Crossed Out

by Malcolm Hollingdrake

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs Rhodes, it must have come as a dreadful shock.”

  There was a pause as she glanced at a framed photograph on the wall of a very young child; he assumed it to be a pre-school picture of Angela.

  “She trod a fine line. She’d threatened suicide on occasions but that was usually when she couldn’t get her own way. Never thought she’d do it. She always blamed the voices!”

  Cyril gave her a few moments to reflect. She kissed her finger and placed it on the child in the photograph.

  “I’m sorry, but we’ll need you to identify formally that the body of the young lady we hold is that of your daughter. Would you be in a position to do that or is there a relative who might help?”

  “No, that’s my job. I’ve not been the best of mothers but I’ve never run away from my responsibilities. Whenever it suits.”

  Shakti gave a smile before looking back at Cyril. She noted how he was very compassionate in situations like this, allowing people to feel supported. She was learning.

  “It probably reflects badly but I’ve tried over the last two years to get things turned around. I’ve had a good deal of support, as you can see from the flat, and I’m grateful. You wouldn’t think it looking at me now but I did well at school, Detective Chief Inspector. I achieved three good ‘A’ levels and went to college but fell in with a bad crowd. I had a very strict upbringing, allowing very little freedom and when I arrived at college it was just the opposite of what I’d been used to. I saw a different life and I embraced it fully. However, I found the wrong people. I became a bit of a wild child.

  “It wasn’t long before I dropped out, pregnant at nineteen with no prospects. I couldn’t go home, not to meet my parents' displeasure. Baby, drugs, sleeping rough, prostitution all followed. When they took Angie away I was still an addict. Tomorrow was always going to be the day I’d say no to drugs… Tomorrow never comes when you’re dependent. I could cope with her when she was little but then it got worse. I earned money the wrong way and she was taken from me. I was an unsuitable mother! The child was in danger. However, she kept running away and like a pigeon always found me, even when I changed accommodation. It was then that the penny dropped and I realised I had to be a better parent.”

  “Her father?” Shakti asked, warming to Theresa as both a woman and a mother.

  “We didn’t stay together long. Tried to pimp me all the time and I was frightened for Angie. I was right too to leave considering all you hear about the grooming gangs and the like. Some men want them young and I was damned sure it wasn’t going to happen to my little girl. As you police know from your records she didn’t receive the best of parenting or schooling. She was more than a little wild. Jesus, when she came home one day and I saw the teardrop tattoo on her face I went ballistic. Without that and the studs she would be such an attractive girl.”

  It was only then did Theresa start to break down. Her breathing changed, her shoulders began to heave and the tears began to flow. “It’s my fault, all this. If I’d got myself together sooner, been more of a mother, she might still be playing that bloody awful music that makes everything shake.”

  That memory helped her to gain a little more control as a smile came to her lips. “The neighbours didn’t appreciate it either; we had a number of complaints from Mr Hill, whose bedroom backs on to Angie’s. He and Angie got on well until she played her music in the night. He used to bang on the wall whenever he was in. However, by the next day they’d be friends again. He does a wonderful job on the garden.”

  Shakti jotted down the name.

  “May we see your daughter’s room, Mrs Rhodes? We’ll be sensitive but you realise…”

  “Touch what you need. I’m not a sentimental person. What’s gone’s gone. Sad I know, but keeping her room as it was when she left it last will not bring her back.”

  Cyril smiled and he and Shakti were directed to the room.

  “Do you attend any of the church services, Mr Barlow?” April asked.

  “If you’d seen what I’d seen, you wouldn’t believe there’s a God. When you see innocents killed in the name of religion, how can you? I don’t believe Fella did either. Sometimes, especially after reading about children strapped into suicide vests, he’d cry. Being ex military, we’d often chat about the present campaigns, ISIL dominating much of that. I’ve seen him physically shake with anger and cry, especially after the Manchester and the London terrorist attacks. I’m sure if it weren’t for the community stuff he’s involved in he’d have gone, left the church completely.”

