by Mark Sennen
‘I’m going to get help,’ I said, as I stood. ‘You’ll be OK?’
Jason nodded, the starlight overhead reflected in his pale eyes. I ran from the beach and didn’t turn back.
Now, as I lie under my covers in the small hours of Sunday morning, I wish I had.
The Shepherd is beginning to lose faith. Things are going wrong. Very wrong.
He is sitting in the little room at the barn, staring at the security monitors. He’s watching a recording of the altar taken as the machine worked on Benedict to see if he can understand what caused the malfunction. Perry Sleet is up next and this time everything must run smoothly.
He thinks about the debacle down at the estuary. Nearly getting caught. The raft failing to catch the tide. The mysterious appearance of the pot boat. Almost a disaster.
Perhaps, he thinks, the whole idea with the raft was foolish. A theatrical flourish he could have done without. But no, the symbolism is important to him. He is telling a story and the raft forms an integral part of the tale.
The boy who plays with the skull in the grubby soil …
Yes, him too. The Shepherd and the boy are two actors in a play. The raft is a prop which brings meaning to the Shepherd’s actions. Launching Benedict and Sleet onto the ocean, watching their bodies drift out to sea, would have been cathartic. Now that’s no longer going to be possible, but it doesn’t mean Sleet will go unpunished.
On the screen in front of him, Benedict is suffering again and again as the Shepherd repeatedly replays the recording. There’s nothing to indicate why the belt broke, but the Shepherd continues watching the drill bit drilling and the circular saw sawing. Each time the tools bite into Benedict’s skin, the Shepherd feels a little better. Benedict has truly paid for his cowardice, but there are three more to come.
The man with the skull …
Yes, of course. The man with the skull must be made to pay, but confronting him will be for later. His trial will be the last one and his act of penance must be truly voluntary. Unlike Benedict, he must walk to the altar and submit of his own accord. There isn’t much the Shepherd can do to force him.
The Shepherd stops the video playback. He’s seen enough. He shuts down the security system and turns off the computer. He rises from the chair.
It’s time to talk to Perry Sleet. Time to prepare him for what’s to come.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Crownhill Police Station, Plymouth. Wednesday 28th October. 8.45 a.m.
Riley came into the crime suite on Wednesday morning to find DC Enders poring over a spread of newspapers. As Hardin had predicted, the general tone was one of sheer horror with a subtext around the loss of all Christian values. If crimes such as this could happen in sleepy Devon, then what hope for the rest of the country?
‘They’ve gone to town on this one, sir,’ Enders said. ‘The Daily Mail cites the erosion of British values by immigrants, while the Guardian – would you believe it – has an op piece on whether second-homers are to blame. Apparently villages are becoming ethnically cleansed as you rich Londoners buy up all the cute cottages.’
‘I’m not rich,’ Riley muttered as he took in the headlines. ‘And I’m not a Londoner. Not any more.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure, sir. The way things are going, you might be moving back there and I might be off to my mam’s folks in Derry.’
‘What?’ Riley looked up from the papers.
‘Word on the grapevine is that Hardin’s not happy.’ Enders prodded one of the papers, his finger coming down on a picture of Tim Benedict. ‘Yesterday’s visit from Heldon and now this. Apparently he wants a result pronto.’
‘Bloody hell, Caldera has only been going twenty-four hours. What does he expect? Miracles?’
‘Why not?’ Enders tapped the picture again. Benedict standing outside his church. ‘Considering our victim, you’d think we’d be due one, wouldn’t you?’
Riley nodded. Leads, so far, had been minimal, and the only piece of luck had come from the mobile number. He moved away and made a phone call. The facial composite officer needed a kick up her backside. She’d sat with Sarah Hannaford the previous evening and worked on an EvoFIT image of the man who’d asked questions about Sleet and Benedict, but as yet nothing had come through. When she answered, the officer was apologetic; there’d been a rape in the town centre and she’d been at the SARC with a victim until the early hours. She’d send the material through in the next few minutes.
She was as good as her word and within five minutes Riley had the image. He printed out a few copies and slipped one onto Enders’ desk.
