Weirdo

by Cathi Unsworth

  “Only too well,” said Sean. “What was it, a local paper or a national, can you remember?” He hadn’t seen any of this in Francesca’s clippings.

  “The Times Educational Supplement,” Mrs Linguard said. “He wouldn’t have spoken to a tabloid. But by the Monday, they’d all got hold of the story anyway and turned it upside down. Mr Pearson said something about the town that he probably shouldn’t, that it was a deprived area with a higher than national average of children on the social services register. Which was true enough …”

  She raised her eyebrows. “But when it gets translated into something like: Incest Town a Breeding Ground for Murder says Corrine Woodrow’s Teacher, well – you can imagine how that went down. We had them baying for his blood at the school gates, had to call the police in to get him past them. Poor Mr Pearson was forced to hand in his resignation.”

  “Was this story in the local paper,” Sean pressed, “the Mercury?”

  “The Mercury,” Mrs Linguard repeated with disdain, “comes out on a Friday, so they tried to capitalise by getting Mr Pearson to make a public apology for slandering the town. He declined, of course. So they made a big front-page splash about him being unrepentant, cold-blooded, arrogant and so on. It was a terrible paper in those days, run by a quite grubby little man. Now, what was his name? Hayles,” she hit upon the correct moniker with some ferocity. “Sidney Hayles.”

  Not many flaws in this old girl’s memory, then. “I don’t suppose you know what happened to Mr Pearson?” Sean asked. “I’d like to talk to him, if I could.”

  “Well,” Mrs Linguard hesitated, “he got another job all right, at the university in Norwich. But they didn’t actually move, in the end – his wife had a business here and they managed to tough it out.”

  She paused again, her gaze losing focus as another emotion hit her. “It’s terribly sad; she died quite recently, Mrs Pearson. She was only in her fifties. Cancer, you know. I haven’t seen him since the funeral, but I don’t think he would have moved since then. Let me just check …”

  Sean nodded, looking back down at the Admission Register on the desk in front of him, the rows of names of the pupils who had left school at the same time as Noj. He saw it there in black and white: Dale Smollet.

  “Here you are,” Mrs Linguard jotted onto her pad and detached the page, handing Philip Pearson’s number across.

  “Thanks,” said Sean, pointing to the entry on the Admission Register. “And what effect did all of this have on him, do you think?”

  “Oh,” Mrs Linguard’s expression instantly brightened, “the Detective Chief Inspector. Well, that’s what made him want to become a policeman in the first place. Because he was in with a bit of a bad crowd himself, at one point, he won’t mind me telling you. Now he’s one of our most successful old boys, comes back every year to give the prizes out on Sport’s Day.” She shook her head. “It just goes to show, doesn’t it? How some children can go one way and others the complete opposite.”

  “It certainly does,” said Sean.

  * * *

  Outside the school, Sean dialled Rivett’s number, taking the calculated risk that Paul Gray wouldn’t have called the old sweat first. He didn’t want Rivett to know exactly what they’d just found in the pillbox.

  “Two down,” he answered on the second ring, “one scumbag to go.” As ever, Rivett sounded delighted with himself. Traffic noises whooshed in the background; he was outside, somewhere. “How’s your morning been, so far?”

  “Interesting,” said Sean. “Someone’s been back to the murder site.”

  “You what?” Rivett’s voice suddenly rose in volume. “Sorry,” he said, “a lorry now went past, I din’t quite catch that. You say something about the murder site?”

  “Someone’s been there,” repeated Sean. “Recently. Made a pentagram on the floor in what appears to be salt and burned a few candles. Looks like they’ve tried to recreate what they know about the original scene of crime.”

  There was a pause, only the sounds of a busy road from the other end. “Only, thankfully,” Sean went on, “they haven’t left us with a body this time.”

