FRANKS, Bill

by JESUIT

  Two wide and beautiful eyes watched him, admiring the muscular body with its unconcealed desire proudly displayed. She longed to drag him back in and smother him with her lust. However, somewhere at the back of her mind, she realised that as he was out of bed, despite his condition, duty must prevail. She sat up. “Good morning, sir. And who are you?” she said, playfully.

  Graham spun around to face her. “Ah, so you’re awake at last!” he joked. “Sorry you see me in such a state,” smiling down at his undying projection.

  “I’m not at all sorry,” Sallie replied. “Do we have time to cure your ailment?”

  Graham shrugged his shoulders, an apologetic expression on his face. “Wish we did have, but duty, unfortunately, calls.” Blowing Sallie a kiss, he went to the bathroom.

  By nine o’ clock, Graham and Sallie were with George Flint in his office, drinking coffee. “Do we have an identification, yet, George?” opened Graham.

  “Yes, we do. And it’s something of a surprise,” replied George, grim-faced. “He was identified as Thomas Singleton, father of the murdered girl, Debbie!”

  For a few moments Graham did not speak, the news shocking him. His mind worked furiously. Once more, a connection with the Jesuit. How much of a coincidence is this? he thought. “Why would he kill him?” he said aloud, staring into space, his brain fitting facts into place. “What is the connection?”

  “Who are you talking about, Graham?” asked George. “We can only answer your questions when we have a positive ID.”

  Graham shifted in his seat. “The Jesuit. That’s who I’m talking about.” he said, quietly. “That man is involved in these murders. I don’t yet know how – or why, but he is too closely linked with every murder.”

  The others looked at him in silence. Neither could believe that a man of God, a man with the aura of this particular Jesuit, could be in any way involved in such terrible crimes.

  Sallie spoke, softly. “Graham. Just think about it, will you? You are accusing a Jesuit priest; a man dedicated to helping ease the suffering of others.” Come to me now, you bastard priest! “Do you not think his involvement is purely that of a man carrying out his duties? He appears where there is suffering and, as he told us yesterday, he is specifically targeting those who are suffering the effects of a murder, or suicide in the family.”

  Graham accepted the sense of Sallie’s words but, none-the-less, he had an uneasy feeling about it. “Well, perhaps I am on the wrong track but I can’t help feeling there is something about the killings that points to him.” He paused. “Before we go back, Sallie, I’d like another word with the Jesuit.” Then, turning to George, he asked: “Where is he now?”

  “Don’t know I’m afraid.”

  “What?”

  For what reason, I can’t say, but I had a constable check on his motor home this morning - and he’d gone. Wasn’t to be seen anywhere in the vicinity or in the village.”

  Graham stared at George, absorbing the news. “Did no one see him go.”

  “No. He parks on country roads, so it’s unlikely that anyone would see him. May notice his vehicle but that’ all.”

  “We’ll find him okay. When the next murder occurs,” said Graham, sourly. “Come on, Sallie. Time to get back to the Met.”

  Sallie remained seated as Graham rose to go. “No, Graham. I can’t come back, I’ve work to do here.”

  Graham looked at Sallie in surprise. “Work to do?”

  “Yes. The body will be removed to the local hospital and I will carry out my autopsy on it. I have all my equipment with me, so I may as well complete the job whilst I’m here.”

  “What about transport back, though, Sallie? We came in my car.”

  Sallie smiled. “I can get the train. I’m quite capable of that, you know.”

  Graham smiled back. Of course she could catch the train. He just didn’t want to be apart from her at this moment, the pleasure of the previous night and the warmth of the morning encounter still fresh with him.

  “Okay, Sallie. You’re right, of course.” Then, businesslike again: “Let me have your report as soon as possible, please.”

  As he stood and prepared to leave, he addressed George Flint: “Keep me in touch, George, especially if there’s a sighting of the good Brother.” The last bit said with undisguised distaste. “I’ll contact you again when I get Sallie’s autopsy report.”

  George rose and shook hands, bidding him goodbye.

