The Temple Legacy

by D C Macey

  Helen prompted him. ‘I know she loved it here, why did you stop coming?’

  Peter Johnson laughed again. ‘That’s easy - family happened! As you and the rest of the brood were growing up, it started to get just too expensive. And when the little trust fund your mom’s parents left her went down the plughole in some investment shenanigans back in the 1980s, well, that mostly put an end to our regular trips. It was a poor minister’s life for us after that. We couldn’t go over there for holidays and leave you lot home alone. Could you imagine the gossip?’ They both laughed at the thought of his congregation’s response had they ever found the Johnson children abandoned.

  Peter continued. ‘Anyway, in those earlier years, before the holiday trips went out of our price range, ours and Xavier’s paths crossed quite regularly and we got to know each other well. Your mother approved of Xavier you know, and she’s a good judge of character.’

  ‘Oh, but she married you,’ said Helen. A conditioned response to a long running family joke.

  ‘My point exactly,’ said Peter, taking the jibe in good spirit, ‘and she always sticks up for you too. No matter what you’ve done to my blood pressure over the years.’

  ‘Whey, let’s hear it for mom,’ said Helen, raising her wine glass and clinking glasses with Sam. Helen leant towards him, whispering theatrically. ‘You are going to love my mom,’ then spoke back to the phone. ‘You tell him, Pop.’

  For just a moment, there was a tricky pause. Helen realised she had told neither Sam nor her parents that she had ever considered such a meeting.

  Sam digested the possible implications of such planning. ‘Well… I’m sure I’d love to meet her,’ he said.

  Peter Johnson rolled in to his daughter’s rescue. ‘Ha,’ he cried, ‘ha, women, they’re always at least a step ahead of us men and of themselves sometimes! Eh, Sam?’ They all laughed the implication away, though it had planted a thought in Sam’s mind that he would need to revisit in the future.

  ‘Look at the time, I’m going to have to close the church up,’ said Peter Johnson. ‘It’s been a long day and you don’t solve many problems with a tired mind. I’m a morning person anyway.’ Then he gave Helen a real surprise. ‘You’ve met Xavier too, you know? When you were just a toddler we went to Sardinia for a summer holiday, stayed with him. Remember?’

  ‘Never! I don’t remember.’ Helen was startled by the revelation.

  ‘Perhaps you wouldn’t recall. You were just two or three. Xavier was really taken with you. Not too talkative with adults, but he loved little children, a natural with them. Odd, really, when you consider he became a priest.’ He could sense Helen’s disbelief and Sam’s amusement. ‘Oh yeah, you followed him around, inseparable for days. You wouldn’t believe the tears when you weren’t allowed to go into the confessional with him.’

  Helen was only half-convinced. ‘Get out of here,’ but a smile showed she was thinking of the mysterious Xavier in a different light. He couldn’t be all bad.

  ‘It’s true, all true,’ chimed in Joan Johnson’s more distant voice.

  ‘How come nobody’s ever told me this? John never said,’ Helen was learning things about her life she’d never dreamt of.

  ‘Sure, they all came. It probably never crossed John’s mind to mention it. Now, let’s speak again tomorrow. You take care of yourself, and you too Sam.’

  ‘Love you, Pop.’

  ‘Love you too.’

  And the line went dead as Peter Johnson hung up.

  CHAPTER 22 - TUESDAY 18th JUNE - DAYTIME

  Helen had church work to deal with and once again found she needed to spend part of the morning in the manse. She was still very uneasy with what had happened there but had to come to terms with events. Anyway, Grace was to be there too, supervising a team of security fitters who were booked in for today, so she wouldn’t be completely alone. Leaving Sam on the doorstep, she stepped into the manse.

  Meanwhile, Sam found himself with time on his hands. He made his way towards the city centre, once again heading for the museum, a bunch of carnations in his hand. An entirely inadequate gesture to show his feelings, but he wanted to do something. He turned into Chambers Street and forced himself to enter the building without a pause; if he stopped, he would probably not go in at all.

