by Paul Finch
He glanced again at the rap sheet on his knee. It was disturbing by any standards, not to say a little amazing. If such things happened now, the mental health services would have been activated as a matter of course, but the late 1960s and early 1970s had been a rough-and-ready era, during which time ‘care’ was rarely to the fore, and a clip round the ear had often been deemed sufficient response to unacceptable behaviour.
Finnegan was seated behind the steering wheel of Heck’s Volkswagen. Three other figures were crammed into the back seat. First, was the rangy young constable who’d unsuccessfully shoulder-charged Enwright’s storeroom door; his name was PC Mapling. In the middle, handcuffed to Mapling, sat Anthony Worthington, still in school uniform and wearing a petulant frown – a combination that made him look more like a kids’ TV brat than any sort of real criminal. Squashed against the nearside door was Wanda Clayley, the well-manicured Deputy Head, looking flustered and distraught. Her constant attempts to hold Worthington’s hand, which efforts he repeatedly rebuffed, seemed designed to provide comfort for herself as much as her errant pupil.
‘Does your school offer its pupils clay-pigeon shooting, Mrs Clayley?’ Heck asked, turning to face her.
At first she didn’t seem to hear. ‘Oh, erm, yes. We always have. It isn’t every child that excels at rugby or football …’
‘Or archery,’ Heck added.
Her cheek reddened even more. ‘St Bardolph’s is a boarding school, Sergeant Heckenburg. By necessity we need to offer as wide a range of non-curricular activities as possible. And as we’re in the heart of the countryside …’
‘Yeah, I hear that.’ He rubbed at the back of his neck, which was now aching in response to his whiplash from earlier. ‘Just do us a favour … make sure when you get back that your cache of shotguns is only one short, eh? I’m sure they cost someone a pretty penny.’ His gaze roved to Worthington. ‘And how are you doing, Anthony?’
Worthington yawned as if bored.
Heck showed him a small Dictaphone, which was now running on ‘record’. He placed it on the dashboard. ‘You realise you’re still under caution?’
Worthington gazed through the window.
‘Do you think your friends haven’t talked?’ Heck asked him. ‘We know everything. You’re an accomplice to nine torture-murders. Let me explain what that means … you’re not going to walk free for a long, long time.’
Worthington gave another false yawn.
‘Nice bit of bravado, son, but I know for a fact that you were worried about getting caught … otherwise why did you run away from me?’
Worthington glanced sideways, finally deigning to acknowledge that Mrs Clayley was present. ‘Are they allowed to do this?’ he asked.
Mrs Clayley seemed nonplussed by the entire experience, but inclined her head, indicating that she thought (or maybe hoped) the police were in the right.
‘This is what’s called an “urgent interview”, Anthony,’ Heck explained. ‘It’s covered under the Police and Criminal Evidence Act, and it permits any arrested person to be interviewed before being removed to a police station if such interview may prevent physical harm befalling somebody else. Now thanks to your mouthy pal, Gareth, I have more than a sneaking suspicion that if we were to waste time booking you in at the local nick and then waiting for your solicitor to bother showing up, Claire Moody’s life would be forfeit. Am I wrong?’
Again, Worthington affected disinterest.
‘Anthony,’ Mrs Clayley hissed at him. ‘Talk to the officer. Tell him what he wants to know. Show him this is a big mistake, and then we can all go home.’
Worthington shook his head as if he couldn’t believe the dunces he was dealing with.
‘Okay Anthony,’ Heck said, ‘if you don’t want to talk about Claire Moody, tell us why we’re going down to Worcester.’ The lad didn’t respond to that either, but Heck noted that his shoulders had tensed slightly. ‘Come on, Anthony … you’re part of the school History Club, and it’s a famous old city. Surely you’ve heard of it?’
‘Well of course he’s heard of it,’ Mrs Clayley interrupted, gazing at the pupil, perplexed. ‘Dr Enwright took them all down there on a field-trip several months ago – to the battlefield. I was the one who approved it.’
‘To the battlefield, eh?’ Heck said, not knowing anything about a battlefield near Worcester, though Holker’s words about ‘treason’ were now echoing in his memory.
