by Sam Millar
“Who are you?”
The figure stepped from the shadows.
“Don’t you recognise me, Dickey? Look closer.”
For some inexplicable reason, Richard stepped back, as if a demon, a creature of the night, had come to do him wrong.
“No, I don’t know you. I’ve never—” Could he smell alcohol from the intruder’s breath? “I’m afraid I must ask you to leave, right now. If you don’t, I’ll have no other option than to call the police.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t be worrying too much about such trivial things, Dickey. You’ll end up with ulcers. You wouldn’t want that, would you? Besides, I’ll call the police for you. Afterwards …”
The rock housed in the leather pouch fell like a hammer against Richard’s head. Immediately he let out a howl of anguish. “Please! Please …” Oddly, little or no blood was released, as his hands went into defensive mode, hoping to stave off further blows.
“Does that refresh your memory, Dickey? No? Okay, try this one.”
The hardened pouch cracked the side of his head, forcing him to stagger like one of the homeless drunks he detested so much. It was the third blow that sent him crashing into the open arms of a waiting saint, toppling the statue backwards, the thunderous noise absorbed by the vast emptiness of the church.
“‘The ones we must keep secret, for no one else would understand.’ Remember those words, Dickey?” The figure knelt down beside Richard, speaking loudly over his cries. “You remember, now?”
Blood trickled into the eyes of Reverend Richard Toner, vicar at the Church of Saint James, drowning them; but not before his memory came rushing back to haunt him, one last time.
Yes, he remembered—remembered all too well.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“The frost performs its secret ministry, Unhelped by any wind.”
Samuel Taylor Coleridge, “Frost at Midnight”
“HOW LONG?” REITERATED Jack, his voice edgy. The astringent stench of formaldehyde was beginning to make his head swoon. Lack of food in his stomach wasn’t helping either.
Shrugging his shoulders, Shaw said, “Estimating the time interval since death can be extremely difficult. Until I do enough studies to understand how fast or slow things decay in that particular area of the forest, I can only hazard a guess.”
“Okay. Hazard,” said Jack, barely concealing his impatience. “I really need you to give this case some speed, Shaw. I need some sort of time frame.”
Shaw sighed. “Three, possibly four months. We got lucky, somewhat. The freezing temperature played a part in preventing too much decay, but the animals feasting on the remains mitigated the luck, somewhat.”
“Have you determined how she died?”
Shaw shook his head. “Too early to verify, but my initial suspicion is that poison is the main culprit.”
“Poison? Someone deliberately poisoned the child?”
“Deliberate? I’m not certain.” Again, Shaw shook his head while examining the teeth of the dead girl, pointing at tiny, darkened stains. “This is possibly lead poisoning. Lead is a highly toxic substance. After being ingested, it enters the bloodstream and is absorbed and stored in many tissues and organs in the body, including the liver, kidneys, brain, teeth and bones. Children under the age of seven are especially vulnerable to lead’s detrimental health effects, and often fall into a coma. Some suffer quite considerably before dying.”
Grimacing, Jack asked, “When will you know for certain?”
“The lab has a few more tests to conduct. Hopefully, I’ll know this time tomorrow—Thursday at the latest.”
“The bone and feather?” said Jack. “You still haven’t told me if either matches.”
The consequence of a yes would be devastating. Had Adrian stumbled on to something sinister? Did the abductor of the little girl discover Adrian in the forest, hiding? Jack tried to calm his heart, hoped his face wasn’t revealing his terrible, nightmarish thoughts.
“No … nothing yet,” said Shaw, no emotion in his voice, a conditioned response—a response a little too quick for Jack’s liking. “In the meantime, go home, Calvert. It’s late. Get some well-earned sleep. You need your mind to be clear and sharp. As soon as I get something conclusive, you’ll be the first to know.”
Arriving home, Jack picked up the Wednesday evening newspaper in the hall and carried it into the living room. He made a cup of coffee and then sat down to read.
BODY FOUND. YOUNG NANCY?