  The sun shone from a clear, blue sky, beating down on the earth below. Those who weren’t engaged in employment occupied themselves in their different ways. Some, finding the recent hot weather too much, preferred to remain indoors, curtains partly drawn to keep out the burning rays, windows opened to the full. Others simply lazed around the garden, increasing the depth of their sun-tans whilst others, still, enjoyed trips to the seaside or countryside. Three in the afternoon and only the young felt energetic.

  Thirteen-year old Emma Fairweather had gone on a bicycle ride with two of her school pals; Gerry Parkinson a lad of the same age who fancied her like mad, Carol Gracewell, another thirteen-year old and Candice Moreton, a friend seven months senior to Emma.

  Pedalling along a pleasant country lane on their way home, they passed a motor home parked at the side of the road in a naturally formed lay by. Immediately following that, a sharp bend appeared in the lane and the pals had to brake hard to negotiate it. The road then led into a long decline, with gentle bends allowing the cyclists to ‘free-wheel’ the rest of the way down.

  Unfortunately, Emma was a little late in braking as she passed the motor home and she lost control, wavering and skidding into the soft, thick bushes that lined the lane, saving her from injury. The accident went unnoticed by her two friends as they were ahead of Emma at the curve and, having steered their bikes safely, were able to move away and enjoy the rush of air into their faces as the cycles picked up speed.

  Emma sat up, a little dazed but effectively unhurt. She checked for bruises and cuts and was pleased to find there were none of any note. However, looking at her bike, which had landed a few feet from her, she was horrified to see that the front wheel had buckled from the impact with the low banking. Not relishing the long walk home, she hoped against hope that her pals would soon realise she was no longer with them and return.

  “Are you all right, dear?” The voice startled Emma, as she had not noticed anyone approach. She turned to the speaker and saw a man, dressed in a loose-fitting T-shirt, tight fitting denim shorts and wearing Reebok trainers on bare feet. She took in the strong tan and the muscular legs of the stranger, before looking into his face. She studied him quickly, liking what she saw, and then replied that she was okay, thanks, and wasn’t injured at all.

  “Your bicycle looks to have fared worse than you, though,” he said, smiling. Emma rose to her feet and went over to the damaged machine, dismayed at its appearance.

  “Don’t worry about it,” said the stranger. “Bring it to my motor home and I’ll fix it for you. Get you cleaned up, also.” The voice was rich, warm, and calming. Emma looked again at him. She had had it drummed into her from early childhood not to trust strangers and, as she had matured, she had realised to some extent why.

  This man, however, was different. He looked into her mind, into her heart, and invaded her soul. A feeling of awe began to overtake her; she was in the presence of someone of another planet. Her eyes met and held his. She felt mesmerised yet aware. Picking up the bike, she trundled it along, following the man, who was walking slowly backwards toward the motor home. Rude thoughts entered her mind; the sort that she had been experiencing more and more when in bed at night; thoughts that she must keep secret. Hold me! Squeeze me! Touch me! Kiss me! Do THINGS to me! Teach me!

  Reaching the motor home, the man eased the bike from Emma’s grip and laid it on the ground at the far side of the vehicle, out of sight from the road. He then led the bewitched girl into the interior.

  “My name is Brother Ignatious Saviour,�
�� began the man. “I am a Jesuit priest, so you need have no fear of me, whatsoever.” Pointing to the middle of the home, he told her to go into the small bathroom and clean herself up. Emma obeyed without hesitation.

  Even as she washed, the impure thoughts would not leave her; they were persistent and as though put there by someone else. On finishing, she looked in the mirror and, satisfied by the reflection, she left the cubicle and sat across from the priest who was seated at a small table.

  “That’s better,” he said. “You look much brighter now.” Taking her hands in his, he asked: “Would you like a drink of some sort? Coffee? Tea? Pop?”

  Emma felt a surge from the strength of the firm hands that held hers. “No, thank you,” she stuttered, fighting to resist the naughty thoughts constantly entering her mind. Strip me! Take me as I am – a virgin! Take off your clothes I want to see you!

  “What is your name?” asked Ignatious.

  “Emma.”

