by Adam Croft
‘Doesn’t look like there was much of a fight,’ one of the white-suited forensics sorts said, not taking his eyes from the floor.
‘How do you mean?’ Warner asked. He never could quite get his head around how the forensics boys managed to work out exactly what had happened just by looking at a pool of blood and a footprint, but then again that was why he was the DI.
‘Well, the pattern of the blood spatters on the wall tells us that the blow came from this direction,’ the man said, re-enacting the scene almost too realistically, as he raised his arm and brought it down onto the skull of his imaginary victim. ‘If you look at how the victim is lying, it seems as though the first blow was probably what did it. There’s been no twisting or turning or falling awkwardly. Just a simple crack to the back of the head and—boom—on the deck.’
Warner raised his eyebrows, almost in disbelief at the man’s apparent enjoyment of the moment. ‘So how do you explain the other spatters on the floor?’ he asked, pointing at the array of apparently random splashes on the tiled floor.
‘Ah, well quite simply it seems they were done while the victim was already on the floor. It looks as though the victim was struck a number of times after he had fallen.’
‘Already dead?’ Warner asked.
‘Impossible to say. Certainly unconscious, judging by the fact that the fall appears to have broken the victim’s nose. Now, I don’t know about you, Detective Inspector, but if I fall over I tend to try and land on my hands, not my face. Unless, of course, I’m already unconscious when I hit the ground. Either way, it seems that the killer wanted to make sure the job was done properly. They didn’t leave anything to chance.’
‘But why do it all with a candlestick holder?’ Warner asked. ‘Surely, if you wanted someone dead that badly, you’d come equipped. It looks as though the murder weapon came from the mantelpiece,’ he said, pointing at the sizeable gap next to the identical model already there; the gap filled only with a shiny round mark where the dust had gathered around the original object.
‘I was thinking that myself, guv,’ the younger officer said. ‘Looks to me as though it could be an argument gone wrong. That would explain the use of an opportunistic weapon rather than something the killer had brought with them.’
‘But not the mindless bludgeoning that came after it, DC Kerrigan.’
‘How do you mean, guv?’
‘Well, let’s say I’m standing here in my kitchen and we have an argument. I turn away from you and you bash me over the head with the first thing you find – a candlestick holder. I hit the canvas like a sack of spuds and there’s blood pouring from my head. Do you carry on smashing in my skull? No, you’re too shocked at what you’ve done. If this is an argument gone wrong, it would have to go very wrong for you to want to make sure I was completely dead.’
DC Kerrigan said nothing for a few moments, his curled bottom lip betraying the circle of thoughts that were whizzing around his young head.
‘It just doesn’t add up. If you ask me, it seems to have been a real spur-of-the-moment thing. Whoever killed our victim knew that they had to do it right there and then. No time to get equipped and no chance of a miraculous recovery.’
‘Well that makes sense, I guess,’ DC Kerrigan said, as he averted his eyes from the victim’s open skull. ‘So all we need to know is who.’
‘Yes, and that’s where it gets tricky.’
Over the course of the next fifteen minutes, the pair continued to be shown the intricacies of the crime scene by the forensics team. The lack of forced entry seemed to indicate that the victim had known the killer — they’d been let into the house. They were obviously known well enough to the victim to be invited into the living room. Why, then, would someone so close and familiar see fit to cave in the victim’s skull with such sudden ferocity?
‘Hardwick, it’s DI Warner,’ the detective spoke into his mobile phone a few moments later. ‘Now, don’t go getting too excited—I’m just keeping you in the loop—but we’ve got another dead body. It’s Reverend Michael Winton.’
22
Harry Greenlaw’s face conveyed both shock and fear as Hardwick and Flint watched Detective Inspector Rob Warner break the news to him. The faint glow of the street light outside the vicarage was enough to reflect the tears that rolled down the verger’s cheek. Out of respect for the moment, Hardwick and Flint kept their distance and stood between Harry Greenlaw and the vicarage, with the intention of speaking to him once Warner had finished the difficult job of explaining what had happened.