Remains of a body were discovered in the desolate area of Barton’s Forest. The Belfast Telegraph has learned that the bones are almost certainly those of Nancy McTier, granddaughter of the respected local doctor….
There were three pictures of Nancy, each showing a smiling, happy girl. The story detailed the grisly find, concentrating on the fact that the bones were discovered by ex-detective Jack Calvert, the man whose own son was missing.
Did he detect a question in the spirit of the story, speculating on the morbid coincidence? Was he becoming paranoid?
DOES TRAGEDY STALK THIS FALLEN HERO?
The bottom of the page gave a brief history of Jack, stating how he had been one of the most highly decorated detectives in the history of the police department.
Colleagues called him a cop’s cop, one who instilled confidence, totally fearless. ‘You felt safe when Jack Calvert was covering your back,’ stated one police officer who wished to remain anonymous. ‘The hierarchy got rid of him because he wouldn’t take any s*** from them,’ claimed another unnamed officer. But others saw him as a maverick, bending the rules to suit his own agenda, culminating in the controversial killing of a notorious drug dealer. The inevitable early retirement followed immediately. Not too long after that, his wife, Linda, was killed in a tragic car accident involving a drunken driver.
He couldn’t care less what they said about him, but bringing Linda’s death into the story filled him with anger. He kept having visions of traffic lights, blood oozing from the red, spilling onto the narrow and notoriously dangerous road, making it slick. He could hear the horrible sound of brakes no longer working, needing oil, red oil, and could see himself watching helpless as Linda went through the windscreen, her seatbelt dangling there, unused and useless like an unopened parachute rocketing towards earth.
No matter how close you get to it, sometimes the distance can’t help but grow, thought Jack bitterly. Sitting back in his chair, he fixed his gaze on the ceiling. A chill was quickly seeping into the house, so he decided to light a fire. It would give him something to do, if only for a few minutes.
Just as he struck the large safety match, a moth fluttered in from the darkness of the window, and flew through the flame, dropping to the ground with wings turning to glowing ash. He didn’t believe in omens, but it unnerved him—the moth’s inexplicable appearance. It was unusual for moths to be seen this close to winter’s end.
As he swept its charred body away with a tiny hearth brush, the phone rang on the private line, making his heart jump slightly. Dropping the brush, he quickly grappled with the phone, his nerves causing it to slip clumsily from his fingers.
“Adrian?” Please God …
For a few seconds, the only sound from the other end was a hollow seashell sound. Then a voice spoke.
“Isn’t it ironic, don’t you think?” The voice was soft, androgynous.
“What? Who is—?”
“To be able to rescue the dead, but not the living.”
“Who is this? What do you want?”
“You’re not a hero. You’re a coward. We both know that, don’t we?”
“What is it you—?”
“Don’t we?” An edge was on the voice.
“Yes.” Fumbling quickly in the drawer, Jack searched for his tape recorder. He couldn’t find the bastard.
“It takes a special type of coward to leave his dying wife mangled in metal while he slithers away, like a snake, to safety. Doesn’t it?”
Jack’s heart went to his thro
at. The room was moving, like a boat being swayed by waves.
“You … you have my son, Adrian. Don’t you? Please … please don’t harm him. I’ll do whatever you want. Money? Is it money?”
“Doesn’t it?” hissed the voice.
“Yes.”
“A special type of coward?”
“A special type of coward.”
“You’re just like all the rest. A hypocrite. All crocodile tears for poor little innocent Nancy. But what about all the other poor little innocent victims? Eh? No one gave a fuck about them, did they?”
“What other victims? Who—?” The phone went dead.
Jack stood, motionless, the phone smirking at him, pulsating in his hand.
Think. Get the call traced. But his brain refused to shift into gear. Simple things became complicated. He could barely move, let alone think. The room was swaying faster. He feared that Adrian was dead, abandoned by a worthless father who could find dead strangers, but not him.
Call Benson.