  “Ah, Emma. A name I have always been taken with.” Emma’s face beamed. You can have me! Don’t ask. Do it! The firm hands still gripped hers, gently, surges of some unknown impulses flowing through her whole being.

  “How old are you, my child?”

  “I’m thirteen. I shall be fourteen in August.” She shifted her position constantly, crossing and uncrossing her legs.

  “Do you believe in God, Emma? Do you follow His teachings?” the gentle voice continued.

  Emma forced her dry mouth to speak. “Yes. Yes, I do,” she croaked.

  “But do you sin, even so?” asked Ignatious.

  The embarrassed girl blushed, remembering the thoughts that had just now been invading her – and still were! “Er, er, yes, well…I suppose so,” she murmured.

  “Do not be embarrassed, my child, we all sin. God is all forgiving. There is nothing you can have done of which He doesn’t already know about, and nothing you have done can be all that bad, now, can it?”

  Never had Emma felt so comfortable, even though a little self-conscious, in talking to an adult. She was ready to bare her soul to this man. She spoke again. “No. I haven’t done anything really bad. I’ve kissed some boys and I’ve had some rude thoughts.” Dash! Why did I tell him that? “I never steal things and I don’t tell lies – even if it means I get into trouble, I still prefer to be truthful.” She spoke quickly, hoping to deflect any questions on her thoughts.

  At that moment, Emma’s friends were passing the motor home in search of her, having realised that she was no longer with them. They pedalled on unaware of how close by she was.

  “What religion do you follow?”

  “I am Church of England – I go to church every Sunday,” she hastened to add.

  “Do you have any problems, Emma? With parents, teachers, friends; anything you feel you are unable to speak about?”

  The young girl pondered. She didn’t want to speak of her unexpected thoughts. “I sometimes wonder what it’s like doing ‘it’ with boys,” she blurted, surprising herself.

  The expression on the priest’s face remained calm, unaltered. “Quite natural for someone of you age,” he said. “It does not mean that you are about to indulge in a sexual encounter.” Emma blushed again, unaccustomed to an adult speaking to her so frankly. “Nor does it mean that you want to. Merely adolescent curiosity.”

  “But I wanted you to touch me!” she said, breathlessly, now no longer able to control her words. What is happening to me? she thought, horrified.

  Ignatious knew full well the thoughts she would be having; he was planting them there, perhaps not directly but entering her mind and clearing it of all obstacles. His presence affected females in that way and, through his past experiences, he was fully aware of the phenomena. Like the female pathologist, Sallie; he knew that she would have had sex with him, without compunction, had the opportunity arrived.

  “Again, Emma. These thoughts are quite normal. I am an older man, mature and experienced in life. I probably appear attractive to you. However, it would be wrong of me to take advantage of the situation and, rightly in my view, it would also be illegal.”

  He stood without releasing his gentle grip on the girl’s hands and led her from the table to the rear of the vehicle, which was the bedroom. It was surprisingly large, as, from the outside, it would not seem possible for such space to be available.

  Once through the opening, Ignatious let go of Emma’s hands and watched her walk to the bed where she lay on her back. She needed no prompting; she was under the Jesuit’s spell.

  “I will relieve you of your troubled thoughts, Emma,” he said in his quiet, warming tone. “You will travel to a place of peace and happiness. You will see the Lord thy God. You will have no need for this world and its archaic and primitive desires. You will be in complete bliss.”

  All the time he was talking softly, preparing a slim, reed hypodermic. The poison was to be one he’d discovered back in the Amazon - a completely unknown one, very powerful and, used in the right way, creating a truly miraculous cure for malaria and such diseases. The other use of it brought quick and spectacular death.

  He leaned over the girl, stroking her arms. She murmured softly and smiled, her eyes closed. She was happy and comforted. Emma had had all the usual childish injections to combat the various viruses that were waiting to pounce on the young and Ignatious easily found a suitable scar high on Emma’s left arm.

  She felt nothing as the reed slid into the circular immunisation scar, the surge of fluid providing a pleasant sensation. She smiled and grunted contentedly again as the poison rushed through her bloodstream.