‘He looks pretty upset, Kempston,’ Ellis said.
‘Well, wouldn’t you be? He’s worked for – and practically lived with – the vicar for years. They both dedicated their lives to Tollinghill and now one of their parishioners has taken it upon themselves to repay them with the ultimate insult.’
Ellis picked a leaf off a nearby young birch tree and began to tear the pieces as he spoke. ‘Must make it even worse if you’re particularly religious, I suppose.’
‘How do you mean?’ Hardwick asked.
‘Well, you and I can put it down to people reacting to situations, or even being naturally evil, but to have to question your own belief in God, and ask what was so bad that he had to allow this to happen… I don’t think I could even begin to try and explain that.’
‘Fortunately we don’t have to, Ellis. That’s for Harry Greenlaw and his God to fight out.’
DI Warner brought his difficult conversation to a close with a reassuring hand on Harry Greenlaw’s upper back, passing him his police contact card with the other. Harry Greenlaw nodded and DI Warner headed for his car.
‘Mr Greenlaw, my condolences,’ Hardwick said as the verger walked towards the vicarage.
‘Oh, thank you. It’s such a shock! I only went out for half an hour and I come back to this. I just don’t know what to say,’ Harry replied, waving DI Warner’s card in the air as he spoke.
‘May I ask where you went?’ Hardwick asked, as innocently and matter-of-factly as he could.
‘Just for a walk. I do it every night. I started when my dog, Bonnie, was alive, but have just carried on since. That’s been two years now, but I still enjoy the walk. Tollinghill is so beautiful in the evening, and so–’ Harry Greenlaw paused for a moment.
‘Safe?’ Ellis Flint added.
‘Well, yes. It is. That’s the horrible thing. That’s two murders this week, and I just don’t know what to think! Who do you think could be doing this?’
‘We don’t know, but we intend to find out as quickly as possible,’ Hardwick said. ‘Mr Greenlaw, I must tell you that Michael Winton came to see me early this afternoon. He said that he was privy to some information from a confession, which may have helped to find Oscar Whitehouse’s killer. I don’t know what it was, or why he even came to see me, seeing as he couldn’t tell me what it was, but I just wondered if you might have any idea what he knew.’
Harry Greenlaw shuffled his feet and thought for a few moments. ‘No, none. The priest-penitent bond is sacrosanct, anyway, so he wouldn’t have told me either. I thought something was on his mind, though. I knew it!’
‘How do you mean?’ Ellis asked.
‘He had been acting very odd lately. Just little things, you know. Nothing I could put my finger on, but the sort of thing you spot quite easily when you spend so much time with someone. There was this… this look in his eyes. Almost like fear. Like he sensed some sort of danger.’
‘Danger?’ Ellis Flint asked.
‘Yeah, but I can’t really explain how. Just… a sort of sixth sense, I guess. It’s probably nothing, but you never know what’s worth mentioning at a time like this, do you?’
‘No, indeed. Well we shan’t keep you any longer,’ Hardwick said. ‘The police will want to speak with you further regarding your whereabouts this evening.’
‘Why?’ Harry Greenlaw asked, showing a sudden spark of interest. ‘I’ve already told you where I was.’
‘Yes, but t
he police will want to speak to anybody who might be implicated, Mr Greenlaw. When it comes to murder in a small place like Tollinghill, I’m afraid everybody is a suspect.’
23
Hardwick sat nursing his Campari and orange as the jukebox played quietly in the front bar of the Freemason’s Arms. He’d not particularly considered this pub to be his local until a case, over eighteen months previous, had very much revolved around it. Having caught the killer, Hardwick always found that he was very welcome at the Freemason’s Arms, with more than one or two drinks finding their way to him without any money exchanging hands.
He sat at the bar, as he always did, preferring the proximity of the bar talk and enjoying the wide range of colourful characters that appeared and disappeared every few moments. The ivory crack of a striking cue ball reverberated from the pool table as he tried to imagine the vicar’s last moments at the mercy of his own candlestick holder. The incongruity between the spontaneity and ferocity of the attack was playing on his mind as his sipped his drink, the ice cube caressing his upper lip.