  “The sick bastards,” Rivett’s voice returned, a vehement echo of Gray’s sentiments. Sean let out a breath. Rivett sounded genuinely aggrieved. So hopefully there wouldn’t be any questions about the centrepiece of this little tableau, his effigy that was now on its way to London, along with the samples. Sean had felt it crucial, and his employer had agreed, that whatever DNA traces might be found on the doll be independently verified.

  “I’ll be right there,” said Rivett. “Give me, what … twenty minutes? Oh, hold up, though. D’you think we should bring a SOCO?”

  “Yeah,” said Sean, thinking, Could make life still more interesting. “Yeah, we should. If the DCI can spare one.”

  “Better make it half an hour, then,” said Rivett. “Seeing as I’m right over the other end of town.” His voice crackled with agitation. “Maybe a bit longer, even. Blast!”

  “Don’t worry, Len, that’s fine, it’s not going anywhere. However long it takes.”

  The longer the better, he thought.

  * * *

  Sean drove back along the seafront. The sun was trying to burn its way through the clouds, patches of golden light dancing on the waves. Like the illumination Sean sought that the second of his calculated risks would pay off, it glimmered, just out of reach.

  Underneath the creaking pub sign, Directory Enquiries put him through to Hecate’s House Tattoo Parlour. Sean hadn’t noticed the name of Noj’s emporium, since it hadn’t advertised itself on the outside. Only that it was situated on Greyfriars Row – presumably, the ruined cloisters in the square outside it. There were a number of tattooists in Ernemouth, but only one such establishment there.

  A man answered with a Belfast accent.

  “Hecate’s House, can I help you?”

  Sean could picture him, standing across the bar at Swing’s. “Is Noj there, please?” he asked, wondering if the Irishman would place his own accent so quickly.

  “I’m afraid she’s with a client right now. Could I ask you to call back in maybe …” Another voice came into earshot, cutting him short. Sean heard him place a hand over the receiver, so that the rest of the conversation was inaudible.

  “Excuse me,” the Irishman’s voice came back, “can I ask who’s calling, please?”

  “Sean Ward,” he said.

  “One moment.” The hand clamped over the receiver again, the reflex action of a suspicious mind. When he came back on, though, there was humour in his voice. “Just hold on one second there, Mr Ward. I’ll pass you over.”

  There was a click, a bleep and then Noj picked up.

  “I had a feeling it would be you,” she said.

  “Yeah,” said Sean, “I got your message.”

  “Oh?” Noj sounded puzzled. “What message was that?”

  “The one you left at the murder site,” said Sean, clenching the fist of his free left hand involuntarily. “I’m on my own here at the moment, got about twenty minutes before Len Rivett joins me. You got a good likeness of him all right, but I’m not sure whether we should hurt his feelings so much. Especially when he’s bringing a SOCO with him.”

  Sean found himself listening to another pregnant pause.

  “A SOCO?” Noj finally said. “What’s one of those?”

  “A Scene of Crime Officer,” said Sean. “He comes with a forensics kit, to take fingerprints and collect DNA samples.”

  “I see,” Noj stretched the word out like an elastic band, like the invisible tightrope of trust between them that one was going to have to put their foot down upon first. “And you’re suggesting that it might be safer to withhold something from him? A certain likeness that you currently have in your possession?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to ascertain,” said Sean, “yes.”

  “Then I would have to agree with you,” the tattooist conceded.

  “Good,” said Se
an, relaxing his hand. “So that was the bait you mentioned?”

  Noj chuckled. “You are a detective, then. Does this mean that you believe me now?”

  “I’m starting to,” said Sean. “But would you mind telling me what that was all in aid of?”

  “I was clearing the way for you,” Noj’s voice was solemn. “Putting him on the back foot. He wasn’t expecting it, was he?”

  “No,” Sean agreed. “He wasn’t. But just to be completely clear, no one already has a sample of your DNA or fingerprints on a file anywhere?”

  “No,” said Noj. “As far as they’re concerned, I never even existed.”

  “Good,” said Sean. “Let’s try and keep it that way. I’d better go.”

  “Are you still going to drop by this evening?” there was a trace of worry in Noj’s voice.

