Crossed Out

by Malcolm Hollingdrake

  “What’s in your mouth?” he quizzed.

  She stuck out her tongue revealing two gold studs sitting there.

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “Interesting! Back seat now or it’s a fucking long walk back home for you.”

  He leaned into the glove box and grabbed the items before dashing to the back door. She also moved quickly. She took the tablets he offered and the two twenty-pound notes as he fumbled with his trousers.

  “How old are you?”

  “Why do you give a shit?” She grabbed his hand and thrust it between her legs. “This old. Is that old enough?”

  He laughed excitedly. “You’re the same age as my daughter. I’d kill a man who did this to her.”

  “Whatever.”

  His strong breath made her move away slightly and turn her head to the side avoiding his attempt at a kiss. The noise of the rain hitting the car’s roof stopped briefly as the downpour eased momentarily. She watched as he fumbled with the condom. “I need a piss. All this water! A minute.”

  She opened the door.

  He grabbed her arm and squeezed, noticing her wince. It hurt. “Hurry up!”

  He watched her dark shape barely silhouetted against the night sky as she moved and squatted round the front of the car. He could neither see her move away nor the smile that was on her face. The rain started to thump on the roof again. He looked to the front of the car but saw only the faint flicker of lights in the murk, further blurred by the rain-streaked windscreen.

  Moments later and to his relief, the car door opened. “About bloody time…”

  The interior light came on and to the person looking in it was clear that the man inside was naked from the waist down. The light spilled out onto the figure that was crouching and staring in, his focus clearly on Kumar.

  “What the fuck… Who are…?”

  The rear seat passenger peered at the masked face staring back. He was unable to make out any facial features of the figure positioned by the open door. He was confused and embarrassed. Torchlight suddenly blinded him. His hand went up to shade his eyes and his other hand went to cover his exposed genitals. The memory of the masked face looking back at him would be the last thing he would see apart from the blinding light.

  “Mr Kumar, number three. How delightful to make your acquaintance.” The words were clear and precise and that enunciation brought with it fear.

  Kumar, once he had fully comprehended what was said and what was happening, was about to protest again but the unseen, first flush of fluid had hit him squarely in the face. His vision suddenly blurred and turned a yellow opaque as the acid started to destroy his eyes. It filled his mouth, numbing and swelling his tongue. What suddenly became apparent was the smell, the smell he could not identify but in fact was the stench of melting flesh. All that could be heard was a gurgled scream as his face and tongue began to burn, blister and melt. The rain on the roof had been drowned out. As the first liquid burned, his hand frantically rubbed his eyes trying to clear away the liquid but to no avail, they too simply began to slough and blister. The pain was so intense that he did not feel the second liquid strike as it was poured specifically over his exposed genitals and thighs. It would be the final act against Kumar; it was all that would be needed.

  Casually, as Kumar writhed in the back of the car, the attacker replaced the lid on the container; it would be tossed into bracken a few miles from the site, and with luck never found. He opened the front door to the car and attached a plait of hair to the rear-view mirror.

  The frenetic thrashing of the body in the back seat continued for a few moments and suddenly, as if a switch had been flicked, Kumar’s upper body slumped onto the rear seat, his face now unrecognisable. There was an occasional twitch and spasm but nothing more.

  “Goodbye, Mr Kumar.”

  The attacker closed the front door and walked back to the tree, removing his mask as he went. The cool night air and occasional slap of rain brought relief. He took a deep breath.

  11

  The briefing room was busy. The large, blue screen emblazoned with the North Yorkshire Police Crest glowed proudly and the chatter was loud. Cyril lifted his cup from the saucer and scanned the room before sipping his tea. It was at moments like this that he missed Liz, her energy and enthusiasm. He looked across at a new face and smiled. He could see from her body language that she was nervous. Owen came in last carrying his customary Harrogate Festival mug. It appeared to leak as usual. He also carried a small cardboard box.

  Cyril checked his watch, shook it and then looked again. A number of the room’s occupants smiled. The meeting was about to commence.

  “Morning all. I’d first like to introduce formally our new colleague, DC April Richmond. She’s moved from Leeds on a temporary posting, recommended highly by DI Claire. I’m sure you’ll all show your usual professional support.” He smiled again at her and noted her colour rising. He also saw Shakti put her hand on her shoulder. He continued. “If you need anything, anything at all, just ask, we work as a team. Stuart will take us through the first element of today’s briefing.”

  Stuart Park flicked the screen’s remote and the blue-crested image faded to be replaced by a shot of a wooden cross and the attached plastic bag. He went through the findings and details about the DNA links.

  “We have a connection with a Gideon Fletcher but also a problem as he’s been off the scene for a good period of time. Fletcher was a bit of a handful at one time. He was a well-built six foot four and a right bastard, particularly when it came to race relations and in that area he had only one agenda. It was believed that he was behind a number of incidents involving people who, for want of a better phrase, were of a different colour, ethnic background or religion. When the terrorism activities with ISIL started to flood the news, we noticed a spike in the number of attacks on Asian and Muslim businesses. It seemed that any Muslim was fair game. Vandalism of cars, taxis in particular, shops and even abuse of people walking the streets. He’s also smart. We believe that he encouraged the local youth, through the distribution of drugs, to carry out some of his dirty work. However, he was arrested and sentenced to eighteen months for ABH and racist abuse, early 2013. On release from prison he was a changed man.”

