Psalm 151 (Jason Ford Series)

by Guy N Smith

  He has every reason to be proud of his achievements. Ten years ago this place had been a tatty three-pump filling station, the only building a shanty cigarettes and sweets kiosk. He had worked it alone, seven days a week, seven in the morning till ten at night, built it up to what it was now. His initial investment had been hard work and the determination to succeed. He had succeeded; last year his turnover was in excess of three million. Even the recession had not held him back; the secret was, he permitted himself a smug half smile, selling expensive cars to wealthy people. You didn’t make anything out of old bangers, all you got were comebacks and refunds; the profit margin wasn’t high enough on middle of the range cars, and those customers were the ones who suffered in a recession. But executives and professional people always had the money to buy what they wanted, regardless.

  A movement caught his eye; somebody was crossing the road. A small, well-built man with short, dark hair. Millington eyed the other’s attire; Mercedes customers often dressed casual, they didn’t need to impress. But there was something about this guy that didn’t slot him into that category. You could smell ‘em when you’d been in the business long enough. Certainly not a rep, neither did he have the arrogance of bureaucracy. Somewhere in between. He gave up guessing and waited.

  “Detective Sergeant Ford.” The other’s handshake was firm. “I wonder if you could spare me a few moments, Mr Millington?”

  “Sure, come on into the office, Sergeant.” The garage owner hid his disappointment; he would have liked to have sold another car before the end of the month to maintain the upward trend on the target graph on the wall. Still, there was another week to go yet. In all probability his visitor was investigating a car theft.

  “How can I help you, Sergeant?” He sat down at his desk; it always gave one an advantage, like a headmaster interviewing a pupil about some minor misdemeanour.

  “A long shot, really.” Ford smiled disarmingly, knew only too well the psychological disadvantage in not being offered a seat. “Maybe no shot at all and I’m just chasing shadows. I believe you attended the Cathedral School in the late sixties?”

  “You know more about me than I do.” A preparatory and public school education was Millington’s vulnerability. It was a good background against which to sell high-class cars; it put him on an equal footing with his illustrious clients. It was something about which he liked to talk, but he never boasted. “How do you know that?” Curiosity prevailed.

  “I’ve been lent a copy of the pupils’ handbook.” The slim volume was produced, held aloft. “Actually, I’m attempting to tidy up a few points in the Poppleton murder.” And for Christ’s sake, don’t go checking me out.

  “I thought the case was closed—the guy committed suicide.”

  “Like I said, I’m tidying up loose ends.” It sounded vague. “We need a profile of the victims as well as the murderers. For the files. We use the information for future murders.”

  “I see. Jobs for the boys.”

  Ford didn’t take the bait, he rode the jibe. “That’s not up to me, I just obey orders.”

  “Okay.” Millington leaned back in his chair, clasped his hands behind his head. “What is it you want to know, Sergeant?”

  “Does Psalm 151 mean anything to you, Mr Millington?”

  Millington jerked upright and his hands came away from his head. A momentary expression of shock before he regained his composure. There was only a slight tremor in his voice when he said, “So you’ve heard about that, eh?”

  “Yes.” Ford sat down without being invited to do so. And waited.

  “Everybody knew about what went on.” Millington was staring at a printout on his desk. “But nobody ever did anything about it. I think maybe even Wilson himself knew. But Herbert was a legend, a law unto himself. Unless a parent had complained—and to my knowledge none ever did—they were prepared to turn a blind eye to it, pretend that it never happened.”

  “You were in the choir yourself, Mr Millington?”

  “That’s right, and you want to know if Dirty Herbert ever did anything to me?”

  “You don’t have to tell me unless you want to.”

  “He tried once. I refused. Next term I wasn’t in the choir anymore; Herbie claimed my voice had broken and that I was no longer any use to the choir.”

  “This is confidential.” Ford leaned his elbows on the desk. “But do you know any boys he actually did do anything to? A name or two, perhaps?”

