You think that I died today, you are wrong, as from today I am now free.
But what of you, those who abused me, what of you?
You will carry the guilt of these crimes until eternity, you and Samuel and Pamela
And for me?
I AM THE MASTER OF MY FATE;
I AM THE CAPTAIN OF MY SOUL
INVICTUS.
Cyril put down the sheets he had seen enough. It should have been up to the psychologists to determine whether or not he was of sound mind, but a rope the colour of a bee’s back had solved that dilemma. There was now only one person standing trial and that was for historical child abuse. He opened a bottle of Black Sheep beer and collected his electronic cigarette before moving to the window. The streetlight flickered, first pink and then slowly turned orange before casting a warm glow along the street. He turned to look at the sheets of paper spread haphazardly on the table and wondered why Hackworth had been spared, why she wasn’t the first one to suffer; there would always be unanswered questions. He drank the last of the beer and in doing so closed his mind to the case.
Chapter Twenty Five
The overcast, autumn sky seemed heavy. A light wisp of morning mist clung to the river’s slow-moving surface like a white chiffon scarf; the leaves on the overhanging trees flanking the river’s twisting banks were just showing signs of turning to their deep autumnal russet. Occasionally, a leaf would fall before drifting towards the water. Cyril stood in the small lay-by, leaning against his car. He slowly inhaled the menthol vapour from his electronic cigarette. His eyes followed the mist as it formed a variety of shapes before it tucked under the narrow road bridge. The exhaled vapour that drifted lazily from his nostrils only added to the ethereal grey of the morning.
His thoughts focussed on Tony and Carl. A tear crept from his left eye, more in frustration and anger than from sadness. The answers had been staring them in the face all along and he had repeatedly kicked himself for not spotting the clues sooner. He knew, however, that at times like these he had to put everything into perspective or the doubts, the frustrations and the feeling of total inadequacy would squash him along with his natural ability and his self-confidence. He had to convince himself that he had done everything that he could with the evidence that he had. He didn’t have a crystal ball, he couldn’t see what wasn’t there and he could only work on the evidence found. But the deaths of the two boys hung heavily on his shoulders. The freeing of the third child had meant nothing when he viewed his overall performance; after all, that was part of the murderer’s plan.
He thought of Dr Adrian Smyth; to all intents and purposes he was a successful man with talent and skills but all would prove meaningless, destroyed by the devious acts, by the closely knit secrets adults weave to protect themselves and to frighten the young into submission, often ignorant of the devastating emotional trauma they spawn. The truth is that eventually, at some point, you will reap what you sow. Cyril felt a degree of sadness for the man.
All of those Latin statements flashed in his head. He took a coin from his pocket and without looking at it, tossed it through the misty veil and into the water. It was something he had read about. When Roman soldiers crossed water they would often toss a coin to the river god, a votive gift, believing that it would make their onward journey more comfortable and safer. He needed to subscribe to that too.
“It’s done, Cyril. It took a while but you won, against all the odds your team was successful,” he said out loud. A car passed. He slipped his e-cigarette into his pocket and got into his car.
Ilkley was busy for a Tuesday. He turned down Little Lane before turning up Nelson Road. He thought of Liz and then an image emerged of the slumped, neatly-wrapped body of Pamela Shepherd but he quickly put the thought from his mind. The auction house he had come to visit was on his right.
He entered and smiled at the receptionist. She coloured a little and returned his smile. The viewing and auction rooms were at the top of the stairs. He could hear the auctioneer’s Irish accent echo within the old hall. It was busy, all the seats were taken and people stood around the room. The area of paintings was closed until the morning sale had been completed, then he would be able to inspect the painting he hoped to buy. It was then that the auctioneer’s voice made his heart jump as he announced the sale of a jewelled bee-styled brooch. Would he always think of this case every time he saw a jar of honey or a bee?
The painting he had come to buy was only small, a work by William Ralph Turner, a Cheshire artist. It was in oil depicting a Salford church. The figures in the painting were rather indistinct, true to the artist’s style, but they had fascinated Cyril when he saw it in the catalogue. He was sure the artist had depicted Lowry tipping his hat to a passer by. It was lot 312.
Cyril waited patiently and his heart rate increased as his lot approached. All thoughts of the last weeks slowly evaporated; he was now fully focussed on the auctioneer’s swift, no nonsense approach. It was then his turn.
“Lot 312, William Ralph Turner oil. I have several commission bids on the books and two telephone lines. I can start the bidding at…”
For the second time, within an hour, Cyril’s heart sank.
“Stercus accidit…” he said quietly to himself, “Stercus accidit…But why me?”
It was then that he realised. He only had the Roman God to blame.
He smiled to himself looked, up and swiftly left the saleroom.
THE END
Have you read?
Only the Dead – Part 1 of the DI Cyril Bennet Harrogate Crime Series
Amazon UK - Amazon US
Hell’s Gate – Part 2 the DI Cyril Bennet Harrogate Crime Series
Amazon UK - Amazon US
Acknowledgements
To Debbie
What a star you are. Thank You X
To Carrie
Thank you so much for your continued patience and support.
To Dr Richard Barrett
For inspirational conversations, thank you.
To Kat McCooey-Heap
Thank you.
Poems that inspired, with my grateful thanks
Charles Hamilton Musgrove(1871-1926)
‘The Dungeoned Anarchist’
William Ernest Henley (1849–1903)
‘Invictus’
I dedicate this book to two fine fellows
William Hollingdrake and William Clark
Without whom we would be nobody!
Letter from Malcolm
I should firstly like to thank you for reading ‘Sweet Taste of Evil’. I really hope you enjoyed the third outing of DCI Cyril Bennett and DS David Owen. You might have noticed that DS Liz Graydon is, shall we say, beginning to find her feet. These characters have now become part of my family and although they may not seem to you to be the most efficient police officers in the world, they are certainly keen to solve the crime; so much so, they are working on another case as you read this!
If you did enjoy the book, I should be grateful if you would write a review. It is a great help to read just what you think. It might also help other readers to discover my books for the first time. It would also be wonderful if you could recommend my books to family and friends.
The next case for Bennett, Owen and Graydon is already in the writing. For me the excitement, frustration and surprises are just around another dark but enticing corner.
Again, thank you for your support, it is very much appreciated.
By the way, Cyril’s Latin outburst in the final paragraph – Stercus accidit roughly means shit happens! Says it all really.
Best wishes
Malcolm
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Flesh Evidence: a heart-stopping crime thriller Page 21