  Stuart posted the image of him in sackcloth and sandals and went through the details. “Completely changed character. Last known sighting was in January 2016. Extensive searches and missing person advertising found nothing. Simply disappeared. He’s still on the North Yorkshire Police missing persons site.”

  “What about the numbers on the crosses?” Owen asked whilst jotting down the numbers displayed on the screen.

  “What you see, just random. Whether there’s any significance we-”

  Cyril interrupted. “Open mind, everyone. They’re not there for fun. If you look, some are written and this one is scratched into the wood’s surface. As I say, keep an open mind.”

  April Richmond scribbled notes frantically.

  Park continued. “I have an appointment to see the vicar at St John’s. He was the last man to see Gideon.”

  “Owen?” Cyril looked at Owen who put down his mug, wiped his mouth on his sleeve and took the remote.

  Seeing the wipe, Cyril just shook his head.

  “First thing, news from the hospital. Mrs Edge died today. Pneumonia.” Owen paused. “However, we now know that they didn’t have a dog, just a corpse in the house. The remains found in the sinkhole at Ripon are those of Matthew Benjamin Boffey, originally from Hawes. Records show that he was twenty-two when he went missing. Now here’s the interesting bit. The pathologist suggests that the post mortem results show the approximate age of death as older by ten years but it’s not an exact science.”

  Cyril raised his hand, indicating that he wanted to interject.

  “Like our missing Gideon, Boffey was here one day and gone the next. Despite an expansive search he was never traced until now. Boffey has no relatives living in the UK, only an elderly aunt who
lives in Australia. She’s in a care home and can offer little assistance. The original interviews are in file 6b in your folders. Carry on, Owen.”

  “Body was sectioned after death and we believe the death was by a blow to the head. Evidence of heroin traced within the skin sample but not within the bone samples which suggests not a long-term addict. There’s an open question as to whether it was self-administered or injected by someone else. There’s also a question mark about the quality of the drug.” He paused, leaned over and drank from his mug, again cleaning his lips on his sleeve.

  “When will the toxicology results be completed, Owen?” Shakti asked as she moved a chair next to April and glanced at the copious notes that April had made. “And how do we determine if he or someone else administered the drug?”

  “As soon as, that’s all they’ll say. We need to find someone who knew Boffey to determine whether he was a drug user.”

  “Now I need to discuss the wig.” Various images of the hairpiece taken at different angles revealed little to those within the room. “File 7a. We received permission to take DNA samples from Mr and Mrs Edge and the daughter co-operated too. We have a match for all including Mr Edge and Boffey.” Owen turned and looked at Cyril whose return glance said, tell more.

  “Skin and hair within the fabric weave. We know the wig is not human hair but a synthetic nylon popular in the sixties and seventies. The label…” he flicked to the correct photograph “… the company no longer exists. It has been suggested that it might have been used in some theatrical productions, consequently the number of DNA sample matches. From interviewing the daughter, both parents were thespians, so possibly make up and wigs might have been stored at the property.”

  Owen flicked through a few family photographs of them dressed for a production of Aladdin and then the signed photographs of TV and film actors popular at the time.

  Owen looked up. “File 8. Please look and read.”

  There was a silence as many read again through the interview with Emma Robson. It was Cyril’s turn to speak and he brought the briefing to a close.

  “As you can see there is a suggestion of incest and that her father had insisted on the termination. It was as a consequence of this that she left. Sadly, the man responsible is dead. The first thing is to see if Boffey, the body in the hole, is the boyfriend. If that turns out to be the case, we can assume that she’ll know whether he was a drug user. My hunch is that she told him first that she was pregnant and who the father was. What happened after that may never be determined. Owen and Ruth are meeting with her tomorrow with a photograph we have of him from when he went missing. We know he did farm work but whether they are one and the same…? Maybe by tomorrow we might have answers to a few more questions.”

  Cyril stood in the corridor leaning against the wall. It was cooler and he closed his eyes for a moment. He could feel the headache starting between his eyes and he began to rub the spot. Shakti came past and tapped his elbow gently.

  “Sorry, but you might want to ask April Richmond about the notes she made during the briefing.” Shakti smiled and turned to follow Owen.

  Cyril smiled and thanked her before re-entering the briefing room. April was looking at her phone and then the whiteboards focussing particularly on the images of the crosses.

  “Any ideas?” Cyril’s voice startled her.

  “Made me jump, sir.” She collected her notes. “It’s probably nothing but the numbers on the crosses. You said to keep an open mind but, I’m afraid I couldn’t stop thinking about something I learned when I was a student. I teach teenagers in my Sunday school class, and the other week we were talking about numbers connected within religions, in particular Christianity.”

  “Sit down, April. Please talk to me.”

