by Neil White
‘Would you mind answering a few more questions about people from your parish?’
He held out his hand as if to gesture at me to carry on, so I asked, ‘Rebecca Nurse. You said you remembered her?’
The vicar exhaled loudly and nodded. ‘The girl by the brook. That wasn't very nice at all.’ He paused for a few seconds, and then said, ‘She was a sweet girl though, but she was going through some wild times back then, just kicking back at her parents. They were good people, but they were occasional worshippers, and so stopped seeing the good in God when Rebecca was killed. Things like that even make me doubt Him, when I see what evil He allows to happen.’
‘In what way was Rebecca rebelling?’
‘In the way that kids do. They experiment, try to shock.’
‘Do you know that she dabbled in witchcraft?’
The vicar's face turned into a frown as he cast his mind back. ‘She was one of Olwen's disciples.’
That surprised me, Olwen's name coming up unprompted. The vicar must have spotted my surprise, because he asked, ‘Do you know Olwen?’
I nodded. ‘We've met.’
The vicar considered me carefully. ‘He's a child of the sixties,’ he answered.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Just that. He had a strict upbringing, but he was a young boy when the sixties really got going, and so saw himself differently to how his parents saw him. We knew each other, nodding acquaintances, but as I was drawn to God, he was drawn to the hippie scene, all that dancing in the woods, sitting around campfires and taking drugs – except that around here there weren't many drugs available.’
‘But there is something different about Olwen,’ I said. ‘He's a descendant of a Pendle witch, so maybe that made him feel different.’
The vicar laughed and shook his head.
‘What's wrong?’ I asked.
‘Young man,’ he said, still chuckling, ‘most of the people around here are related in some way to a Pendle witch, or so they say. Those unlucky men and women were from local families, and so they left other family members. I'm not convinced by most of the claims, and most people rely on a name. Nutter. Whittle. Bulcock. Common names around here.’
‘So it's no big deal then?’
He laughed again. ‘I could even be a descendant, but the records aren't detailed enough to be sure.’
‘I've seen the family tree,’ I replied.
The vicar rubbed his eyes. ‘Olwen is a fantasist,’ he said wearily. ‘I've seen that family tree. He has drawn it up himself. I would be surprised if you had to go back too many generations to find the first error. Seeing a piece of paper with names on doesn't make any of it true. All of this lifestyle is made up. He was just plain old Michael Smith back in the sixties, but somewhere along the way he became Olwen.’
‘So where did the hippie thing take him?’ I asked, curious now.
The vicar considered me carefully. His fingers were steepled under his nose and he looked thoughtful.
‘You know where it took him,’ he said eventually. ‘Witchcraft.’
‘Is that widely known?’ I asked.
The vicar smiled. ‘Everyone knew back then. He conducted ceremonies in the woods, lit candles in the middle of the night. It's a small village – things like that don't go unnoticed.’
‘Did he get any trouble from the locals?’
‘No, not around here. Pendle Hill attracts people who are drawn to its history. He was no different.’
‘So you have heard of the Family Coven?’ I ventured.
I expected the vicar to look blankly at me, or to look angry. Instead, he broke into a smile.
‘Olwen's disciples, like I told you. Most are getting old now, just more sixties remnants, but he became a bit of a mover in his circle. People who showed an interest in the occult were targeted by him, and it is women he concentrates on – the thought of getting a woman barely into her twenties to stand in front of him as naked as God created her is too strong for him to resist.’
‘But isn't he carrying on an old tradition?’ I said. ‘A line of witchcraft going right back to the Pendle witches?’
The vicar was clearly amused. ‘Did he tell you that?’ he asked, still chuckling. Then he shook his head and said, ‘No, you've no need to tell me, because I can see the answer in your face. He started the tradition sometime during the eighties. He picked up most of it from books and television, carved it out into a sect, really just for his own fun.’
‘But he has followers,’ I protested.