  “Did he say that to you?”

  “He mentioned that his work seemed to have little value in today’s extreme society, with its multicultural and commercially driven dominance over traditional family values. He felt that he had little to offer in defence and that he was stealing a living as fewer and fewer people attended his services. He realised that if he were to combine all his churches into one he wouldn’t fill Clipton unless it was Christmas!”

  Owen took a deep breath and tapped April’s leg beneath the table. “So those were his actual words, ‘Stealing a living’?”

  Owen wrote the number 3 on a piece of paper and pushed it across to April. “Did he say that only to you or was it common knowledge?”

  Barlow spread his hands. “How on earth can I answer that? I worked for him and I hope he considered me a friend, but I wasn’t his keeper.”

  Owen nodded. “You mentioned that you have to walk round the church to check that all’s well. What time is that, usually?”

  “I don’t have to, it’s something I started when people began nicking from churches. I don’t have set times. You learned in the forces to vary your patrols so as not to get caught out. I’ve been known to do four or five checks, particularly if there’s been a report of local lead theft. Some buggers will leave nothing alone. What’s strange is that I didn’t notice the disturbance of the compost bin. You’d have thought that there’d be bits left, particularly if it were done in the dark and that they’d have emptied the lot.”

  “When’s your day off?”

  “Wednesday.”

  Owen checked his file. Fella was found on Tuesday. He sat back. He glanced to see April look in her file before extracting a photograph. He frowned wondering what she had to show him.

  “Mr Barlow, I’m sorry that this isn’t a particularly good photograph but have you ever seen this woman in Clipton, at church or with Reverend Fella?”

  Owen leaned forward realising that she had passed over one of the photographs they held of Tracy Phillips. Barlow picked it up and looked at it carefully. He shook his head. He then covered the person’s hair with his thumb.

  “I’ve not seen her, but I’ve seen a bloke who could well be her brother, a tall guy. He was talking to the vicar by the pyramid grave a few weeks back. Seen him before that, but I can’t recall when.”

  Owen was now nearly leaning over the table. “Do you remember a name?”

  “No. I walked past them with a barrow. He had a woollen hat on and his collar turned up. If I remember they seemed to be having a heated discussion about the grave. Just the body language, I don’t know, but they were all smiles when I went past. As soon as they thought I was out of earshot they started again.”

  30

  Cyril stood and looked around Angie's room. It took a while for the bizarre sight to sink in. The right side of the room appeared as if a bomb had exploded. Clothes and magazines were spread haphazardly across the floor, yet the left side was orderly and neat; it was as if there were two rooms in one. His attention focussed on the myriad posters decorating the walls. At first glance many of the posters to the right of the bed appeared innocent, mostly pop group images, but on closer inspection they were all linked in some ways to the occult. To the right above the untidy bed was a rough, felt tip pen drawing of a Pentacle. Cyril pointed.

  “That’s a pentagram, sign of witchcraft. Originally a Christian symbol showing the five wounds of Christ.�
�

  Shakti moved closer to examine the posters. One to the right almost filled the space and depicted a mass of shadowy figures with large lettering proclaiming The Church of Satan and the date 6/6/6. Others warned that the signs of Satan were all around you. She turned catching a glimpse of a poster of the girl band Little Mix.

  “That’s better, a girl band poster. I had this type of thing on my wa…” Shakti’s voice faded away when she saw the title, Black Magic. “Who’s put all this shit into her head? There’s Katy Perry too, Satanic Ritual. I wonder if this is where Angie goes when she’s high on glue or gas?”

  The posters to the left side of the room were of singers, horses and flowers. There was even a cross, again roughly drawn, to the left as if in direct conflict and therefore dynamically opposing the pentagram.

  “It’s like the room belongs to two people,” Shakti observed. “Good me, bad me.”

