Evil Never Dies

by S M Hardy

  ‘Help me! Someone please help me!’

  I took a few more paces still keeping my distance from the edge of the pool. Then I heard voices coming from outside in the courtyard and the rapid thud of running feet. She huddled down even smaller, her hands covering her mouth as if to stifle a scream.

  The door from the courtyard opened, but it didn’t, not really. I was seeing something that had happened a long time ago. A shade of the door opened and two shadowy figures rushed inside: two men.

  ‘Come out, come out, wherever you are.’

  Dressed in black trousers and white shirts, with bow ties hanging loose around their necks, they spread out along the poolside still calling out, their voices thick and slurred from where they had been partying hard.

  ‘Come out now, you little prick tease.’

  I went to move towards them, but I couldn’t, I was frozen in time and there was nothing I could do to stop the drama being played out before me.

  ‘She’s here somewhere,’ the slightly bulkier of the two said as he paced towards me and away from the girl. The other man stood very still, his head tilted slightly back as though he was sniffing the air.

  I couldn’t make out their faces. The men were more translucent than the young woman and most of the time hardly there at all, like I was looking at a movie being projected into thin air with the poolroom forming its backdrop.

  ‘Over there,’ the second man said, pointing towards the girl.

  She jumped to her feet and tried to run, but they had outflanked her; the first, bulkier man running straight through me to go around the pool, while the other went towards her from the opposite direction. He got there first, grabbing her by the waist and swinging her around to face him.

  She beat against his chest with her fists, crying, ‘Let me go, let me go,’ as she struggled to free herself. She landed a blow to his face, his head snapping backwards. ‘You little bitch,’ he said, but he was laughing, enjoying himself.

  I fought against the paralysis gripping me; it was no good, I was a mere spectator. I couldn’t do a thing to help her – then I had to remind myself this wasn’t happening now – it had already happened.

  The first man, seeing the woman held captive, stopped running and strolled along the poolside to join them. He took hold of her forearms from behind. ‘I’ll teach you a thing or two,’ he snarled into her ear. He, too, was enjoying himself in his own sick way.

  ‘Aren’t you going to wish me a happy birthday?’ the second man said, still laughing as he backhanded her across the face. She cried out and would have fallen had it not been for the other man holding her so tightly. Laughing Boy balled his fist.

  ‘No,’ the first man said, pulling her back and away from his mate. ‘Don’t mark her face.’

  ‘Of course not, that would never do,’ he replied and he punched her in the solar plexus and she buckled with a loud groan.

  ‘Edward! For fuck’s sake!’

  Edward? But how could this be? How long ago did Simon say the pool was put in? Certainly after Edward was supposed to have died, and yet here he was attending a birthday party in his honour. Ms Barnard did say Oliver used to bring Edward home for the occasional weekend, but this? I was beginning to wonder whether Edward was the only monster in the family.

  ‘Time for fun and games, poppet,’ Edward said. ‘I know, let’s play “how long can Suzie hold her breath?”.’ He jerked his head towards the pool.

  She, Suzie, started to struggle again, but this time she realised she was fighting for her life. ‘Please don’t do this. Please.’

  They dragged her to the edge of the pool and the first man forced her to her knees while Edward dropped down beside her. He grabbed her by the hair and wrenched her head back.

  His face appeared clearer now, even in the dark. His expression was placid and his smile was at odds with his actions, it was kind and gentle.

  He stuck out his tongue and traced the tip down the side of her cheek. ‘So sweet,’ he murmured. ‘Like honey.’ Then he shoved her forward so it was only his hand entwined in her hair stopping her from falling right in. ‘Start counting, Suzie,’ and he pushed her head down and under the pool’s surface. The other man dropped down onto his knees beside him. ‘Are you keeping count?’ Edward asked.

  The man laughed. ‘One, two, three …’

  Suzie began to thrash her arms and then reached back behind her head grabbing at Edward’s hands trying to pull them from her hair. He responded by pushing her head even further down so she was beneath the water almost to her chest.

  ‘Thirty-one, thirty-two …’

  Edward shuffled closer to her body and lifted a leg over her so he was sitting astride her back. ‘Shall I give her a little breather?’

  ‘One breath.’

  Edward yanked on her head and she exploded upwards coughing and spluttering. Before she could catch her breath he plunged her head back in. She struggled and thrashed and fought, but this time there was to be no relief.

  ‘What do you think?’ Edward asked.

  ‘I’m bored now, do whatever you like.’

  Edward grinned. ‘All righty,’ he said and, shifting forward so he was almost lying on her, put his other hand upon her head and pushed the whole top half of her body beneath the surface. Her thrashing and struggling slowed … and faltered … and stopped and he still didn’t let her go, until he lifted himself off her and, with a shove, launched her into the pool. She submerged for a second or two and bobbed to the top face down.

  The first man didn’t even look at her. ‘Come on, Ed. Let’s get back to the party before anyone misses us. After all, you are the birthday boy.’

  And then they were gone and very slowly the body of Suzie faded and disappeared, leaving me grieving for a woman I didn’t know and who had so very nearly helped take my darling Emma from me.

