by Tim O'Rourke
Kevin Barker suddenly shot to his feet, almost dragging Kiera from her seat as he still gripped her hand in his.
“No!” Barker screamed, letting go of Kiera and throwing his hands to his face. “I can’t breathe! Somebody help me! Somebody open the window.”
I heard chairs falling backwards in the gloom as the others sitting around the table got to their feet. The candle suddenly went out, throwing the room into complete darkness. I felt Kiera let go of me and spring away.
“Kiera!” I called out.
I span around, and with my hands outstretched before me, I felt for the wall. With fingertips brushing against it, I searched for the light switch. The room was flooded with the sound of screaming. I could hear a man crying out that his eyes were burning. I didn’t know if it was Barker or not. My fingers felt the light switch and I turned it on. Spinning around, I immediately scanned the room for Kiera. She was standing by the window, which she had now opened. But instead of looking back into the room, she was staring out into the night. Barker dropped back down into his chair, sucking in mouthfuls of cold air that now blew in through the open window. The others who had gathered in the room for the séance were huddled together and staring back at the end of the table where Splitfoot had once sat. He was slumped back in his chair, his face a devilish scarlet in colour. He was clawing at his eyes. Splitfoot made a hitching – rasping – sound in the back of his throat, then slumped forward onto the table.
Kiera leapt away from the window. She gently eased him back in her arms. She pressed the tips of her first two fingers against his neck in search of a pulse. Then looking up, she said, “Someone call the police.”
“The police?” the old woman who had been sitting next to me said. “Don’t you mean an ambulance, my dear?”
“It’s too late for an ambulance,” Kiera said. “Mr. Splitfoot has been murdered.”
Kiera
“Murdered?” those gathered in the room muttered as one.
Tom looked across the room at me, eyes wide. I waved him over. Pulling him close, I whispered into his ear.
“Okay,” he said. Tom crossed the room and helped Kevin Barker to his feet. He was still gasping for breath. Tom put his arm around him and led him from the room. I looked at the others, who stood staring at me.
“This room is a crime scene and I think we should all leave until the police arrive,” I told them. Without argument, they shuffled out of the room, and a few of the more curious old ladies glanced back one last time at Splitfoot’s dead body draped across the table.
One of the old women stopped at the door as I tried to usher her through it. She looked at me and said, “Do you think the ghost, Alice, murdered him?”
“Let’s wait and see what the police say,” I smiled at her, leading her out into the passageway.
I watched her trundle away, then looked back into the room. I switched out the light and closed the door behind me. Instead of following the others back into the bar area, I stood outside the door and waited. It happened sooner than I thought it would. I heard movement in the room I had just left. Taking a deep breath, I gripped the door handle, then flung it open. I switched on the light. The man Tom had mistaken to be our colleague constable John Miles – Sparky – stood at the table, leaning over Splitfoot’s corpse.
Like a rabbit caught in a set of headlamps, the man glanced back at me and I could see how Tom had believed this stranger to be Sparky. There was a resemblance. Both had greasy hair, wore glasses, and had pimples on their foreheads. The man turned and headed for the open window. I leapt across the room, pulling him back through the window and onto the floor.
“Stay down!” I hissed, driving my boot into his chest.
He cried out in shock more than pain. At that moment, Tom shoved Kevin Barker back into the room.
“What is the meaning of this?” Barker demanded. He was no longer gasping for breath.
“Sit down,” I said.
Tom shoved Barker into the nearest chair and then stood with his back against the door so he couldn’t escape.
“Up,” I said, reaching down and yanking Barker’s accomplice to his feet. I pushed him down into the nearest chair.
“I haven’t done anything wrong,” the stranger spat.
“And neither have I,” Barker insisted.
“You murdered Mr. Splitfoot,” I said, looking across the table at him.
“Ridiculous,” Barker sneered. “There isn’t a mark on him. He had a heart attack. It’s obvious. He was hardly a picture of health.”
“And that’s what you wanted us to believe,” I smiled knowingly at him.
“If what you say is true, how did I murder him?” Barker dared me.
“You poisoned him,” I said.
