Psalm 151 (Jason Ford Series)

by Guy N Smith

  “I guess so.” There was no point pretending that Ford did not know about Frame’s son. “Do you think Adrian could have made enemies for his father? I mean, for example, introduced other boys to drugs and their parents hated his dad for bringing him into this world so that he could corrupt others?”

  “I suppose it’s possible. A bit far-fetched, don’t you think, Mr Ford?”

  “Exceedingly.” Ford smiled. Sergeant Clifford had interviewed both Adrian and Frame’s widow; Ford might need to talk to either or both of them at a later stage. But not just yet. “Did any of the choirboys dislike Mr Frame?”

  “You mean … enough to kill him?”

  “If you like.”

  “I don’t think so. None of us really liked Frame, you’d never get close to him—he wasn’t a guy you could talk to. Like I said, if you could sing and you didn’t mess about in practices or in services, he was fine. He didn’t have a sense of humour. Mostly, though, Mr Corms played at practice and Mr Drinkwater concentrated on training our voices.”

  “What about Corms?”

  “He’s fine, never causes any problems. He drinks a lot, you know. He goes to the pub every night.”

  Ford knew; he had already checked out Corms. He would talk to the assistant organist later. “And James Drinkwater?”

  “He’s a great guy once you get to know him. If you’ve got a problem, he’ll help you. Most of us have been back to his place over the bookshop at various times. Then Canon Feiffer, the precentor, complained, thought single blokes ought not to invite boys home, and Mr Drinkwater said we’d have to cool it. One or two of us still pop in, though.”

  “What do you do there?”

  “We chat, discuss various pieces. All very relaxed. I can’t say I care for Mr Drinkwater’s friend, though.”

  “Oh? Who’s he?”

  “His name’s Cecil Clay, he’s a right weirdo. I can’t see why they’re friendly except that they both deal in books. Clay usually makes an excuse to leave when any of us go there. I think he’s embarrassed by young company. Both of them, Drinkwater and Clay, were in the choir themselves once, attended the school. Must’ve been back in the fifties.

  “Probably why they’re mates, reminisce over the good old days.” Ford watched an aggressive mallard chasing the others away from the remnants of the soggy crust. “Both of them must’ve been in the choir when Poppleton was organist.”

  “They were. We talked about the murder. Both of them reckon it was a one-off, a psychopath just happened upon an old man out for a walk. A homosexual. After all, old women get raped and killed for kicks, don’t they?”

  “We live in a sick world,” Ford said. “Killings without a motive are always the hardest to solve. Frame was practising for the Festival; somebody got into the cathedral, killed him and left. Lumby, the night Verger, had left the north transept unlocked in case Frame wanted to leave early whilst he popped down town for some fish and chips. And with the city packed with tourists, we’re looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack. But, as the Dean and Chapter say, the Festival goes ahead and so do the recitals and services.”

  “Corms is taking over as organist for the Festival,” Pritchard-Williams added. “It’s a big task, I don’t know whether he’s up to it. He’s nervous about it, I know. Did you know ... Oh, I guess, it doesn’t matter, it’s none of my business.”

  “Go on.”

  “Corms’s missus is having an affair. Cormsey will go berserk when he finds out.”

  “Oh?” Ford stiffened. The old saying, “Cherchez la femme,” had been the undoing of many a murderer in a crime of passion. “Who with?”

  “A writer who rents a place in the Close. His name’s Gerald Norman. I’ve seen Mrs Corms coming out of his house on more than one occasion so there has to be something in it.”

  “I see.” The detective let out his pent-up breath. It was too much to hope for that Mrs Corms had been having an affair with Rupert Frame. “Well, it’s all part of life’s rich pattern. From what I read, most people are at it these days.”

  “Mr Ford?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you think that … that the killer will strike again?”

  “I wish I knew.” Ford’s laugh was nervous. “There’s always a chance, I guess.”