  I went back to bed, but I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t push the brutality of Edward and the other nameless man out of my head. Every time I closed my eyes they were there.

  I lay on my back staring at the ceiling, wondering about the other man, wondering about Suzie. Who were they? There must be some way of finding out. Emma had one of those tablet thingies and was always going onto some site or other to find answers to any questions we might have. This is where I thought we might find out about the history of the house. Perhaps she could check out Suzie. Surely there would be a record of a drowning occurring at Kingsmead.

  I rolled onto my side, pulled the duvet under my chin and closed my eyes. Almost immediately I was back in the poolroom watching a replay of Suzie’s murder like an old-fashioned movie. It was no good. I slipped out of bed, shrugged on the dressing gown, which was getting more use than I could have possibly imagined, and crept out of the bedroom and along the corridor to Edward’s old room. If I couldn’t sleep, I might as well do something useful.

  Last time Emma and I had searched the room we had more or less given up when we’d found the hidden drawer. We assumed we had found what the mystery assailant was looking for. We probably had, but what if we hadn’t? It was becoming more that apparent Kingsmead and the Pomeroy family had more secrets than most, so, while I had nothing better to do, I might as well see if I could find anything else worth mentioning.

  Mrs Walters had tidied the room, but only in as much as she had piled the clothing neatly upon the bed and replaced the books on the shelves. I supposed at some point all the clothing would be packed off to some charity or another. I doubted Laura would be inclined to keep any of it.

  I wasn’t sure what I expected to find. Emma had flicked through all the books looking for hidden papers or inscriptions. I wandered over to the bookshelves. Most of the books were old and bound in cracked black leather. I ran my fingers along their spines, hoping for a psychic nudge if there was anything worth looking at, but there was nothing. I wouldn’t waste my time on them. If there had been something to find I’m sure Emma would have found it.

  Dispirited, I stood in the middle of the
room and turned slowly around, my eyes scanning the walls, the furniture, the paintings, the—The paintings. Picture frames and the backs of paintings and photographs were always good places to hide documents or other small items. Precious coins or bonds, for instance. There were several paintings hanging on the walls in this room as well as some small picture frames containing photographs on the mantelpiece and chest of drawers.

  I started with the large paintings first. They were bulky and unlikely to be disturbed by a maid while the room was being cleaned, and no one would think to look behind them unless they were searching for a secret hiding place.

  Clearing a space on the bed I lifted the first painting from the wall and laid it face down. I was no expert on fine art, but the backing looked original as did all the fixings. I returned it to where it had come from and did the same thing with the next one. Again I found nothing and it was becoming increasingly likely that there was nothing else for me to find. Wasn’t a drawer full of photographs and an inverted crucifix enough?

  I moved on to the framed pictures. The majority were fairly old. There were several family portraits of serious-looking, moustached men in suits standing behind seated, sour-faced women wearing high-collared dresses and strings of pearls or black ribbon chokers. These came out of the frames quite easily and, apart from inscriptions of the dates the photographs were taken and sometimes who the sitters were, there was very little of interest to be found.

  The more recent pictures were mainly in contemporary frames of polished, lacquered wood and here I did find a most interesting photograph, at least to me. It was of a very young Simon and his two older siblings. I recognised Oliver straight away as the man I’d met on several occasions while I’d been on leave. The third of the three brothers I also recognised despite never having met him. In the photo he was smiling, the same gentle smile I’d seen earlier: the monster – Edward Pomeroy.

  I sat down on the bed to study the photograph. In the picture Simon could have only been about seven or eight and Oliver and Edward were little more than callow youths. I couldn’t help but wonder whether Edward was already winding his way into insanity or was this before the trauma that had set him on his downward spiral into madness? Alice Barnard had intimated something had happened to him as a teenager and the smile was enough to make me think that when this picture was taken he was already not quite right.

  I flipped the picture over and unclipped the backing piece of wood, flicking it out with my fingernail. I froze, chills running through me and raising goosebumps upon my arms. There was a second picture. Another picture of the three brothers. Simon looked about sixteen or seventeen – so it had possibly been taken only months before Edward’s ‘death’. I took a quick look at its reverse. Scrawled in blue ink across the back were the initials and figures WN 1981. I took it as 1981 being the year; I didn’t know what the WN meant. Simon would have been sixteen.

  I sank down onto the bed. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit! What the fuck had Simon been playing at? He had clearly known about the cult; all three men were dressed in black robes. Edward and Oliver were wearing their chains of office: jet beads linked by silver from which silver inverted crucifixes hung. Simon was holding his up, his smile triumphant. If I wasn’t much mistaken, he was celebrating his investiture into the fold.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I don’t know how long I sat there staring at the photograph of the three Pomeroy boys. My head was all over the place. Everything I’d believed to be true about my friend had been blown out of the water and everything he had told me about his family had been lies. I suppose now I knew why he took what I’d told him about his brother’s murder by masked killers so calmly. I was only confirming what he’d suspected.

