by Guy N Smith
“I doubt it.” Her tone said that she hoped he would not return early. “You’ll have to excuse the mess, I’m afraid, I’ve only just got the children off to school.”
“That’s fine.” He shrugged himself out of his damp coat, hung it over a chair by the Rayburn.
She reached down a caddy of tea bags, poured boiling water into the teapot. That was when she realised just how devoid of conversation she was. Anybody else, even a casual acquaintance, she would have been giving them a detailed run-down of the morning’s rush to school. Words would not come; she could not think of anything to say. She regretted having asked him inside but it was too late now.
“I run a bookshop, you know.” He accepted a mug of tea, set it down on the table beside him.
“I had heard.” Christ, what else could you say?
“I carry a wide range to suit all tastes. You ought to come and have a browse sometime.”
“I’m not a booky person.” End of the conversation. She turned round, slopping her tea because her nervousness had suddenly changed up a gear. It was his eyes, the way she had caught him looking at her, an intensity that bordered on lust. No, it couldn’t be, it was her imagination. In all probability, he was criticising her. What was it Michael had called her the other night after he came home from the pub? A fat old trollop. Her lips tightened with anger; maybe James Drinkwater was thinking those same words. “I have to go out in twenty minutes, I’m meeting my sister in town.”
He nodded, took a drink of tea. “One of my regrets.”
“What?” Insistent. Frightened.
“I always wanted a sister. I had two brothers. I probably still have, but I haven’t heard from either for at least twenty years.”
Again, words eluded her. She wished that the phone would ring, a diversion. If it did, she would make an excuse to leave now. But it didn’t.
“You must get bored in the daytime, with Michael in the cathedral and the children at school.” He had heard about her affair with that writer; he wondered if she would mention it.
“Yes.” Oh Jesus Christ, I meant ‘no.’
“Daytime is often boring for me, too, particularly at this time of year when there are few tourists in the city. Some days I don’t get a single customer in the shop.”
“Oh, I see.”
“I’m pleased for your husband.”
“I feel guilty about it; he wouldn’t have got the job if it hadn’t been for …” Her voice faded, she looked away.
“A terrible business.” She knew that he was looking at her in that way again. This time his gaze was focused on her breasts. “I just hope they catch whoever did it.”
“I hope so, too.” She searched for an excuse that might enable her to leave right now, leave her tea undrunk on the table. No, not an emergency—that might mean one of the children. Michael didn’t come into it.
“Do you go to the cathedral services?”
“No, never. I didn’t even go during the Festival when Michael was playing.” She added, “Because I have to stay with the kids after school.”
She sensed him now, a force that came at her, goose pimpled her flesh like he was touching her up with those long bony fingers of his. Her mouth went dry as if he had just kissed her. There was another feeling that had her wanting to heave. No, not that! Because I know what you’re thinking, you dirty old …
“What’s that?” His heard jerked round in the direction of the window.
“What?” Any diversion was welcome.
“It sounds like a police car. Or an ambulance.”
Now she heard it, sirens that wailed like demons risen from the Pit, a sound that grew in intensity, became deafening in the time it took to recognise them. The noise almost certainly belonged to one of the emergency services.
“Good God!” James Drinkwater was at the window, his back to her, staring out. “Now, what on earth’s going on out there?”
Heavy rain spots slashed the windowpane, streaked the glass and reduced visibility. Sandra stood on the balls of her feet, trying to see over and past her visitor. No way was she going close to him.
“What is it?” she asked from a distance.
“Well …” He craned his neck, rubbed at a patch of condensation. “There’s an ambulance pulled up by the chain link fencing. A police car. No, two. Come and look for yourself.”
“No, just tell me.”
“Uniformed officers, two with guns. A couple of plain clothes policemen. They’re all heading towards the cathedral. Something must have happened in there.”
“I have to be going, Mr Drinkwater.”
“There’s more police arriving now.”