Jack knew that Benson was not a great cop, one who would be remembered. He did everything well, but nothing exceptionally. Yet, he had a single-minded determination that always saw him reach the end of any task he initiated. But the leakage to the newspaper had left a bad taste in Jack’s mouth and he knew that he would have to be careful of any information given to his ex-partner.
The phone rang again. He stared at it, frozen, almost fearful of its demanding sound. It rang again, seemingly louder this time, taunting.
Grabbing it on the fourth ring, he shouted, “What is it you want?”
“Jack? Are you okay?”
“What? Harry? Sorry … I—”
“Listen. I want to tell you one thing first. You can think all you want, that I’m not doing all I can to find Adrian. That’s your prerogative. Even Anne thinks I’m not doing enough and she is giving me fucking hell over it. But I am doing everything possible, legal and illegal. The least people I involve, the less chance they have of getting into shit if it hits the fan. Understand?”
Jack was shocked at the emotion in Benson’s voice. He was entirely grateful for it, also.
“Harry, I’ve been a bastard to everyone. My head is all fucked up at the moment.”
“You haven’t been a bastard; you’ve been a father, and a damn good one into the bargain.”
Jack sucked in a gulp of air hoping to fend off the emotion caused by Benson’s words.
“Jack? You still there?”
“Yes … yes, Harry. I’m still here.”
“Some news. Don’t know how significant it is, but could be something.”
Jack’s stomach tightened. “What is it?”
“We have a possible suspect for the little girl. And get this: he’s a local barber.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“There are horrors beyond horrors, and this was one of those …”
H.P. Lovecraft, The Shunned House
ARRIVING AT THE isolated cottage, shortly before ten, Jack proceeded to the front door. Heavy night rain was visiting, transforming the area into a mucky quagmire. A wire mesh fence surrounded the property, with a black iron gate punctuated by up-pointing bars with sharp tips.
A forensic team was gathering up numerous items for tagging, before placing them in plastic bags and containers. One of the bags contained parts of clothing.
The cottage had the musty smell of a place shut up too long. Lights were on, neutralising the dullness caused by the closed curtains.
Benson waved at Jack from a far room. He had a penetrating look on his face. Jack always appreciated that particular look of Benson’s. It reminded him of a bloodhound, finally getting a sniff of its quarry.
“Officially, you aren’t here. Understand? Wilson would have my balls in a sling.” Benson handed him a pair of latex gloves.
“Of course,” replied Jack, fingering the gloves, genuinely appreciative, knowing that his ex-partner was sticking his neck out for him—again. He had debated with himself whether or not to tell Benson about the phone call. Reluctantly, he had decided that it was best to keep it to himself—at least for now.
“We got ourselves a real sicko,” said Benson, indicating with a nod a pile of magazines scattered on the floor of the bedroom. “Look at this fucking shit.”
From the seemingly endless collection, Jack lifted a magazine at random. The cover of the magazine was nondescript and innocuous, but when he opened it, its hideous contents were revealed.
Having glanced quickly at the first few graphic pages, Jack allowed the magazine to fall from his hands.
“Fucking child porn,” said Benson, opening cupboards and drawers, his back to Jack. “The place is coming down with it. We discovered some clothing—a little girl’s—hidden beneath the bed in the other room. Ominously, there were patches of dried blood on parts of the clothing. We’ll have to wait until Shaw gets working on it, see if he can tie them in with the remains you discovered. It doesn’t look good. We also found significant amounts of marijuana. By the looks of things, he’s gone through more grass than a ladybird’s arse.”
While Benson rummaged for the sinister, Jack concentrated on the normality of the room, searching for the mundane, taking in every detail, feeling for omitted parts, trying to avoid the most common mistake of getting to the end of the puzzle, just to find a piece missing.
Was this the place of a paedophile, a taker of children? Of course, there was no such thing as a place of a paedophile. Their dwellings were as mundane and ordinary as themselves. In fact, this was their strength—their complete ordinariness, their chameleon-like ability to fit into any surroundings, any community. The image of a salivating loner was a dangerous myth created by the media to scare and sell. Granted, some of them did operate alone and were cunningly intelligent, but most were just everyday people, from all walks of life and associated with every profession, be it clergy, medical or judiciary. Even police officers.