  Once inside, he did hesitate for just a moment, then steeled himself and headed straight for the reception and enquiry counter. As he approached, he realised it was the same receptionist on duty as the day he had first met Suzie. She greeted him with a professional smile, but without recognition. He nodded back and there was a moment’s silence as he considered what to say.

  ‘How can I help you?’ asked the woman.

  Sam responded, still slightly hesitant. ‘Morning. I wonder, I’ve got these flowers, I thought I’d hand in. They’re just a token, well, to mark… For Suzie, you know she’s died.’ It was lame and he knew it sounded pathetic, but what do you say? He gave his bunch of carnations a little wave.

  The receptionist’s face changed from efficiency to a mix of warmth and sadness. ‘Oh, that’s so nice. Thank you,’ she said, leaning across the reception counter to take the flowers. ‘I’ll have them taken up to her section right now. What a kind thought,’ she gave him a smile of genuine warmth. ‘It’s so sad. And strange too. She was such a good swimmer - raised money for charity, swimming and all sorts. We don’t understand how it happened,’ she paused to admire the flowers. Then leant still further towards him and added in a conspiratorial whisper. ‘And it’s so weird; nobody here believes Suzie would take stuff. She lived for the job; everyone loved her.’ Sam nodded and was turning to leave as she stopped him.

  ‘Sorry - you haven’t written a card,’ she said.

  Sam hesitated, feeling the need to leave, and shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter; I’m thinking of her, that’s what counts.’

  ‘No. Wait. At least let me write your name down. Her friends and colleagues will appreciate it,’ she smiled at him, beckoning him back to her, a pen in her hand. ‘Just your name, please?’

  Reluctantly, and now a little self-consciously, Sam returned to the counter and gave the receptionist his name. She wrote it on a note and slipped it amongst the flowers. Sam nodded a goodbye to her; he could finally leave, albeit his nagging guilt remained completely unassuaged.

  ‘Hold on,’ she called, stopping him for a second time, ‘I remember you now. You were here visiting Suzie the other day, weren’t you?’

  Sam half turned back towards her and nodded acknowledgement. Then he watched as the receptionist suddenly disappeared from view, bending down to pick out something from a storage shelf fixed beneath the counter. She resurfaced with a broad brown envelope.

  ‘Suzie must have sent this down for your collection before, before, well…’ her voice trailed off as she slid the slim packet across the counter towards him.

  ‘You’ll need to sign for it,’ she said, reaching for a receipt pad.

  Sam signed, thanked the receptionist and left. He resisted the urge to open the envelope in the street. Instead, he headed straight for his office at the university. With the teaching year over he would be able to sit quietly and evaluate whatever Suzie had left him and consider the wider problem that was threatening to overwhelm Helen’s and his own safety too.

  • • •

  Helen sat at the desk in the manse study, revising her work schedule for the week. Grace came in carrying mugs of coffee and chocolate biscuits. She took the chair next to Helen’s desk. Helen smiled a thank you to her while finishing off the work schedule.

  A minute or so later, Helen stopped, put her notes aside and grabbed her coffee. She looked across at Grace. ‘Grace, sorry, I really had to get that finished while it was fresh in my mind. It seems an age since we last spoke properly. How are you bearing up with everything?’

  Grace looked vulnerable. ‘Oh, not very well really, but I guess we’re all having it bad. But what about you? Poor John, he died in your arms. I know - my mum told me, tho
ugh she wouldn’t give me any details.’ Grace almost didn’t want an answer, a little afraid of what Helen might say.

  She had never known her father. After he died, John Dearly had gradually evolved into almost a father figure for her, a surrogate uncle at the very least. Under John’s watchful eye she had spent countless school holidays bouncing around the manse, the church and the graveyard while her mother was at work. Grace and John had become friends, more: trusted confidants, a shared and faithful affection.

  The conversation moved on, touching this and that, but for once, both found it a little stilted. They worked around topics that Grace clearly felt too big to explore, and Helen was determined to avoid. Having become mindful that anyone coming into contact with the whole Templar dagger thing ended up in danger, she was not prepared to discuss anything that would put Grace in harm’s way.