‘A generic Plymouth thug,’ Riley said. ‘Could be any one of a hundred scrotes.’
‘Yes,’ Enders said. ‘But he looks familiar.’
‘Well I don’t think he’s someone we’ve come across on this case.’ Riley read through the notes accompanying the picture. ‘The man apparently has a load of tattoos, including “F.U.C.K.” on the knuckles of one hand. Sounds like a real charmer.’
‘Tats?’ Enders scanned the picture again. ‘Hang on, sir! I do know this man.’
‘You do?’
‘Only through passing. Spotted him on one of the round- robin morning bulletins.’ Enders held up the picture and turned to where DS Collier was sorting through a pile of paper on the other side of the crime suite. He shouted across to him. ‘Gareth, who’s this?’
Collier stared at the picture and then ambled across.
‘Well blow me.’ Collier pointed at the Lacuna whiteboard. ‘That’s the mother’s squeeze. Ned Stone.’
Collier had arranged for Savage and Calter to visit Brenden Parker – Frank Parker’s son – early Wednesday. The man, he said, was on a long-term sickie from his teaching job. He’d be at home all morning. Home turned out to be a modest semi on a 1980s development in the town of Ivybridge. The estate was already beginning to look tired and dated and Savage spotted more than one agent’s board on the road in. Still, the place was handy for the college where Parker taught.
A brick path led between two small patches of lawn to a dark oak door with an obscured glass panel. The bell brought a man to the door, a tentative smile showing on a face similar to his father’s: thin, puckered-in cheekbones, a Roman nose, and mousey hair. The hair had been thickened with wax in a vain attempt to provide much needed volume. Parker raised a hand and fluffed the hair on one side of his head, self-conscious of his appearance.
Savage introduced herself and Calter and Parker showed them in. The layout of the house was bog-standard. Stairs on one side of the hall and a living room on the other. At the back, a kitchen-diner. She stood at the threshold to the living room. The layout may have been standard but the furnishings were not. Parker had inherited his father’s taste for a sort of Puritan minimalism. There were three chairs in the room, all of them wooden with no cushioning. There was no sign of a television or any means of playing music. A newspaper lay on a small occasional table next to one of the chairs. The place seemed somewhat spartan, but from the records, they knew Parker was single. Men living alone, Savage thought, were diminished. They either compensated by purchasing all manner of gadgets and hi-tech equipment or, like Parker, they let things slide.
Savage and Calter sat and exchanged glances while Parker made some tea. The man seemed a sensitive soul and it didn’t take much of a leap to imagine him mentally battered and bruised by having such domineering parents.
Parker served the tea in a rather grand silver teapot, the milk, bizarrely, condensed from a can. When Savage showed interest, he explained the pot belonged to his mother. She nodded, wondering how to reconcile the stern Mrs Parker with such a beautiful item. She also wondered about Parker’s accent. His voice had a strange sing-song lilt to it that seemed familiar.
‘I hope this doesn’t come as a shock to you,’ Savage said. ‘But we’ve found human remains in the cellar at Woodland Heights. The original missing persons investigation has now become a murder enquiry.’
‘I see.�
�� If the news came as a surprise, Parker didn’t show any reaction. He nodded, the expression on his face more one of resignation than alarm. ‘Jason?’
‘Why do you say that?’ Savage cocked her head. ‘It could be either of the boys. It could even be someone else.’
‘You don’t believe that.’
‘Look, Mr Parker, I—’
‘Please call me Brenden. I prefer to be on first-name terms.’
‘OK, Brenden. You’re right, I don’t believe it. We’re sure the remains belong to Jason Caldwell. What I’m not sure about is what went on in the home. I’m hoping you might be able to help me.’
‘Help you?’ Parker stared at Savage, unblinking. His face was a picture of despair. As if what Savage had asked was utterly impossible. ‘I can’t. Nobody can help now. It’s all too late.’
‘It’s too late for Liam and Jason,’ Savage said, shaking her head. ‘But there’s more to this than them. If no one is prepared to open their mouth and tell me the truth about what went on, then whoever committed this crime is going to get away with it. And I can tell you, Brenden, I hate it when people get away with things.’
