She read it again.
“Look at the dates,” instructed Owen.
Her hand moved slowly to her mouth. “Today’s date is…” She checked her mobile, “the seventeenth of May.” She felt a shiver course throughout her body as the facts slowly hit home.
“Photograph it, please. We must find your Mrs Reaper and have a chat. We need to know where this particular note was left but somehow I doubt she’ll know. If this isn’t a hoax, then sand in Tracy’s timer is fast running out.”
They both took photographs of the card’s location. “Don’t touch anything else. Call it in. I want Forensics to go through this lot and check. We don’t know what’s at the bottom of this pile.” He lifted his eyebrows. “Let’s just not miss a trick here. Get them to close off the churchyard whilst they check.”
April suddenly remembered. “I thought there was something by the pyramid.” Turning quickly, she ran back to the point around which she’d been searching. She moved away the grass and the soil. Owen bobbed down beside her.
“What have you found?”
“I thought…” She used the end of a pen to pull more soil away. “… A stone!” She exclaimed, clearly frustrated and very disappointed.
“Ring Shakti and send her the picture of the find,” Owen called as he made his way towards the church porch; April followed. He looked at the public notice board; discoloured cork tiles covered with different notices. April took out her mobile phone and photographed it before reading the notices. Owen found what he was looking for. In the corner, in a sealed, transparent bag, was a list of people connected with the church, and their telephone numbers. “Bingo!” he muttered as he started dialling. On the third call, he found her and after a brief conversation was given the address of the local gravedigger who tended the church grounds. Owen stepped outside the porch to get his bearings.
He smiled at April. “Come on, we’re going to have a chat with a gravedigger. I knew they had them in the past but today, with all the technology, I thought they’d bring in one of those mini-diggers.”
The sound of an incoming message caused April to check her phone; it was a message from Shakti. “Do you want her to contact Cyril?”
“Yes, but we don’t need him in, just keep him informed.”
27
The rustic, brick cottage belonging to John Barlow was just round the corner from the church. The heavy, oak door sat within a small porch. The light still cast a yellow glow into the eaves even though it had been daylight for a number of hours. Cobwebs were strung from the fitting to the wooden beams that formed the roof’s structure. Owen let the knocker crash against the metal plate. Within moments the door opened. Owen was taken aback. For some reason he had expected an elderly man, skin like old leather and hands the size of shovels. He was temporarily lost for words.
“Mr Barlow?”
“And you are?” Barlow appeared to be in his mid thirties, of average height and build.
“DS Owen and DC Richmond.” He held up his warrant card. “Do you have a minute?”
“If it’s about Ian I’ve already spoken to a local officer, a lady, can’t recall her name. Also chatted with our local copper, member of our church. He’s really shaken. Seems to have affected him after the event. I believe he found him.” Barlow showed them in before taking a seat in the lounge. “How can I help? Can’t believe it really. Ian was such a jovial chap. He was always willing to help with a word or a favour. We never know the true workings of the human mind. Strange thing, the mind, we can’t close it off. I sometimes question my sanity. I’m surrounded by the dead, I work amongst them, sometimes even find myself talking to them!” He shook his head. “Never any arguments though.”
Owen smiled. “So your job is to manage the graveyard, Mr Barlow?”
“Aye, amongst other things.”
“Apart from Reverend Fella’s death, we’re investigating the disappearance of a woman from the Harrogate area about eighteen months ago. You might recall it was on the TV and in the press. Whilst checking round the graveyard today we came across this in the waste pile where the dead flowers are cleared to.” He held April’s phone so that Barlow could see the card. “I know this might seem like a silly question, but do you remember where that bunch of flowers was placed originally?”
Barlow laughed. “I doubt it.” He studied the photograph and then looked at Owen and then April. “Tracy Phillips, no, sorry. Don’t recall a Phillips buried here. It’s a quiet churchyard. Sometimes I read the cards and on other days, particularly if it’s been raining, I don’t I just put them on the compost.”
“Do you work by hand? Digging graves, I mean?” Owen’s earlier curiosity got the better of him.
“I work in churchyards locally where it’s impossible to bring in machines to dig. My job used to be known as Church Sexton in the past, encompassed many things including gravedigging but now you seldom hear the title. My role is to make sure that everything’s looked after and no one nicks the lead off the roof and when the need arises, dig the odd grave. The pay’s poor but this cottage comes with the job. I look after three churches and it suits me.”
Owen pointed again at the photograph of the card.
“Sorry, yes.” He studied it again. “Yes! I remember now, that bunch of flowers wasn’t put on a grave. It was found in the porch one evening when I was doing my walk round. The flowers were already dead as if they’d just been dumped. I know kids didn’t put them there, we get very little trouble from the local youth as we have an active sports community. I also checked with the two ladies who help with the grass cutting but they didn’t see anyone.”
“When was this?”
Barlow rubbed his chin. “I’d say about a week to ten days ago at most. I compost the flowers and keep the paper but the other bits, plastic and the like get put in the general waste bin.”
“How often is it emptied?”