  The pair, who had always found conversation so easy, suddenly had nothing to say. Grace stood, muttering uncomfortably about checking up on the security technicians. Helen stood too and came round the desk towards her. Then, as if by some instinctive synchrony, arms wrapped round and the pair embraced; two gently rocking bodies pressed against one another, leaning, supporting. Two friends joined in grief and worry; the stilted tension vanished while they shared a moment of mutual comfort and support.

  Eventually their whispered babble subsided, the pair separated in a more comfortable frame of mind, but Grace left with a parting comment that stoked up all Helen’s previous concerns. ‘I’d have those security boys get up to the church next. Somebody’s been at the doors. I know it, the locks opened far too easily when I was up there cleaning first thing. It’s as if someone has done something to them, oiled them or something. Should I tell these guys to see my mum about it?’

  ‘You don’t say? That’s really important. Can you tell your mother right away? I’ll check it too. I’m to meet the police at the church at eleven thirty. They want to look around again. Probably ask more questions too. Though I guess we should be pleased that DCI Wallace is being thorough.’

  Grace grimaced. ‘Rather you than me. I always feel on edge with the police. I don’t know, it’s as though you’re worrying you’ve broken a law without knowing and they’ll pull you up.’

  ‘I know, but don’t worry. No one will be looking at you for answers to this stuff.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ said a slightly pensive Grace.

  ‘In fact I’d better get over there right now. Don’t want to keep the police waiting. I’ll be back for lunch though. See you then.’

  Helen headed straight away to the church and Grace stood at the study window to wave as Helen passed. Once Helen had gone, Grace remained, still, thoughtful, her fingers press hard against the windowsill.

  • • •

  DCI Wallace was standing on the step leading up to the church doors. To one side and just off the step were DS Brogan and three of the team. They were going to have a good hunt about. If there were any evidence in the church that linked these crimes, his team would find it.

  He watched Helen carefully as she approached. Like everyone else, she had to be assessed, evaluated, but his gut instinct screamed innocent. Yes, everyone’s a suspect, but if she was a serial killer, then he was a Russian ballet dancer. Yet there was something about her, he couldn’t quite put his finger on it, just a feeling.

  With a nod of his head, he acknowledged her wave and smile, and waited for her to join him on the step.

  ‘Good morning detective,’ greeted Helen. ‘I’m not late, am I?’

  ‘Morning there. No, you’re spot on, we just arrived a couple of minutes ahead of time.’

  Wallace stepped to one side, allowing Helen access to the door handles and locks. She produced a set of keys and opened up. The easy turning lock registered at once, though not sure a properly working lock was the sort of thing DCI Wallace was looking for, she determined to follow it up with Elaine as soon as possible. Stepping inside, she keyed in the alarm code before it could trigger. Then she invited the police in.

  ‘I don’t know quite how long this will take. Not sure what we’re looking for until we see it,’ said Wallace.

  ‘Take as long as you like, but I don’t have long detective. I’ve plans for lunch at the manse. Do you want the keys? How should we handle the lock up?’

  Wallace took the keys. ‘Are these for all the internal doors too?’

  ‘Yes, but not the rear exit door behind the vestry,’ said Helen.

  Wallace gave a little growl, holding out the keys for DS Brogan to take. He looked back at Helen. ‘Under the circumstances, you should set the alarm when we’re finished. It’s not good policy to share alarm codes, even if it’s with the police.’

  ‘What do you suggest then?’ Helen was quite relaxed about leaving the police alone in the church but security was the order of the day. Perhaps more to deter ghouls and voyeurs than to keep the killer at bay. It seemed pretty clear a locked door was not the sort of barrier to stop him if he wanted to strike again.

  ‘My sergeant’s got your mobile number. I’ll have him phone you once we’re done and you can come back across to set the alarm. How’s that?’

  Helen smiled agreement. ‘Great, I’ll go for that. Now is there anything I can explain about the building before I leave?’ She pointed up the aisle. ‘I’d appreciate it if your men treat it with respect,’ she looked expectantly at Wallace.

  ‘Don’t worry about that Miss, we’re not heathens,’ Wallace paused, eyeing one of his more dishevelled detectives. ‘Well, most of us anyway.’