‘He has a few ageing hippies, just like himself,’ he countered, ‘and through the years a few have passed through his coven, just a phase, a passing interest in the alternative. He shows them some interest and then mocks up some family tree to tie them into a blood line that they didn't know they had.’
‘But that would be easy to disprove,’ I said.
‘Not if you don't want to disprove it,’ he replied.
‘So you don't believe in witchcraft?’ I asked.
‘The witch trials of four hundred years ago were just what you think they were, the product of a misguided time. The area moved on, but then people like Olwen turned it into a lifestyle choice. But I don't mind if people like Olwen want to hold ceremonies. Let them, I say. God will be their judge, not me.’ Then he sighed. ‘This is all linked to Rebecca, I presume.’
I nodded. ‘She was in his coven.’
‘And April Mather?’
I nodded again.
He looked down, his eyes mourning an old memory. ‘A few years on, Rebecca would have grown out of it. Maybe she would have come back to God. My God. Our God.’ Then he swallowed, his face filled with sadness. ‘April is a more obvious guess though. I knew her parents, good people, but they lost control of her when she got involved with the local bikers. It wasn't their fault, she was always wayward, and I met her husband, Dan, a couple of times. Dan wasn't a bad man. He'd had a rough upbringing himself; his mother ran away when he was a young boy, left him to grow up with his grandmother. But April kept his life steady, and it seemed like he loved her.’
‘And she was drawn to Olwen?’
The vicar nodded. ‘He preys on people like her. The vulnerable, the confused, the disenchanted. He gives them an outlet.’
‘Are you saying it was partly his fault?’
He thought about that, and then he said, ‘No. They would have chosen their own path. Olwen isn't a bad man; he is just misguided.’
‘Rebecca was found next to Olwen's house,’ I said. ‘Did you know that?’
The vicar nodded. ‘Olwen found her.’
I felt a crackle down my spine, like a shiver, and sweat jumped onto my palms.
‘Olwen found her?’ I repeated, surprised.
‘Yes. He called the police, and they found him hugging her body when they got there.’
I looked into the fire, at the flames as they danced along the black chimney breast, at the smoke being sucked into the chimney.
‘I didn't know that,’ I said quietly.
‘Is there any reason why you should have known?’
I shook my head, and then thanked the vicar for his hospitality, leaving him to his fire and his book.
My phone rang as I got back to my car. ‘It's Joe Kinsella,’ said the voice as I answered it. ‘Do you want to come back down to the station, to go through what we've found?’
I looked around, at the lines of dry-stone walls, at the dark grass reflecting the mood from the clouds drawn into Pendle Hill. I wanted to get back to civilisation.
‘I won't be long,’ I replied, and then I climbed into my car. The Stag sounded loud as the engine started, and despite the cold I put the roof down; I wanted to feel the slap of the cold October day across my face. Time was running out, and I was no nearer to finding Sarah.
Chapter Sixty-six
Joe Kinsella was waiting for me as I arrived at the police station. He looked relaxed, composed, much different from the detectives who had taken me to the moors
.
There were steps leading to the front door, and as I bounded up them, he said, ‘Follow me, Mr Garrett.’
I almost broke into a trot as we walked along deserted corridors, those that the public never walked. It felt strange to be there. When I'd lived in London I had made a few police contacts, so visits to the station were frequent, just for those ‘an insider said’ talks, designed to get information out there that the police can't say explicitly. Sometimes people need a nudge that the police share their suspicions before they will come forward. In Blackley, the police station was Laura's world, and so I didn't cross the threshold, and tried to keep our working lives apart the best I could.
But this was a development, although I knew the reason was something other than goodwill: it was about control. They wanted what I had, either to use or hold back.
As we walked, it seemed like Sarah Goode was the only case in town. The corridor was filled with boxes, the rooms empty, most of the regular staff already moved to the concrete and glass building on the edge of town. I could see why they were going. The light was dim, the station networked by long, windowless corridors, and the walls looked tired and dirty. It was packed full of the town's memories, decades of misdemeanours, but it was no place to work.
