“You’re certain of this, Master?” Nasen said quietly.
“Beyond any doubt, Senior Tutor. Franklin checked the London news just now. There have been unconfirmed reports of a suicide, a man who had jumped from a tower block. A tower block that Freeland lives - or rather, lived - in.
“Freeland knew Lotson was researching All Souls. He was in contact with Judith Cox but she never made her appointment. If Lotson spoke to Jason, Jason would have pointed him in Freeland’s direction. And our erstwhile Council member would not have taken his own life had he not been confident that his message would be heard.
“We must therefore work on the assumption that Freeland had the proof he threatened to go public with. Franklin’s attempt to ensure his silence by taking care of the man’s mother last month has backfired spectacularly.”
Franklin bristled, but he said nothing. Searles met his glare with a cold look.
“It would appear that you have all been listening to Franklin’s advice a little too closely. A decision as drastic as the murder of Mrs Freeland and Ms Cox is one that should have been put to the Council…with the Master’s presence. You forget that the Master of All Souls has the final decision. Was that the reason the decision was made without me? Did you feel that I would not have sanctioned what Franklin did?”
No answer but the shuffling of feet and down-turned faces, like guilty schoolboys caught murdering a school pet on the orders of an older boy. They glanced at Franklin, who at least had the good grace to look less smug and aggressive. Visibly surprised at Searles’ newly found confidence.
“Would you have had the strength to order it, Master?” The Bursar asked quietly. “Or would you have weakened…like you did last year?”
Searles closed his eyes, and another memory of post-Feast drinks in the Senior Combination Room hit him. That was after his first Founders’ Feast as Master and the discussion of what his true duties as Master were. It was years ago and yet it felt like only yesterday. He remembered how they had all looked coldly at him as he struggled to finish his portion of the boar flesh, the shared, silent exchanges that said he hasn’t the spirit to be Master of All Souls. His investiture is a big mistake.
When he’d been instructed in the elaborate stages of the ritual his sanity had almost snapped. And yet they had seen it as weakness, ignored his protestations that what they were doing was contrary to every human feeling and value he held. They had done it for so long they had forgotten what it felt like for the first time.
And strangely, it was Franklin who had comforted him, Franklin who had put a strong, calming arm around his shuddering shoulders, guided his knife arm to where it had to go.
Although the head porter had never wielded the knives - not being a member of the Council he wasn’t allowed to - he had been there at every ritual during his time at the college, guiding the previous Master’s hand when it weakened. It’s okay to weaken, to have doubt. It proves you are human - and that’s why we do this, why we have to do this. For the love of humanity.
How strange to associate those words of comfort, understanding and empathy with a man who thought nothing of slicing an elderly woman to pieces on the steps of a London church, who thought nothing of sabotaging a car that would cause not just his intended victim’s death but the deaths of others on the road.
Searles stared questioningly at the head porter. What are you, Franklin? You talk of the love of humanity, and yet you enjoy the taking of life. Even - no, especially - when it seems unnecessary. What did you see at Goose Green and Tumbledown Mountain? What did you experience in the labyrinthine battlegrounds of the back streets of Belfast to make you this way? What did you have to do then, with automatic weapons and bayonets, to survive? What cost to your soul?
Franklin stood straighter, an attempt to look taller and more imposing in the light of the Master’s scrutiny. As if reading the thoughts running through Searles’ mind, he said: “I think we should get back to the matter at hand. Time is running out, gentlemen. While we stand talking Lotson could be on his way to ruin everything. We can only rely on the loyalty of certain members of the police force. With your permission, Master.”
Next time, Franklin, Searles decided. Next time we’ll discuss you. What makes you tick, what helps you help us to continue this terrible duty.
“Franklin’s right, Master,” the Senior Tutor grunted. “Thank God someone remembers what we’re here for.”
Searles let that one go. “Well, Franklin, you seem to be the one with all the answers. What do you suggest?”
“Simple. And it’ll resolve the problem of Hughes also.”
Searles raised his eyebrows. “Interesting. In what way?”
