils – and then she disappears forever.’
‘They kill her,’ Meadows said.
‘That seems more than likely,’ Crane agreed.
‘Mary was still a virgin,’ Beresford pointed out.
Crane suppressed a sigh. Beresford was a bloody good bobby, he thought – probably better than he’d ever be himself – but he did have his limitations.
‘I’m not drawing an exact parallel, sir,’ he said. ‘Papua is a very different country to England – it’s estimated that 55% of the women there have been forced to have sex against their will – but I think that the cult in Whitebridge, whatever it’s based on, may have been enacting some kind of ritual which would lead them, inevitably, to killing Mary.’
‘It’s a push,’ Beresford said.
‘It’s a push that a cult with no apparent purpose should set itself up in Whitebridge at all – but that’s what seems to have happened,’ Crane said. He took a slug of his best bitter. ‘With your permission, sir, I’d like to call in an expert,’ he continued.
‘An expert? On what?’
‘On cults.’
‘I can’t see the chief constable agreeing to pay someone like that,’ Beresford said dubiously.
‘He doesn’t have to,’ Crane replied. ‘George Oppenheimer won’t want paying. He probably won’t even want his expenses covering. He’s an Oxford don, and if I know him as well as I think I do, I’m sure he’ll jump at the chance to examine our evidence.’
‘All right, it can’t do any harm to get in touch with him, can it?’ Beresford asked. He looked down at his watch. ‘We’ll talk to the Greens first thing in the morning, and see if we can get anything new from them,’ he continued. ‘But before we call it a night, there’s one more thing we need to deal with – Louisa was at Mary Green’s funeral with John Green.’
‘Do you mean there as well as John Green, or there with him?’ Meadows asked.
‘Very much with him,’ Beresford said.
‘And you didn’t do anything about it?’ Meadows asked.
‘It’s not an easy thing to do – create a scene at a funeral,’ Beresford said, uncomfortably. ‘Besides, we didn’t know as much about the whole cult thing then as we do now.’
‘You’re going to have to talk to her,’ Meadows said.
‘The thing is,’ Beresford replied, ‘I thought it might sound better if it came from you.’
‘Me!’
‘Yes, you’re a woman, like Monika—’
‘I am not a woman like Monika at all,’ Meadows said angrily. ‘She’s responsible and hard-working. She’s a loving mother. I’m a couldn’t-care-less, thrill-seeking, sado-masochistic aristocrat who—’
‘Did you say “aristocrat” just then?’ Crane asked.
‘Yes, well, when compared to you lot, I’m almost bloody royalty. But you get the point about why I wouldn’t be any good at talking to Louisa.’
‘It has to be you,’ Colin Beresford said. ‘You know it does.’
‘Yes,’ Meadows admitted, with a heavy sigh, ‘it probably does.’
They were sitting on the top deck of a double-decker bus when Louisa felt she must ask the question she’d been bursting to ask.
‘Back in the hospital, you said you saw a change in my mother’s expression,’ she said. ‘Did you really?’
‘Yes,’ John Green said.
And yet he was somehow failing to convince her.
‘Be honest with me,’ she pleaded, ‘did you really see a change in my mum’s expression?’
John looked down at the floor.
‘No, I didn’t,’ he admitted.
‘This is my stop,’ Loui
sa said, getting up and ringing the bell. ‘I’ll see you in school.’
She stood up, and as she climbed down the stairs, she was aware that he was following her.
They both stepped off the platform, and the bus pulled away.
They stood watching it until it turned the corner, then John said, ‘This isn’t really your stop, is it?’
‘So why did you say what you did about seeing my mother move?’ she asked, almost in tears.
‘Because it was what you wanted me to say,’ he told her, ‘and because it gave you hope.’
‘I don’t need false hope,’ Louisa said bitterly.
‘But hope is never false,’ John said. ‘It can never be false. Hope is a precious gift. With hope, we can change so many things – hope is a real power in the world, and with it by our side, we can defeat even the heaviest odds.’ He took her arm. ‘Come on, Louisa, I’ll walk you home.’