‘The battle of Worcester was fought in 1651,’ Mrs Clayley added conveniently. ‘It was the last battle of the English Civil War. I presumed they were planning to base one of their History Club productions around it.’
‘Oh, they were planning something,’ Heck agreed. ‘But you’d never have got to see it, Mrs Clayley.’ His eyes burned into the prisoner. ‘You might as well talk to me, Anthony. We wouldn’t be on our way down to Worcester right now if we didn’t already know this stuff. You getting arrested isn’t going to buy your pals any more time than they’ve already got. But you should be glad, because if they succeed in this, that’s a tenth murder you’ll be implicated in.’
Worthington curled his lip as if amused, but it wasn’t as convincing as before.
‘Look son, you’re not daft. You know you’re a drip. Even in juvenile prison, you’re going to be white meat. And in a couple of years’ time you’ll be in with the big boys, and that’s an entirely new level of viciousness you’ll be exposed to …’
‘Sergeant Heckenburg!’ Mrs Clayley said. ‘I really don’t see …’
‘It’s important he knows this,’ Heck interrupted her back. ‘Because I’ll tell you, Anthony, no one is going to help you avert this very nasty future you’re now facing. Except, maybe … you.’ He let that hang. ‘I need to know exactly where your friends are, and what they’re planning to do next. I’ve even brought a map, so you can show me. You do that, and it will strongly indicate that you’re not only sorry for what you’ve done, but that you weren’t totally behind it in the first place.’
Worthington’s cheeks had visibly coloured. At last he spoke but in a sullen, childish tone; his eyes were downcast. ‘Dr Enwright told us you’d try this. Try to make deals with us. He said there’ll be nothing you can give us. It’ll just be talk.’
‘Anthony!’ Mrs Clayley exclaimed. ‘What on earth are you saying …?’
‘Can you afford to take that chance?’ Heck said. ‘You need to talk to me. There’s nothing else for you.’
‘Yes there is,’ Worthington said, still sullen. ‘He told us they’ll try to cure us, not punish us. Kids who kill are never kept in long.’
‘You don’t have to be in long to get your throat cut, son.’
‘Sergeant, please!’ Mrs Clayley objected.
‘At seventeen, Anthony, you may not even be classified as a kid. But I’ll tell you what I think … that you participated in these acts because Dr Enwright made you?’
‘He didn’t make us. We were all volunteers.’
‘Stuck posters up in the school corridors, did he? “Anyone who wants to rip the world a new one by brutally murdering people, let’s have a chat.” Did he hold interviews, Anthony? How many interviewees did he reject?’ Heck snorted. ‘I’ll tell you, son … none. Everyone he approached got the handshake. You want to know why? Because he picked you all deliberately. He spotted lonely, isolated people, those who’d been neglected, or bullied, or abused … and he stopped all that, didn’t he?’
Worthington now shot Heck a dull glare that was filled with hatred, though it was more the hatred of embarrassment, of having been discovered.
‘This created a bond of trust, didn’t it?’ Heck said. ‘And over a period of years, he used this trust against you, to change you, to make you detest your enemies rather than fear them, to break down any moral resistance you might have left.’
‘Sergeant Heckenburg …’ Mrs Clayley shook her head. ‘You are so wrong about Dr Enwright. This has got to be some kind of awful misunderstanding.’
�
�Mrs Clayley, let me tell you about Dr Enwright.’ Heck pinned her with his most no-nonsense stare. ‘At twelve years old, he was arrested for stealing “church bread”.’
‘He had a bad start in life, I’m aware of that …’
‘Church bread, Mrs Clayley? Would that be the Communion host? The Body of Christ? Which he then broke up and fed to the pigeons on the church forecourt.’
‘He was only a child. If we were all held to account for things we did …’
‘Agreed, but it’s a bit weird, wouldn’t you say? Especially as a number of those pigeons then died because he’d rubbed the bread with rat poison. I mean … poisoning innocent animals with Communion wafers, and then … what else did he do?’ He made a show of consulting his paperwork. ‘Oh yeah … dumping the bodies in the baptismal font.’ He glanced up at her again. ‘Seems a determinedly irreligious act. Goes a bit beyond common blasphemy, wouldn’t you agree?’
