Psalm 151 (Jason Ford Series)

by Guy N Smith

  “The pleasure of eating out is eating out.” The other ruffled his hair with greasy fingers, surreptitiously wiped them on his trousers, glanced almost guiltily in the direction of the tissues in the wall box.

  “Remember that bloody awful school food?”

  “I certainly do.” Clay’s expression was thoughtful. “Teatime, in particular. Two slices of thick bread, butter scratched on and off, you had to provide your own jam. My favourite was chocolate spread—Mother used to get it from the corner shop. Tea out of the big urn. Funny thing,” he sipped from his polystyrene cup, smacked his lips noisily, “this tastes much the same, I never noticed it before.”

  “It comes out of an urn.”

  “Yes, yes, that must be why.” Cecil was thoughtful for a moment; his eyes seemed to film over. “That painting of yours, James …”

  “Which isn’t for sale or exchange.”

  “No, no, of course not, I would not presume to ask again. But … does it turn you on?”

  Drinkwater winced; the other’s whisper was like a shout. Some youths sitting at the next table jerked their heads round, stared rudely, thought they must have misheard. “It’s very artistic.”

  “I brought a similar one quite recently.” Clay leaned across the table “I’d swear it was the same girl. She’s standing with her back towards you.”

  “How do you know it’s the same one?” Drinkwater fidgeted with embarrassment. The youths were still staring.

  “I know it is.”

  “All right, I’ll take your word for it.”

  “Suppose we go back to my place so you can see for yourself?”

  “I’ve got some postal orders to pack up.”

  “I’d like you to come.” It was almost a plea.

  “Oh, all right, then, but I mustn’t stop long.”

  Clay’s home was less than ten minutes’ walk from Dam Street, a neat bungalow almost hidden behind an untrimmed privet hedge. Cecil was no gardener, and the straggling lawn confirmed that. Indoors there was a meticulous tidiness that bordered on the obsessional, in total contrast to his personal appearance.

  He shrugged himself out of the frayed mac, brushed it with his hand before hanging it on a peg. The carpets were old and worn, vacuumed frequently, and ornaments were placed symmetrically rather than artistically. Books were stacked on the floor in even piles like a young child might build with toy bricks.

  “Well, what do you think of it?” Clay stabbed a finger in the direction of the fireplace, head thrust forward in the manner of some hunting beast which had just scented its prey.

  James Drinkwater stared at the picture. The girl had a kind of arrogance about her, he decided, the way she turned her back and didn’t care whether or not you looked. If she turned you on, that was your fault; she wasn’t interested. She had probably posed with that attitude, bored, only concerned with the hourly rate.

  “It’s the same girl, isn’t it, James?” Affirmative seeking, please say that it is.

  “It could well be.” Not a chance, but if the other chose to think that then it would be cruel to disillusion him.

  “Of course it is. I’m certain of it.”

  Cecil had to be bloody mad to pay seventy-five quid for that! The artist would probably have come down to fifty in a haggle; even then it was overpriced for what it was. Still, everybody to their taste. Drinkwater’s gaze roved the room; it was all a question of what turned you on.

  “I’d’ve given you a hundred for that one of yours,” Clay was still staring fixedly at the girl, willing her to turn around. “Still, I won’t be so rude as to ask you again, James. I couldn’t afford it now, anyway.” He turned away, lifted a pile of books off an armchair. “Do sit down.”

  “I can’t stay long.” Drinkwater lowered himself into the chair, felt the springs sag.

  “Do you remember PJ?” A sudden question, as if he had to forcibly divorce his attention from the painting and needed a diversion.

  “Who could forget him? He was almost as big a bully as Wilson himself. He taught me maths, which is why I failed my O level. You were in that class, weren’t you, Cecil?”

  “Indeed, I was.” A sudden nostalgic anger had Clay’s features suffusing with blood, his eyes blazed. “Do you recall that occasion, James?” His fists clenched, the knuckles whitened. “When he threw that board duster at Tolsen? It missed, hit me in the eye, I had a shiner for a week afterwards. And all he said was, ‘Well, that’ll ensure that you don’t doze off for the rest of the lesson, Clay.’ And he went on to become Headmaster after Wilson retired!”