  “It’s been a long time.” Millington pouted his lips in deep thought. “Christ, I can barely remember who was in the choir at the time.”

  “Run your eyes down this list, see if anything clicks.” The detective pushed the open booklet across the desk.

  “Now, let me see.” The other held it at a distance, almost as though he was afraid to read the printed names. “Widdowson … God, he was a creep! And Elliott-Walsh, he went on to become Head Boy. I wonder what he’s doing now …”

  Ford watched, waited.

  “Clay, he was weird. And Drinkwater—now Herbie took a liking to him, that much I can tell you. Whether there was anything between them, I wouldn’t know. But Drinkwater went on to become Head Choirboy. Apart from that, I’m afraid I can’t tell you much, Sergeant. It would be wrong of me to surmise.”

  “Of course.” Ford took the register back, closed it, and slipped it into his pocket. “You remember Homer, doubtless?”

  “Who could forget him?” An uneasy laugh. “Herbie’s batman, we used to call him. Herbie got him the job, the Dean and Chapter didn’t like him; we used to reckon that he only stayed because of Poppleton’s protection. Why, for Christ’s sake? He used to creep about the place like Frankenstein’s monster resurrected, the boys were shit scared of him. I heard that he had a big row with Herbie over something and if Herbie hadn’t been retiring, old Homer would have gone. But he’s still there now. I went to one of the Festival performances in the cathedral and the old bugger doesn’t look any different from when I was a boy. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help to you, Sergeant.”

  “You’ve been a great help.” Ford scraped his chair back as he stood up. “I’d appreciate it if you’d treat my visit as confidential, too.”

  “Naturally.” Millington walked outside with him. “Myself, I’d say the Frame boy killed Herbie because the old boy was a representation of his father, then killed his old man because he hated him. Drugs are to blame, I’d like to see them bring in mandatory death penalty for drug peddling like they’ve got in Thailand. These drug barons are the real murderers; the addicts are just their pawns.”

  “Maybe.” Ford made a dash for his car through the sudden rainstorm. In the distance, dark clouds were hovering over the cathedral spires. He shuddered involuntarily, a gut feeling that sent an icy trickle right the way up his spine and into the nape of his neck. Ominous. Like death had not deserted that holy place.

  He reminded himself that if there was another murder then they were up against a serial killer. And serial killers didn’t stop until they were caught.

  21

  Michael Corms had never been for a walk around Stowe Pool in all the time in which he had lived in the city. He had never had the slightest ambition to stroll the perimeter of the thirteen acres of water. Certainly not after dark on a rain-swept autumn evening.

  He had not come here specifically. Indeed, he was scarcely aware that he stood on the cinder track atop the grassy banks, the wind rippling the surface and creating waves that lapped the stony shore.

  He wore no topcoat, was dressed in the charcoal grey suit which he wore to the cathedral each day. He had not been home to change after Choral evensong. He had not been home at all. He wasn’t sure whether he would ever go home again.

  He stood there in the darkness of early evening, a stiff westerly wind billowing his jacket, flapping his tie. He had an urge to scream his anger into the night wind, to pour forth obscenities, to vent his uncontrolled rage on the elements.

  He didn’t.

>   He wanted to cry, his eyes burned with the dryness of sorrow.

  The tears would not come.

  He had just walked away from the cathedral aimlessly, head bowed, feet dragging. He had no destination in mind; he would just keep on walking until he collapsed with fatigue. He was not used to physical exercise, his leg muscles ached already and he was breathing hard. And the farthest he had come in that half hour was barely a quarter of a mile to where the old boathouse stood on the western shore of the lake.

  He closed his eyes, clenched his fists so that his fingernails dug deeply into the palms of his hands. In some strange, masochistic way, the pain gave him relief from his mental agonies.

  When he had played the final psalm, switched off the organ and its lights, he had been in a relaxed frame of mind. He had even considered walking into town for a quick pint at The Scales before going home.

  Within a quarter of an hour he was a broken, totally disillusioned man.

