by Adam Croft
‘Yes,’ Sandra said, smiling slightly. ‘That’s down near Lulworth Cove, on the Jurassic Coast. I go down there sometimes when I need to clear my head. That’s Docker, my friend’s dog. They run a café a little further along the coast. They let me take him out for walks when I’m down there.’
‘Lovely part of the country,’ Wendy said. She could see Sandra’s mind shifting back to the original topic of conversation. Her face seemed to darken slightly as she spoke without prompting.
‘It was a Sunday. I remember that much. I remember thinking that it was the holy day. I mean, in that church all the days are holy, but there’s still something special about a Sunday. There was a strange car sitting opposite the front gates to the farm. There wasn’t anyone in it, but it’s not the sort of place where you park a car. It’s just a massive long grass verge, then hedges and fields. There’s literally nothing else around there but the farm. It didn’t seem right, so I went to report it.’ Wendy noticed Sandra swallowing before she continued to speak. ‘I went to knock on the door, and just before I did I heard a noise. It sounded like a whimpering sort of noise, but sharper. I can’t describe it, but I can still hear it now. Something didn’t seem right, so I walked away from the door and peered in through the corner of the window. And I—’ Sandra stopped speaking, her voice catching.
‘It’s okay,’ Wendy said, putting her hand on Sandra’s arm. ‘Take your time.’
‘I saw Father Joseph, on top of a young girl. She must have been maybe ten or eleven at most. And in that moment everything just fell apart. It was like a veil falling from in front of my eyes, taking my faith with it. Everything I believed, everything I knew. It was just gone.’
Wendy looked at Ryan. This was a story they hadn’t been aware of until now. The newspaper article had mentioned ‘allegations of abuse’, but this was far more serious than either of them had anticipated.
‘Did you tell anyone about this at the time?’ Wendy asked.
Sandra almost laughed. ‘Like who? When you realise the person right at the top is the one doing these things, who can you go to? Everything leads up to him. There is nowhere to go, nowhere to run. But I knew I couldn’t stay there. The next day, when I went out to speak to a potential recruit, I kept walking and didn’t come back.’
‘Do you know who the girl was?’ Ryan asked.
Sandra shook her head. ‘No. I hadn’t seen her before and I haven’t seen her since.’
‘And did you tell anyone on the outside?’
‘No. Definitely not. That’s what you need to understand. These people, they’re everywhere. You think they’re just inside Hilltop Farm, they’re not. They’re on the outside too, trying to pull people in. They’re the recruiters, they’re the watchers.’
‘Watchers?’ Wendy asked.
‘They watch all the time. You’re never free of them.’
‘Are they watching you now?’ Wendy was starting to become concerned.
‘No. I changed my name, changed my appearance. Sandra isn’t the name I had on the farm. It’s not the name I was born with. Up until now I’ve managed. But I know that one day, any day, they could find me. And I know that day would be my last.’
‘How do you mean?’ Wendy asked.
‘They’re dangerous people. More than dangerous. If they found me, they’d kill me. I know that for a fact. I know too much. And now that it’s all in the papers, and with the police... Oh God. I don’t know what they’ll do.’
38
By the time the team had assembled back at the major incident room at Mildenheath CID later that evening, everyone was flagging. Jack Culverhouse was flagging more than most, having stepped straight off his flight from Copenhagen and gone with Frank Vine to visit one of the former residents of Hilltop Farm. Now, having barely had time to pause at the coffee machine on the way past, he was starting — and hopefully before long ending — the evening briefing. With any luck, he’d be able to get home for a bit shortly and hope that Emily hadn’t already upped and left.
‘First things first, Frank and I went to visit a man by the name of Richard Smale. He says his wife and children were convinced to join the church at Hilltop Farm — or rather his wife was, and she took the kids with her. They tried to convince him too, but he wasn’t having it. He reckons he’s spent the past few years being tracked and bugged by people involved with the church. Within a month his already-fragile business started haemorrhaging clients. Friends had stopped speaking to him and he kept finding odd messages waiting for him at home and at work. In the end he got so paranoid he moved away and started afresh.’