  “He’s probably dead now.”

  “No, he isn’t, I looked him up in Crockford’s.”

  James sighed, it seemed that his companion looked everybody up in Crockford’s directory.

  “He’s retired, still takes services in the village where he lives when the curate’s on holiday.”

  “I see.”

  “I destroyed the other painting, you know.”

  “Which painting?”

  “The one that hung there!” The finger stabbed again, impatient because its visitor did not remember. “You must have noticed it.”

  “Oh yes, I think I did.”

  “Dreadful, it was; I can’t imagine what possessed my parents to buy it. Perhaps it was given to them by relatives or friends and they hung it up because they were afraid of causing offence.”

  “Possibly.”

  “Didn’t you think the likeness was uncanny? It could even have been a portrait of himself.”

  “Who? PJ?”

  “No, no, no!” Clay banged a fist into his hand. “Nothing like PJ. It was a spit of old Poppleton.”

  “Oh yes, now you mention it, there was a likeness.” Drinkwater had never really looked at the picture in question.

  “It gave me the creeps, it was like he was hanging up there watching your every move. For my parents’ sake, I kept it. But it was after I brought the girl that I knew I couldn’t keep it any longer. It was as though … as though old Herbert Poppleton disapproved of her nakedness.” He gave a short, almost hysterical laugh. “I didn’t just throw it out, James, I slashed it to ribbons with a knife then stuffed it in the dustbin. It’s gone now, thank God—the dustbin men took it away on Thursday, ground it to a pulp in their cart!”

  “Herbert wasn’t a bad old stick, just obsessed with his music and the composers.”

  “He was vile; if he’d been on the teaching staff he would have been worse than Wilson and PJ rolled together.”

  “I got on all right with him.”

  “Did he ever get you to sing … Psalm 151?” The question was direct as if the answer was something for which Clay had been seeking over the last thirty-eight years.

  “What? There isn’t such a psalm. There are only a hundred and fifty psalms.” The other was momentarily taken aback.

  Clay laughed, it became a childish giggle. “Oh, never mind, James. Just a joke. A silly joke. One of old Herbert’s, but if you never heard it, it doesn’t matter. Now, let me make you a cup of tea before you go, if you really are in a rush …”

  “I really must be going.” Drinkwater stood up, fidgeted nervously, “I have to get those orders put up tonight. But feel free to call round tomorrow evening.”

  “I will,” Clay enthused, “Surely, I will. So long as we don’t have to sing Psalm 151.” He laughed, but this time it sounded forced.

  13

  The chief took the Festival security briefing himself, a gathering of both uniformed and CID officers in the conference room at the rear of the Rykneld Street HQ. That in itself was indicative to Ford how seriously the force was taking the killings. Last year Borman had conducted the proceedings; it had just been routine.

  Detective Chief Superintendent John Anson was a stocky, humourless figure up on the platform, the eyes behind those rimless glasses roamed the room as he spoke, missing nobody. If you thought you could hide in the crowd, you were mistaken.

  “We must give priority to musical p
erformances.” Anson glanced briefly at the program in his hand. “Beginning with the blues band in the Arts Centre. Every officer will be detailed specifically, we cannot overlook anything. In particular we must concentrate on those events scheduled to take place in the cathedral itself. We must not presume anything, nothing must be taken for granted; the Festival will be prime time for the killer to strike. A murderer of this nature has an ego; he will go for maximum publicity, press reports to gloat over. We don’t know his motive—in all probability he has none—and that makes it all the more difficult for us. All I can say is maximum vigilance at all times whilst keeping a low profile.”

  For a few seconds the chief’s eyes met Ford’s, held them with a gaze that was expressionless, gave nothing away. Perhaps there was an involuntary commendation for an officer who had succeeded in such a task before, grudging admiration. Or a reminder that past successes counted for nothing.

