by Max China
‘From what I gathered from talking to Nick earlier, this is the first taste of freedom the killer has had in years. He’s a psychopath. Untreatable. I’m not sure sense comes into it.’
Emerson chewed his lower lip. ‘Christ alive, let’s hope they caught up with him.’
The roar of a motorcycle at full throttle rumbled into the office, the sound coming closer by the second.
Emerson stood up. ‘Is that Williams racing up like a maniac?’
‘No. It’s Nick. He’s coming in.’ Professor Young turned away from the window, and grimaced. ‘And from the look on his face, something is badly wrong.’
Emerson shoved back in his chair and stood. ‘Let’s go and see what’s going on.’
The two men opened the door and sped down the corridor. Seconds later, Croft’s anguished scream pierced the air as simultaneously, Adams, cried, ‘No!’ Footfall sounded from all directions, converging on reception.
Emerson drew his hands from the back of his neck over the top of his head and covered his face. ‘You’re sure it’s Williams?’
Summer nodded. ‘One of the officers, Jordan, met him earlier in the day.’
The inspector’s legs buckled and he swayed.
‘Tom,’ Professor Young said, ‘why don’t you sit down?’
Emerson sat at his desk.
Seven people had crammed into his office in stunned silence. A minute was spent trying to make sense of it all. Questions flew. Accusations followed. Bitter tears fell. Emerson felt as though his head was stuck in a fishbowl. He slammed the palm of his hand against the desktop. ‘I take full responsibility for what happened to John. When he asked if he could go into Churchend to warn people that a lunatic was on the loose, I said no. He was persuasive. I changed my mind.’
Emerson eyed them all in turn. Croft’s lips quivered, her face screwed and tear-stained. Adams glared, red-faced, angry. Not at him; he sensed that. The two young constables appeared dazed, their expressions blank. Professor Young looked on, filled with sympathy, while Summer scribbled notes. ‘Now, God help me,’ Emerson sighed, ‘I have to tell his mother what happened. What can I say? Bristol has lost one of its best young policemen. He’d put in for Traffic.’ He paused. ‘He would have done a great job. Back to police business. What happened to the injured?’
Summer cleared his throat. ‘The prison officers helped them into their van and ran them down to the hospital. They left a couple of their number at the scene. The others were going to continue back to where they’d come from.’
‘I’m going to need a statement from you, Summer,’ Emerson said.
‘Of course,’ the reporter replied. ‘I’ll come back in the morning, if I may. I’ve got a job to do.’
‘We’ve all got jobs to do,’ the inspector said. ‘Not much more we can do tonight. Come on, everybody out.’
Chapter 53
Professor Young’s house. Monday, August 11, 1:07 a.m.
‘All right, Granddad, how about this one?’ Summer held up a sheet of A3 paper with a mock headline scrawled across it in black felt pen.
Cannibal Killer Murder Spree in Sleepy Village. Four Dead.
‘Nick, that headline isn’t right either. I’m going to bed. I’ve a feeling tomorrow is going to be filled with challenges.’
Summer flipped the sheet over and dashed off another. ‘This one?’
Ripper Rampage Stopped by Tragic Orphan.
‘Better.’ The old man smiled. ‘How’s the article going?’
Summer grinned. ‘Sensational. I haven’t quite finished it yet. Obviously, this is my lead into the scoop I was telling you about, but first I need to talk to Kotlas.’
‘I wouldn’t hold out any hope of him talking to you.’
‘Why not? I know where he works. I can but try.’ Summer’s grin ignited into a smile. ‘And if that doesn’t get me what I want, I’ve an ace up my sleeve.’
The professor hauled himself from his armchair. ‘Needs to be a good one.’
The two men faced each other. ‘Why are you grinning like a ninny?’ Professor Young asked, his eyes gleaming as the penny dropped. ‘That’s exactly what you have, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, I think so. I managed to get some research in at Bristol Library earlier. Some interesting aspects to the case. The Ripper lived in a world where people hardly ever locked their doors. I find that amazing. Also, many people came forward claiming psychic links to the killer. All debunked as far as I know. If only the police had had DNA testing in those days.’