‘Is there anything that can link that to Hilltop Farm, though?’ Ryan Mackenzie asked.
Culverhouse gave her a cold, hard stare. ‘That’s what we intend to find out, DC Mackenzie. That’s our job. Now, his kids will be about eight and thirteen now. Both girls. He’s worried about them being brought up in that sort of community at an impressionable age. When he saw the local newspaper reports online about the body and our original search, it compelled him to get the ball rolling. Why he called a newspaper and not the police is anyone’s fucking guess, but there you go. Knight?’
Wendy stood up, not having expected him to be handing over to her quite so soon. ‘Uh, yeah. That kind of ties in to what we found out, too. We spoke to a woman called Sandra Kaporsky — not her original name. She used to be a recruiter for the church. She has a similar view to Richard Smale with regards to people from the church being powerful and having influence out in the wider community. Again, nothing that we can pin down, so it might just be that the church has managed to fuel their paranoia. But the most disturbing thing was that she mentioned witnessing a sexual assault, possibly a rape, on a young girl.’
‘How young?’ Culverhouse asked.
‘Ten or eleven, she thinks.’
‘Fuck.’
‘That in itself gives us grounds for arresting Father Joseph Kümmel,’ Wendy said. ‘We’ll also be able to search for and seize evidence.’
‘Good work. Steve and Debbie?’
‘A man called James Aston,’ Steve said. ‘Again, like Sandra, he changed his name when he left Hilltop Farm. His family are still at the farm. He mentioned particularly his brother, Ben. James’s original name was Harry Gallagher. He told us his brother has been sending out secret messages by writing them in chalk on the top of a building. James — Harry — has been reading the messages using a drone camera. All pretty clever stuff, but a miracle they haven’t been caught to be honest with you. That’s not all, though. When we asked him why he hadn’t reported any of what Ben had told him to the police, he said he had. He clammed up a bit then, but we finally managed to get to the bottom of it. He admitted that it was him who made the anonymous phone call about the body.’
‘Brilliant. Really fucking excellent, Steve. Nice one,’ Culverhouse said, clenching his fists. There was a definite air of confidence in the room, with the whole team feeling they might finally be onto something. With three pretty solid witnesses and some concrete allegations, they’d be able to bring Father Joseph Kümmel in for questioning. They could also start a proper, full search of the farm and its records. ‘Right. As I see it we have two duties now. One is to make sure we provide protection to our witnesses. More than one of them has raised fears about being watched. We can’t risk anything happening to any of them. Debbie, can you arrange for uniformed officers to keep an eye on the three houses? Particularly while we’ve got Father Joseph Kümmel in for questioning. I’ll get authorisation to go in and arrest Kümmel. We’re going to need plenty of numbers, as we need to take them by surprise. We don’t want anyone trying to hide evidence or burn records. Not that they won’t have done already with the forewarning they had a few days ago. In the meantime,’ Jack said, looking at his watch, ‘I’m going home for a few hours and I think you all should too. With any luck the authorisation will be given in the next few hours. As soon as it is, we’re going in. I’m aiming for early hours of the morning, if not soon
er. We don’t have time to waste.’
The team nodded their assent, thankful that they might at least get a couple of hours’ sleep. With the anticipation of what was to come, though, there was little chance of sleep being at the forefront of any of their minds.
39
For Father Joseph Kümmel, the time had come. He didn’t feel sad; he knew from the moment he started the church that there was only going to be one way it could end.
Since day one, he had been in full control. And even recently, when that control had started to slip, he was able to rein it back in and remain in charge. The foundations had been laid long ago, and reinforced regularly ever since. He had long suspected that religion was the purest form of ancient psychology, centuries before the term had even been coined. And that theory had been put into practise, beautifully and perfectly.
