by Robert Innes
“Thank you for coming this evening everybody,” Blake said, as he finished wiping the whiteboard in the meeting room clean and turned to his audience.
He glanced up at the clock on the wall. It was a large digital one that Mandy Darnwood had won at the bingo, and had had no place for in her own home. It was just after ten. It was going to be a long evening.
Mattison kicked open the door, carrying a large tray of steaming mugs. Blake had requested the second they got back to the station that everybody had a caffeinated drink near them. As the newest and youngest officer, it had fallen to Mattison to prepare them. Blake remembered a time, one that felt like a hundred and twenty years ago, when he had been the one on drink duty.
“Okay,” Blake began. “In the past six months, St Abra’s church appears to have been the location of three unexplained deaths. Tonight, that number became four.” He picked up a series of photographs, and stuck them up on the whiteboard. “We have Nigel Proctor, Patricia Jenkins, Imelda Atkins, and as of this morning, more than likely last night, Daryl Stuarts.” He paused as he wrote each of the victim’s names underneath their pictures. Daryl’s graphic photograph gave him a twinge of sadness. It was the only one that had been taken by forensics. All the others were pictures that had been provided by the families or friends and showed their occupants smiling happily, or in Imelda’s case just contentedly staring at the camera.
“Let’s establish a few facts before we start theorising anything. Do we have precise ages for the first three?”
“Yes, Sir,” Patil said, promptly producing her notebook. “Nigel Proctor, sixty-nine, Patricia Jenkins, seventy-five, and Imelda Atkins was eighty-one.”
Blake scribbled the three ages next to their names. “And as we know, Daryl Stuarts was only seventeen.” He wrote Daryl’s age, then tapped the board with the end of his pen. “So, why am I asking about their ages?”
“They all appear to have died from some form of heart attack,” Mattison said. “The first three are all at an age where that’s more likely, but Daryl was seventeen and so-“
“So he shouldn’t be dropping dead from a cardiac arrest, exactly,” finished Blake. “Now, obviously until we get Daryl’s post-mortem results back, we won’t know if he’s died the same way as all the others, but given that he was found in exactly the same way as the other three, in that confessions booth, without a scratch on him, it’s not exactly a leap to the conclusion that he is in some way, connected. Everyone with me so far?”
There was a general murmur of assertion from around the room. Gardiner, who was sat at his desk at the back of the room with his arms crossed, cleared his throat.
“Yes, Michael?”
“We don’t know that every single one of those people have been murdered, do we?”
“Oh, come on,” Mattison piped up. “How can they not have been?”
“No, Matti – he’s actually right,” Blake said, sighing heavily, holding up the report that Sharon had sent him. “Because, with two of them already in the ground with no questions asked, and one post-mortem report telling me that a woman in her eighties died from a heart attack, we do not actually have any remotely concrete forensic evidence to tell us that any of these three died from anything other than natural causes.” He threw the report back down on the desk and turned back to the board. “But, what we do have is four deaths that are connected alone by that confessions booth. Witness statements?”
Mattison put his coffee down that he had been in the middle of sipping, and picked up a report in front of him. “So, according to Jennifer Greene, Nigel Proctor went into the confessions booth at approximately ten forty-five on the morning of Sunday, eighth of April this year. He appeared fine when he went in, but around ten minutes later she was told to call an ambulance because he was ‘clutching his chest and crying out in pain.’”
“Twenty minutes later, the ambulance arrives, but he’s sadly no longer with us,” Blake added. “I spoke to Timothy Croydon and asked him about Imelda and Patricia. Both exactly the same story.”
Mattison continued, “According to the vicar, they were both sat in that confessions booth, in the middle of a sentence before very quickly coming over extremely ill. Then, just like Nigel Proctor, they became unresponsive, and a few minutes later had died.”
“Okay, so my thought is that we leave Daryl Stuarts out of the picture for a minute,” Blake said, removing Daryl’s photograph from the board, placing it on the desk in front of him. “Let’s concentrate on the first three deaths. Because if we are going with the idea that all three of these people were murdered, then it puts Daryl in a completely different ball park, doesn’t it?”
“Why?” Gardiner asked dryly.
“Well, isn’t it obvious?” Patil exclaimed, turning round to look at Gardiner.
Gardiner glared at her. “Not to me.”