  “Yeah,” said Sean. “But I’m not sure when. I’ll call you back when this is over.”

  He opened the car door, the twinges in his legs not as strong as they had been earlier, but still telling him he needed to get on his feet. He stuck the phone to charge in the cigarette lighter while he leant against the side of the car, going over everything he did know as opposed to everything he thought he knew.

  After five minutes, he retrieved his mobile, locked the car and began to walk. He wasn’t sure he’d get a signal out there on the dunes, so he only went as far as the sea wall. His eyes locked on the distant wind farm. Francesca answered on the first ring.

  “Did you make your meeting?” she asked him.

  “I did,” said Sean, “but I’ve only got a few minutes left before I’m back with Rivett. Just wanted to tell you, I’ve got an idea that you might want to pursue. There’s a very interesting woman I’ve just been talking to at Ernemouth High, a Mrs Nora Linguard.”

  “Oh yes,” Francesca said, “the Welfare Assistant?”

  “That’s right,” said Sean, “the only person left on the staff who was there twenty years ago. She’s got a good memory on her. Tells me that Smollet comes back every year to give the prizes out at Sports Day. One of their most successful old boys, she says. D’you think that could form the basis of one of those profiles, where you talk to an upstanding member of the community about what they’re putting back into society?”

  “I believe it could,” Francesca sounded as if she liked the idea.

  “Just a gentle interview, I’m thinking,” Sean went on, “about his memories of his schooldays and why he’s so keen to keep a link with the place. And then, just in the course of your research, perhaps you can look into his rapid rise up the career ladder and any relation that Rivett might have to that.”

  “I’m already working on that,” she said. “I’ve got someone looking at any shared business interests they might have. An old colleague of mine in London,” her voice turned a shade ironic, “who’s good at these things.”

  “Good,” said Sean, “that’s exactly what we want to know.”

  “I’ll get on with it then,” said Francesca.

  “Before you do,” said Sean, “could you look me out something? It wasn’t in those cuttings you gave me, but Mrs Linguard drew my attention to it. Would have been a front page in late June, 1984, about a teacher called Philip Pearson. Corrine’s form teacher.”

  The third truncated conversational pause of the morning was followed by Francesca saying: “Ri-ight. That was remiss of me. But it shouldn’t be too hard to track it down.”

  “I’m gonna be off radar for a couple of hours now,” said Sean. “I’ll catch up with you later. Good luck with your research. I’m sure you’ll be able to get more out of the Detective Chief Inspector than I will.”

  “Oh, I will,” of this she sounded sure, “you can count on it.”

  * * *

  Sean made it back to the pillbox just in time to see a string of figures appear on the horizon. First Rivett, swearing as he skidded on the soft sand halfway down a dune. A younger man behind him, with a hefty bag slung over his shoulder, the SOCO. Then, coming up the rear, his jaw set in a firm line, DCI Dale Smollet.

  Sean squinted as the sun made another sudden appearance between a gap in the clouds. “Make my day,” he said.

  24

  Spellbound

  March 1984

  Darren put the needle down on the record. A crackle and then a glissando of strings soared into the room, a crashing piano playing a minor chord, a starry night painted around them in music of velvet-blue and silver. His favourite record, he had been playing the 7-inch over and over since it came out in January.

  When he looked across at Debbie, lying across his single bed, staring out of the window, he could see that her mind was far away too. But the frown that was sunk into her features told him it was not in a very pleasant place.

  “Are you all right, Debs?” he said, kneeling down beside her, putting his hand on hers. “You don’t seem like yourself today. Is something up?”

  Debbie turned her head to look at him. She had been looking out across the wall of the cemetery that ran opposite Darren’s house, into the bare branches of the trees, but without really taking anything in. Her mind was full of the pictures on Al’s wall, and a horrible feeling of guilt was snaking around her stomach.

  “Sorry,” she said, hauling a smile onto her lips. “I was miles away. What were you now saying?”