He’d had his theory proven early on, when he read the news reports from the Peoples Temple in Jonestown, Guyana. There’d been a small tinge of regret at first that Jim Jones had got there before him, but it was all for the greater good. He couldn’t deny it had made his job far more difficult, especially while Jonestown was still fresh in the mind for many. But there were always going to be enough desperate suckers in the world.
He’d go out with a bang. They all would. It was the only way it was ever going to end. He wasn’t deluded enough to believe that he’d be lauded as a revolutionary hero. Not straight away, anyway. But he would be used as a case study for decades to come. The psychology — the long-game — was sublime. The story of Hilltop Farm would hit the national and international news outlets, of course, but he’d also be cited in psychology textbooks. He’d spark debates over religion and could even start a revolution from beyond the grave. No-one ever knows what impact their death will have on the world, but he could be pretty sure that the deaths of the entire community at Hilltop Farm would have a big one.
The endgame hadn’t been designed at first. Not in detail, anyway. But Jim Jones had done it to perfection. Cyanide. Why hadn’t he thought of that before? It seemed so logical afterwards. The human body killing itself, turning in on itself. Gulping down the oxygen but refusing to use it. Their lungs would be unaffected. They could breathe all they wanted. But their red blood cells would refuse to take the oxygen. Even with all the will in the world, they still wouldn’t be in control of their own bodies. It was poetic. And when he considered the possibility of them deliberately taking the cyanide, and forcing that complete helplessness and lack of control on themselves, he realised the plan was perfect.
Creating the cyanide over time hadn’t been as difficult as he’d thought. For one of the deadliest substances on the planet, it was pretty easy to make. Coal, ammonia and sodium gave them hydrogen cyanide, which was then treated with sodium hydroxide — caustic soda. The exact method and science was lost on him, but he hadn’t needed to know the details. That was for people far cleverer than him to worry about.
He’d been encouraged by the reaction to his sermon. The thought of the outside world encroaching on Hilltop Farm and coming to break up the community was anathema to everything the parishioners had worked for. They’d given up the lives they’d been born into, some had left their families. All had dedicated years to the cause, to working for complete freedom and dedication to God. There was only one way they could react when forced into a corner. The only way to keep their freedom and show their dedication to the church and to God was to act in the way Father Joseph wanted them to. The way God had told them to. And it would complete the circle, would bring the long story of Hilltop Farm to a perfect, poetic close.
It was meant to be.
It would happen tomorrow. It felt right. He’d expected he might be nervous, excited, but he wasn’t. He was calm, almost serene. It was a feeling of complete acceptance that the moment had come. It was to be his final act.
He stood, looked at himself in the mirror and saw a version of himself fifty years younger.
Yes. It had all come full circle.
It was beautiful.
40
Jack knew he wouldn’t be getting much sleep. But even the slightest possibility of catching forty winks right now was all that was keeping him going. He’d have to keep his mobile phone with him at all times, knowing that he could receive a call at any moment. When the call came, he’d have to be able to spring into action immediately.
When he got home, Emily had been sitting in the living room, watching TV. Ordinarily, he would’ve balked at the thought of a kid of her age being up so late, watching the sort of stuff that was on the screens at this time of night. But he knew he had to give her some leeway. After all, he’d not exactly been present recently. Besides which, Emily had been extraordinarily understanding, especially considering Jack’s track record.
‘Alright?’ he said, trying to be as casual as possible without looking as though he was completely unaware of his transgressions.
‘Yeah, fine.’
‘Sorry I’m late.’
‘It’s cool, don’t worry. Did you catch them?’ Emily asked.
‘Catch who?’
‘The bad guys,’ she replied, a cheeky smile playing across her face. It was a smile he hadn’t seen for years.
Jack chuckled. ‘Not yet. But we’re close. We’ll be picking them up in the early hours of the morning, with any luck.’
Emily nodded. ‘Will you have to go in?’
‘Yeah. Probably,’ he replied. ‘Sorry.’