‘But that’s just the point. They do get away with it. Always.’
‘They won’t this time. Don’t you want justice for the boys?’
‘Justice?’ Parker cocked his head almost as if he didn’t believe such an outcome was possible. ‘Yes, I do. Very much. Jason and Liam were my friends. My very best friends.’
‘Well then.’ Savage paused. She let the silence build for a few moments. ‘Why don’t we go back to the night when Jason and Liam disappeared? Start from there?’
‘The night …?’ Once more, Parker’s face dropped. Savage thought she saw a shiver pass through him.
‘August twenty-sixth, 1988. You remember the day?’
‘Not the day. Only the night.’
Savage glanced at Calter. The DC shrugged.
‘So the night,’ Savage continued. ‘Jason and Liam escaped, right? Why did they want to do that?’
Silence. And then Parker let out a long sigh and leant back in the chair. The wood creaked in response. He sat there, shrunken, as if when he’d breathed out half his spirit had been expelled at the same time as the air.
‘Excuse me a moment.’ Parker pushed himself up from the chair and stumbled from the room. He returned a few moments later with a glass of water and a foil strip of pills. ‘Sorry, I’ve got the most awful headache. Must be the stress.’
‘Brenden?’ Savage said. ‘You were telling us why Jason and Liam wanted to run away.’
‘Yes.’ Parker popped three pills from the foil and washed them down. He took several more gulps of water and put the glass on the table. ‘Father was a bully. Bullies seek positions where they can gain easy power. Woodland Heights was just such a place.’
‘Did he beat you?’ Savage shifted her position, moving a little closer to Parker. ‘Did he beat the boys?’
‘Beat us?’ Parker met Savage’s eyes and then Calter’s. Then he hung his head low and stared at the floor. ‘Oh, he did so much more than simply beat us. He allowed things to happen.’
‘To Jason and Liam?’
‘To all the boys. Not me, of course, I wasn’t a victim of abuse. There was this man. He was in the government. He … he …’
‘OK.’ Savage nodded. She didn’t want to go into the finer details. Not here. That would be for specialist officers who could take things slowly and get any accusations properly recorded. Right now she needed to know about Jason and Liam. ‘August twenty-sixth. You were telling us what happened?’
‘Was I?’ Parker glanced at Savage and then turned his head to the window. The back garden had a neat little lawn, a large metal shed up against the rear fence. ‘They’d borrowed tools, Jason and Liam. From Elijah Samuel’s store shed. I didn’t know at the time, but they’d hidden the tools in the cave down at Soar Mill Cove so they could build a boat. On the night, Samuel let them out through the front door and they made, their way to the cove. I found they’d gone and followed them. On the beach I …’
Parker stopped and paled visibly, like a TV picture with the colour reduced to near zero. His hand reached across the glass table and touched the teapot, as if he was trying to draw some comfort from the warmth of the metal.
‘Brenden?’ Calter. Doing her friendly act. ‘Tell me what happened.’
‘I had an argument with Liam.’ Parker came out with the line straightaway, but then he paused for a few moments, as if he was struggling to think of what to say. Finally, he continued. ‘In the confusion, I slashed him on the hand with my pocketknife. Then Jason became involved and I cut him too. Liam disappeared into the darkness but Jason sat on the sand, bleeding from a gash on both palms. I begged him to stay put and ran back to the home. When I got there, I told Father. He sent me to my room and said he’d deal with it.’
Calter leant forward. ‘And?’
‘He …’ Parker collapsed, his upper body folding until his head rested on his knees. He uttered a huge sob. ‘He …’
‘It’s OK,’ Savage said, taking over once more. She tried to contain her excitement. They were so close now. So close to discovering the truth which had remained hidden for near on thirty years. She shifted her position, moving a little closer to Parker, and then spoke in not much more than a whisper. ‘You can tell us.’