Franklin turned to face the assembled Fellows with a smile of anticipation.
“Hughes had a relationship with Lotson’s wife. Some time ago, but it was this that triggered his rampage fifteen years ago in the college bar. Some of you may well remember it…”
It was before Searles’ time, but he had been informed. Lotson and his woman had been signed in as guests at the college bar. Two of All Souls’ finest, rowers of the First VIII, proceeded to make improper advances on the woman Lotson was seeing. The woman who had recently ended her relationship with Hughes.
“Hughes saved her - I don’t need to remind you how-but for some reason he held Lotson responsible. As the police dragged him out he was heard screaming that he’d kill Lotson for this…as if what he’d done to those two gentlemen wasn’t enough.”
Searles frowned. He could see where this was heading. “Rather tenuous, Franklin.”
“Not at all, Master. Our friend Boyd has fed me some interesting information from his colleagues in the Thames Valley Police. Hughes was until last night employed as a bouncer for a nightclub in an Oxfordshire town. He did to a young man there what he did to Laws and Cartwright fifteen years ago. Someone pulled some strings, got him away.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.” Davies looked confused. “What has this to do with Freeland?”
“The gentleman in question died this morning. Andrew Hughes is looking at a murder charge. Detective Inspector Boyd asked me if I’d seen Hughes anywhere…needless to say, none of us have seen him.” He smiled grimly at the Council.
“However, a man matching his physical description was seen leaving this college in…oh, say a few hours time? Seven a.m? Heading for Chesterton, to visit his former tutor. Who can say why?”
Relieved laughter from the Fellows. Even Searles smiled: a smile that was instantly wiped from his face with Franklin’s next words.
“But Lotson must be dealt with, Master. If he has Freeland’s proof, he will have read it by now. He doesn’t drive, but his wife does. He will have read it on the car journey back, maybe out loud…”
Dear God, Searles thought. “Do they have children, Franklin?”
“One. A ten year old boy.”
Searles shuddered. He then felt the gaze of the Council upon him, almost hear the thoughts they shared.
He’s weakening once again. His advantage was slipping, and he was certain Franklin was smiling. Maybe at his weakness, maybe in anticipation of the killing. He made a decision, and then opened his eyes.
“Promise me one thing, Franklin.”
“Master?”
“You make it quick, you make it painless. I want you to act with restraint, Franklin. Restraint you didn’t see fit to utilise when you butchered Freeland’s mother.”
“Very well, Master.” Franklin turned and left the SCR without a further word. Searles watched him step into the snow and couldn’t help but feel a palpable sense of relief when the door closed. A sense of relief he suspected was shared by the other members of the Council - except Nasen.
“To other matters, gentlemen. The third offering has been named…”
* * * * *
“Hello Phil. How did you get on with Freeland?” Rob Benson crooked the handset between his shoulder and head to keep his joint-rolling hands free. After what the
y’d learned at the vicar’s house, he needed one.
“I’d rather not say at the moment. Let’s just say that…I’ve learned more than I wanted to learn.”
Rob frowned as he held the Zippo to his spliff. Phil sounded nauseous, as though he was on the verge of throwing up. Guess it’s true after all, then. Jesus.
“Well, we’ve learned a fair bit as well. That thing in my van? It came from All Souls.” He exhaled green smoke. From the armchair across the room, Jasper raised an ear and sneezed.
“Wilkins reckons it’s from the chapel when that bloody moon-rock hit it. Smashed right into the carving, stone fused with space rock, and it flew into Impington Com - ‘
“How’s Andy?”
The interruption took Rob by surprise. “Okay, considering what he’s been through. He’s spark-o at the moment. God knows what he’s dreaming about now.”
“Rob. Freeland had proof…proof that everything Franklin said is true.
Rob gulped on the green smoke. “You’re joking, right? Why don’t you go to the Old Bill with it?”
“Kelly wants me to…I want to. But…Andy needs to see this first. Freeland insisted. And Freeland is now dead.”
“Fucking what?”