  Anson’s gaze moved on. If he had intended to make a point then he was satisfied that he had made it. At 44 he was ambitious, this was only a stepping stone; his sights were on a Chief Constable posting, maybe even Commissioner. If there was credit to be taken, he would take it. The one who killed organists offered a swift route to promotion.

  Ford didn’t go to the mess room afterwards with the rest of them. He would learn nothing there. Borman had given him a roving commission, it hadn’t been rescinded; he had no specific instructions for Festival operations. He knew what he had to do and he would do it in his own way.

  * * *

  Michael Corms gleaned some consolation for the fact that he would not be the only organist playing in the cathedral during the Festival. His own role was almost a supporting one, a fill-in for routine services. The prime spot would go to John Weston of international fame for his midday concert on the Wednesday. Weston could be a coup, indeed, for some crazed killer obsessed with organists. Surely an assistant paled into insignificance beside such a big name.

  He had not heard from Ford since the detective had called at the house that evening, Corms had hoped for some kind of confirmation of the promised security arrangements leading up to and throughout the Festival. There were plenty of uniformed police around the city, mostly to deal with the minority hooligan element, which most events attracted.

  Corms had not noticed any police in the Close, possibly that area had been left to the plain clothes department. It wasn’t very reassuring, particularly as he needed to practise in the cathedral during the evenings. He would not stop late, though; he needed to leave himself ample drinking time before the pubs closed.

  “There’s something different about you lately, San.” He looked up from his plate, saw that she was washing up at the sink. “In fact, you’ve been a bit odd for the past few weeks, now that I come to think about it.”

  “Oh?” She said without even turning around. “I can’t say that I’m aware that there’s anything different about me. Whatever do you mean?”

  “You’re … offhand, for want of a better word.”

  “Am I? If I am, then I’m surprised you’ve noticed it because you’re never here.”

  “Nothing’s changed in my routine lately.”

  “You’re right there, it’s been exactly the same ever since we’ve been married. You don’t spend more than an hour a day in the house and at weekends you can always find something to do that doesn’t involve the family. Not that I want you to stop going to the pub or anything like that, Michael.” For Christ’s sake, I don’t know how I’d cope if you started staying home!

  “It was just a thought; maybe I’m mistaken, I’ve got a lot on my mind lately. I’m going to have to start evening practices in the cathedral from tonight. Drinkwater’s bringing the choir back in at seven, and after that I’ll have to go through some pieces on my own.”

  “You won’t be going to the pub, then?”

  “Christ, yes, I want to be away by nine, back home to change and straight out. Just time enough to tuck the kids up before I go.”

  He had to get that bit in. Her lips tightened. It wouldn’t be any different.

  “Julie’s hamster was dead when we got up this morning. Tears all round; we were late for school. I’ll see if I can get her another tomorrow.”

  “Another rat to make a mess in the bedroom scattering its bedding all over the floor,” he grunted.

  “I hoover the mess up so it doesn’t inconvenience you any, Michael.”

  “Isn’t the dog good enough?”

  “She wants a pet of her own, all children do. Ben’s a family pet. And talking of Ben …” She glanced round to where the golden retriever was lying curled up on the mat. “He got out again this morning, through that same hole in the fence which you bodged up last Saturday. I had to go looking for him—he was in the deanery garden. Fortunately, I don’t think anybody noticed.”

  “Well, you’d better have a go at mending the fence yourself, you’d probably make a better job of it than me.” He pushed his empty plate away, scraped his chair back, and stood up. “I’d better get back to the cathedral.” He paused as a sudden thought struck him. “I got chatting to that writer fellow today, San.”

  “Oh, yes?” Sandra’s heart flipped, she found herself clutching the edge of the draining board.

  “Funny sort of bloke, I can’t imagine why he wants to live in the Close. He was mooching in the cathedral, if you ask me he was doing some kind of research. Writes all this nasty stuff, so he told me. You know, blood and gore. Wouldn’t surprise me if it was him that was mutilating the organists!” He laughed contemptuously. “Writing that sort of crap must affect the brain.”