  ‘The vestry is over there, on the left hand side, you go right through it to get to the church office. Feel free to look at anything you want. Just make yourselves at home. I’ll collect the keys when I come back to reset the alarm.’ Helen made to leave. ‘If there’s nothing else, I really need to get back to the manse.’

  Wallace nodded agreement, but just as Helen turned to leave, he stopped her with a question. ‘Oh, by the way Miss, I wonder…’

  Helen turned back to hear what DCI Wallace wanted.

  ‘The MacPhersons. Well, Sarah MacPherson, actually. I know you were there for a meal the week before they were killed, but I’m not quite clear how well you knew her. Were you good friends?’

  ‘I’m sure I’ve already explained this to your sergeant.’ She knew she had. ‘I met Sarah once and only once. She was a lovely woman, a generous hostess and she didn’t deserve to die.’

  ‘And you’re sure that’s the only contact you ever had with her?’ DCI Wallace’s voice was relaxed, almost gentle.

  ‘Absolutely. Oh, no. She sent me a note, a letter actually. I didn’t get it until after… Well, after she was dead.’

  ‘A letter. That’s very unusual today, isn’t it? Don’t people mostly text or message or something these days? Why write, I wonder? What did she want?’

  For the first time in her dealings with the police, Helen suddenly felt under the spotlight. ‘I’m not sure, it was a bit vague. I think she just wanted me to visit, that’s all. And writing? I guess that’s just the sort of person she was. Stylish, but a mix of creative and traditional.’

  ‘I’d quite like to see that letter if I may?’ said Wallace.

  ‘I don’t have it with me. It’s at home. I can look it out for you tonight.’ Helen was relieved the questioning was limited to the MacPhersons. At least she did not have to sit on any information about them.

  ‘That’s fine, if you look it out and let me know, I’ll have somebody drop by and pick it up for me…’ Wallace left his sentence unfinished as his mobile phone rang. He reached for it while waving a silent goodbye. She did not need a second chance to leave.

  • • •

  Helen returned to the manse just as the workers’ drilling and banging silenced for lunch. Back in the quiet of the study, she sat and considered what had happened and what they could do to protect themselves from whoever their enemy was. She smiled wryly; in all her time in West Africa, she had never thought of the m
ilitias there as enemies. Yes, they were misguided. Cruel, certainly. And sometimes simply evil. But they had not really been her enemies, just part of a wave of madness that swept up and brutalised whatever it touched. The wave did not worry who you were, was not in the least selective. If you met the wave, you met cruelty or torture or death. Sometimes all three. If you could run from the wave, you did. The wave didn’t care; if it missed you, it just took the next person in line.

  What she faced here was different. This was focused, aimed at her friends, her loved ones and aimed at her too. She would not run from it. What she had also learnt in Africa was that in the end a wave of madness did not kill or rape or brutalise; when the wave broke, you were always faced by an individual. To survive, the individual had to be stopped; that demanded focus too. She had survived then and she would do so now.

  Her thoughts were brought to an abrupt end by shouts at the front door.

  ‘Pizza. Pizza delivery for Johnson. Come and get it.’ Francis’ voice carried through the house as only a preacher’s can.

  She jumped up, pleased to hear his familiar voice. Then she headed for the hallway where Grace was already holding the front door open. Framed in the doorway was Francis with an arm full of pizza boxes. Elaine was in the doorway too, and wedged between the pair was an older man with tanned Latin looks and dressed in the formal black of a Catholic priest. It could only be Xavier. Angelo followed a pace behind.

  Introductions were made, the dining room was quickly filled, and with a practiced hand, Grace spread out plates and organised drinks for everyone.

  Francis started opening boxes and sliding them around the table. ‘Take a slice. Take two, plenty to go round.’

  Helen found herself sitting at the head of the table while Xavier had quite naturally slotted into the chair at the opposite end, Angelo to his right hand. The others filled the seats as they could. Elaine was looking gingerly at the pizza. She didn’t think there had been a pizza delivery to the manse before, ever. She liked home cooking best, always had, but if they had to have a carryout, it was fish and chips or perhaps chicken and chips, this was very different. What next? Kebabs?