“The mesh bin? It’s not now. Used to be, we sent it to the local tip but now, as I’ve said, we separate anything that’s not degradable and then leave it to rot down. Once it’d composted, parishioners could come and take it. I’d bag it and a note would go on the church’s Facebook page and in the magazine. Ian wanted the church to become as green as possible. As well as saving souls, he was into saving the planet. He set areas aside for butterflies and wild flowers. We’ve even got a hedgehog house.”
“So that’s not been touched since…?”
“I’ll not be drawing compost from the base until August once the rain and the sun have done their job.”
“I’m sure you were asked this when the officer spoke with you after Ian Fella’s death but have you seen anyone coming regularly to the churchyard, someone who isn’t a church goer?”
“We’ve some who tend the graves of loved ones. Some come yearly, I believe, whilst one comes monthly, another weekly. Old Mrs Mortimer comes every day. Walks up the path, pops a biscuit on her husband’s headstone and leaves. The birds come immediately, seem to know the time. He was an ornithologist, lovely man. If the truth be known, I think he got Ian into this eco-friendly frame of mind. I know what you're thinking, if you mean the mysterious and slightly bonkers Gideon chap, no, I’ve never seen him. Heard the stories but I’ve never seen him. Dressed like Jesus, I believe, and gave out pages from the Bible to anyone he saw. Takes all kinds I suppose. Ian told me to keep an eye out for him.”
“Can you show us the graves attended by the three regular visitors?” Owen informed him that there would be some police activity at the church.
A blue and white tape closed off part of the churchyard and a small forensic team was in the process of setting up. Barlow showed them the three graves, all relatively new. April photographed each one for reference.
Owen thanked him and walked over to the second tape to observe the forensics team. The compost bin had been flanked on two sides by white tarpaulin sheets and the masked and hooded figures worked methodically, photographing and stripping layer after layer of detritus from wi
thin the mesh cage. Even when it had been spread on one of the sheets, more photographs were taken and notes made. Once the pile was reduced by a third, the front top section of the mesh container was removed using snips to allow easier access. It was then that he saw one CSI pause. Two of the investigators moved closer. They had found something. A CSI holding a camera walked on the step plates away from the immediate area of the bin and then towards Owen. She pulled at her mask until it hung round her throat.
“Thought you’d like to see this,” she said, holding the rear screen of the camera towards Owen. “That’s the back. The front’s facing down.” She flicked onto the next image.
Owen could clearly identify it as a Remembrance cross, possibly in worse condition than any they had found to-date. It was attached to a small plastic bag that was so encrusted that it was difficult to see whether or not it contained human hair. He studied the cross, trying to look for a number, but partly rotted vegetation had adhered to the wood owing to the constant compression of the pile. He knew that if there was no number on it when they retrieved it then it might have been left on a grave on Remembrance Sunday.
“Is there a chance of removing some of the crap when you get it out? I need to see if there’s a number on the front.”
The investigator walked back and spoke with one of her colleagues. She turned, looked at Owen, gave a thumbs up sign and then spread her fingers as if to signify, in five minutes. Owen suddenly felt both nervous and excited. If there was a number on the cross then there was a higher chance that something or someone might be at the bottom of the pile. He had had a feeling about the pyramid and the churchyard and it looked as though following his gut instinct was paying off.
The cross was finally extricated from the layers and passed to someone kneeling over a fresh, white sheet. It was again photographed and then brushed. Layers of rotting, wet vegetation flaked reluctantly from the damp wood. Owing to the colouration from the compost and the compression, the timber had taken on a similar hue to the vegetation camouflaging the wood, making it difficult to see if anything had been written or scratched on it. The CSI dug into a box and brought out what looked like a low-light, filtered torch and a hand lens. Holding the cross at an oblique angle, the yellow light was shone across the wood’s surface. Owen watched with great interest. As the lens and torch went back into the box, butterflies erupted in Owen’s stomach. The CSI bagged the cross and the attached bag, stood and approached Owen.
“It seems there might be a numeral just below the cross section. I can’t be sure at this stage owing to the damage but it may well be a number seven. There might be human hair within the attached packet but until we get it into the lab that’s the best we can do. Sorry, must get on.” He turned but suddenly looked back. “What I will say is that this heap has been disturbed relatively recently. It’s been dismantled in large sections and then put back. The boss thinks there might be something at the bottom.”
Owen thanked him and took out his notebook looking for the references he had made regarding the thirteen weaknesses. “Seven was linked to wickedness.”
The CSI looked puzzled, smiled politely before walking back towards the site. He placed the bagged find into a storage container.
April approached and Owen explained what had been discovered. She turned and looked back at Barlow who was leaning on the wall. “He’s been asking a good number of questions, seems a little nervous.”
“To be expected. We’re on his patch, he’ll feel responsible if anything’s discovered, and if it is, April, he’ll feel even more hot under the collar because in old copper speak, I'll be feeling it. “Can you let Cyril know? He might just want to be here if they find something else, or, heaven forbid, a body turns up.”
Within an hour the mesh compost holder had been cleared. It did not have a base. Each corner of the large cage had an extended spike that anchored it to the ground. Owen was leaning on a gravestone. He had cupped his eyes with the palms of his hands and was giving them a rub.