  “Because that’s what worrying Cormsey, you can tell. He can’t wait to get out of the cathedral after practices and services, and he doesn’t go back there to practise at night.”

  “Everybody’s jittery.” Ford turned away from the railings. “Thank you for your help, Dick. If I need to talk to you again, I’ll be in touch.”

  Ford knew only too well that the only way they would catch the murderer was if he struck again. The thought sent a cold chill into his heart. He recalled previous cases; there had been two killings so far, a third and they had a serial killer on their hands.

  And a serial killer would continue until he was stopped.

  8

  James Drinkwater and Cecil Clay had taken to eating at McDonald’s most evenings. For varying reasons. It was scrupulously clean, and both men, in spite of their bachelor scruffiness, were fastidious in that respect. It was in close proximity to both their homes. But above all, the fast food restaurant offered an anonymity that was not to be found in any of the city’s cafes. Neither man had any wish to engage in idle conversation with a stranger sharing their table, and they were self-conscious over the possibility of being overheard.

  McDonald’s was always crowded in the early evening, teenagers snatching a burger before going to the cinema, late leaving office workers revitalizing their flagging brains with a strong coffee. Their company provided a background against which to talk, a younger generation not interested in a couple of middle-aged second-hand booksellers. Nobody here would recognise a Vicar Choral; the majority had little or no interest in cathedral activities.

  Mostly for Drinkwater and Clay it was book talk. They discussed prices and marketing; Clay was in the process of preparing a catalogue it would take him several weeks to complete. He was a perfectionist; his honesty demanded a detailed description of the condition of each volume offered for sale. Drinkwater had a catalogue in mind; it was tedious and time consuming. He decided to wait until after the Festival week; if the shop sales had increased then he would have no need to launch into postal selling.

  Rarely now did they discuss their schooldays. They had covered most aspects since their re-union; there was little more to add. Any further theories on the deaths of the two organists were to be found in the tabloid newspapers most days.

  Frame had been dead for over a fortnight. His funeral service had taken place in the cathedral a couple of days ago. Michael Corms had played the organ; James Drinkwater had conducted the choir. It was a day that both men would prefer to forget; funerals were depressing at best, and this one had an atmosphere of climbing tension. There were several strangers amongst the congregation; the killer might have been one of them, come to gloat over his mutilation.

  Cecil Clay had not attended the service. He still remembered his parents’ funerals, and had vowed never to attend another.

  Sometimes the two men went their separate ways after their meal; tonight, Drinkwater had specifically asked his friend to return to the shop with him. He had picked up a William Le Queux novel that morning in the charity shop, an 1890 first edition. He would welcome Clay’s opinion on pricing. It might be a rarity.

  Drinkwater had just inserted the key in the street door when a short, dark-haired man wearing jeans and a sky blue sweatshirt detached himself from a group of window gazers.

  “Mr Drinkwater?” The voice was soft yet purposeful, taking care that he was not overheard.

  “That’s me.” Drinkwater turned back, his companion was staring in undisguised curiosity at the stranger. “The shop’s closed, but if you’d like to browse, I’ll …”

  “I’d appreciate a chat with you, if I may, and your friend, too, if he isn’t in a hurry. My name’s Ford, Detective Ser
geant, CID.”

  “Oh yes …” James Drinkwater was startled. “By all means, do step inside. This is …”

  “Mr. Cecil Clay.” The name was spoken casually with a nod. “I’ve seen you about town. I had it in mind to call on you also, but perhaps I can kill two birds with one stone, so to speak.”

  “Most certainly.” Clay was clearly nervous, in danger of tripping over his feet as he stooped inside the shop. There was only one subject that this policeman could possibly want to talk to them about, he had heard that door-to-door enquiries were taking place. The police always made him uneasy, an indoctrination that went back to his schooldays when pupils were punished harshly for minor misdemeanours. Once he had almost walked absent-mindedly out of a bookshop clutching an intended purchase. He might well have been prosecuted for shoplifting; he still had nightmares about it.