“Poisoned him!” Barker scoffed. “I didn’t go anywhere near the man. Why, you are my alibi. I was sitting next to you the whole time. If I’d got up and moved, you would have known about it, as I was holding your hand. In fact, I was taken ill myself when Splitfoot died. I was ten feet away or more, gasping for breath.”
“And that’s how you planned to get away with murder,” I said. “How could you have possibly murdered a man you were sitting ten feet from?”
“How? Tell me!” Barker insisted.
“You set the trap before Mr. Splitfoot even entered this room tonight, before any of us entered the room tonight,” I said.
“This is just a waste of my time…” Barker snapped, standing up. Tom pushed him back down into the chair. I glanced down at the young man sitting beside me, head hung low.
“At first I thought you were a stooge working for Mr. Splitfoot,” I started to explain. “But I was wrong about that. You came from the passageway that led to this room. When you shook my hand, I noticed the right sleeve of your jacket was wet with splashes of water. Rain water.”
“I told you that,” Barker sighed.
“It was rain water,” I said. “But why wasn’t the rest of your jacket wet? If you had just come from outside, you would have been wet all over. Only your arm had got soaked through with rain. Therefore, I figured that you had perhaps stuck just your arm outside. I didn’t know why at that time. But there were splashes of candlewax too on the sleeve of your jacket. And when you took my hand at the start of the séance, I could feel lumps of wax on the palm and fingers of your left hand.”
I went around the table, took hold of his wrist, and showed him the patches of dried, flaky wax.
“That could have come from anywhere!” Barker insisted.
“Really, Mr. Barker?” I smiled. “We no longer live in the dark ages. I presume you have electric lighting in your home.”
“Of course,” he sneered at me.
“I’ve only seen one candle tonight, and that is this one,” I said, pointing to the candle standing on the table before Splitfoot’s dead body. “When I entered the room and saw the candle, I knew you had handled it prior to us entering the room. At that time I still suspected that you were working in cahoots with Mr. Splitfoot. But why had you blown the candle out? Why would you have done that?”
“I didn’t blow the candle out,” Barker cut in.
“The wax on the palm of your left hand would suggest you did,” I said. Then cupping my left hand around the wick of the candle, I blew as if blowing out a flame. “You blew out the candle just like I have demonstrated, and your hand became flecked with wax. You couldn’t risk any splashing down onto the table or you might have raised Splitfoot’s suspicions that the candle had been tampered with. But why switch the candle, and who did you give it to? But I will get back to that in a minute. As I sat in the room and watched Splitfoot start the séance, and with the spooky girl’s voice, your heartbeat didn’t even twitch. Even when you started to scream, claiming that you couldn’t breathe, your heartbeat stayed the same. I should know.”
“How would you know a thing like that?” Barker mocked me.
“As I held your hand, I had my forefinger resting against your wrist, Mr. Barker. As
some might say, I had my finger on the pulse,” I smiled at him. “I, therefore, knew that your panic attack was just a charade. But I still couldn’t figure out why. I still believed that you were working with Splitfoot, and at the climax of the séance, you broke out in some kind of fit to divert the attention off those gathered in this room from Splitfoot so he could conceal how he was deceiving his guests.
“You then asked for the window to be opened so you could catch your breath. Knowing that you weren’t really short of breath, I knew that you must have had a motive for wanting the window open on such a cold and wet night. So I went to the window and opened it. At the same time my friend Tom turned on the lights, illuminating the ground outside beneath the window. I could clearly see fresh footprints. Someone had been standing at the window – and just recently. Then I thought of your wet sleeve and the candle switch. And I suddenly knew how you had done it. You had come into the room and blown out the candle that was already here. You then passed that through the open window to your waiting accomplice and replaced it with another. And that’s why you wanted the window opened again, so when we had all left the room, your accomplice could climb back through the window and switch the candles back again.
“But who was your accomplice? Not anyone in the room. And then I thought of the man Tom had seen leaving the pub, who he mistook to be a colleague of ours. I was curious to know if my friend was right, so I went to the door of the pub and looked in both directions along the road. There was no sign of any man, because that man had slipped around the side of the pub to this window where you were waiting to pass him the candle through the open window.”
