by Guy N Smith
Outside the mist was thickening faster than predicted. He was tempted to go on up to the Close. He stroked the knife in his pocket again.
No, not tonight. Tomorrow, maybe, or the night after. There was no hurry. He stepped out onto the pavement, turned in the direction of the car park.
The girl in the picture was calling him. Right now he needed her more than the real thing. She had really excited him. He quickened his pace.
24
“I’ve already told your colleague everything I know, Sergeant.” Charles Homer’s tone was one of annoyance; he was not in the habit of having visitors to his small terraced house adjacent to the Close.
“I need to know more about Herbert Poppleton.” Ford was unruffled. Again his keen sense of smell picked up that bachelor aroma, the stale odour of a house that lacked a female touch. In contrast with Cecil Clay’s bungalow, Homer’s abode had an air of permanent untidiness about it; clothes were draped over chairs, dirty washing was heaped on the unswept floor by the twin tub. The windows were small, a low wattage unshaded bulb created a depressing gloom.
“He was the best friend I ever had.” A note of defiance, challenging the other to dispute it. “He found me this job and he kept it open for me until I returned from my TA service.”
“Perhaps he had no choice.” Ford’s voice was low, almost threatening.
“I beg your pardon!” Homer stiffened in his chair, for a moment there was a flicker of fear in his eyes. He swallowed.
“You met in Essex in 1957.” Ford’s features were expressionless. “At the time you ran a sadism and masochism establishment until police investigations caused you to close it down. Herbert Poppleton was an occasional client of yours. There was a scandal; you needed to move away so you followed Poppleton to Lichfield. Your wife had already left you; you needed a job and somewhere to live. You persuaded Poppleton to fix you up with both of these. Had his secret life of perversion become public knowledge he would surely have lost his job. His marriage would have folded, too, had his wife even suspected his involvement with S&M.”
“This is preposterous!” The Head Verger’s attempt at indignation lacked conviction. The colour had drained from his features, his clenched hands had begun to tremble. “I’ve a good mind to write to the police complaints department …”
“Let’s not be silly about it.” Ford sighed, thrust his hands deep into his pockets. “You don’t want to dig up skeletons any more than I do—for me it’s just a waste of time. I can prove what I say, I can only suspect that you were blackmailing Poppleton, or at least holding the threat of exposure over him to keep your job. I don’t want to go into that, I just want a few facts which might help me.”
“What do you want to know?” Homer slumped back in his chair, his brief show of bravado gone.
“I want to know about the choirboys whom Poppleton invited back to his house.”
“I don’t know any details, he never told me.”
“But you’ve a good idea who went there and what went on.”
The other nodded. “Yes. Herbert had a liking for young boys—I knew that from the time I first met him. I knew only too well what went on up at his place, his wife was blissfully unaware of it. I just hoped he didn’t get caught; my job would have gone as well as his. At the time the cathedral hierarchy didn’t like me, for no particular reason that I could put a finger on. Herbert had his little naughty games he used to play with the boys, he used to start off by suggesting they sang Psalm 151. That was the cue. I think he made it all seem like a joke, a bit of fun.”
“Do these names mean anything to you?” Ford produced the register of pupils from his pocket, opened it up, and passed it across to Homer. “That’s the list of choristers there.”
“Hmm.” Homer held it at a distance, sucked his lips. “Clay, I remember him, he used to go round to Herbert’s place. A strange boy. And Drinkwater, a sad case. His parents were both killed in a car accident whilst he was at school. No other family except twobrothers who were at boarding school somewhere. It would have had a devastating effect on James had Herbert not taken him under his wing. He was like a father to him. Sometimes the boy stayed with him and his wife during the school holidays. But maybe it would have been better if he hadn’t.”
Ford’s eyebrows rose slightly. He waited.
“From a happy-go-lucky boy James Drinkwater became an introvert, a loner. I tried to convince myself that it was the shock of losing his parents that made him that way but I know it was Herbert’s influence that did it. A kind of enforced celibacy, at least where the opposite sex was concerned. Herbert had never looked at another woman in his life; I think he indoctrinated James against them. After he left school, Drinkwater just drifted away, I don’t even know if he kept in touch with his mentor. Then he turned up again after Poppleton had retired as Vicar Choral. I suspect either Herbert recommended him for the job or else he used Herbert’s name as a lever. But nearly forty years hadn’t changed James, he was still a loner, a strange bloke, and I guess it wasn’t any surprise when he got together with Clay.”
“You didn’t like Frame.” It wasn’t a question this time.
“The feeling was mutual. If he could have come up with a legitimate reason to get me the sack, he would have done so. I’ve run the cathedral my way for many years, he wanted to interfere, wanted changes. He wanted a Head Verger he could dominate.”
“And Corms?”
“He was all right, apart from his drinking. But neither Frame nor Corms were in the same mould as Herbert Poppleton—they weren’t fit to shine his shoes!” There was an obsession in the way he spoke, almost a fanaticism in those staring eyes. “He didn’t deserve to die the way he did, though.”
“He was disturbed the last time he left the cathedral, wasn’t he?”
“No, he was fine. Absolutely fine.”