”Do you think you could watch from outside, please?”
“There’s a crowd gathering, the police are ordering them to keep back.”
“Mr Drinkwater, I have to leave. Now!”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” He turned around and it was as if a film had glazed his eyes, that momentarily he had forgotten her presence in the room. “Of course, how rude of me. Yes, by all means, I’ll go and join the crowd outside.”
Sandra followed him out, slammed the door behind her. It was raining sharply and she had forgotten her coat, but no way was she going back indoors. In case he followed her.
She turned away, began to walk fast, fought the urge to run. Once she looked back to make sure that James Drinkwater wasn’t following her. There was no sign of him; the growing crowd of people had swallowed him up.
She was frightened, terrified. Not of whatever was happening back there, armed police running into the cathedral that was no concern of hers. Her fear was of a man who had gained entry into her house on a trivial pretence and then committed an act of voyeurism with the most penetrating eyes she had ever looked into. It was as if they had X-ray properties, the ability not just to see through her clothes but into her mind. He had lusted for her, not just for her body but for her soul.
She slowed her pace, felt sick again. It was just like they had had intercourse; she had been mentally raped and her flesh felt dirty as a result.
It was with no small amount of relief that she mounted the steps up to Gerry Norman’s front door and leaned on the bell.
Somewhere behind her a police hailer was ordering the crowd to move back.
18
Borman’s expression said ‘it’s him’ when the call came through. Aloud, he was a complete professional as he gave orders for an armed backup. The report said that a man with a knife was at bay in the cathedral but you never ruled out the possibility of a concealed gun. You didn’t take chances.
He told them to pick up Ford on the way. For a lot of reasons. He wanted Ford to be in a the kill. As a spectator. He didn’t want him taking any credit for this.
Ford could have drawn weaponry, but he didn’t. It would be a talk-down job; it might be over in a few minutes, or it could take hours. There was no pattern to sieges.
It took them three minutes to reach the cathedral. The uniformed officers had already cleared the area in front of the west doors; a patrol car blocked the Dam Street end.
Ford stood back; this was no time to make his presence felt. An ambulance arrived, parked behind the police vehicles. Detective Inspector Finch used the hailer, signalled to a couple of constables to enforce his order to the swelling crowd to move back.
Several of the vergers were grouped outside the west doors. Ford noticed that Homer was in conversation with one of the canons. There was no sign of either bishop or dean; it wasn’t their scene. This was bad press for the Church, they would need to play it down. Strangely, he felt sorry for them because it had come to this.
“We have to adopt a low profile.” Borman walked across to where the armed unit stood waiting. “According to reports, the son of the murdered organist has gone crazy. He has a history of drugs.” So don’t look for normal reactions, Ford thought . “As far as we can ascertain, he only has a knife. Inspector Finch will negotiate with him. Right, let’s go in.”
Fo
rd brought up the rear, wished for a lot of reasons Borman hadn’t called him in on this. In a way he was the fall guy. We just want you to watch us succeed where you failed, Ford. You’ve been on the investigation three months and you haven’t come up with anything constructive. In the end, we had to do your job for you.
It’s him—we’re going to make sure it is. Just like Dawson did in the old days. Get me a confession and a conviction. Chief Dawson got his kicks from closing files; Borman was emulating him. You built up a formidable track record and you got a top job. It all came down to ambition in the end.
There were eight of them in the cathedral, Ford did a head count; Borman and Finch, two armed officers, two uniformed, Sergeant Clifford, and himself. He knew he didn’t figure in the operation; he had been brought along as a scapegoat. They’d work it that way: if anything was to go wrong, blame DS Ford.
The lighting was full on, but there were still dark corners and shadows. The sculptured head of a long dead bishop followed their progress with stone eyes. You have entered the House of God.
The echoes went to work on their footsteps, simulated a funeral march. Somebody’s going to die; it could be any one of you.