The door to the lounge bar creaked as it opened, revealing the familiar stature of Dolores Mickelwhite. She almost jogged over to the bar with an eagerness Hardwick had rarely seen in someone of her age.
‘Can I buy you a drink?’ Hardwick asked, as the woman beckoned him over to a table.
‘Oh, no, thank you. I shan’t stay long. I just wanted to speak to you about what happened last night at the Old Vicarage.’
‘I’m afraid there’s not much I can tell you, Ms Mickelwhite,’ Hardwick explained, pulling out a chair and preparing to dodge the barrage of invasive questions, which were sure to come his way. ‘Besides, certain types of… talk… can be detrimental to an investigation.’
‘Oh, no. Not this type of talk, Mr Hardwick,’ she replied, I think you’ll find this very interesting indeed.
‘Modus vivendi, Ms Mickelwhite,’ Hardwick said, raising his glass.
‘Oh? Had they run out of Campari, then?’ she said, determined to continue. ‘You see, the thing is this. I was out for a short evening walk last night, and at the time that the vicar was killed, I was walking past the Old Vicarage.’
‘Did you tell the police this?’ Hardwick asked, his interest suddenly aroused.
‘Oh, no. They haven’t asked me anything,’ she replied. Hardwick felt quite sure that Dolores Mickelwhite didn’t usually need to be asked to provide information. ‘Anyway, I was walking past the eastern wall of the grounds—it’s just below my head height—and I happened to peer over and see somebody walking quite purposefully up to the front door.’
‘Did you see who it was? Surely it was too dark by then.’
‘Oh, it was pitch black. But the curtains in the front windows hadn’t been drawn and there was a lot of light coming from them. I could see exactly who it was, Mr Hardwick, as clearly as if it had been the middle of the day.’
‘Who, Ms Mickelwhite?’ Hardwick implored, his patience being tested.
‘It was Oscar Whitehouse.’
24
‘With the greatest of respect, Ms Mickelwhite, Oscar Whitehouse has been dead since Friday night,’ Hardwick said, discounting her testimony and wondering how quickly he could get back to the bar for another Campari and orange.
‘I know!’ Dolores shrieked with excitement. ‘That’s why I came to see you! The police would never believe me if I told them, but I know you to be a man of rational thought, Mr Hardwick. We all know your reputation for solving mysteries!’
‘Even my talents stop short of raising the dead, Ms Mickelwhite,’ Hardwick replied. ‘I’m afraid it’s simply not possible.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong, Mr Hardwick,’ Dolores said, rummaging in her handbag and retrieving a VHS cassette. ‘And this will show you why!’
Moments later, Hardwick, Dolores, and the recently arrived Ellis Flint were sitting in Dolores Mickelwhite’s living room as she fumbled to cram the VHS cassette into her video recorder, having quite literally dragged Hardwick up the road from the Freemason’s Arms to her cottage.
‘Darned new technology. Can never get these things in properly,’ she muttered as way of apology.
‘With all due respect, Ms Mickelwhite, DVDs and network storage don’t have that problem,’ Ellis Flint piped up.
‘All Greek to me, love. These damned things are difficult enough without me fiddling about with internets and digi-dicks. Ah, there we go.’ Dolores Mickelwhite retreated from the television set and perched on the edge of her armchair, her fingers prodding at the remote control like a vet giving CPR to a hamster. ‘I’m never around to see it myself, but I always make sure I record it.’
‘Record what, Ms Mickelwhite?’ Hardwick asked.
‘The Afternoon Show, of course. I never miss it. That Darwin O’Hare makes me laugh, he really does. Wonderful sense of humour.’
‘Uh… we’re not here to watch daytime television, are we, Ms Mickelwhite?’ Hardwick said as he prepared to rise from his chair and make a quick exit.
‘Of a sort. But bear with me, please. How the hell does this thing fast-for… Ah! There we go. It’s just after the bit where he… Yep, here we go.’