“Oh come on, Sarge, the first three, they have a heart attack. As DS Harte says, they are statistically at an age where they are more likely to have that happen. If they were all killed by someone else, then whoever killed them has committed three pretty much perfect murders. But Daryl is another matter altogether. He’s young, no health problems, nothing to suggest that there was anything wrong with him, which there’d have to be if he was going to have a heart attack at seventeen. Am I on the right lines, Sir?”
Blake smiled at her. “Spot on Mini.”
“So, if Daryl was killed by the same person as the first three, then that means that the killer may have either got cocky, careless, or they went from murder to manslaughter.”
“Wait, hang on a second,” Royale boomed. He was standing in the doorway to his office watching proceedings as he often did in these kind of meetings. “You’re saying you think that Daryl’s death might have been an accident?”
“I think it’s something we certainly need to consider, Sir,” Blake replied. “Like Mini said, the first three could just about pass as perfectly natural deaths. But now, because of Daryl dying, we’re now looking for what could well turn out to be a serial killer. They either have a bloody good reason why they wanted Daryl dead and don’t care that we’re after them or they made a huge mistake.”
There was a few moments silence in the room as the information sank in. Royale stroked his bushy moustache thoughtfully. “Alright,” he said slowly at last. “I can see that. Of course, without a solid cause of death, we’re going to be hard pushed to know where to start looking for a killer.”
“Which brings us back to that confessions booth,” Blake said. “What has been happening in there to make at least three people suddenly keel over from what looks like a heart attack?”
“The only person anywhere near them at the time was Timothy Croydon,” Mattison said quietly.
Gardiner shook his head. “Oh come on, the man is in his seventies. You’re not seriously suggesting he’s somehow masterminded the ingenious and impossible murder of three of his parishioners?”
Blake wrote Timothy Croydon’s name on the board and stared at it for a few moments. He then silently drew two rectangles side by side and stood back so that they could all see.
“Alright, so the vicar is sat in this box here.” He put a small letter ‘V’ in one of the rectangles. “And then whoever is doing the confessing is sat in this one here.” A ‘C’ was then scribbled into the other one. “Now, just for the sake of argument, if the vicar is our killer, having sat in this thing myself, the only way I could see that he could get to anybody sat in the other box would be through the grill that’s between them.” He scribbled a wiggly line between the two rectangles, then stood back again.
After a moment’s pause where they all stared at the diagram on the board, Blake turned to them. “Anybody have any clue how he would have managed to make three people have a heart attack?”
“Poison dart?” Mattison suggested, a trace of doubt in his voice.
“It’s not the worst idea you could have had, considering you’re hung-over,” Blake said dryly.
; Mattison looked down at his notepad sheepishly. “Thank you, Sir.”
From the back of the room, Gardiner rolled his eyes and tutted. “There weren’t any marks on the bodies Mattison! A dart’s going to leave some sort of pinprick at the very least. Use your brain, man.”
“So, come on then, Michael,” Blake said, sharply. “Let’s hear your ideas.”
“My idea?” Gardiner replied flatly. “We’re looking at three people who died from a heart attack. Young Stuarts is suspicious, I grant you that, but it’s impossible and ridiculous to suggest that the first three died any other way. Sometimes, heart attacks just happen.”
“You’ve got no imagination, that’s your problem,” Blake said lightly. “Mind you,” he turned back to the board and sighed. Staring at the diagram he had drawn on the wall was doing nothing else but making his eyes feel more tired than they already were. “I can’t say I blame you with this. That confessions booth has been there for years and years according to Croydon, it’s not like you could have rigged it up in any way without anybody seeing, is it? That grill doesn’t move, I checked. There aren’t any doors or secret little panels. For all intents and purposes, it’s just your standard confessions booth.”
“So, aside from the old Reverend,” Royale interjected. “Who else have we got?”
“Well, there’s Jennifer Greene,” Blake replied, scribbling her name on the board. “She makes absolutely no secret of the fact that she had a metaphorical axe to grind with Imelda and Patricia. The pair of them apparently made it their mission in life to make her inauguration as a priest as difficult as possible.”
“Not exactly a reason to murder two people though, is it, Sir?” Patil asked after draining her coffee cup.
“No,” Blake replied thoughtfully. “It’s not the best way to prove yourself to God, killing two mouthy old pensioners.”