‘He returned a few hours later and told me Jason was dead.’ Parker turned his head and peered out from his hands like a child would. ‘Father had gone down to the beach and found him. He’d died by the time Father got there. I’d killed him. Murdered him. Father said I’d go to prison for a hundred years if anybody found out.’
Parker covered his face again and hunched down. Savage glanced across at Calter. The DC nodded, plainly believing the veracity of Parker’s story. Savage wasn’t so sure. According to Nesbit, Jason Caldwell had likely died from a frenzied knife attack and the weapon had had a long blade. There was no way a pocketknife could have caused the marks Savage had seen on Caldwell’s skeleton.
‘So you didn’t tell anyone?’ Savage said.
‘I wanted to.’ The face peered out again. ‘I wanted to admit the crime. I loved Jason, you see? But Father said if I did own up, then the home would close down. All the boys would be thrown into an adult prison.’
‘And you believed that?’
‘Yes. He told me I wasn’t to be selfish. God, he said, knew what I’d done. There was no need to involve the police.’
‘God?’
‘Yes.’ Parker emerged from behind his hands and sat up. He rubbed his eyes. ‘My father is a very religious man. He thinks God alone has the authority to punish those who sin. He told me I must live with my sin until the day God decided to act.’
‘I’m sorry to ask, Brenden, but what happened to Jason’s body?’
‘Father and Elijah Samuel took the body somewhere and hid it. A couple of months later they brought Jason back and buried him in the cellar. They laid a new concrete floor on top. Of course, the cellar had already been thoroughly searched by then, but I knew.’
‘You wrote the date in the concrete.’
‘Yes. While it was still wet.’
Savage nodded. Brenden’s story was tragic. A thirteen-year-old boy forced to live with the guilt of a crime that may have been an accident. The real offender here was Frank Parker. He’d almost certainly concealed Jason’s death to prevent attention being drawn to the home, to protect the minister. And perhaps he’d done more than just that. If Jason’s injuries were as superficial as Brenden had described and Nesbit’s assessment was correct, then it was possible Parker Senior had gone down to the beach and murdered Jason Caldwell in cold blood.
Savage sat in silence for a moment. Then she sighed inwardly. She had one last line of enquiry to deal with.
‘Brenden, you may or may not be aware that two boys went missing last week. Their names are Jason and Liam. The boy named Liam is now dead.’
‘Oh no! You
mean …’ Parker faltered. He tried to speak, his voice overcome with emotion. ‘Are you saying … it can’t be … my God!’
‘The person or persons sent the police two letters which called on us to investigate the disappearance of the original Jason and Liam. Do you think your father could be involved in some way?’
‘But why?’
‘Your father is – how shall I put this? – a little crazy. Suppose he’s re-enacting what happened, trying to get history to repeat itself. He’s chosen these new boys as part of a weird game. Do you think that’s possible?’
‘I couldn’t say.’ Parker shook his head. His eyes filled with moisture again and he wiped away a tear. He stifled a gulp. ‘No, I really couldn’t say.’
Savage raised a hand. She didn’t need to hear any more. Frank Parker had at the very least conspired to prevent the burial of a body, but Savage hoped to get him for much more and they had plenty enough to arrest him on suspicion of murder. The best thing they could do now was get Brenden into the station and make this official. They needed officers who knew how to care for victims of sexual abuse and violence, who could take Brenden back to the awful days of his childhood without causing any more damage.
‘Thank you, Brenden,’ Savage said. ‘You’ve been very helpful in what must be difficult circumstances.’
‘You’re not arresting me then?’ Parker raised his head, visibly less cowed. ‘For murder?’
‘No.’ Savage glanced at Calter. The DC shrugged her shoulders in agreement. Theoretically they could bring Parker in and charge him, but he wasn’t the villain here and there was no way Savage wanted to cause the man any more suffering. She looked back at Parker. He’d brightened, but his demeanour was still that of a frightened child. ‘If what you’ve told us is true, then it’s possible you may face some charge, but given your age at the time I don’t think that’s likely. We’ll need to get the full story as soon as possible though, so I’m going to arrange for a couple of specialist officers to visit this afternoon and take a statement. Would that be OK?’