‘Yes, but then the world would have been deprived of one of its great mysteries.’
‘Granddad, did you know it’s thought the Ripper claimed seven victims?’
‘I thought it was five.’
‘I thought that, too. I know you’ll mock this as nonsense, but Wolfe killed seven girls before they caught him.’
‘Mere coincidence, Nick. In your investigations, beware the experimenter effect.’
Summer laughed. ‘Funny you should say that, because that’s the thing I have on Kotlas.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes. What else would you call it when someone uses an unlicensed drug on a patient in their care?’
‘You’ve lost me, Nick.’
‘I’m assuming Kotlas had no authorisation to use ecstasy on Wolfe. It’s my ace. I think it might open him up somewhat when I mention what I know.’
‘You know what, Nick, you cunning devil, I’ve a feeling you might just pull this off.’
Chapter 54
Ashmore. Monday, August 11, 10:29 a.m.
From the moment Rachel Grimes arrived for work in the high-security psychiatric hospital’s reception department, she knew it would be a long day. Transport being an issue, she was fortunate to live only three miles away. Now seated at her desk, she cursed her choice of shoes. One call after another came in, mainly visitors cancelling visits because they had no means to travel. Her head ached. She glanced up at the clock. Only another six and a half hours to go. She sighed as she picked up the phone to speak to the next caller.
‘Is that you, Rachel?’
‘It is. George?’ She laughed. ‘Give me a chance to introduce myself, why don’t you? Let me guess. You’re phoning to tell me you can’t get in because your car won’t start. Seriously, the phones have only just come back on, and they’re going crazy. You okay? Were you very much affected by the power cut?’
‘I’m going to be tied up for a day or two. It’s a long story. I’ll tell you all about it when I get in. How did you all cope yesterday?’
‘Backup power took over seamlessly. Apart from losing everything signal-related, apparently, we carried on as normal. Some of the inmates kicked off about having no TV or radio. I dread to think what would have happened if we’d had a total blackout. Oh, and there was a telephone call from someone called Nick Summer. He was trying to get your mobile number. You know him?’
‘Never heard of him. Did he say what was it about?’
‘No, he didn’t, but he left a number. I have it here. Would you like me to read it out to you?’
‘No, that’s all right. If it’s important he’ll ring me again. Is the boss there?’
Rachel laughed. ‘Mike’s here. You want a word?’
‘Yes, please,’ he hesitated, unsure of when to tell her he’d be back. ‘I’ll see you soon.’
She frowned at his hesitancy. ‘I’ll put you through, George. Hope everything’s okay.’ Rachel pressed the speed-dial button for the extension number she wanted. ‘Mike, I’ve got George Kotlas for you. Will you take it?’
‘Where are you, George? I’m guessing that, like half the population, you’ve got no transport. Do you want me to arrange a car for you?’
‘I don’t know, Mike. I’ve heard about the way the solar storm affected newer vehicles, though I haven’t tried mine since yesterday. Look, I can’t explain over the phone, but trust me, I can’t wait to get back to a normal environment.’
‘Were you badly affected by
the cut?’
‘You could say that. I’m in a lockdown situation at a private facility. I’ll fill you in with the gory details as soon as I can. It’s going to be a day or two.’
‘It’s fine, see you then.’
‘Tell Wolfe to behave himself. I’ll see him soon.’
A moment passed before Mike replied. ‘By the way, George, when you do get in, you’ll find a couple of changes.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes, on Sunday they ghosted Wolfe out.’
‘I heard.’
Mike hesitated again. ‘How did you hear? Even I didn’t know until afterwards.’
‘I just heard, that’s all,’ Kotlas said. ‘We’ll talk when I come in. You mentioned a couple of things. What else?’
‘You’ve been assigned a new inmate.’
‘One out, one in,’ Kotlas said philosophically.