The picture stayed frozen for a moment, and then the tape began to play.
‘—almost solely on your belief that our spirits live on after death. Do you expect that this book will convince the nay-sayers that the paranormal world is real?’
‘No, I expect there will always be cynics. However, I know that the world will soon have proof of life after death. That much is true. Evil will always live on.’
Dolores Mickelwhite paused the tape and glanced expectantly at Hardwick and Flint. Hardwick raised one eyebrow, whilst Flint sat nonplussed. Dolores Mickelwhite pressed a button on the remote control and the tape rewound a few seconds and played again.
‘I know that the world will soon have proof of life after death. That much is true. Evil will always live on.’
‘Ms Mickelwhite, that’s all very interesting, but what exactly are you trying to say?’
‘Can’t you see, Kempston?’ Ellis Flint interjected, his excitement growing by the second. ‘He said it himself! “The world will soon have proof of life after death.” He said those words on live TV just hours before he died! He said he would prove that evil will always live on!’
‘Ellis, are you seriously trying to tell me that you think Oscar Whitehouse came back from the dead to kill the vicar?’
Without waiting for an answer, Hardwick sighed heavily and left the house.
‘It’s perfectly plausible, Kempston!’ Flint shouted as he chased the fast-walking Hardwick down the gravel path.
‘People do not just come back from the dead, Ellis. There’s a perfectly reasonable explanation, I’m sure. And one that doesn’t involve ghosts and ghoulies.’
‘It’s not ghosts and ghoulies, Kempston – it’s the spirit world, the astral plane! If Oscar Whitehouse had only just died it’s perfectly possible that his energy would still be vibrant!’
‘It is not perfectly possible, Ellis. It is absolute tosh. There was no energy – vibrant or otherwise – except the force that brought the candlestick holder down on the vicar’s head.’
‘Yes! The force of Oscar Whitehouse’s spirit!’
‘Oh, for… Ghosts do not exist, Ellis! And even if they did, they certainly wouldn’t walk around villages smashing people’s skulls in with candlestick holders.’
‘But why not? Think about it – if ghosts can close doors and switch on lights, why not smack someone round the head?’
‘Ghosts cannot close doors and switch on lights, Ellis! Draughts close doors and electrical faults switch on lights. Short of a bloody hurricane-force draught, neither of those phenomena are capable of caving in someone’s skull. Now, will you please leave this supernatural nonsense alone?’
‘All right. What’s your explanation then?’ Flint asked, seeming very cock-sure of himself.
‘I’m not entirely sure. Wha
t I am sure of, though, is that there is a perfectly rational one.’
25
The young lady at the front desk smiled as she handed Hardwick the pass card which would allow him to enter the records office. Although most such institutions had long since been amalgamated into libraries, the records office at Bradstow (the town, forty-five miles from Tollinghill, where Oscar Whitehouse was born) remained stoically independent, fending off the advent of technological advancement, much the same as the rest of the village.
The sheer volume of cabinets and screens overwhelmed him. He was amazed at the number of records available for the relatively small area of Bradstow. The generations of history stood before him, as blatant as they could ever be, as Hardwick scanned the indices for the location of the files he sought.
Having written down Oscar Whitehouse’s name and date of birth, Hardwick handed it to the registrar, helped himself to a ‘coffee’ from the adjacent machine, and sat down on the ripped leather chair. Eyeing the selection of leaflets and guides available on the low table next to him, he took a sip of the bitter liquid; his face contorted in disgust. He picked up a dog-eared copy of Country Living and thumbed through the well-worn pages. An article on a Dorset farm, which still practised the traditional method of sheep shearing, was followed by a fascinating piece on the best fertilisers to use for growing scallions. Hardwick’s patience was saved by the re-appearance of the registrar, her spectacles delicately balanced on the bridge of her nose as she ruffled the printed copy of Oscar Whitehouse’s birth certificate.
‘It’s all here,’ the registrar stated. ‘I hope this is the one you’re looking for.’
Hardwick mentally noted the information on the birth certificate.