I heard Joe Kinsella say, ‘He's a good copper, you know.’
I stopped. ‘Carson?’ I asked incredulously.
Joe nodded. ‘Yeah, believe it or not. He's a bully – I know that, and he knows it too – but he has a good nose.’
‘His nose didn't seem so good on this case.’
‘Trust me, if he didn't think there was something in it, you wouldn't be here. He might be old school, but if one of your loved ones was hurt, you would want Karl Carson in charge of the hunt.’
I wondered about that. Maybe I just didn't like mystery tours to the moors and the long walk back.
When I didn't respond, Joe turned and kept on walking. We went past what looked like the main Incident Room, with people looking through paperwork or glued to computer screens.
‘Maybe it's time to start again,’ said Joe.
I saw that it was meant as an apology, and so I shrugged it off. ‘Don't worry about it. Maybe I prefer some old-school policing.’
Joe smiled. ‘Good.’ Then he saw my laptop case in my hand. ‘Writing it up already?’ he asked.
‘Just getting the basics down,’ I said.
‘And where is it leading?’
‘Do you know Olwen, the coven leader?’ I asked.
‘I haven't met him yet, but Laura's told me all about him.’
‘Is he known to the police? Try the name Michael Smith. That's his real name.’
‘Why?’
‘He found Rebecca Nurse, the girl by the brook.’
Joe looked surprised at that, and then he began to smile.
‘What's funny?’ I asked.
‘Just a train of thought,’ he replied, and then he said, ‘You do know what you are suggesting in your article?’
‘Pretty much so.’
‘That there is a serial killer at work in Lancashire, and that we have missed it.’
‘I wouldn't put it so strongly.’
‘There isn't another way to put it,’ Joe said. ‘You are saying that someone has been killing members of a coven for years now, and is still at large.’
‘I'm writing a story, that's all.’
‘No, you're not,’ Joe protested. ‘You are treading on people's memories of their loved ones. You have to be careful.’
‘Maybe there aren't as many as I thought,’ I said.
‘Why?’
‘April Mather was a definite suicide,’ I said. ‘I've spoken to an eye-witness.’
Joe nodded thoughtfully. ‘There are others though.’
‘Yeah, but when you start to lose some out of the list,’ I said, ‘the list is less compelling. We have Rebecca, the girl by the brook, and two others, plus a couple of missing persons, who might just be that: missing.’
‘So, if there is no one targeting witches,’ said Joe, ‘we are back to Sarah as a murderer.’
I nodded in agreement.
At that, Joe opened the door to a room that was filled with desks but looked devoid of life. Pieces of paper were scattered on the floor, those scraps that hadn't made the move to the new station, and the yellowing paint was covered in white patches where pictures and memos had once been taped to the wall.
And Laura was sitting in a chair by the window. She smiled at me. ‘Hello Jack.’
I smiled back. ‘It looks like we've got a good team.’
‘Let's go through the case then,’ said Joe, ‘because we need to know whether you're wrong – because if you're right, Sarah hasn't got long to live.’
Chapter Sixty-seven
Joe put photographs onto a desk, and as I leaned over I saw that they were pictures of Sarah Goode, her auburn hair shining, her smile relaxed. Next to her, Joe placed pictures of Luke's body. My eyes were drawn to the images. The muscular young body, the ribbon of red over the chest, and the dark stain on the sheet. I stepped closer. I saw how he was leaning out of bed, his hand on the floor, knuckles down, his arm flaccid. But it was the middle of the chest that drew my eye; it was the knife, only the handle visible, an ordinary black-handled kitchen knife standing up from the chest like it was jammed in there.
‘Does she look like the sort of woman who would do that?’ I asked, almost to myself.
‘I learned a long time ago not to look at appearances,’ Joe said. ‘But what about this?’ And then he placed some more photographs onto the desk.