They walked in silence until her house was in sight, then Louisa said, ‘In school debates, you always start out by announcing that you’re an atheist – but just then, you sounded almost like a Christian.’
‘I am a Christian,’ John said.
‘Then why did you lie about it?’
‘Because it was necessary – because that was what I had to do.’
‘Who told you that you had to do things that way?’
‘I can’t discuss it,’ John said. ‘You just have to accept that my Christianity is, in many ways, different to yours.’
They had reached Louisa’s front gate.
‘Thank you for coming with me to my sister’s funeral,’ John said. ‘I’ll say goodnight now.’
She was not going to let him get away with that. Before he had time to turn, she put her arms around his neck and pulled his head down to her own level. And then, they were kissing.
John broke away.
‘What’s the matter?’ Louisa asked, utterly bewildered at his reaction. ‘Didn’t you like it?’
‘We shouldn’t have done it,’ he said, avoiding the question.
‘Why not?’ she asked.
‘There’s a danger of me becoming too fond of you,’ he said.
‘I think I am already very fond of you,’ she told him.
‘And as soon as I have permission from the police, I’ll be leaving Whitebridge – and I won’t ever be coming back.’
‘Why?’ she demanded.
He shrugged. ‘Because that’s the way it has to be. I have no right to a life of my own – no right to happiness – I have only duty.’
‘No, you don’t,’ she said, ‘nobody can make you do something you don’t want to do.’
He smiled at her. ‘You see, that’s what you don’t understand,’ he said. ‘The weight is crushing me, but I accept it gladly.’
He turned.
‘Why not come inside?’ she urged him.
‘I’ve told you …’
‘I’m not trying to deter you from your path, I’m just offering you – offering both of us – a little comfort before you go.’
He smiled again, more sadly this time. ‘That would only make it harder,’ he said.
And then he turned, and walked rapidly down the street.
FOURTEEN
Beresford was just unlocking the double deadlock bolt on his front door when he heard the phone start ringing in his living room.
‘Shit!’ he said.
It was more than likely, he thought, that the person calling him was one of that small select band of women who he had entrusted with his private number, and if it was one of them, she was more likely ringing him with a proposition he wouldn’t want to refuse. But if she rang off before he got inside, then he would never know who’d called, and his chances of an evening of horizontal gymnastics – nature’s way of easing away the tensions of the day – would be lost.
One more turn of the key, and the door was unlocked.
The phone was still ringing!
Oh, please, please don’t hang up, he implored the unknown caller.
He dashed down the hallway and into his living room, and grabbed at the phone before it had a chance to fall silent on him.
‘Colin Beresford,’ he said.
‘Get yourself over to the Greens’ house as quick as you can,’ a female voice said.
So he’d been right, it was a woman – but not one of the women he’d been expecting.
‘The Greens?’ he said. ‘Which “Greens” are you talking about?’
‘Don’t piss me about, Shagger,’ the woman said, ‘there simply isn’t time for that. I’m talking about the Greens who live on Balaclava Street – and you bloody well know I am.’
‘Who is this?’ Beresford asked.
‘Just do it!’ the woman said.
‘How do I know this isn’t a crank call?’ Beresford said – although even as he was asking the question, he realized that it was unlikely a crank would have got her hands on his private number.
‘You’ll have to take my word for it being the real thing,’ the woman said, ‘and you’ll be sorry if you don’t.’
‘If something has happened at the Greens’ house, why haven’t I been informed by police headquarters?’ Beresford wondered, still with a little lingering suspicion.
The woman sighed, almost as if she despaired of him.
‘You still don’t get it, do you?’ she asked – almost tauntingly. ‘You haven’t been informed because they’ve decided to cut you out of the loop.’
Behind her, Beresford heard a male voice say, ‘You’re wanted, boss,’ and then the line went dead.
Meadows rang the doorbell, and it was Louisa who answered it.
She looked tired, Meadows thought, very, very tired.
‘Do you mind if I come in?’ she asked.