‘Yes, you can say that again. An interesting patient. He’s tailor-made for you, George. I had his details here just now.’ The sound of papers shuffling came down the line. ‘Where have I put them?’
‘Don’t worry about the details now, Mike,’ Kotlas said. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Here they are,’ Mike said. ‘His name? It’s Brody.’
Epilogue
Churchend. Six months later.
Anderson crunched across the gravel driveway and out onto the lane, pausing to look back towards the house. The February air seared his nostrils. Inhaling deeply, he jettisoned a plume of smoke-like vapour and watched it hang with some satisfaction. He turned left, walking slowly up the hill toward the crossroads, where he took a right in the direction of the church.
The demolition order which had been fixed to the graveyard wall the last time he’d visited had gone. Four circular nail-holes in the mortar joints were the only evidence it was ever there. Anderson stared at the bell tower. Magnificent, still gleaming frost on its cracked, north-facing wall. The reasons for its demise were blamed on the Church’s abandonment, first of the orphanage, and then later, the house of God itself. All true, he’d later discovered while researching the backstory of the tragic siblings. They’d escaped the evil clutches of child abuse, only for their lives to end. For, in a sense, Timothy Salter’s life had ended too that early August morning in 1987, as surely as if he’d died along with his sister.
Anderson backed up to the wall and pushed down with his gloved hands while lifting his backside onto the top of it. He swung a leg over and straddled the stone coping, the coldness penetrating the fabric of his jeans. He lowered himself down the other side.
The windows on the ground floor remained fully boarded.
Except one.
He’d heard Timothy had come back some time ago. He hadn’t visited before, but it had prompted him to take action. He wouldn’t have come if he didn’t have something positive to say.
Deep in thought, Anderson meandered among the graves. Eleanor had stayed away. He’d expected that. The shock of the night that Wolfe came to his house had affected both their lives in ways they couldn’t have imagined.
In the aftermath, the full story had emerged. Anderson couldn’t help but wonder how Dr Ryan would have approached Timothy’s trauma if he’d been able to treat the boy twenty-seven years ago. As far as Anderson was concerned, there were only two possibilities. Ryan would have unlocked him using stealth hypnotherapy, something he’d excelled at, and if that hadn’t worked, there was always Vera, the medium. When Anderson had at last finished the book by Stella Bird, he made a mental note to trace her, to drop her a line thanking her. A smile crossed his face as he imagined her surprise at being told she’d inadvertently helped an old man get his life back on track by releasing Ryan’s words, and that he’d read them at a time when he needed them most, the night of the mosquito, as Ryan had so eloquently put it. What followed could have happened to anyone. The convergence of Anderson’s life with that of Wolfe, Eleanor, Constable Williams and Timothy, had perhaps been set in motion at the exact moment a coronal mass ejection exploded across the divide. Had that event drawn him to focus on significant moments and breathe new life into them? Anderson’s prolonged epiphany didn’t provide him with all the answers. What it did, though, was to narrow the field of questions.
Anderson trod the last few yards of turf, and then he was onto the shingle path leading up to the side door, the entrance to the priest’s quarters.
Timothy Salter’s eyes snapped open, grasping desperately and wordlessly for a hand he hadn’t felt for over twenty-seven years. He winced at the pain in his chest and gazed at the photograph by his bed. The calendar displayed February 9, 2015. Removing the old page, he looked at the new one and read the wisdom quote by the light coming in through the slats. “In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life: it goes on.” Robert Frost. Catching movement from the corner of his eye, Timothy stooped and stared between the gaps in the boarded-up window. He watched Anderson approach and set the calendar down. A hooded robe selected, Timothy pulled it on.
Anderson noted that the doors had been left unsecured. He took a key from his pocket and checked it in the padlock. It didn’t fit. Someone had changed it. He hadn’t been inside the church for years. He entered. The air was colder than it was outside, but despite that, the scents of long gone masses teased his memories. Margot’s funeral. The coffin bedecked, the aisles overflowing with flowers from well-wishers who’d ignored his requests to make charity donations instead. The eulogy he’d blustered his way through. The sympathetic looks, intended to be supportive, had torn him up inside. On the way in through the churchyard, he’d avoided her grave. Anderson lingered. He’d visit his wife on the way out, once the final arrangements had been made.