‘Honestly. It’s cool. I don’t mind having a bit of space to myself. It’s better than... Well, it’s better than being at Nan and Grandad’s.’
Jack sensed that she might be willing to tell him a bit more about why she didn’t want to live with Helen’s parents anymore, so he decided to probe a little.
‘Why’s that?’ he asked.
Emily shrugged. ‘They’re just the complete opposite, I guess. Too claustrophobic. Always wanting to know where I was going, telling me what I could and couldn’t do. Gets a bit much after a while.’
Jack wondered if perhaps he’d gone too far the opposite way. As with all things in life, balance was the key to parenting. Not that he was the expert, of course.
‘What did they make of Ethan?’ he asked, knowing that his in-laws’ views on Turner might give him some idea of what he was like. And, he had to be honest, he was trying to find a way to shoe-horn him into the conversation to see if Emily knew about his arrest.
Emily shrugged again. ‘They didn’t mind him. They didn’t really meet him properly, though. Only in passing.’
Jack nodded. ‘And how is he?’ he asked.
‘Fine. I think. Not spoken to him today.’
That answered that question, then.
‘You know,’ she said, ‘if you really want to meet him, I could always invite him over for dinner. I could do spaghetti bolognese. I do a really good spaghetti bolognese.’
Jack’s breath caught in his throat. That definitely wouldn’t be a good idea. If Emily invited Ethan over for dinner, he’d definitely recognise Jack. You don’t just forget the face of a police officer who nicks you for possession of drugs. In fact, he’d have to do his level best to avoid bumping into Ethan around Emily at all. ‘Uh, well, I don’t think you need to go to all that bother. I mean, it’s a bit formal isn’t it?’
‘If you say so,’ Emily replied. ‘Maybe he could just pop over for a drink then?’
‘Yeah, maybe. Probably best not to organise anything any time soon, though, what with work being like it is.’
Jack knew he was going to have to do something about this. He couldn’t avoid Emily finding out about him arresting Ethan forever. But what choice did he have? He couldn’t keep putting it off, nor could he ban Emily from bringing him back to the house. There was only one way that would end. He had to tread with caution as far as Emily was concerned, but he’d also have to make sure Ethan Turner was off the scene as soon as possible.
He sat down in his armchair and felt his neck and back start
to loosen, the muscles finally beginning to relax. He knew he wasn’t going to get much rest over the next couple of days so he was happy to snatch an hour or two now if he could. Perhaps, if he was really lucky, he’d be able to get a bit of sleep. Oh yes. Sleep. Even the word itself felt good. As he felt his eyelids becoming heavier, he was jolted back into the real world by the ringing of his mobile phone.
‘Culverhouse,’ he murmured, a feeling of tired nausea starting to rise.
‘Jack, it’s Charles Hawes,’ the Chief Constable said. ‘I thought you might like to know the judge granted the forced entry warrant and we’ve got officers ready for you. Father Joseph Kümmel is all yours.’
41
Hilltop Farm by night looked even more bleak and depressing than Hilltop Farm by day. The team had assembled half a mile up the road, not wanting to alert the residents of Hilltop Farm to what was going on. The element of surprise was one of the biggest weapons in their arsenal. Culverhouse, leading the operation, addressed the assembled officers. He and Wendy had attended from CID, and would be directing the uniformed officers in the forced entry to Hilltop Farm.
They’d put the case to the judge that anything other than a surprise forced entry would put the retrieval of evidence at severe jeopardy. Bearing in mind the number of people living at Hilltop Farm and the allegations that had been made, the judge had agreed.
‘Right. We’re aiming for a quiet approach. We’ll walk the last stretch to Hilltop Farm,’ Culverhouse said. ‘When we get there, it’s hand signals only. Understood? The first line of three will cut through the gate with the oxyacetylene torches. Then the second line of three will remove the bars and the first line will replace their torches with the bosher. We move through to the wooden gate, twat it down with the bosher and in we go. Any questions?’