By her glazed expression, Mrs Clayley did.
Heck turned to Worthington again. ‘Your mentor, Anthony. What a guy, eh?’
Worthington looked equally fascinated by what he’d just heard. But then he shook his head, as though in an effort to convince himself that it was lies. ‘Dr Enwright said you’d make accusations. But we know what he’s really like. He’s a crusader. We knew from the beginning that people would get hurt. He said it was the only way. We had to shock the country into realising that holy days matter.’
‘By desecrating them?’ Heck asked.
‘No!’ Worthington shouted, his face now livid. ‘By mocking those who’ve already been desecrating them …’
‘And the dead birds in the church font? Who was Dr Enwright mocking that day?’
‘That was to make him strong.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘He had us doing it too … to rats and mice.’
There was a brief, astonished silence.
‘Anthony,’ Mrs Clayley whispered, ‘what are you saying?’
Worthington was breathing hard and fast, his face still red, though his spittle-slathered lips had cracked into a stupid, defiant grin. ‘And not with poison, with our bare hands.’ He jutted his chin out as if he was proud of his achievements, but Heck detected tears glinting in the corners of his eyes. ‘So we’d be ready for the coming fight … against the real vermin. The drug addicts and winos, the tarts and chavs who are ruining Britain, turning it into a soulless cesspool, where it’s all about flashing your tits for a set of beads, or downing as many shots as you can because there’s a promotion at the bar …’
‘And that young couple on the West Pennine Moors?’ Heck asked him. ‘How were they contributing to the chav cesspool?’
‘Perhaps with those two gone there’ll be a few less used condoms lying around in public picnic areas.’
Charlie Finnegan chuckled. ‘It’s a muscular version of religion, I’ll give you that.’
‘It’s not about religion,’ Worthington snapped. ‘Not the way you people know it. It’s about spirituality, not dogma. Doesn’t matter what gods or spirits you worship …’
‘You swallowed every bit of nonsense he fed you, didn’t you, son?’ Heck said.
‘We just have to remind people there’s something else there …’
‘And you’ll remind them by killing them?’ Mrs Clayley asked, in a tone of disbelief.
‘It’s a harsh lesson, I know,’ Worthington said; tears now streamed down his cheeks. ‘But it’s for their own good. Dr Enwright called it “tough love” …’
‘Tough love?’ Heck couldn’t listen to any more. ‘What bollocks is this?’
‘Sergeant!’ Mrs Clayley protested feebly.
‘Murder is murder, Anthony!’
‘You don’t understand …’
‘I understand perfectly.’ Heck leaned towards him. ‘Because I’ve locked up more killers than you’ve had fish and chips. And Leo Enwright is no different to any of them. He’s a disturbed narcissist who put on a show to shock the world purely because of the sick pleasure it gave him. But do you know what … he’s not even the original bloody author of this disaster. Here …’ He dug an object from inside his jacket pocket and held it up; it was a dog-eared booklet inserted into a plastic evidence sack. ‘I’m showing the suspect Exhibit MH33. What does it say on that cover, Anthony? Come on!’
‘Blood Feast!’ Worthington said.
‘That’s correct … Blood Feast.’ Heck took the booklet out of the bag and pushed it towards him. ‘Go on, you can touch it. We’ve got lots of copies.’
Warily, Worthington accepted it.
‘This work of horror fiction was written in 2005 by an author called Dan Tubbs,’ Heck said. ‘Another headcase as it happens, but not in the same league as your pal, Enwright. In it, a bunch of losers – just like you and your friends – celebrate special holidays by committing human sacrifices.’
Worthington switched his uncomprehending gaze from the book to Heck, and then back to the book again.
‘The only difference between the loonies in this book and you lot is that they were honouring the old gods to try and awaken them. You weren’t trying to do that, were you, Anthony? I don’t know why I’m asking actually, because frankly I doubt you have the first idea what you were trying to do. Go on … exercise that immense cerebellum of yours. Read the bloody thing. Leo Enwright certainly did. He picked it up for free at a horror convention about six years ago.’