  I got to my feet. I needed to get some sleep and tomorrow – and tomorrow what? If I had any sense, Emma and I would pack our bags and go. I put the hidden photo in the pocket of my dressing gown and returned the original picture into the frame where I’d found it. I would discuss it with Emma before we went down to breakfast. It was only fair she had a choice in whether she stay or go – I didn’t. I’d made Laura a promise and I intended to keep it. As Emma had said, none of this was Laura’s fault.

  As I left the room I glanced back over my shoulder, my eyes going straight to the picture of the three boys together. They looked so young and normal and yet I couldn’t help but speculate whether even then the two older brothers were already involved in the cult, coven or whatever a group of Satanists called themselves. Oliver had been about the same age as Simon had in the second photo.

  I flicked off the light and closed the door. Oh, what a wicked web the Pomeroy boys had woven about themselves.

  Light was beginning to filter into the bedroom by the time exhaustion gave way to sleep. I would have slept late if it hadn’t been for my mobile going off. I scrabbled to find it on the bedside table nearly knocking over my travel clock and a glass of water.

  ‘Yep,’ I said, hauling myself into a sitting position and rubbing at my eyes.

  ‘Jed?’

  ‘Yep. Who is this?’

  ‘Brandon Fredericks,’ a voice said, and he sounded rougher than I felt.

  I glanced at the clock – it was only seven-thirty – what the hell? I was instantly awake. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘We have to talk. Can you meet me at my office?’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘We open for business at ten these days, so if you could make it for nine? I’d rather we talked before my secretary and the rest of the staff get in.’

  Emma was beginning to stir. She stretched and rolled over. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Brandon,’ I mouthed at her.

  ‘Where’s your office?’ I asked.

  ‘In the village, opposite the pub. You can’t miss it.’

  I thought for a moment. Yes, I remembered a large building opposite the Fox and Fiddle Inn, though at the time I’d paid it little attention. ‘Right. We’ll see you there at nine.’

  ‘Good,’ he said, then hesitated. ‘Jed, don’t mention you’re coming to see me to anyone at Kingsmead.’

  I frowned at Emma. ‘What about Laura? I’d have thought you’d want her to come.’

  ‘No, no. Just you, and Emma if you must, but definitely not Laura, not yet.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Jed, you’ll understand once we’ve spoken, but please believe me when I say it’s best no one knows you’re coming here.’

  I was now completely nonplussed. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘I’ll see you later,’ and once again I was speaking to the dialling tone.

  ‘What was that all about?’ Emma asked, pulling herself into a sitting position beside me.

  I dropped my phone on the bedside table. ‘I have no idea,’ I said, ‘but we’re meeting Brandon at nine in his office.’

  ‘But not Laura?’

  ‘That’s what he said. Also we’re not to tell anyone where we’re going.’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘Laura is his client.’

  ‘I know, but to be perfectly honest with you, Laura being a Pomeroy might be the problem.’

  She frowned at me. ‘She’s a lovely girl.’

  ‘She seems to be, but I’m beginning to have a few trust issues.’ Her frown grew deeper. ‘I have something to show you,’ I told her, ‘then you can tell me what you think.’

  Emma listened to what I had to say in silence. First, I told her about what I’d seen in the poolroom and how afterwards I couldn’t sleep. Then I passed her the photograph. When I eventually finished talking, she didn’t speak for a full thirty seconds. When she did, she sounded as confused as I felt – and angry – like me, she was angry.

  ‘Why did Simon ask us here? Surely he must have realised there was a possibility you’d find out, especially if you did what he wanted and managed to connect with Oliver.’

  ‘I don’t know, Emms. Maybe he really did want to know who killed Oliver. Whether it was the cult or someone else.’

  ‘Do you really t
hink so?’

  I pulled a face. ‘I don’t know what to believe any more.’

  Emma leant her head against my shoulder. ‘Perhaps once we’ve spoken to Brandon things will become a little clearer.’

  ‘I sincerely do hope so,’ I said.

  Laura was already at the table when we went down to breakfast. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her complexion pale. She managed a weak smile of greeting.

  ‘How are you this morning?’ Emma asked.

  Laura gave a little shrug. ‘OK, I guess. I still can’t believe it.’

  ‘Me neither,’ I said.

  ‘Jed,’ Laura said, her expression contrite, ‘I am so sorry. I’d only met Simon once and I throw a fit of the vapours when you were his friend and must be really feeling his loss.’

  ‘We hadn’t spoken for years,’ I said, ‘but I will miss him now he’s gone.’ I didn’t add that I’d miss asking him what the fuck he’d been playing at; she didn’t need to know that.

  Emma gave me a sideways look, clearly guessing what was going through my mind. ‘How about your aches and pains?’ she quickly asked Laura.

  ‘Not so bad,’ she replied. ‘In fact, I was thinking about going for a little ride this morning. You know, getting back in the saddle as soon as possible.’

  ‘You’re a braver woman than I am,’ Emma said, ‘but don’t go on your own.’

  ‘I won’t. I’ll see if Dan can ride with me.’

  I inwardly grimaced, but reminded myself it was none of my business. For the moment Emma and I had other things to be worrying about and riding would keep her occupied while we slid off to see Brandon.

  ‘Just be very careful,’ Emma said.