“Sir!”
Owen was startled. She had called him sir which was the equivalent to his granny calling him David when he had misbehaved. “What’s up?”
“They’re bringing screens. They were clearing a layer of soil, then suddenly they all stopped simultaneously.”
“Let’s hope it’s not Tracy Phillips.”
The photographer came over again. “Naked female. We’ve called for backup, the police doctor and additional support. It looks as though it’s going to be a long day.”
Within the hour, Cyril had arrived wearing his aviator-style sunglasses. He walked steadily towards them before removing the glasses. Owen could not fail to notice two things: firstly, the dark shadows beneath his eyes, and secondly, that he was carrying a bottle of water. It was not like Cyril at all. Owen had seen the dark shadows before, but water! He said nothing, thinking it more diplomatic to wait for Cyril to open the conversation.
“Where’s the gravedigger?”
“Barlow, sir. John Barlow.” April pointed in the general direction of his cottage.
“Show me. It’s going to be a long day, Owen.”
“Second time I’ve heard that.” He pulled a smile across his lips.
“What brought you here today?” Cyril asked with genuine curiosity.
“Gut instinct, sir, gut instinct.”
“Good man. A good copper knows when to follow what his instinct tells him.” He paused, turning to April. “There’s a lesson to learn, young lady. Owen here is one of the best. Learn from him whilst you’re with us.”
28
Graham Baker waved one of his sticks as he watched his daughter-in-law, Felicity, drive towards the roundabout by The Crown Hotel. He stood, momentarily admiring the array of flowers within the island. He walked up the pathway to find an empty bench that was in the sunshine.
Within minutes, he was settled. He rested his sticks against the edge of the bench, removed a book from his coat pocket and relaxed.
Cyril woke early and felt much brighter than he had the previous day. Just being with Owen had not helped. Copious glasses of water and paracetamol had got him through the day. What he needed was his routine walk to work to ensure that any lingering cobwebs had been blown away.
On arrival he went to his office, opened the bottom drawer and looked at Liz's photograph. “You’d have loved this mixed-up muddle of a murder inquiry, DS Graydon. I wonder if you know from where you rest?”
He smiled and slowly slid the drawer closed. Standing outside the Incident Room he noted that there were a considerable number of his team chatting whilst waiting for the morning briefing. The discovery of the named card, the cross and the human remains had created quite a buzz. Two officers leaned against the wall, files tucked under their arms. One was pointing to a photograph he held in his hand. The intensity on their faces clearly showed the significance of the find. As if a switch had been thrown, the noise stopped and all eyes followed Cyril as he entered and approached the chair that had been readied. People moved to their respective desks or propped themselves on a nearby table. Owen shuffled the papers in front of him. April, to his left, had hers stacked and ordered. Shakti was next to her.
“Morning, thanks everyone.” He looked up and scanned the room. “You’ve all had an opportunity to see the latest information that’s come to light. The body found buried below the compost bin in the churchyard is that of the missing girl, Angela Rhodes; known to her friends as Angie. Mother reported her missing over a week ago but this isn’t the first instance she’s gone missing. We’ve had a number of reports of her absence over the years, particularly during her schooling. Mother’s a known and registered addict, and Angela was taken into care when she was very young, but caused so much disruption and walked out on so many occasions to return to Mum that it was felt that’s where she should stay. It appeared to be the best move for the child at that point. I’m sure there’ll be a review about that decision somewhere. She was assessed at one stage and the psychiatr
ist’s report is in your file.”
“9c,” Shakti stated.
Cyril lifted his hand in thanks. “She clearly exhibited signs of psychopathic tendencies, in particular the self-harm and her destructive nature. It was felt that this was brought about by the mother’s heavy drug taking during pregnancy. She was born an addict with serious developmental issues. She was with a foster carer for a good six months before she was given back to the mother, despite a number of concerns from professionals involved. According to the report, there have been some domestic issues with neighbours but nothing serious. All in all, this girl hadn’t a lot going for her from the start. Father has not been on the scene since she was born.”
“We did receive complaints from neighbours that the home was a knocking shop but there was nothing ever found to substantiate the allegations. Social Services were again involved to monitor the girl’s welfare but once she turned eighteen there was nothing they could do. We’ve had no recent complaints but whether mum and daughter were prostituting themselves we cannot tell. All I’ll say is that the mother was extremely concerned that her daughter had been missing for more than four days as she’s aware that she’s dabbled in huffing glue and taking other illegal highs in the past. The mother was extremely concerned she’d overdose or whatever you do with these things.”
“Prophetic,” Smirthwaite grumbled.
“For a period of time, she worked in a local factory that produces sauces but was asked to leave after she was caught urinating into one of the vats. Let’s say that she was a very troubled young lady. Report suggests that she’s been dead for about six days. She died away from where the body was discovered so must have been transported. At this stage we cannot rule out murder, owing to the discovery of the cross. The body was naked when discovered but no evidence of sexual interference. Cause of death was diagnosed as aspiration of her own vomit.” There was a silence as those in the room contemplated the thought.
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