Barker looked at me from across the room. He swallowed hard. As if gathering his composure he said, “Why would I want to swap the candle? I thought you said I had poisoned Splitfoot.”
“The poison was in the candle,” I said.
Barker laughed out loud and clapped his hands together. “Now I know you are truly mad,” he said. “I never saw Splitfoot eat the candle. It’s right there. Look!”
I glanced at the candle, then back at Barker. “It was the almond cookies that gave you away.”
“Cookies?” Barker blustered. “What are you talking about?”
“When cyanide crystals are burnt they give off an odour similar to that of almonds,” I said. “When you showed Tom and me the cookies in the pub, you were careful not to close the lid. You wanted the room in which the séance was being held to smell of almonds. Just before you started to scream, and just before Splitfoot died, there was a strong whiff of almonds in the room. But it didn’t come from the cookies you had made, but from the flame reaching the cyanide crystals you had hidden in the candle. That’s why you needed to switch the candle. And I suspect when the remains of the candle are forensically tested, traces of cyanide will be found.”
“And where would I get cyanide crystals from?” Barker said, knowing deep down that he had been caught.
“You told us that you were a jeweller,” I said, fishing his business card from my pocket and holding it up. “Cyanide crystals are used in your profession to guild gold. You would have access to such crystals. So before coming here tonight, you placed the crystals into the candle. You snuck into this room before the séance, switching the candle that was already here with your own. You passed the other out of the window so it could be replaced later – something you wouldn’t be able to do yourself. When the candle burnt down and reached the crystals, it flared brightly for a moment, omitting a strong whiff of almonds. That was your cue to throw a panic attack and ask for the window to be opened. You knew that Splitfoot would inhale most of the poison as the candle stood directly before him, but you couldn’t risk contaminating the rest of the room – or yourself. The open window offered ventilation and a way for your accomplice to regain entry to the room once we had left. I know that you killed Splitfoot and I know how. But what I don’t know is why?”
I looked at Barker. He stared back at me, eyes bulging.
“It’s not true,” he said.
“Stop it! Stop it!” his accomplice suddenly cried out. “Just stop, Kevin. She knows what happened. She knows we killed Splitfoot.”
“Shut it, Peter!” Barker hissed at him.
“It’s over, Kevin,” Peter said. “It’s over.”
A heavy silence fell over the room. I didn’t break Barker’s stare once. Tom stood directly behind him, guarding the door.
“Splitfoot was a fraud,” Peter suddenly said. “He killed my sister Claire. My sister was married to Kevin.”
“Shut up!” Barker tried one last time to silence his brother-in-law.
Peter turned his attention from Kevin and looked at me. “Claire was in a car crash two years ago. My six-year-old niece died in that crash. Claire wasn’t to blame. It was an accident, but she blamed herself. Then six months ago she saw an advert in the local paper. It was for one of Splitfoot’s séances.”
“I told her not to go,” Kevin suddenly spoke up. His anger seemed to have suddenly left him at the mention of his wife and dead daughter. He suddenly looked deflated, lost, and haggard. “I told her no good would come of going to a séance. They’re run by frauds just like Splitfoot who prey on the vulnerable. But he didn’t care as long as he got paid. So Claire went to one of his séances, and just like tonight she heard the voice of that little girl, Alice. But that was our daughter’s name too. Claire believed that she had been visited by our daughter. It drove Claire half insane with anguish. Her guilt intensified from that day on until she took her own life. Splitfoot knew the harm he had caused, but he didn’t stop. He carried on tricking those poor people like me who have lost the ones they loved most in this life. Someone had to stop him. That person was me. I wanted to send him to join the spirits he claimed to be able to speak to.”
Kevin stopped talking and lowered his head. He had given up. The fight had left him.
I took no pride in catching this killer. But sadly that’s what he had become. His grief had driven him to despair, just like grief had driven his wife Claire to Derren Splitfoot.
As I struggled to find the right words to say, Tom suddenly stumbled forward as the door was pushed open. Tom straightened as two uniformed police officers came into the room. I didn’t recognise either of them, but the officer who stepped into the room behind them was all too familiar. My heart sank.