“I think you’re lying, Mr Homer.”
“Look, I didn’t really notice, I just saw him leave, locked the door after him. He seemed all right.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” Because you’re living in the past, in your mind Herbert Poppleton’s still here, up there in the organ loft for services and practices. And you hate anybody who might have usurped him. “Thank you for your help, Mr Homer. I may need to talk to you again.”
Hero worship, in excess, was a dangerous state of mind. Idolisation was only a step away from hatred; the borderline was a narrow one. For Ford, it was a worrying thought.
* * *
“I had a phone call last night.” Sandra’s obvious relief at seeing Ford turned to concern. “About eleven.”
“Oh?”
“I didn’t answer it, I just let it ring out. I thought it was never going to stop. In the end it did. I checked, rang my sister in case there was any problem with the kids. It wasn’t her calling. Nor somebody else it could have been, I checked with them this morning.”
“It might just have been a wrong number.” Ford’s hunch said it wasn’t.
“No.” She smiled weakly. “I know it wasn’t. I could tell. A woman’s intuition, if you’ve heard of that. I don’t expect you to understand.”
“I get hunches, too. I have a golden rule: always play your first hunch. It’s invariably right—later ones often fudge your reasoning.”
She told him about yesterday, the feeling of being watched, her terror. “It sounds silly, you must think I’m foolish.”
“Not at all.” His expression was serious.
“You’re as worried as I am.”
“Just playing careful. The patrols check the Close out three times during the night hours but I think maybe I ought to keep tabs on you, as well. I’ll phone you tonight, after ten. Three rings and then I’ll call back. Okay?”
“Fine. By the way, I should be moving out, probably Friday, like I told you I might. My boyfriend’s found a place, a cottage belonging to a friend who’s working abroad for a year. Kinver, if you’ve ever heard of it.”
“I have, a lovely location.�
�� A stone’s throw from Malvern. “You’ll love it there.”
“Gerry’s down there now. He’s staying there until I join him on Friday.”
Ford had been meaning to talk to Gerald Norman but maybe it didn’t matter any longer. “I’ll buzz you tonight.”
He debated whether or not to confide his suspicions in Borman. He decided it was too early yet; the chief wouldn’t listen to gut feelings. Some guy was killing organists because of what one perverted old man had done to him, made him. Revenge was complete but there was one pleasure in life that the killer had been denied by his own hang-up. There was an urge to satisfy it, maybe just curiosity, a burning desire to step outside celibacy.
The killer wanted a woman, and who better to satisfy his lust upon than the widow of one of his victims?
Ford went cold at the thought. He prayed that Sandra Corms would survive the night hours.
25
The killer stepped out into the street. Tonight was vastly different from the previous night. For a start, he was two hours earlier; the cathedral clock was just beginning to strike nine and there were people about. Not crowds, just a few couples on their way down to the Cornmarket Carvery; a bunch of youths who looked like they might be going to McDonald’s.
This morning’s fog had cleared by lunchtime; there was too much of a breeze for it to return. The last of the leaves rustled and scuttled in the gutter, farther down the street somebody kicked an empty drink can, sent it rolling and clanking.
A high-pitched whine followed by a multi-coloured explosion over Minster Pool. Ducks quacked in alarm; some took off with fast, whistling wing beats. The first firework of November had disturbed them. Another couple of nights and they would take no notice.
There were maybe fifty cars on the car park, clustered in bunches of four or five around the lamp standards. Light deterred those on nefarious business. The killer instinctively skirted the brightly lit area. People would recognise him if they saw him; there was no reason why he should not be abroad in the city at this hour. But they might remember having seen him. He was not taking any chances. He never did, which was why he still walked free.
The same route as the previous night brought him to the telephone kiosk at the car park exit. He glanced at the glass cube, but tonight he had no need of it. Last night she had not answered but he knew she was in. The ringing had frightened her; he smiled to himself at the thought. Phoning tonight would only serve to warn her that he was coming.
For her.
The sight of the phone booth kick-started his memory. The escalating thrill, what it had done to him as he stood there fingering the knife in his pocket. But he had waited, had not succumbed to temptation. He knew it was only a matter of time. In the meantime, the girl in the picture had partially satisfied him.
At the height of his lust he had driven the blade into her, hacked and gouged the paintwork. He had heard her screams in his frenzied brain, he had shown her no mercy. He had pushed himself to the very limits of his physical endurance, his brain had seemed to explode in unison with his sweat streaked body. A moment of unbelievable bliss before he had blacked out.
When he had regained consciousness on the cold floor, he smelled blood. Like Herbert Poppleton’s blood. Rupert Frame’s. And Michael Corms’s. He felt its sticky warmth on his fingers, raised his arm so that he could stare at it. It fascinated him.
Shehad bled just like the others, and that was incredible. He licked at it with his tongue, tasted its salty, iron flavour. It made him feel heady, euphoric.
It was a bitter disappointment to discover that he had nicked the palm of his own hand with the knife blade. A bitter disappointment. But logically, he could not expect her to bleed.
But the sensation had been beautiful whilst it lasted. Now it was over, and he was the way he had always been. Mean. Hateful.