I leaned forward and nodded, tried to hide my shock. I knew what Joe was doing; he was showing me that this was more than just a story, that the victims were real people.
The photographs were of a naked young woman, her hands tied behind her back, the cord going up to her neck and round, so that if she pulled with her hands she would make it tighter around her neck. I had seen that knot before, in the ceremony, as part of the initiation. This body was by a stream, and although the colours were faded now, I recognised it as Sabden Brook, next to Olwen's cottage.
‘Rebecca Nurse,’ I said solemnly, and then looked again.
It was her skin that struck me. Her legs looked too smooth, ill-defined, the muscles no longer working, just pale limbs with no form to them. In the next photograph there was a close-up of her face. Although it was lifeless, it was still possible to see the pretty young woman, all innocence and youth.
Joe dropped another photograph onto the desk. I looked at him, my eyebrows raised.
‘Mary Lacey,’ said Joe, ‘the girl killed in Preston.’
I looked at the picture, Laura looking over my shoulder, and I saw how different the two images looked. Rebecca's body looked ritualistic, symbolic. Mary's body seemed like just another murder victim, her clothing loose, the bruising showing up as dark stains.
I sighed, but couldn't bring myself to say anything.
Joe floated the last one down. ‘This is the worst of all.’
I grimaced and turned away, Laura gasped just behind me, but after a few seconds I knew I had to look back.
It was a body, although only just recognisable as that. It was in a small pit, the head unnaturally bent forward, sitting down with the legs pulled up, so that it seemed to be in the foetal position. The whole body was charred, burnt to a crisp, the teeth bared in a grotesque grin, and the bones showed through the skin, making the legs and arms look stick-thin. And there was mud on the body, as if it had just been dug up out of the ground.
I looked at Joe.
‘Susannah Martin,’ he said. ‘Found like this in a small copse just outside Skipton.’
Laura leaned forward and picked up the picture of Susannah. ‘It seems different from the other two,’ she said. ‘They were left on display, but Susannah was burned and buried, wasn't she?’
‘All the witch killings are different,’ said Joe, ‘and so if they are connected, that is why we have missed
the link. They are just three unsolved murders, still live, but overtaken by others, waiting for a cold-case review.’
‘So Susannah was burnt to destroy the body, to frustrate forensics?’ I asked.
‘No,’ said Joe, shaking his head, and then he tapped the photograph with his finger. ‘Susannah Martin was alive when she was set alight.’
I looked away and shuddered, not wanting to see the photograph any more, the image of what she must have gone through.
‘How do we know?’ asked Laura, her tone cold and professional.
‘There was tissue reaction,’ Joe replied. When I looked confused, he said, ‘If someone is alive in intense heat like that, there is a reaction in the tissue cells, as the tissues are still alive to react.’ He exhaled loudly. ‘I read the post-mortem report earlier. It makes for grim reading. In high-temperature situations, the tissues can rupture, and splits appear like slash wounds. The pathologist dissected those ruptures to look for the reaction, and he found it.’ Joe tapped the photographs. ‘All that was going on as she was alive.’
I forced myself to look at the photographs and shook my head. ‘He is a cruel bastard,’ I said quietly.
‘There is something else too,’ said Joe, ‘but it messes up your theory.’
I looked up. ‘What?’
‘Rebecca Nurse,’ he said. ‘The girl by the brook. She was the victim of a serial killer, but her murder had nothing to do with witchcraft.’
When I looked shocked, he added, ‘We know who killed her.’
Chapter Sixty-eight
Joe bent down to a box by his feet, crammed nearly to the top with paperwork and files. I could see the sheen of photographs, yellow Post-it notes indexing bundles, maps, drawings, bound reports.
‘As you can see,’ he grunted, as he heaved the box onto a table, ‘I've done some digging around.’
I whistled. ‘Are they all the files?’
He shook his head. ‘Just the main parts. You know, the summaries, the incident logs, police intelligence prints.’
‘How did you know where to look?’ I asked.