  He had even contemplated suicide. Not seriously, but the thought had been there. He considered drowning, walking out into the shelving pool until the water came above his head. But he knew that he would instinctively strike out and swim back to shore, however much he wanted to die.

  He had a small penknife in his pocket; he could slash his wrists. Except that he did not have the courage, he had never been able to stand the sight of blood. Only alcohol had prevented him from having nightmares over Rupert Frame’s murder.

  An overdose of Paracetemol would have been painless, maybe even soothing. He had read somewhere that eight tablets were fatal. Only he didn’t have any, and the chemist in town closed at five thirty. Which ruled that out.

  Michael Corms accepted that he wasn’t going to die. Not yet, anyway.

  He hated his wife. Oh, Jesus Christ, how he hated Sandra! He hated Charles Homer even more; he wished that it had been somebody else who had told him. Because he wouldn’t have believed anybody other than the Head Verger.

  Michael had switched off the lights and was making his way toward the steps that led down from the organ loft when he became aware that somebody was standing in the shadows watching him. He started visibly, almost cried out loud.

  “What the devil …”

  “I’m sorry, Mr Corms, sir, did I startle you?”

  “Yes, you did, Homer!” An angry retort, his voice trembled with relief as much as fear when he identified the watcher on the balcony. “I do wish you wouldn’t creep about like that.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I was always taught to tread quietly in the cathedral so as not to disturb others. A mark of respect, I’m sure you’ll agree. I’m too set in my ways to change now, sir.”

  “I suppose so. Anyway, I’ve finished for the day, so you can lock the door behind me, Homer.”

  “Sir, I wonder if …” The other was uncharacteristically hesitant. “If I might have a word with you.”

  “Can’t it wait until tomorrow?” The organist had already decided upon that pint of beer; temptation called him urgently, and he had no wish to delay his craving discussing petty cathedral matters.

  “It has waited too long already, Mr Corms.” There was a sinister, almost gloating ring to the other’s voice. “And seeing as you have been appointed organist, I feel it is my duty to bring it to your attention, both in the interests of yourself, the Dean and Chapter, and the residents of the Close. Perhaps by informing you, I might be in time to avert a scandal that could be to the detriment of your position, sir. The cathedral has suffered enough already in recent months.”

  Michael Corm’s heartbeat stepped up a gear; there was a sinking sensation in his stomach. “Scandal? What scandal?”

  “May I have your promise that I might remain anonymous, that the information which I am about to pass on to you will not be linked with my name, sir?”

  “Yes.” A hoarse whisper. For God’s sake, say what you’ve got to say and let me get out of here!

  “I have agonized over telling you, sir. I hoped that perhaps somebody else would spare me the painful task but I can only conclude at this stage that nobody else knows about it. I pray to God that they don’t, and that the matter may be sorted out privately and thereby prevent any vicious gossip.”

  “Tell me!” A shouted whisper.

  “Very well, sir, but please understand that it is painful for me to tell you.”

  “Go on.”

  “Sir … I don’t quite know how to put this, it is certain to be a terrible shock to you.”

  For a second, Michael Corms experienced a sensation of vertigo, as though he might fall from the balcony, plunge down the steps to the hard floor below. Instinctively, he clutched at the rail, hung on. “For God’s sake, what is it?”

  “It gives me great sadness to inform you,” Homer paused, took a deep breath, his voice dropped to a scarcely audible whisper.

  “To inform you … inform … you …”

  Corms almost screamed at the echoes that threatened to drown the other’s words.

  “Your wife is having an adulterous affair.”

  Corms wanted to laugh; he managed to check his initial reaction. An expellation of pent-up breath that sounded vaguely like the organ pipes behind him. Then anger, but he managed to control that, too. Eventually, he said, “I beg your pardon?”

  “You seem to have misunderstood me, sir, but I speak from my own observations. Your dear wife is seeing another man and I have reason to believe that sexual intercourse is taking place between them.”