‘No, I’d like that,’ Louisa told her, smiling weakly.
They went into the cosy lounge.
‘Would you like something to drink?’ Louisa asked.
‘No, I’m fine.’
They sat down, facing each other.
‘Are the twins in bed?’ Meadows asked.
‘Yes.’
‘What about Elena?’
‘I gave her the night off. She’s been under a lot of strain, you know.’
Gave her the night off, Meadows thought, hiding her smile. Louisa was becoming quite the little boss.
‘I hear you went to Mary’s funeral,’ Meadows said.
The atmosphere in the room was suddenly almost chill.
‘What you mean is that Uncle Colin told you I was at Mary’s funeral,’ Louisa said.
‘Yes, I suppose that is what I mean,’ Meadows conceded – and she was thinking, God, I’m hopeless at this sort of thing. ‘Could I ask you why you were there?’ she ploughed on.
‘John asked me if I’d be willing to go with him, and I said I would,’ Louisa answered, tight-lipped and defensive.
‘It might be wise of you to steer a pretty wide berth of him from now on,’ Meadows said.
‘And why is that?’
‘He’s rather closely connected to the investigation.’
‘Well, of course he is, because it was his sister that was killed. I’m rather close to the investigation, too, because my mother’s in hospital, dangerously ill – so we’ve a lot in common, haven’t we?’
‘His connection is slightly more direct than that,’ Kate Meadows said awkwardly.
‘Are you telling me he’s a suspect?’
‘No, of course not – or, at least, no more than anyone on our radar could be a suspect.’
‘So what is the problem?’
‘I can’t tell you that,’ Meadows said.
‘Isn’t that just typical of an adult?’ Louisa asked angrily. ‘They tell you that you shouldn’t do something because it will be bad for you, but they won’t tell you why it will be bad for you? Well, that may work on kids, Kate, but – in case you haven’t noticed – I’m not a kid anymore.’
‘Of course you’re not,’ Meadows agreed, ‘and it’
s not because I think of you as a kid that I can’t tell you more – it’s because you’re a civilian.’
‘I’m a bobby’s daughter,’ Louisa said. ‘I haven’t been a civilian since I learned to walk and talk.’
‘All right,’ Meadows said, ‘maybe I can tell you a little more. We think that John belongs to some sort of cult, and—’
‘He’s a Christian!’ Louisa exploded. ‘I know that for people like you – people who don’t believe in anything very much, thank you – having a faith doesn’t really seem important, but I’m a Christian, too, and it means something to me.’
‘I don’t think he’s your kind of Christian,’ Meadows said.
‘And that’s why you’ve come round here tonight – not to see me, but to warn me off John, because he’s not my kind of Christian? Well, you needn’t have bothered, because I won’t be seeing him again. But I’d hate you to think that’s because you and Uncle Colin disapprove. I’d want to see him whatever you thought – I really would – and the reason we won’t be seeing each other is because he doesn’t think it’s a good idea.’
‘Be very careful who you give yourself to, Louisa,’ Meadows said softly.
‘Give myself to!’ Louisa repeated. ‘What a quaint way you have of expressing yourself.’ Then, the full implications of the words hit her. ‘You think I’m a virgin, don’t you?’ she practically screamed.
‘I know you’re a virgin,’ Meadows said.
‘How could you know that?’
I’ve completely blown it, Meadows thought, and whatever else I say – whatever else I feel compelled to say – will only make matters worse.
‘Well?’ Louisa demanded. ‘How do you know?’
‘Oh, come on, Louisa, it’s obvious.’
‘I think I’d like you to leave my house now,’ Louisa said, her voice now glacier-cold.
‘Yes,’ Meadows agreed, standing up. ‘Yes, I think that would be a good idea.’
There were four patrol cars outside the Greens’ house on Balaclava Street, and their revolving lights intermittently cut through the surrounding darkness with a garish yellow beam.
There were also two ambulances, Beresford noted, as he climbed out of his car.
Two!
What the hell had gone on in there?
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