Worthington still looked as if he didn’t believe what he was being told. Almost reluctantly, he began to leaf through the booklet.
‘I bet that piece of tat was never part of your re-education programme, was it?’ Heck said. ‘You won’t get through it all now, of course … so let me paraphrase. On Valentine’s Day, the hearts of two lovers are transfixed together with an arrow. On Good Friday, a priest gets crucified. Not a pervy, paedo priest who some victim is trying to get even with. This one’s a good guy. He cares for his flock and looks after the poor – that makes him more like Jesus, you see. Just like that poor girl, Kate Rickman.’
Worthington didn’t reply. He was reading selected passages in the book, his face growing visibly stricken.
‘I’ll tell you what,’ Heck said, ‘I’d feel better about you Anthony, if I didn’t suspect that what’s upsetting you right now is not these atrocious crimes you’ve been party to, but the realisation that your guru hasn’t got an original idea in his head. Even though you’ve been treating him like he’s got the hotline to God … you little prat! You’ve given up your entire life for the depraved fantasies of an anorak!’
‘Sergeant, that’s quite enough!’ Mrs Clayley asserted.
Heck glanced at her irritably, even though she was probably right. ‘Sorry about the “prat”, Anthony, but I think you can see where this is going.’
Worthington glanced up at him; he looked lost, confused.
‘This guy pulled the wool over your eyes big time,’ Heck added. ‘Not just you, but all the others. He’s guaranteed you’re going to spend a long, long time in the criminal justice system, and why … because enough people haven’t told him how wonderful and amazing and brilliant he is.’
Worthington stared at the book again. He turned more pages with stiff, crooked fingers. By his glazed expression, he wasn’t even seeing what was written there.
‘Sergeant Heckenburg,’ Mrs Clayley said. ‘I understand that you had no choice but to speak to Anthony like this. But I really think, given his emotional state, and the terrible things that have happened today …’
‘Royal … Royal Oak Day,’ Worthington stuttered.
Everyone in the car glanced round at him. Even Charlie Finnegan was briefly distracted from the wheel.
‘What’s that, Anthony?’ Heck enquired.
‘Royal Oak Day … that’s the next feast we were going to venerate.’
‘Royal Oak Day?’ Heck said. ‘Can you tell us a bit more?’
‘May 29.’ Worthington swallowed. ‘It commemorates Charles
II’s escape from Cromwell … after the battle of Worcester. And the restoration of the English Monarchy in 1660.’
‘May 29,’ Finnegan said. ‘Gives us a bit of breathing space.’
‘No,’ Worthington shook his head. ‘This time it’ll be different.’
‘How?’ Heck asked.
The boy worked his lips together, as if, despite everything he knew, the act of speaking out was still a massive betrayal. Fresh tears trickled down his cheeks. ‘There was … there was an agreement all along that … that if any of us got caught, the others would bring the next celebration forward. Make the offering early, before anyone else got nabbed.’
‘Okay, so … when?’
‘Soon as possible. Tonight probably.’
‘Tonight?’
‘If they get there in time.’
‘Get where? Presumably it’s somewhere on the battlefield.’
‘Dr Enwright found the perfect spot,’ Worthington said. ‘It’s under an old oak tree.’
Mrs Clayley glanced at Heck. ‘Charles II hid in an oak tree after the battle, when the Roundheads were searching for him.’
‘The same tree?’ Heck said. ‘Is it a famous spot?’
‘No, the original tree was cut down years ago.’
Heck glanced at Worthington again. ‘What happens on Royal Oak Day?’
Worthington hung his head, but was breathing more steadily now – as if having started confessing, it suddenly felt easier. ‘The Civil War was a religious war as well as a political one.’
‘Okay …?’
‘That’s largely forgotten now, but at the time the return of the Stuarts was seen as one in the eye for fundamentalist Protestants. And it was a fun time. Got celebrated with parades, picnics, costume galas and that … it was also used as an excuse to take the piss out of anti-royalists, who were all branded as traitors.’
Again that word, treason, Heck thought.