  “What a horrible thing to say, Michael.” She fought to keep herself under control.

  “See you later.” He made for the stairs.

  “I’ll probably be asleep in bed by the time you get home.” she called after him.

  Being asleep, or even feigning it, was preferable to resisting the advances of a drunken husband. Nowadays she felt guilty about sleeping in the same bed as Michael. It was as though she were being unfaithful to Gerry.

  * * *

  Michael Corms wondered why Homer was insistent upon taking the late shifts himself; apart from Needes and Lumby, there were other vergers. The Head Verger’s role was virtually an administrative one, to delegate.

  “Good evening, Mr Corms.” Homer was like a cadaver, standing back in the gloom to allow the assistant organist to pass through the partly open north transept door. “I trust that the choir practice went well. Mr Drinkwater informs me that it did.”

  “It was up to standard.” Corms was uneasy about having the door locked after him, it gave him a trapped feeling, just the two of them imprisoned inside this eerie place. “You can leave me the key if you like, Homer, if you want to get off. I can drop it through your letter box when I leave.”

  “Oh, no, sir!” A stern reprimand that such a thought should even cross the other’s mind. “My duty is to lock and unlock the door, admit or refuse entry depending upon who it is and not to leave the cathedral unattended until – 10:30.”

  “Of course.” Corms wished that the other would not follow on his heels the way he did. Security had obviously been tightened up recently following Lumby’s neglect on the night of Rupert Frame’s murder. “I’ve a few pieces to go through. I want to be away around nine.”

  “Give me a call, sir. I shall be at the desk. I have ample paperwork to keep myself occupied.”

  Michael Corms was decidedly nervous tonight, more so than usual. Logically, he had no reason to be, he reminded himself. The cathedral was secure; there was a man on night duty. No unauthorised persons could gain entrance.

  Unless they were already inside.

  He didn’t like the organ loft, never had; even before Frame’s death it had been a disturbing place. So cold and inhospitable, the lighting over the organ in a huge place of semi-darkness and shadows gave one a sense of being watched. You could be seen without seeing.

  He sat listening for a mo
ment or two before he switched on the organ. Total silence, not even Homer’s echoing footsteps; the Verger was probably already seated at his desk by the west doors, immersed in his paperwork. Corms listened for that familiar hollow cough, like a death rattle, a nervous habit of the other’s unless he had a bronchial complaint. There was none.

  Michael Corms consulted his schedule; they had already practised Handel’s I Know That My Redeemer Liveth earlier, he ought to run through it again. Also Psalms 41-43, they would be needed for Choral evensong on the first day of the Festival. Most of all he needed to work on Elgar’s Serenade for String Orchestra; Rupert Frame would have played that on the third night, it wasn’t an easy piece.

  He had stepped into a dead man’s shoes.

  He wasn’t playing well, he was aware of that. Homer would be listening with a critical ear, making comparisons. ‘Herbert Poppleton was the greatest, you know, a legend in his own lifetime. Nobody will ever match him’.

  Corms paused, listened to the strains of Elgar dying slowly away up in the roof. It was as if they had penetrated the cathedral spire, rumbled their way right up to the top and had become trapped there. It seemed an eternity before the silence returned. And still Homer did not walk or cough.

  A noise. So faint that it was barely perceptible, like a scraping shuffle. Corms tensed, listened intently. It came again. Stopped. He trembled.

  Perhaps it was a mouse—there were bound to be mice, even in the cathedral. He thought it came from the steps leading up to the organ loft, peered into the semi-darkness. It was impossible to see, the shadows played tricks with you, you thought that you saw something and then it melted away.

  He didn’t really have to practise late, yet he did. There was a lengthy choir practice tomorrow which would take up most of the morning, followed by a sung Eucharist. He had to get that Elgar piece right, and time was running out on him.

  One note but the unidentified sound beat him to it; a split second before the organ music drowned it out, but it was enough to bring Corms up out of his seat. A mute cry of terror, cowering, his arms flung up to protect his head from whatever lurked in the darkness of the balcony.