Dotted about the walls were a few old wedding photos depicting the usual smiling groom and bride, surrounded by well-wishers and family. Another photo depicted the bride in white, from head to toe—a ghostly apparition in contrast to the charcoal grey of the groom. Two other people were in the photo. The best man and bridesmaid? The man had a patch covering one eye, but the woman was shying away, her gloved hand covering most of her face, leaving only the upper half to be scrutinised. The photograph stopped where the tip of the nose began. It was the eyes of the woman—not the patched eye of the man—that drew Jack in. The eyes had an animal intensity to them, as if they did not belong to the face.
Gardening was the theme in other photos: a woman—the bride, older now?—holding a silver cup and a plant proudly adorned with a winner’s rosette. Others were of two men, standing outside a barber’s shop. They were shaking hands, smiling for the camera. At least, one of them was smiling; the other—the one with the patch over his eye—looked quite dour. The men appeared eager, as if dreams were finally about to become a reality. In the background, attached to the shop’s window was a sign, proudly proclaiming: Grand Opening. “A Fine Trim”. A Cut Above the Rest.
Benson’s finger tapped the photo, breaking Jack’s thoughts “That’s the bastard.”
“What’s his name?”
“Harris. Joe Harris. He’s a local barber—though not the barber I go to,” added Benson, quickly.
“How did he come to your attention?”
Benson removed a box from beneath a table. “Hey presto!” He turned the box on its side, allowing its contents to spill freely on to the top of the table. “The sweet, the one with the barber-pole wrapping. Your magical sweet, Sherlock—which, as I told you before, you shouldn’t have touched: fucking with evidence.” Benson captured one of the sweets and unwrapped its swirling coat, before popping the sugary rock in his mouth. “I have to admit that these are fucking good. Try one?”
Jack shook his head.
“What guided you to this place, Harry?” asked Jack, impatience lining his
forehead. This evening’s eerie phone call was still echoing in his head. He wanted to scream at Benson.
“Did you know that we have over one hundred and twenty barbers and hairdressers within a five-mile radius?” asked Benson, dislodging particles of the fragmented sweet from between his teeth.
“I do now.” Jack rolled on the balls of his feet, hoping Benson’s radar would pick up on his annoyance. It failed.
“We must have the most manicured inhabitants for miles,” smirked the burly detective, before returning to the subject. “Luckily for us, a few still live in that bygone era of customer care. Only about ten still hand out sweets and little toys to their younger clientele. Better still, the sweet was not manufactured in any factory.”
“Oh?”
“Nope. Our missing paedo fiend, Harris, and his late wife, Katrina, made these.” Benson held a sweet between his finger and thumb. “A secret ingredient. Harris even designed the wrappers for them. What a guy.”
“How do you know all this? Did you receive a tip-off?”
Benson tapped the photo again. “A process of elimination. We finally got to shop nine on our list, “A Fine Trim”—a fine mess, more likely. His boss, Jeremiah Grazier—the one with the Long John Silver patch—told us that Harris hadn’t appeared for work in weeks. I was going to say this picture doesn’t do Grazier justice, but as they say, ‘What can’t speak, can’t lie.’ It was Grazier who told us how Harris’s late wife made the sweets just for the shop. Isn’t that nice?”
“He didn’t report it, or find it strange, his friend not showing up for work?” asked Jack, ignoring Benson’s flippancy.
“Apparently not. Harris has done this sort of thing before, according to Grazier, so it was nothing unusual.”
“What else did Grazier say?”
“Harris is a compulsive gambler and a bit of a drinker. No, let me rephrase that. Harris is an alcoholic. He drinks during the day to steady his hands when working. Fuck, can you imagine him giving you a shave? Anyway, Grazier hinted that Harris had been doing a lot of borrowing from loan sharks lately. He always seemed to be strapped for money, to cover the horses and dogs—probably flies going up the wall, as well.”
