by Guy N Smith
There was no reason for her adultery. He couldn’t understand it, it didn’t make sense.
He found himself sheltering from the wind behind the boathouse. Rain slanted, pattered on the brickwork. He shivered; he could not stay here indefinitely. But he wasn’t going back. No way.
The wind dropped briefly, a lull. He thought he heard a sound, like cinders crunching underfoot. He listened. Softer footfalls, like somebody had moved off the path onto the top of the grassy bank.
Somebody was coming.
His reaction was to hide, to press himself flat against the wall the way they did in movies. He had no reason to, so he stood where he was, stared into the orange-tinted gloom.
He saw a shape, it merged into the silhouette of a man briefly before the shadows swallowed it, and he found himself tensing. He almost called out, “Who’s there?”
He tried to listen but the wind gusted, buffeted the small building. It was maybe somebody like himself, out walking because he had problems. Perhaps this was a good place to bring your problems. In which case he would ignore the other, pretend that he wasn’t there.
Except that whoever it was stood less than a couple of yards away from himself, a faceless outline in the darkness.
Watching him.
Maybe if Sandra hadn’t done what she had, then Michael would have been apprehensive, even scared. Right now there was no room for fear in his tortured mind. Just annoyance because he wanted to be left alone.
“Who are you?” It came out as a whisper, the wind gusted it away. Probably the other did not even hear. If he did, then he did not answer.
It was Homer. Of course. For some reason the other had followed him here. Perhaps the Verger had something else to tell him which he had overlooked.
I don’t want to bloody well hear it.
Or else Homer was worried about the organist, had had second thoughts about the wisdom of his revelations. Maybe he feared lest Corms might try to take his own life and his conscience had prompted him to follow the distraught man.
I don’t have the courage to kill myself.
“Corms?”
The name came out of the night, had a mocking rather than an enquiring ring to it.
Michael did not answer; instead he stepped out on to the path in full view of the other. Be seen without seeing. He waited for the other to step out of the shadows.
“Shall we sing Psalm 151, Corms?”
Michael did not reply because he did not understand.
And when the lights of the distant city fell upon the face of the stranger, it made no difference whether or not the organist understood.
Because by then it was too late.
22
Sandra was shocked, not grief stricken. There was a subtle difference and Ford sensed it; it figured with the rumours he had heard. She wouldn’t have wanted it this way, but that was how it had worked out and, although she would probably never admit it to herself, it solved a lot of problems.
“The children are staying with Louise.” She was white faced, her hand shook as she passed a cup of tea across the table to where the detective was seated. “Louise is my sister. We’re very close.”
“How are the children?”
“They’re okay.” She made a brave attempt to smile. “Like me, I don’t suppose it’s really sunk in yet. I guess at a time like this you’re glad your children weren’t close to their father. It seems a terrible thing to say, but he never really gave them much, if any, of his time. After tea he used to go straight to the pub, usually didn’t come back till midnight. Or after, sometimes.”
“We’re going to give you police protection,” Ford said. “Just a safety measure. I don’t think it will be necessary, but we can’t take chances. Three organists have been killed but I don’t think the killer is interested in their families.”
“I’d rather you didn’t.” She became uneasy.
“Don’t worry, you won’t even notice. We did the same for Mrs Frame, and I’m sure she never even guessed. Just an officer checking the Close at night, keeping an eye on the house. It’ll probably be left to the patrols. The police do that when somebody tells them that they’re going away on holiday, a car will just drive by, slow down, take a look. Routine measures.”
“I’m hoping to move out soon.” Sandra dropped her eyes as she spoke. “Anyway, the diocese will be wanting the house.” When they appoint the next victim.
“Oh, I see.”
“I’m not quite sure when,” she added, and her expression said ‘I hope you’re not going to ask where.’
“It’s probably a good idea, Mrs Corms. Have you any idea why your husband should decide to take a walk round Stowe Pool on a dark, rainy night without even a coat to protect him?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea.” Her reply was curt. “There was no way of understanding Michael—he did the strangest of things. Mostly, though, he just drank. It could be that he’d been drinking heavily at lunchtime, had a hangover and wanted some fresh air. I just don’t know, I don’t suppose anybody ever will.”
“He was all right earlier in the day?”
“I don’t know. He was still in bed when I took the kids to school and he’d gone to the cathedral by the time I got back. He didn’t come home for lunch; he always got something to eat out. Along with his booze. I know he sometimes went to The Scales. You could always ask there if you really want to know.”
Ford nodded. “So you didn’t speak to him at all yesterday?”
“No. Usually we only conversed at mealtimes in the evenings. I can truthfully say that I haven’t see him for more than an hour a day, except for holidays, during the whole time we’ve been married.”
“I believe Homer, the Head Verger, was the last person to see your husband alive, Mrs Corms. One of my colleagues questioned Homer and he said that Michael was fine, in good spirits. So for some unknown reason, Michael decided upon a walk around the pool, an impromptu decision. Either the killer followed him from the cathedral, which seems most likely, or else waited for him by the boathouse. In which case he would have had to have known that Michael was going there. Or it could have been a pre-arranged meeting. I would say categorically that your husband knew his killer.”