His footsteps echoed off of the flag-paved floors as he noted the tombs of the great and good, the ancient acoustics, leaning walls and high, pitched roofs set the sounds swirling at each subsequent step and created the impression that he walked in the presence of someone higher, someone greater.
At the altar, under the streaming array of colours from the one uncovered window, a hooded figure knelt in prayer. If he’d heard Anderson come in, he didn’t acknowledge it.
Anderson stopped next to him, noting the battered Bible he had beside him. ‘Can I join you?’ he said.
There was room for a half-dozen other people on the kneeler. The hooded man needlessly shuffled six inches to the left. Anderson assumed his request had been accepted. Lowering himself to his knees, he propped his elbows on the shelf in front of him, bent his head and then closed his eyes.
Anderson wondered, what qualifications did a man need to become a priest? Goodness and humility? All the virtues of a saint? Surely the man dressed in robes next to him was a holy man, his devotion deserving of some recognition.
When Anderson had heard of the deconsecration proposals for the building, and that the Church had won its appeal to demolish it, he knew he couldn’t have that. Not with Margot buried in the graveyard. They’d married here. She’d been christened here. Anderson intended to be buried in the same plot with her.
His understanding was that whatever happened, the cemetery would remain untouched, but with the building gone, for how long?
His investigations into Timothy’s background had led him to Sarah Salter’s grave. The best-tended of all the plots. Anderson couldn’t see the man who’d saved him without a roof over his head. He considered offering him the use of an outbuilding he’d converted into living accommodations, but knew Timothy wouldn’t take it.
When Timothy had concluded his prayers, he crossed himself, and getting to his feet, turned to Anderson, his gaze cast in the direction of the floor.
‘I heard you were back here, Timothy, and I’m glad you’ve made a good recovery.’ Anderson allowed a moment to pass before continuing. ‘Your place here is neither safe, nor secure. You can’t stay.’
Timothy’s head lifted, his eyes darting from side to side.
‘Don’t worry,’ Anderson said. ‘The Church sold t
he building to me. I’m having it repaired. Of course, you’ll have to move out while the work’s done. But you’re welcome to come and stay with me until that happens. What do you say?’
The mute shook his head.
‘It’s for a few weeks. Okay, longer than that, but listen, Sarah wouldn’t have wanted this, living how you do. Your quarters are not fit for kennels.’
Timothy’s pressed-lip, blazing-eyed refusal conveyed his response without the need of words. ‘What you did, you and Williams, saved our lives. Come and stay. I’ve an outbuilding that’s perfect for you.’
Timothy picked up his Bible, genuflected and crossed himself, and then, turning his back on Anderson, walked away.
‘I have some work needs doing in my garden, Timothy,’ Anderson said. ‘Interested?’
Timothy’s step faltered, but he kept walking.
‘Well, you know where I am.’
Outside in the graveyard, strolling down the path, Anderson counted the rows of gravestones. He stopped, and leaving the shingle, made his way over the rough grass, checking his coordinates against the oak tree in the far corner and the bell tower behind. ‘Well, I’ll be,’ he muttered. He visited very little. Margot owned a place in his heart. That was where he carried her, there and in his head. Today was different. He’d come to tell her something, and though it wasn’t face-to-face, he felt it was the closest thing. Someone had cleaned her headstone, tidied the plot and put down fresh snowdrops. Some instinct urged Anderson to look in the direction of the presbytery. A shadow moved behind the slats covering the window. Timothy.
Anderson rested a hand on the shoulder of her headstone and knelt as he took her into his confidence.
A week later, Anderson went out through the conservatory into his garden. Timothy was on his knees, dressed in a new boiler suit. The mute saw him approach. He stood, wiped his hands on his thighs and waited for Anderson to speak.