  “I said,” Darren raised her hand up to his lips and kissed her knuckles, “I’ll just put this on one more time and then we’ll go out and see what’s happening. I in’t made you sick of it, have I, playing it so often?” His blue eyes were so earnest, the scattering of freckles over the bridge of his nose showing through the day’s foundation.

  “Course not,” Debbie swung herself up into a sitting position. “It’s my favourite song as well. Play it as many times as you like.”

  “Great,” said Darren, letting go of her fingers and getting to his feet. “I’ll just spruce myself up, then.” He walked across to the mirror, glancing out of the window as he did. What he saw stopped him in his tracks.

  “Is that what you were staring at?” he turned back to Debbie, a puzzled expression on his face. “Someone’s sitting up a tree out there.”

  * * *

  From the Y-shaped hollow between the branches of the yew tree, Corrine could see the entire graveyard, and most importantly, the path that ran all the way down the middle of it, a grey ribbon under the orange glow of the streetlamps outside the cemetery wall. She was keeping lookout while Noj prepared the hole they needed to bury their working when the final words of the curse had been cast.

  This was the best place, Noj had explained, as he had led her through the gap in the churchyard wall, the old yew tree the most potent protection against evil within it. More ancient than the Christian burial site around them, he had assured her, even the crumbling gothic angels and worn-away headstones that surrounded them. And tonight, at thirty-one minutes and seven seconds past the hour, the full moon would wax; the most auspicious time would be upon them.

  He was digging away in the hollow base of the trunk while Corrine kept one eye out for intruders, and the other on the stopwatch he had given her. As essential to the working as not being disturbed, he had impressed upon her, was burying the box at the exact second of the first quarter.

  “Noj,” said Corrine, “that’s now twenty-five past exactly.”

  “Excellent,” came the voice from below her. “All is prepared. Toss me down the stopwatch in precisely three minutes.”

  * * *

  “You know what?” said Darren, pressing his nose up against the window in an attempt to get a better look. “I reckon that’s Corrine.”

  “No,” said Debbie, getting up off the bed, “that can’t be.”

  Darren’s breath had fogged up the glass, so she wiped it away and peered into the night. The streetlight on the opposite side of the road cast a dim glow over the branches of a massive old yew tree. Sure enough, now that she was looking properly, Debbie could make out a figure up ther
e.

  “There is someone,” she said, “but I can’t see them all that clearly.”

  “Hold up,” said Darren, “is this better?” he undid the latch, pulled up the sash window.

  * * *

  Noj had begun the incantation, speaking in words that Corrine couldn’t understand. The hairs prickled on the back of her neck as he spoke, as if someone was breathing cold air down the collar of her coat. She kept her eyes fixed to the stopwatch. One minute and forty-five seconds to go.

  * * *

  Debbie leaned out onto the windowsill. The night was icily cold, not a cloud in the sky. Clear enough to make out a flash of white in the tree, the side of a head against the blackness that surrounded it.

  “Oh, my God,” she whispered. “You’re right. That is her. What’s she now doing?”

  * * *

  “Catch,” said Corrine, dropping the watch into Noj’s cupped hands. He retrieved it in one deft motion, then kneeling down under the tree, put it down on the grass in front of him, so the time was clearly in sight.

  “Go back to London and leave us forever,” Noj began the final part of the spell. “Go back to London and leave us forever.” He raised the hammer above the black bundle that lay in front of him. “Go back to London and leave us forever.”

  “Woooooooo!” Darren yelled out of the window.

  At that exact time Noj smashed the hammer down three times, onto the black candle within the cloth bindings, surrounded by the cuttings of Samantha’s hair and the leaves from a blackberry bush, bound up with black string.

  Corrine gave a start. “What was that?” she whispered, snapping her head around.

  Noj, lost in the moment, heard nothing. What he felt was too powerful: a quicksilver rush running through his arms and down to his chest, expanding his heart and filling him with a sense of divine purpose. He dropped the hammer, lifted the bundle up to the moon and then dropped it into the hole he had prepared.