  Ignatious stood back to observe, anticipating the action to follow. Emma’s body began to shudder; her limbs started to jerk and fly outwards and then back again, the pattern repeating itself many times. She began to spasm, giving the appearance of a teenager on the dance floor, although Emma was still on her back, on the bed.

  Suddenly, the twitching girl’s eyes flew open and she shot upright, staring around unseeing. With a spectacular movement, Emma’s body arched backwards, her bottom leaving the bed and, for several seconds, she stayed in that position, the only part of her touching the bed being her heels. Falling back, she began to choke, her face turning a bright red, then blue. Her muscles started to paralyse, from the feet, up the legs, through the body and onto her face. With eyes still wide open, she presented a horrifying figure, loud grunts escaping the restricted throat. At that point, Emma died, her movements quickly subsiding, the paralysis remaining.

  The tinkling of bicycle bells reached into the room as Emma’s friends passed by on the way back home, their search having proved fruitless.

  Ignatious knelt at the bedside of the deceased girl and prayed: “Oh, Holy Father, please accept the soul of this sweet young being. She will come to you clean and pure, ready to do your divine bidding. I have made her happy and prepared for you in your infinite goodness. I leave her in your sweet, loving hands. Amen.”

  He rose, looked at the body, now relaxed and seeming at complete peace, and left, going outside to survey the immediate vicinity and check that no one was around. Peering over the nearby hawthorn bushes, he saw that they surrounded a clear field of unharvested wheat, waving mesmerisingly in the soft breeze.

  Returning to the bedroom he picked up Emma’s lifeless body and carried it effortlessly to the outside. He walked with her through a nearby opening in the bushes and placed her down, a couple of yards into the wheat.

  Here, he produced the small bunch of ‘Colibri’ feathers and laid them just under her left thigh, leaving about an inch protruding. The sun caught the feathers in its light, activating the iridescent features and creating a beautiful picture. Ignatious stared at the inanimate objects, thrilling to the display as the colours flicked and changed like a small rainbow, the hundreds of small sub-feathers combining magically.

  “Speed safely on your journey, sweet Emma,” he said with his head bowed reverently, hands clasped. He remained for a few moments then returned
to the vehicle. Reaching into a canvas holdall, he produced a set of tools: screwdriver, wrench, rubber-headed hammer and a flat piece of steel.

  Satisfied with his selection, Ignatious went again outside and retrieved the damaged bicycle. This he stood on its seat, balanced by the handlebars, and began to remove the twisted wheel. After twenty minutes of work, with skilful use of the rubber-headed hammer, using the steel bar as a solid base, the wheel was in a near-perfect condition once more.

  It took only a matter of minutes to reconnect the wheel and properly align it. Once done, Ignatious set the bicycle upright and placed it against the hedgerow, roughly in line with the spot at which Emma’s body lay. He returned to the vehicle, replaced the tools, cleaned himself up and drove away, contentment settling through his body. He had done another good job; provided the Lord with a further pretty subject.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  As soon as Graham entered his office unit, Clive Miller intercepted him and told him that the Chief wanted to see them both immediately. Graham went to his office to put down his briefcase and then went along with Clive to the CS’s office. “Any idea what he wants?” asked Graham.

  “Not exactly – he didn’t say – but I expect it to be about this spate of killings. I don’t suppose you’re any nearer after your visit to Penn?”

  Before Graham could reply, they arrived at the boss’s door and went in.

  The severe looking man behind the desk looked at the men over his reading glasses as they entered. “Harrumph,” he mumbled, waving them to the two leather chairs in front of him.

  “Good morning, Sir,” said Graham as he sat. It was now after eleven in the morning.

  “Oh, er, yes. Good morning, Graham.” The Chief took off his spectacles and slid a slim folder across from the side of the desk, and opened it. Replacing the spectacles, he took a cursory glance at the neatly typewritten sheets in the folder. Then, again peering over his glasses, he spoke: “Been getting a bit of flack from the top on this little lot,” he said in clipped tones. “Need a result – and pretty quickly.”