Sergeant Phillips looked at me, then at Tom. His face was pale and his eyes burnt with fury.
“You two, my office first thing tomorrow morning,” he barked, jabbing his finger at us. “Get yourselves back to Havensfield on the double before I have both of your badges.”
“But…” Tom started.
“Don’t fuck with me, Henson,” Phillips warned him with a dismissive shake of his head. “Both of you get out of my sight, right now.”
Without another word of protest, both Tom and I left the room.
Tom drove me back to his parents’ house. Not one word passed between us, although I could think of a thousand things to say. This was my entire fault and Tom was going to get busted off the force because of me. We pulled up in front of the giant mansion once again. I looked at Tom and he back at me. I think we both knew our fate. Come nine o’clock tomorrow, we were both going to be kicked out of police training school.
Before climbing from his car and into mine, I said, “I’m sorry, Tom.”
“What for?” he frowned.
“For getting you into this,” I said.
“I got myself into this,” he half-smiled. “I didn’t have to come looking for you.”
“So why did you, Tom?” I asked. “You never did explain.”
Tom stared at me for a long moment, like there was something he needed to say. But at the last minute, he changed his mind and simply said, “It doesn’t matter why. I just did.”
I pushed open the door to climb out. Tom suddenly gripped my arm. I looked back over my shoulder at him. “What?”
“You never explained how Splitfoot created
the sound of that girl’s voice and how she appeared in that room.”
“I couldn’t see how he did that,” I said, climbing from the car and closing the door behind me.
The Mystery of Kiera Hudson & Tom Henson
Kiera
I stood in my bathroom and stared into the mirror fixed above the sink. I was wearing my police uniform. The silver numbers shone from the shoulders of my tunic. For how much longer would I be wearing them? I wondered. I was sure to be busted out of the police force today. Sergeant Phillips had demanded that we attend training school at his office at 09:00 hours. I glanced down at my wristwatch. I had just an hour. One last hour wearing my police uniform. My stomach clenched at the thought of leaving the force. Becoming a police officer was all I had wanted to do since my mother had gone missing. She had never been found and it had been my dream to join the police force so I could search for her. I wanted to get my hands on her missing person’s file and carry out my own investigation into her disappearance. I knew in my heart that if I read that file I would see what had truly happened to her. But now that dream was going to be taken away and with it any chance of finding my mum. I wiped away the tears stinging the corner of my eyes, then fixed my hair up in pins, tucking it beneath my police hat. I left the bathroom, stepping into my lounge. I looked at the walls of my poky flat and the several hundred newspaper clippings I had fixed to them. They seemed to crowd in on me. I slowly zig-zagged through the piles of yellowed newspapers stacked about my room. I stood before a dog-eared cutting tacked to the wall. My mum stared back out of it. She was dressed just like me, in her police uniform. Police Constable Jessica Hudson – Missing! The headline screamed in thick, black letters.
“I’m sorry for letting you down, mum,” I whispered, brushing my fingers over her face.
I turned away. I couldn’t bear to look at that picture. But it wasn’t just my mum I had let down, it was my dad, too. I had made a promise to him just before he died that I would find out what had happened to my mum. I would do it for the both of us. He died not knowing what had ever happened to her. I turned the picture of him on the table to face the wall. I couldn’t look at him knowing I had failed him. With those tears building in my eyes again, I sniffed them back and left my rented rooms. I couldn’t very well stroll into Sergeant Phillips’ office with tracks of black mascara running down my cheeks. He would think I had gone in search of pity and I didn’t want that. I had brought this situation upon myself. There was no one else to blame other than me. I should have stayed away from Tom like Sergeant Phillips had warned me to do so. But I hadn’t been able to. Why not? It wasn’t just because we worked so well together. There was another reason I had been unable to put distance between me and Tom. And deep in my heart I knew what that reason was, however much I tried to hide it. God, what a mess. I had fallen in love with a guy who didn’t feel the same way about me and I was about to lose the job I needed if I was ever to find my mum and keep the promise I had made to my dad.