Hating them for what they had done to him, for making him this way. Which was why he had never had a woman other than the girl in the painting. Tomorrow night, he promised himself, he would have flesh and blood.
Her flesh first, quivering and jerking beneath his own body, moaning her pleasure aloud.
Then her blood, gushing thick and scarlet out of her wounds, still lying beneath him. Her moans would turn to screams.
Then she would die with him still lying atop her, and he would relax on her corpse until that feeling of ecstasy was gone.
When he would become mean and hateful again.
He would take her to the place he has in mind first, though. Because only there would he be able to erase the scars of everything which theyhad done to him. The slate would be clean; he would have no remorse.
He had not thought beyond that. Afterwards it did not matter.
Nothing mattered once he had had her.
Beacon Street was busy, a constant stream of traffic in both directions. The headlights dazzled him so that when he turned into the Close he had to stand and wait whilst his eyesight adjusted. Here he felt vulnerable, he knew that he must hurry.
The cathedral was floodlit, unusual for a weeknight in the autumn. He took a deep breath, exhaled slowly. Perhaps they had switched on the illuminations in his honour. Because he had come to offer a human sacrifice, an offering to appease their God for the sins that had taken place within His house. Retribution for making him what he was.
It was as though the brief rest had revived him, reassured him. Now his movements were quick and lithe, positive. He knew what he had to do and how he would do it. He felt the hilt of the knife throbbing in answer to the pulses in his hand.
She wasat home; a shadow passed across the curtain. His other hand went to his pocket, delved deep until it found what it was seeking; for one awful moment he thought the key must have slipped down into the lining. It felt small and hard in his sweaty palm as he squeezed it.
Her front door key. A duplicate. She would not have missed it because she was confused by the death of her husband. She wasn’t grieving; she might even welcome his coming in her loneliness.
But he did not want her after tonight. She would have served her purpose by then. As well as his own. He wondered what it was like to lie with a woman; the thought of the experience had him lusting, eager. He could not wait any longer.
The key fitted perfectly, turned noiselessly. He had to use his shoulder to push the door open, held his breath as it scraped on the centuries-old warped floorboards. But the music playing behind the closed door of a room leading off from the hallway drowned out any noise he might make. He closed the door behind him, locked it in case anybody should chance a call.
There was no longer any need for stealth.
His fingers closed over the handle, depressed it. The door swung inwards noiselessly. He stood there looking in.
Sandra had not seen him; she was totally oblivious to his presence. The small lounge had sparseness about it, the stacked cardboard boxes and the tea chest piled with newspaper wrapped objects bespoke a pending departure.
He was only just in time.
She was sitting in an armchair with her back towards him. The stereo was playing a country and western tape. His lips curled in contempt for her taste in music, it was deplorable. He would not want her after tonight.
Her head was bent forward; she was dozing. He edged around until she came into full view. Oh, God, she was beautiful!
As beautiful as the painted girl, and he had destroyed her, too.
She wore black jeans and trainers, a t-shirt that showed her cleavage. Her breasts excited him.
His one hand was still thrust deep into the pocket of his topcoat, the knife handle was slippery with his sweat. He was fully aroused; he could wait no longer.
Suddenly, the telephone in the hallway rang. He started, dragged the knife from his pocket, held it at arm’s length, the blade barely a foot from her exposed neck.
The phone rang three times then cut out.
She stirred restlessly but her eyes remained closed. That dreadful cheap music played on.
&nbs
p; “The highway she’s hotter than nine kinds of Hell.”
It grated on his nerves, and he resisted the temptation to kick out at the stereo, smash it. Silence it.
She was big and beautiful. More beautiful than the girl in the painting.
Then the telephone began to ring again. And kept on ringing.
He almost screamed at it to be silent. But it wasn’t as harsh as that cheap singer on the tape.
“When you’re down to your last shove with and nothin’ to sell.”
This time her eyes opened. She saw him, stared uncomprehendingly.
The telephone was still ringing, insisting to be answered. Nobody was going to answer it.
Recognition dawned in her frightened eyes, widened them. Her full lips moved, mimed something because the words would not come.
The telephone continued to ring and the singer sang on. The killer was not listening to either.
He had to shout to make himself heard above the noise, words that came instinctively. “Shall we sing Psalm 151?”
It was some seconds before he realised that the telephone had stopped ringing. He reached out with his free hand, jerked the stereo plug out of its socket. The sudden silence was almost deafening.
Sandra didn’t scream. Not because the tip of the knife blade was only inches from her throat. Simply because she had only the strength left for a whisper. One word that was barely audible.
“You!”
26
Ford did not leave CID Headquarters in Rykneld Street until after nine. Borman had called a meeting following a press conference. Stalling because they had not come up with anything positive and they had to be seen to be doing something. Corms’s killing had made fools of the police. Not just The Mercury, the nationals, especially the tabloids, were loving it. They had their scapegoat, Borman was looking for his.
It hadn’t been a good meeting. Ford was glad to get out. In the central office he played a hunch, picked up the phone.
“Explaining to the wife why you’ll be late home again?” Clifford ribbed him but Ford wasn’t listening.