  “Tea or coffee?” Drinkwater switched on the light in the living accommodation, indicated some straight-backed chairs.

  “As it comes, whichever.” Ford seated himself, crossed one leg over the other. Such enquiries had to be conducted as informally as possible if they were to bear fruit.

  “I was at the funeral,” Ford added.

  “A sad occasion.” The Vicar Choral switched on the kettle, stood by it. “Distressing under normal circumstances, absolutely awful in view of what happened. I hope you catch him soon, Sergeant.”

  “We’ll need help; it won’t be easy. I understand Frame was a loner, as was Herbert Poppleton, which reduces the field of acquaintances.”

  “I never met the man,” Clay added quickly, as if to exonerate himself from any possible suspicion. “I don’t go to cathedral services.”

  “It isn’t Frame I’ve come to talk about.” Ford accepted a mug of tea. “I need to find out as much as I can about Herbert Poppleton as he was years ago. I understand both of you were in the choir whilst he was organist.” A statement, not a question.

  “Yes, that’s true.” Clay swallowed as though he had just made an admission of guilt.

  Drinkwater nodded, said, “That’s right, I remember him from when I was about fifteen. I never set eyes on him from the day I left, though. He looked old then, he must have been really ancient when he died.”

  “What was his wife like?” Ford asked.

  “I only ever caught odd glimpses of her,” Drinkwater answered. “Big, shuffled around, never spoke to anybody. I always remember old Herbert telling us on more than one occasion that in all the time they had been married, he had never seen her in the nude.” He laughed, but it sounded forced.

  “He wasn’t a womaniser, then?”

  “Definitely not.” Clay slurped his drink. “But, like James, I didn’t know Poppleton well. He was an awesome figure. As boys we were terrified of him, small as he was.”

  “You went to his house?” Ford’s gaze alternated between the two of them, finally settled on the Vicar Choral.

  “He used to invite us round for tea and scones.”

  “Individually?”

  “Sometimes. But Mrs Poppleton was always in the house, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  Cecil Clay licked his lips nervously, stuttered slightly when he spoke. “Er … of course, that’s right, she was always around. There was never a … a hint of anything improper.”

  “I’m sure there wasn’t.” Ford smiled. “I just needed confirmation. Can either of you think of any reason why anybody should want to kill Herbert Poppleton?”

  They couldn’t. Nobody could. It was the work of a crazed killer who didn’t need a reason. Which was why he might kill again.

  * * *

  Clay had the feeling, that the girl would turn around and face him. She stood there, slightly but sensuously stooped, gazing out of the window. Naked, of course.

  Her figure was as near to perfection as any female had the right to expect, her buttocks small and firm, thighs that were symbolic of the maternal instinct. He had never seen her face, but in his mind he pictured it clearly, particularly the eyes. When she turned, as she surely would, her large, mystical eyes would focus unblinkingly on him, follow him wherever he went. Pleading. For what, he did not know.

  He was naked, too, standing under the shower with the curtain back so that he could watch her. The feel of the warm water, the way it played upon his bent and sparse frame, excited him.

  Ever since he had brought the painting from the exhibition, he had taken to showering three or four times a day, whereas previously this newly discovered erotic pleasure had been nothing more than a necessary chore that he had performed once or twice weekly. His former lingering body odours had never troubled him. Indeed, he had scarcely been aware of them.

  He had not intended to hang the picture in the shower room; it had come about by chance. Even wrapped in brown paper, carried beneath his arms, its weight a burden that bowed his spine even more than usual, it had excited him on the journey home. So much so that he knew that the only way to view it fittingly, appraisingly, was unclothed. Yet his conscience troubled him, for to simply have undressed before it would have relegated the matter to sordid voyeurism.

  There was a hook on the wall of the bathroom where once a cracked mirror had hung. He looped the cord over it, undressed hurriedly. Then stepped back into the shower cubicle and, leaving the plastic curtain open, he ran the water, adjusted the temperature to suit his mood and body.