“I really can’t help you on that score, Sergeant.”
“No, I don’t suppose you can.” Ford looked thoughtful. “Tell me, Mrs Corms, did Michael ever invite members of the choir back home? Or, to your knowledge, meet them out anywhere outside cathedral hours?”
“Certainly he never invited them back here. His social life revolved around the pubs. If you’re implying …”
“I’m not, but I have to ask. I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right. But to put your mind at rest, Michael had no liking for children. I can’t understand why he wanted four of his own, because he’s never bothered with them.”
“I’d better be going.” Ford stood up. “If you need anything, or even just somebody to talk to, don’t hesitate to give me a call.”
“Thank you.” She eyed him carefully, remembered James Drinkwater. The comparison was laughable. This policeman was genuine; he meant every word he said in a dutiful way. “Oh, and Sergeant …” She was nervous, embarrassed, examining the varnish on her fingernails.
“Yes?”
“I think … I think there’s something you ought to know. Just in case … in case you hear it from another source and thought I was holding something back.”
Ford waited.
“I’ve … I’ve been having an affair for the last few months. With the writer who lives at the other end of the Close. Gerald Norman.”
“I don’t think it has any bearing on the case.” Ford betrayed no surprise, not so much the flicker of an eyelid. Norman had been spending time in the cathedral lately—the vergers had remarked upon it. Homer had mentioned it to Sergeant Clifford when the officer had called upon him earlier today. They needed to know Norman’s motive for repeated cathedral visits. ‘Research’ would be the obviou
s excuse. It was pointless questioning Sandra Corms about it. “Your private life is your own business, Mrs Corms. I wish you the best of luck for the future.”
“Thank you, Sergeant, you’re most kind.”
After she closed the door behind him, Sandra moved across to the window and watched him walk away in the direction of Beacon Street. Strangely, she had felt his presence comforting, a kind of feeling of safety. But in a different way from Gerry’s company. The policeman was impartial but he would help if he could, she knew that. Somebody to turn to in trouble where you did not feel obligated in any way.
The sun shone briefly, turning the Close a pale golden, glinting on the golden ball atop the great central spire. The last of the fallen leaves scuttled across the sloping lawns as though fleeing from the onslaught of winter.
Sandra shivered. Not because she was cold—the central heating was full on, something that Michael would never have permitted had he been alive; the timer had always been set to an absolute minimum. Her skin prickled; another sudden shudder that brought with it a hint of fear.
Fear of what? She was revolted by that which some unknown person had done to her husband; the obscenity of the atrocity made her feel physically sick. Fortunately, somebody from the cathedral had identified the body—she thought it had been James Drinkwater. And she was grateful to the Vicar Choral for that even if she could not forgive him for his lusting thoughts on that one brief visit.
She could cope with all that. But not this.
Not knowing was the worst. She stood listening, fearful lest there might be somebody in the house. She heard the humming of the fridge-freezer, the ticking of the clock in the lounge. A floorboard creaked somewhere; they were always creaking, particularly in the nocturnal stillness, so they must surely creak in the daytime, too.
There wasn’t anybody in the house.
Her feeling intensified, she had to fight off a surge of panic. You’re being ridiculous, it’s delayed reactions. Stress.
She wanted to run to the door, drag it open, yell for Ford to come back. Sergeant, I’m scared because … There was no reason to be frightened. But something was spooking her.
It was like being … watched.
She looked out of the window again. A few people moved about, but she couldn’t recognise them at that distance. Residents of the Close, perhaps, hurrying on some errand in between the blustering showers. Or cathedral officials, coming and going from their shrine of work. Distant heads turned in her direction, looked away again. They could not possibly see her from afar.
What then? Who?
She thought about phoning Gerry; she might have done had she been certain that his wife was not there. Sandra was in no condition to take abuse. She wondered if he had found a place for them yet. A place of refuge.
She could not stay here alone much longer. A few days at most, and then, if Gerry hadn’t found anywhere, she would go and stay with Louise temporarily.
It was as Sandra turned away from the window that a movement caught her eye. It could have been a bending of a low branch in the wind. In that brief half glance, it seemed to be part of a tree across the road. She jerked back just in time to glimpse a figure moving away. Hurrying from where he had been standing, half-hidden by the horse chestnut.
She stared, the sun glinted on the windowpane, dazzled her. She could not even be certain whether the other was male or female. An uncertain outline against a background of houses and shrubs.
She rushed to the door, dragged it open, leaned out. That mounting fear prevented her from rushing outside. Poised precariously on the top step, she clung to the rail with one hand, shielded her eyes with the other.
Now you see it, now you don’t.
Where there had been a single figure, now there were three or four—she did not bother to count them. Much of a muchness, men clad in topcoats huddling together as if to shield from view the one she sought. Heads bowed, a brief muttered conversation, a chance meeting on a windswept pavement.