  “Or two conflicting personalities,” Cyril said as he left. He had touched nothing.

  “Mrs Rhodes, I want a Forensic team to go through your daughter’s room. How long has she been fascinated by the occult?”

  “It’s the voices. She told me that she separates and traps them in her room where she feels they’re secure and where she can leave them, the good voice and the evil one. She’s always believed that nobody likes her because of me, she says no one likes the daughter of a junkie and a harlot. She’d tell me that in one breath and then in the next she’d tell me she loved me. She’d cling to me as if I were about to leave for ever.”

  “What did she call you?”

  “A junkie and a harlot amongst other things!”

  Cyril looked at Shakti and registered that she had also picked up on the word. “I wonder why she used the word harlot, seems rather a bizarre term for a youth of today.”

  “Probably street talk, Inspector. If that was all she called me, then I could live with that.”

  “Did you seek professional help for Angie, Mrs Rhodes?” Shakti asked, aware that Angie had seen psychiatrists in the past.

  “She’d go once or twice and then if she knew she had an appointment I wouldn’t find her for a day or two. These professionals...” She emphasised the word professional, “... don’t take kindly to missed appointments even when they're dealing with the mentally ill. The only person she seemed to get on well with was Mr Hill, the gardener, even though she drove him daft with her music. He’s a sensitive man, keeps himself to himself.”

  “We’ll pop and see him,” Cyril said as he stood to leave.

  “Unless you’re prepared to go to Southport you won't find him. Supposedly goes every year to some convention. Angie did tell me but then…”

  “Do you know his full name?”

  She shook her head. “Sid, Simon or Sam. We always call him Mr Hill.”

  “The Police Liaison Officer will be in touch,” Cyril said as he held out his hand.

  “She came this morning. Asian girl.” She inadvertently looked at Shakti. “She’s arranged to be with me when I see Angie later.”

  31

  On their return, Cyril caught a glimpse of John Barlow leaning against a car outside the police station. He was staring at the building eagerly exhaling the smoke from his nostrils. The tobacco smell hung near the entrance doors where he had initially lit the cigarette, a languid reminder to Cyril of one of his less attractive habits. He and Shakti moved to the front counter, signed in and flipped the lanyards over their heads. Owen and April approached them. Owen held up the photograph of Tracy Philips.

  “Did you see Barlow leaving? Seems our Tracy has a brother or if not, there’s a bloke seen talking to Ian Fella who has a striking resemblance. It appeared, according to Barlow, that he and Fella were having a heated discussion but he couldn’t say what about. And where was that taking place do you think, sir?”

  Cyril hated twenty questions and let Owen know. “I’ve no time for games, Owen, just tell me the facts.”

  “The pyramid grave.”

  Cyril said nothing. He looked at both April and Owen. “And Barlow? Is he telling the truth or just making up a story?”

  “Only time and evidence will tell us that, sir. You said we have to keep an open mind.”

  Cyril just looked back at Owen. “So why show him the picture of Phillips at this stage in the investigation?”

  Owen thought for a moment. “With the label containing her name being found there, I just thought it was worth the ask. Maybe she went to the church after she disappeared.” Owen did well thinking on the spur of the moment, after all, he was the senior officer interviewing Barlow.

  “To keep an open mind, Owen, right! You do know that it also gives him the opportunity to send us on a complete and utter wild bloody goose chase. This investigation is already under budget scrutiny. There’s pressure to get results and we can’t afford to go around North Yorkshire looking for some guy who is or might be a figment of Barlow’s imagination or guilt. They want a murderer apprehended, maybe, as they’ve said, a potential serial killer. Right now, for purely financial reasons, they’re not too concerned about a woman who went missing eighteen months ago and quite frankly neither am I.”

  Owen looked at April and then back at Cyril. He pulled a face suggesting it might be wise to keep counsel for the moment but Cyril had other ideas.