  She paused and looked a little apprehensive before opening her notebook. “Let me just say that listening to DS Owen talk about the significant change in the man’s demeanour and character made me think of the crosses and hair and the way that they were left. Whether it was the intention that they be found, I can’t say, but I was fascinated by the way whoever did this had separated the cross from the other element, the bag containing the hair. One was buried, gone, invisible as if in the past, and the cross, the symbol of Christ, was above it and left prominent. These are only my thoughts, sir.”

  Cyril smiled and nodded. “I understand. Go on, please.”

  “The hair, dyed scarlet, possibly for the devil or evil. I know it’s hazy and I’m not too sure yet with my ideas on that. I’ll have to give it a good deal more thought. I see a connection but it’s tenuous.”

  Cyril saw the light immediately and nodded. “And the numbers?”

  “Sorry, yes. Getting ahead of myself. One of my problems. You know that certain numbers are associated with Christianity, thirteen is quite well known, thirteen people at the Last Supper, thirteen is symbolic of rebellion and lawlessness, thirteen, the dragon or Satan. Let’s not forget that Nimrod, who tried to take God’s place was thirteenth in Ham’s line according to Genesis 10:9. Don’t worry, I looked it up straight after the briefing along with this…” She turned her notebook round for Cyril to read the notes she had made.

  Mark 7:20-23

  Jesus mentions thirteen things that defile a person: For from within, out of the heart of men, proceed evil thoughts, adulteries, fornications, murders, thefts, covetousness, wickedness, deceit, lasciviousness, an evil eye, blasphemy, pride, foolishness: All these evil things come from within and defile the man.

  Cyril looked at her and then at the notes on the whiteboard, focussing on the numbers. He raised an eyebrow.

  “Interesting. Be ready in half an hour, you can come with me to interview the last man to see Gideon Fletcher before he vanished and you might speak his language.” Cyril tapped the notes with his finger. “Half an hour.”

  12

  Shakti looked at the three names: Gideon Fletcher, Matthew Benjamin Boffey and Tracy Phillips. All missing. All had simply vanished and despite extensive searches and use of local and national appeals to the public for information, there had been nothing until the discovery of Matthew Boffey’s body.

  “So where are you now, Tracy? You don’t walk these streets but you’re a shadow of your former self.” Shakti wrote on a piece of paper twice as if searching for inspiration. “Why no longer walking? Why a shadow? How has she changed? You walk, so you are alive and if your hair was matched to the sample found recently then you are still here, unless of course the hair was taken from your body at some time in the past.”

  Shakti checked to see if the notification sent to every hairdresser had returned any results but there was nothing. The social media posts had brought the usual timewasters but there was nothing positive.

  Owen checked his speed as he by-passed Haydon Bridge on the A69.

  “Just coming up on the left.” It had taken a couple of hours to drive from Harrogate.

  Ruth Jones put down her book and stretched in her seat. She collected her note pad and checked her notes for the fourth time.

  “It’s always better chatting on their home soil, Owen. With luck we should glean a good deal.” She checked the photograph of Boffey used during the public appeal when he had gone missing. She smiled at the fashion of the day. “Wonder if Cyril wore a suit like that?” She turned the picture towards Owen who smiled. “Probably still has it.”

  Cyril was happy to let DC April Richmond drive. He listened as she told him more about her career to-date.

  “I spoke with Reverend Ian Fella this morning and he’s expecting us just after ten. We're meeting at the church. He’s going to walk us round and let us see where he met Gideon.”

  “This might sound like a silly question but are we alert to the fact that the Gideon’s Bible is left and given to people in a way that Gideon gave out pages of the Bible?”

  Normally Cyril would have been annoyed at someone stating the obvious but he simply smiled. The car pulled up by the church gate.

  He
slipped on his coat; the wind blew from the river and along Bondgate Lane, bringing a noticeable contrast in temperature to the warmth of the car. The small, ornate gate to the church was closed. Cyril paused for a moment to admire the castellated, stone tower and the composition of the architecture. Some large yew trees of indeterminable age stood to the right along the boundary wall. He opened the gate allowing April to enter. She followed the slightly curving path between the gravestones to the church door. Cyril tried the door and, like all churches, the air seemed to rush past as it swung inwards. The peace was palpable.

  “Is that you, DCI Bennett?” a voice echoed through the nave.

  The Reverend Ian Fella appeared from one of two arches that edged the chancel. Seeing April sitting with a bowed head, he paused momentarily and smiled.

  Cyril introduced DC Richmond. Ian Fella shook her hand and then turned to Cyril. The handshake was gentle.

  “Thank you for seeing us.”

  “More than happy to help. Let’s go and I’ll show you where I met Gideon and then we’ll go through to the vestry, it’s warmer.” He smiled and turned. “This way!”

  April looked at Bennett who simply smiled and allowed her to follow first.

  The pyramid grave was just that. Cyril photographed it as April noted the vicar’s comments.

  “It’s hard to believe it’s spring. Let’s go back in.”

  The vestry was significantly warmer. An electric radiator was positioned near the large desk. Ian Fella allowed his hands to hover just above it. “When will this spell of wet weather leave? Goodness, the older I get the more I feel the cold.” He held a chair for April and then found his own.

  Cyril opened the interview. “What exactly do you remember of that January afternoon?”