One turned, they all turned. Then they were moving away together, going back from whence they had come, accompanied by the one they had met; the one who had been watching her from behind the tree across the road.
They did not hurry; Sandra could easily have caught them up, overtaken them, scanned their faces. It would have been a meaningless exercise; perm any one from three. Or four. A waste of time.
An excuse because she was afraid to look upon them, fearful of gazing into the eyes of the one who had terrified her. She would not know which of them had been the watcher. He would know her.
She turned her head, stared up the road in the opposite direction toward the incessant flow of Beacon Street traffic. The pavements were empty on both sides; there was nobody in sight.
Ford was gone. She stepped back inside, pushed the door shut. And turned the key.
Doors would not stop him; he would find a way. If he wanted her, he would come for her. Please, you’ve taken Michael, leave me in peace, let me live.
She thought about the night ahead and prayed that the police would patrol, slow down, maybe even stop outside. And remain there until daylight came and it was safe again.
Some time later she went back through to the kitchen and made herself a mug of tea, a strong brew with an unaccustomed spoonful of sugar in it because she needed it. She almost convinced herself that her latest terror did not exist, that it was all in the mind.
Almost.
23
It was sometime after eleven o’clock when the killer let himself out into the street, moved almost furtively until he realised that he had no need for stealth. They did not know him, they could not possibly even guess. He had nothing to fear.
The storm clouds had moved on, the wind had dropped. The roads and pavements glistened wetly, a mist beginning to form. It would thicken overnight; the television weather forecaster had predicted thick fog and icy roads by dawn. Hazardous conditions.
Conditions were always hazardous.
Oncoming headlights dazzled him, for no other reason he turned his head away. Police patrols were routine, without them his ego would have been offended. They were a sign of success.
His hands were thrust deep into his pockets, his fingers closed lovingly around the bone hilt of the knife, took care not to touch the blade for it was honed to scalpel sharpness. A surgeon’s implement of amputation; he smiled to himself at the thought.
Tonight he may—or may not—have use for it.
He slowed his step as he approached the Dam Street railings, saw a flock of mallard roosting on the opposite side of the pool. They quacked a guttural chorus, they had heard him, anticipating stale bread to be cast upon the water even at this hour.
He hesitated; there was no point in going up to the Close. Yet.
He thought about turning into Pool Walk, changed his mind. For no particular reason other than that a chance meeting was more likely to be remembered there than in the well-lit car park that separated the parallel streets.
There were maybe half a dozen cars parked beneath the standards with their hazy orange glow, possibly owned by late diners or cinemagoers. There was nobody in sight, no muffled footsteps heralding the approach of somebody coming to collect their vehicle.
Nobody at all.
He crossed the tarmac area, followed the exit until he was adjacent with the Arts Centre. On his immediate right was the telephone kiosk, a glass cage which destroyed anonymity. His pulse speeded up even though he had nothing to fear. Public telephones were there to be used at all hours and without question.
He stepped inside, let the heavy door close behind him.
A 50p coin was all he needed; it would not be a long conversation. Indeed, he would not speak at all. He lifted the handset, inserted the coin. His credit showed and he began to tap in the digits.
He had an infallible, retentive memory, so he did not need to consult a number written on a scrap of paper which might have been used in evidence against him. He had looked it up in the telepho
ne directory at home, committed it to memory.
3 … 9 … 0 … 6 … 9 … 2
A pause. A faint click. Now it was ringing out at the other end.
He found the sound almost musical. Erotic. His fingers went back to the knife handle and rubbed it softly, sensuously. Memories came, he didn’t try to shut them out, distracting as they were. Because they were exciting.
The old man first, Herbert Poppleton. He had writhed weakly, died quickly. Too quickly.
Rupert Frame had been stronger, hands clutched to his groin in a futile attempt to staunch the blood loss. The killer had had to slash his victim’s throat to silence the screams.
Corms had been the best, the most satisfying. Out there by the boathouse there had been no one to hear his cries. The killer had let him run, stagger; it had been so funny that he had laughed as he watched. And Corms had known, recognised his attacker; he had also known deep down that he wouldn’t live to tell.
He had made maybe ten or fifteen yards before he had collapsed on the cinders, kicked his last, and his bloody fingers had come away with something clutched in them.
That had had the killer writhing, too. With pleasure. The fury had returned later.
The phone was still ringing out.
Lastly, he remembered the girl. It was funny that she should come to him now, but he didn’t mind. Just a painted picture, but she was more erotic than any woman he had ever seen in the flesh. Seen, not had, because that pleasure had been denied him throughout his life. By them—Poppleton and his kind—they had made him what he was. And they had paid for it.
Now it was time to rectify that, to indulge in those delights that had never been his in his enforced celibacy.
His fingers gripped the handset, threatened to crack the plastic. Answer, you bitch!
The girl in the picture mocked him.
You cow, I know you’re there.
He found himself starting to count the ring-outs. Eight, nine … eleven …
He hooked the receiver back, heard his coin drop down, fumbled beneath the flap to retrieve it.