“We’ve just heard on the radio. There’s been an incident at the place I’ve just come back from. Someone’s fallen from the twelfth floor. Suicide. It can only be Freeland.”
“How far are you from home, Phil?”
“About half an hour.”
“We’re coming round.” He prised himself free from the sofa and ran a shaking hand through his tousled hair. He climbed the stairs and knocked on the closed door.
“Andy? Wake up, man. Phil’s on his way back.”
No answer. He swallowed and twisted the doorknob.
“Jesus…”
Andy was sat on the edge of the bed, his arms wrapped tightly around his chest. He was shaking, pale and drenched in sweat.
“Andy?”
Andy glanced at him with glazed eyes. Then recognition filtered through. He took his hands from his sides and rubbed his face.
“Another bad dream?”
Andy nodded. He looked at Rob with bleary, bloodshot eyes. “What’s happening?” he croaked.
“Phil just phoned. He’s got Freeland’s evidence…” Rob frowned. “He’s shook up. Reckons Freeland killed himself just after they left.”
Andy shivered and closed his eyes. Then he nodded slowly.
“Things are moving, then. Guess we should be as well.” He reached down for his holdall and pulled out the bubble-wrapped firearm. Holding it in one hand he reached for his discarded sweatshirt. Rob’s eyes widened.
“We taking that, as well?”
“We have to. Phil won’t be safe now. And neither are we.” He slapped Rob’s shoulder and smiled grimly at his whitened face.
“Come on, Roberto. Let’s go and exchange notes.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Jason Franklin’s visitors arrived at four a.m. Neither the driver of the refrigerated vehicle containing chilled meals for the patients nor his assistant had any idea of what awaited them beyond the locked door.
The two occupants of the Cambridge Catering Services delivery van had other things on their minds. Conrad “Connie Boy” Teague, the forty-six year old driver, was eager to finish the run and get home early to hopefully catch his wife in bed with the security guard from the science park. An affair that had been whispered about among his drinking partners down the club for some time.
This way he’d have the perfect excuse to beat the guy to a pulp. Although he hadn’t been in the boxing ring since his navy days, frequent fights with the rumourmongers down the social club proved that even twenty years later he’d not lost his touch. He was running to flab these days - hell, the early starts on this job never left much energy or time for the physical exercise he was used to, but there was solid muscle beneath the encroaching layers of fat. Muscle that made up in power and impact what it lacked in speed and grace. As Jim Simmons would find out later when Connie Boy burst through the door.
If I make it. Fancy giving me the spare vehicle today. This ancient bag of shit shouldn’t even be on the road. Fuckin” management.
Paul Wright, on the other hand, looked like he just wanted to go back to bed and sleep off the rest of his hangover.
Looks like he’s already started, Conrad thought sourly. Paul Wright had his feet planted on the dashboard, the white overall trousers creeping up to above the calves of his skinny legs. His arms were folded tightly over his chest, and his head was twisted at an angle that Conrad would have thought made sleep impossible. His glasses were beginning to slide off his pointed nose, no doubt helped by the layer of grease. His mouth was wide open and snoring.
In spite of the fresh fall of snow that was already starting to freeze on the access road, Conrad braked harder than was necessary. The Luton swerved and Paul jerked forward, no seatbelt restraining him, and his head crashed onto his knee.
“Wakey, wakey.” Conrad pulled the handbrake on and waited impatiently for his assistant to adjust his glasses.
“This is the Phoenix Unit. This is the one you don’t take chances with.”
Paul Wright nodded, slightly, not bothering to stifle a yawn. Conrad grimaced. Bloody agency workers, he snorted. This little turd’s already wiped out.
“What time did you get to bed last night?”
Paul shrugged, yawned again and stuck a finger in his ear. “Dunno. Past midnight, I think. A lock-in at the White Swan.”
Conrad shook his head in disgust. “So you’ve had less than four hours kip and you think you’re fit to work, to drive a van?” he snorted angrily. This was an easy job if you could handle the early starts. 3.30 a.m. start times took getting used to, but you were usually finished by mid-morning. It had to be early because most of the cook-chill meals were perishable, to be consumed on the same date of delivery. Didn’t look like this ex-student could handle it, though.