  Then, as now, the picture glass had begun to mist over with condensation. The girl became an opaque silhouette; the steam gave an illusion of movement. He stared breathlessly; she was starting to turn around. Long fair hair that did not straggle with damp, full lips that smiled seductively. And then she was watching his every movement.

  Of course it was she, it could be no other, for oft times her wide eyes had watched him from the portrait on that piece of varnished wood that hung from James Drinkwater’s living quarters. The very same girl, he knew it would be. An intuition on which he had gambled £75. And his gamble had paid off.

  The picture was gone, an opaque square. He sensed her closeness, felt her touch and cried out aloud with pleasure.

  Afterwards, towelled and fully clothed, he wiped the glass clear; saw that she was back in that rear view posture. His fingers stroked her tenderly, then he lifted the cord off the hook and carried her gently through to the lounge.

  The only other picture in the room had obsessed him in a different way over the years. Revulsion and hatred, but he tolerated it because it was a legacy from his dear parents: a late Victorian oil painting of a gentleman of that era, perhaps it was an ancestor, more likely a picture purchased from a second-hand shop at the time when it was fashionable to hang portraits of staid menfolk on the wall as a reminder of a sexist age. The balding head was far too large and heavy for the wasted shoulders, the expression smug. And Cecil had never liked those eyes, small and sunken; they threatened you with retribution for the sins of the flesh. They trespassed upon your innermost thoughts.

  Now those eyes seemed to gaze with lusting hypocrisy upon the back of that beautiful girl, open displeasure because she flaunted her nakedness, burned with a secret inner desire for her body. The man, whoever he was, must go.

  With a haste that bordered upon rage, Cecil Clay tore at the frame, snapped the cord, and rushed from the room with it. Outside, in the carport that served as a patio, he fumbled along a concrete ledge until his trembling fingers found that which they were seeking. A kitchen knife, its sharp blade rusted from exposure to the atmosphere.

  He grasped the hilt, brandished his dagger in the manner of a footpad threatening a wealthy gentlemen for whom he had lain in wait in a dark alley. Those eyes met his, a momentary pleading, but there would be no mercy.

  “And now.” Cecil Clay’s words were barely comprehensible, he lisped as a string of saliva dangled from his trembling lips. “Shall we sing Psalm 151?”

  His fury escalated, reached its peak. A downward slash; the canvas ripped, a jagged hole obliterated the small mouth before it could
scream.

  Frenziedly, Clay stabbed, gouged out the eyes, sliced away the flared nostrils. Hacking, mouthing obscenities that had never passed his lips before. Destroying something that had dominated his life since boyhood, made him what he was. Finally, when the canvas was gone, he used a foot to snap the wooden frame, stood bowed and trembling over the scattered remains.

  Always fastidiously tidy, he stooped and gathered up the broken wood and the frayed material, deposited them in the dustbin and replaced the lid firmly; checked it in case a gust of wind should dislodge it and allow that monstrosity to escape.

  Back indoors, he washed his hands in the sink, went through to the lounge. The girl stood with her back towards him but he sensed the relief that emanated from her bare body. As though she was relaxed now that that lusting old man had been removed from close proximity.

  Cecil Clay smiled to himself. Now he had this beautiful unknown girl all to himself. Later on, when his body had revitalised itself, he would carry her back upstairs. And he would shower again.

  He remembered again the painting of her face, which hung in his friend’s home. On more than one occasion he had hinted to Drinkwater of a possible purchase, or even an exchange deal for some saleable books. But always the other had shaken his head, embarrassed by his refusal to part with the girl.

  But now Cecil no longer needed that similar picture, for when the glass on his own misted with condensation, and his frail body trembled with passion, she turned to face him. And came to him.

  He shook with excitement because he had also exacted an overdue revenge upon one who had dominated him for so many years.

  9

  “Michael, I’ve got to have some money!” There was desperation in Sandra’s voice as she came through from the kitchen, saw that her husband was already changed in preparation for his nightly session at the pub.