  “That’s crazy, it’s a wicked lie. Sandra wouldn’t …”

  “I’m afraid that she already has, sir. I have reason to believe that it has been going on since before the Festival.”

  “Prove it!”

  “Prove … it … prove …”

  “That I can do, sir, if you wish me to.”

  “Who … who is this man?”

  “A writer of scurrilous fiction, sir.”

  “Norman? No, that’s impossible, he’s married …”

  “So is your wife, sir. Between them they have plotted deceit with unbelievable cunning. A job created for her, a smoke screen for their fornication.”

  “It’s a lie!”

  “Alas, I wish it was, sir, but unfortunately it is true. As I told you, intercourse has taken place, in the bedroom of Mr Norman’s house.”

  “You can’t possibly substantiate such a wild accusation.”

  “Indeed, I can, Mr Corms.” Homer half turned, pointed towards the south transept. “Witness that small wooden door, sir, which is kept locked at all times. Only I carry the key. Behind it lies the staircase that leads up into the main spire and offers unsurpassed views of the city and its surrounding landscape. At intervals there are windows from which these views may be observed. One day in July, I happened to be up those stairs and I chanced a look out of a window. I assure you, sir, it was not my intent to look down upon the windows of the houses below. An accidental glimpse. The naked lady’s face happened to be turned in my direction, and I could not help but recognise her as your wife. She was naked and enthusiastically engaged in the delights of extramarital sex. As was Mr Norman.”

  Michael Corms stared; his expression was no longer one of disbelief. He felt sick; he thought he might be.

  “Far be it for me to spy upon such activities.” The other’s fingers entwined nervously. “But I considered it my duty to ascertain whether or not this was what is termed an ‘affair’. I hasten to add that, on the afternoons of July 29th, August 4th, and August 7th, I again saw the said couple engaged in sexual activities. I am no voyeur; I merely looked quickly and came away. I made a note of the dates in my diary.” He fumbled in a trouser pocket. “Of which I am happy to show you, should you wish to see them.”

  “No, I’ll take your word for it, Homer.” Michael’s mouth was dry, but his thoughts were no longer on a pint of ale. You shit bastard, you’ve just ruined my life!

  “If I can be of any further help to you, sir …”

  Corms shook hi
s head. For God’s sake, don’t tell me anymore. Gossip he would have scorned, maybe wild threats of an action for slander. Anybody else and he would have dismissed it as troublemaking tittle-tattle. Anybody … except Homer. Because Homer would have checked and double-checked, left no room for mistaken identity.

  Sandra was having it off with that writer bloke, and the guy had had the cheek to walk around the cathedral most days lately. Doubtless the other was checking on the organist’s whereabouts so that he could safely indulge in illicit sex with Michael’s wife.

  Corms staggered down the steps, lurched his way towards the north transept door. Numbed, he staggered out into the squally dusk, turned right at the top of the steps and headed blindly in the direction of Stowe Pool.

  Now he stood there in the black shadow cast by the old boathouse. All around him the stormy night sky reflected the city lights, a kaleidoscope of colours. The wind brought with it the incessant sound of traffic, gusted it away again. People going about their business, oblivious to his own plight. They wouldn’t care even if they knew. Nobody knew except himself. And Homer.

  You bastard!

  You bitch!

  Never once had he thought of returning home and confronting Sandra. Because she wouldn’t lie, and he would have preferred to hear lies and to believe them.

  She had no reason to do it. Had she? He gave her enough money for her needs, anything over and above that would have been extravagant. The insurance had written off her car, soon they would come and take it away. She didn’t need it; she could walk the children to school. The exercise would do her good.

  It was a man’s right to go out in the evenings and a wife’s duty to remain home to mind the kids. She didn’t have anything to complain about. She had a roof over her head, food on the table; even a television, and that was a luxury, not a need.

  For Christ’s sake, why had she done this? He gave her sex. For a long time now she had been refusing it, so she hadn’t wanted it. Sex was a husband’s right, a wife’s duty. She had shirked her duty, he had not complained unduly.