“Get the keys - and don’t forget the temperature probe.” Like you did the last time. More time added onto the run. Bloody agency.
Conrad Teague shivered at the sight of the Phoenix Unit. Ridiculous really, Jason Franklin was harmless now…so they said. Media hype, blown out of all proportion.
But he’d come across Franklin a few times and the kid creeped him out big time. Those weird green eyes: they always seemed to be looking through you, as though he was seeing to your very soul - or seeing something in its place…
He shook his head and stepped out of the van, leaving the engine running to keep the heater going. The fresh snowfall had frozen already. It crunched under his work boots like a spilled packet of crisps.
“Come on, Bamber!” he shouted to Paul. Paul shuffled behind him, head bowed, wincing at the cold. He raised his head and stared blearily at Conrad.
“Bamber? Who’s Bamber?”
Conrad stared at him. His moustache bristled as he snorted in the fresh cold night air.
“Paul Gascoigne’s dad. You got them keys?”
Paul nodded, wincing as his head moved too quickly. The clipboard with the temperature reading forms was held under his armpit, and the temperature probe’s reader unit was stuffed in his rear pocket. Connie noted with annoyance that the probe itself dangled on its cable behind Paul like some sort of biomechanical tail.
“For Christ’s sake, boy! That’ll contaminate the readings!”
Paul twisted his head, and with a grunt of annoyance reached for the probe. In the light cast by the van’s headlights he looked to Connie like some skeletal greyhound trying to scratch its arse.
Paul scowled as he pulled the cable and lifted the probe from the ground Connie snatched the ward keys from off him, shoved them in his pocket and went to the rear of the van. He lowered the tail lift, pulled up the roller-shutter and dragged out the plastic crates containing the chilled meals for the Phoenix Unit. Fish pie and tinned tomatoes for tea tonight, he noted with a grimace as he sta
cked the trays on the dolly.
Paul pushed the stacked trays down the gritted slope, the castors on the dolly squeaking in protest. The temperature probe was balanced precariously on the topmost food container, threatening to drop off. Connie shook his head as he walked past the almost-comatose Paul.
He unlocked the Mortis then inserted the Chubb key. He swung the door open, stepped in and pressed the four digit code to deactivate the alarm. Then he hit the lights. The fluorescent strips stuttered into life.
He eyed the kitchen warily. Usually there were no problems: the inmates were fast asleep at this time, their meds wouldn’t wear off until breakfast time when it was time for more. But Jason Franklin was different.
Always bright and alert. Whatever pills they were pumping him with, they didn’t work. And sometimes he’d be in the kitchen, waiting to say hello. No threats, no violence…and that’s what made him so scary.
Word got around. Sam Dawson had loosened his tongue in the social club a few weeks ago, about Franklin’s “unique” condition. Dawson was no bullshitter, and when he let on that even Longhurst was scared…well, that meant trouble was brewing. And today was the first anniversary of his attempt to burn down that college. He hoped Dawson and the Phoenix management were aware of this. Hoped they’d taken extra precautions…
He cocked an ear. No sounds from the hallway leading off to the kitchen.
Paul came to a halt, the castors on the stacked dolly screeching on the ramp. He glanced at the doorway, looking unimpressed.
“So this is where the famous Franklin’s banged up.”
“Banged up.” Connie snorted. “That’s the way they teach you to speak at Uni these days? Yeah, this is where he lives. This is the ward you don’t take any chances with. Remember - he ain’t the only dangerous one here.”
“Woo.” Paul smirked. “I’m bricking myself.”
Connie had to resist the temptation to pick up the temperature probe and slam it in the smarmy little fucker’s face.
“I ain’t fucking around here, sunshine! Some of these nutters are smarter than they let on - and a hell of a lot more dangerous!” He slammed the door closed - and wished he hadn’t. That could have woken someone up. “Just get them fuckin’ trays in the fuckin’ fridge.”
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