Ford saw that Mike Clifford nodded, a barely perceptible bow to the altar beyond the choir stalls; the DS was a religious man, they shouldn’t have brought him along.
They halted, waited for the echoes to fade. Ford sensed the uneasiness that every one of them felt, even DCI Borman. They had entered a sacred place, they would violate its sanctity if they had to. There had already been one violent death here, up in that organ loft.
Their eyes were uplifted; they followed the balcony along to where the organ pipes stood like outdated ack-ack barrels trained vertically in anticipation of a Luftwaffe raid. So sinister in the half-light.
There was nobody in sight up there.
Finch cleared his throat, it rasped up in the rafters. He was still clutching the hailer, glanced almost foolishly at it. He wouldn’t need it in here; a whisper was good enough.
The armed officers had their pistols trained on the organ loft, .38s, left hands gripping right wrists, stoic expressions. Automatons of the law.
Waiting.
“Police!”
Finch’s echo came back. “Ple … ease.”
No movement, no sound from up there.
“Throw down your knife and walk slowly down the steps, arms raised!”
No answer.
The marksmen were synonymous with the statues in the aisles, Ford had the unreal feeling that they would stay there forever if nobody ordered them to move. The stone bishop watched intently, maybe he prayed.
Borman was uneasy, fidgeted with his fingers. Far rather would he have faced abuse; threats had a positive situation. There wasn’t anybody up there; the Frame boy had run off whilst Lumby was raising the alarm. He could be hiding anywhere in here. Or outside. He would have been very foolish to remain up there in the organ loft. They had to be sure, though.
“Show yourself. Thrown down your knife and come down.”
Down … down … down …
Somebody was going to have to go up there. It would be one of the marksmen, the other covering him; Ford knew that they wouldn’t let him go. You’re only here to watch.
Behind them a door banged, echoed woodenly. Even from that distance they felt the gust of autumnal wind. Six heads turned; the marksmen might not have heard, there was not so much as a flicker of those steely eyes that remained trained aloft.
A woman’s voice, verging on hysteria. “Let go of me! My boy—what have you done to my boy?”
Homer held Philippa Frame by the wrist in a beauty and the beast struggle. Desperation lent strength to the kick that brought a grunt from his lips, made him relax his grip. It was enough for her to pull free, then she was running, panic on her features, fleeing down the nave. A uniformed constable made as if to pursue her, changed his mind. Beyond the vestibule was CID territory.
It was Ford who caught her, a grip that was both strong and gentle. Sympathetic.
“You can’t go up there, Mrs Frame. We’re not sure that Adrian’s up there, anyway.” Words that succeeded where force might have failed. He felt her sag against him, heard her begin to sob.
Still the armed officers did not glance round.
She shrieked, “He didn’t do it, I know he didn’t!”
“I know he did …”
Liar! The echoed mocked accusingly from up above.
“Adrian wouldn’t kill his own father!” she yelled back at them.
“Kill his own father …”
Everybody was waiting again.
“Show yourself!” Finch’s impatience came through. “Just let us see you!” For Christ’s sake.
The marksmen appeared to tense. A psychic’s challenge to the unseen: you might see it, you might not.
Ford wondered how long the cathedral had been left unsupervised between Lumby’s terrified exit and the arrival of the vergers. A minute would have been long enough for Adrian Frame to run down the steps and hide elsewhere. Or flee outside. He could be anywhere by now.
There was no longer anybody up there. It figured.
Borman continued to fidget, bumped the hailer rhythmically against his thigh, he should have remembered to leave it back in the car. Sergeant Mike Clifford traced a wet tongue along dry lips. If the marksmen’s arms were tiring, they showed no outward sign of fatigue, not so much as a sideways slip of their eyeballs to check on the chief.
Sooner or later somebody had to go up there. Sooner rather than later.
Ford felt how Philippa Frame shook, a build-up of grief and despair that would have to erupt. Sooner or later.