  “Who had the bright idea to show the photograph in the first place?”

  Owen immediately claimed responsibility. “Sorry, as I said, I just thought…”

  “Spur of the moment or planned?” Cyril’s retort was rhetorical. “You know what thought did, Owen, don’t you? Thought followed a muck cart thinking it was a wedding. All of you, the Incident Room now! We need a perspective on this and on the observations we’ve just made from our visit to the Rhodes’ flat.”

  Owen tapped April on the back and put his finger to his lips before whispering in her ear. “His bark’s worse than his bite.” He winked at her and smiled. “He’ll be fine in ten minutes, you watch.”

  Felicity walked up the path and saw Graham. The dappled shadows flickered across him. His book was next to him on the bench, otherwise he was alone. He simply stared ahead, oblivious of her approach. There was no movement.

  “Dad?” she called from a short distance away and he turned. “Are you all right?” She could tell from his facial expression that he was far from the man she had left earlier in the day. “It looks as though you’ve lost a tanner and found a penny!” She laughed, hoping to lighten the mood.

  “I suppose you could say that’s true. What time is it?”

  “Just coming up to twelve.” She put his book in her bag before handing him his sticks. “Come on, I’ll buy you lunch at Betty’s, the queue isn’t bad but I’ve been the perfect daughter-in-law and pre-booked, I know you hate to stand outside and wait.” She watched for a change of expression but none came.

  32

  April brought a tray of drinks into the Incident Room.

  “Sorry for the strong words earlier,” Cyril smiled as he looked at each member of his team before removing the cup and saucer from the tray. “Coincidences seem to be plaguing me at the moment, what with that and the disturbing experience of seeing that room this morning. On reflection, April, I think showing the photograph was the correct action.”

  Owen turned to April and raised an eyebrow. Cyril had known all along that it had been her initiative. Owen would not have been so naïve.

  Cyril then glanced at Owen and smiled. “I’d have done the same, Owen. Well done. It's good to see that you think about others first. This team we have here is very important to me. Well done!” He paused and then asked Shakti to outline their visit.

  “Angie Rhodes, from what we’ve witnessed today, was one mixed-up young lady. The only friend she had, according to her mum, was some guy who had the front flat in their block. She drove him daft playing her loud music at all times of the day and night but they were still very friendly.”

  “Sexually friendly?” Owen asked lean
ing over to pick up the only wrapped biscuit on the plate.

  Cyril frowned.

  “Well, an old guy might tolerate a good deal of disturbance if she were cooperative in certain ways. Is that where she got her money? Or is it a case of like mother like daughter?”

  “We only have rumours that they may have been on the game, neighbourly gossip. Mother’s a complete contradiction. You have a certain expectation when you’re about to meet a long-term, registered drug abuser but she was remarkably in control of her world, articulate too. However, from our discussion, she had no control over her daughter other than the bond of love and the fact that they shared the same flat. The daughter always demonstrated that she wanted to be with her mother, even in the darker times.”

  “What about this neighbour?”

  “We couldn’t speak with him as he’s away…” Shakti looked at Cyril.

  “Southport, she said.”

  “Southport on some conference or convention. Shakti, check his details for that address. His name’s Hill, a Simon or a Sid. Check also current conventions in Southport, there can’t be many.”

  Shakti made a call requesting the information.

  Cyril noticed that April was flicking through her notes.

  “Wouldn’t be a Samuel would it, sir?” April suddenly put down her mug of coffee and looked at Cyril.

  He said nothing, feeling rather put on the spot. “Why?”

  “May I just use the computer?” She was already on her feet crossing to the nearest machine. She tapped in her password, her fingers flying across the keyboard and then she read the details on the screen as Cyril stood and moved behind her.

  “There, sir, as I thought. Samuel Hill was one of the founding members of the Gideon Society back in 1899. 1 July, 1899 to be exact, along with a John Nicholson and William Knights. It might be just a coincidence.”