Her damp hand clasped his own, she was holding on to him, she no longer needed his restraining grip. He tried to see her face but her head was bowed. The uniformed police and the vergers stood in a huddle at the end of the nave. Everybody was just watching.
Everybody was watching everybody else.
Borman said flatly, “We’d better go on up.”
One of the armed officers lowered his pistol; if he felt relief, not a flicker of an eyelid revealed it.
There was another moment of waiting and watching one another, and that was when Philippa Frame tore herself free of Ford, moving with a speed that belied her slumped posture, deceived them all. A sorrowing, stooped woman was transformed into an unbelievable athlete; with a swivel and a bound, she took the steps up to the balcony two at a time.
“Stop her!” There was a ring of futility to Borman’s shout; he could have caught her as she passed him, pulled her back. Instead he looked to the armed officers, Finch, Clifford, and finally to Ford.
Ford moved ahead of them all, but by the time he gained the bottom step, Philippa was at the top. She turned just once to look back, and then she was lost from view.
Ford did not hurry—there was no point. There was nobody up there for her to find, no wayward son brandishing a knife and cursing his dead father.
Nobody at all.
The scream rent the silence, was magnified all the way up to the roof, seemed to vibrate the architecture. The watching statues seemed to shake with rage at this sudden sacrilege. The vergers at the end of the nave huddled closer; there was safety in numbers.
Ford was halfway up the steps when he saw the figure rise up from behind the balustrade of the organ loft; blood smeared features that were crunched into an expression of shock and disbelief. A female face was barely recognisable as that belonging to Philippa Frame. Her mouth was shaping up for a second scream but her vocal chords were powerless to release it. Trying to force it, arms beating the air, fingers dripping blood and sprinkling it in all directions, spotting the organ pipes scarlet, splashing the watchers below.
It seemed an aeon before she finally got the scream out.
Ford didn’t make it to the top. Philippa Frame met him two steps down, barred his way; there was no room to pass. She was holding on to the sides, barely capable of remaini
ng upright. She swayed. Any second she would collapse.
She was mouthing incoherently, quivering, distraught words. A hand went to her mouth, came away again, left bloody finger marks on her face.
“My boy.” Her eyes were closed; her lips were streaked with blood. Her hands were held aloft, her slippery, scarlet fingers told their own tale. Somehow she still stood, defying Ford and those below who were crowding onto the steps.
Ford stretched out a supporting hand. She ignored it, bared her teeth at him. A fist clenched, but she had not the strength to use it.
“They did this to him.” A depreciative wave that incorporated the interior of the cathedral, the Close, the watchers below. “All of them, all of you. He was hounded so that in the end he turned on himself in the same way that somebody turned on his father. Oh my God, he’s done it to himself!”
Ford’s reactions were fast enough to catch her as she fell.
19
Ford had no official reason for calling on Cecil Clay now. In fact, the chief would doubtless go ape shit if he found out.
The file wasn’t officially closed; at least, not until after the coroner’s report was received. It was doubtful whether it would ever be proven that Adrian Frame had killed both his father and Poppleton. For the moment the incident room would be manned by just one uniformed officer. No calls had been received since the suicide. Everything would gradually be wound down, an unsatisfactory outcome. It was one of those untidy investigations, from here on it did not warrant manpower.
Ford’s hunch, that nagging feeling that everybody was going for the obvious, had not gone away. The chief had his scapegoat, dead men unable to protest their innocence. Anson wanted the case closed, another statistic in his favour; he wouldn’t thank anybody for trying to reopen it. From now on Ford must play it carefully, in his own time, adopt a low profile. The repercussions could find him back in uniform if anything went wrong.
“This is a surprise, Officer,” Clay answered the door after a lengthy delay. Ford might have given up and gone away except that his acute hearing had detected movements somewhere in the bungalow. The other wore a plaid bathrobe over blue and white striped pyjamas, his wet hair lay uncharacteristically flat on his head. He had either been bathing or showering.