“Imelda and Patricia weren’t nice people, Sir,” Mattison said firmly. “And they did absolutely everything together. They were like the Marley Brothers with handbags. It’s not like they’d be short of enemies round this village.”
“On the other hand,” Gardiner said, standing up from his desk. “Nigel Proctor was probably one of the nicest blokes this village has ever known. Quiet, kept himself to himself, never had a cross word to say to anybody.”
Blake stared at the board, more confused than ever. “And then, there’s seventeen-year-old Daryl Stuarts.”
The room fell completely silent. Blake’s head was starting to throb. “I think you’d better get us another round of coffees, Matti,” he said quietly.
A few hours later, an exasperated Blake concluded the meeting, partly because they had come no closer to landing on anything concrete, and also because it was nearing two in the morning, and Mattison’s eyes had begun to close.
He wearily made his way down the station steps, pulling the zipper on his coat up right to the top, and taking a few well deserved sucks on his ecig. The wind, which had gotten slightly stronger as the night had dragged on was the only sound in the otherwise silent village. The change of environment did nothing to help Blake’s brain from throwing around the few scant facts they had to work with in the investigation. With some effort, he pushed the confusing thoughts out of his mind, concluding that he was unlikely to come up with anything remotely helpful when he was feeling as tired as he was and began walking home.
No sooner had Blake turned the corner on the other end of the street, he heard a car coming from behind him. Blake frowned as he turned to the approaching vehicle. It was unusual for anybody to be driving around Harmschapel this time of night as the village seemed to have some unspoken law that after the stroke of twelve the streets became deserted.
The car, which Blake quickly realised was a taxi, came to a stop on the other end of the road. A few moments later, one of the back doors opened and a giggling body fell out of it and onto the pavement, laughing hysterically. Blake stopped and narrowed his eyes as he realised he recognised exactly who it was.
“Harrison!” A voice from the back of the car rang out, laughing just as hard. Blake stared as a clearly extremely drunk Harrison sat up and looked into the back of the taxi. A moment later, Callum Croydon stepped out from the other side of the car, thanked the taxi driver, and slammed his door shut, rushing round to pick up Harrison from the ground. They didn’t see Blake watching, but as the taxi drove off, he realised that they were far too preoccupied with their own activities to be taking any notice as to who else might be around. As Harrison, clearly much more sexually confident drunk than he was sober, pulled Callum towards him, Blake was surprised to feel a strong growl of jealousy from deep within him as the two came to rest against a wall, kissing passionately.
Blake put his hands in his coat pockets, crossed the road, and walked past them as stealthily as he could so he didn’t attract attention to himself. As he strode down the next street towards his cottage, he could feel his head quickly flooding once again with confused and equally conflicting thoughts, but this time they had absolutely nothing to do with the investigation.
When Blake’s alarm went off the next morning he felt like he hadn’t slept at all, despite the fact he had fallen asleep as soon as his head had hit the pillow. The most vivid and bizarre dream had stalked him throughout the night. He had been sat in the confessions booth, with Harrison on the other side, demanding that Blake divulge his feelings or he would suffer the consequences.
Now, as he sat in one of the cars, with Patil driving them both to the vicarage to speak to Timothy Croydon, Blake almost wished his alarm had left him asleep long enough to discover what those consequences were if it meant shedding fragment of light on what was happening at St Abra’s church.
Blake glanced at Patil, who had been unusually quiet all morning, despite normally being the cattiest in the station. “Are you alright, Mini?”
Patil gave an unconvincing nod.
“Is this about you and Matti?”
“There’s nothing going on between me and Matti, Sir,” Patil replied, instantly betrayed by the look of disappointment on her face.
“Oh come on,” Blake said. “You two normally get on like a house on fire. Yesterday you could hardly look at each other.”
As they arrived at the vicarage, Patil sighed as she pulled the car over to the side of the road.
“We went on a date the other night,” she said, pulling the keys out of the ignition. “I don’t know how it happened so quickly, I think Robin was giving him shots of stuff behind the bar. He ended up getting really drunk and saying all sorts of stuff that I know he didn’t mean.”
“Like what?” Blake asked gently.
Patil raised her eyebrow, shooting him a knowing look.
“Oh, he didn’t.” Blake groaned, closing his eyes.
“Yep,” Patil replied grimly.
“The ‘L’ word? “
Patil nodded, rubbing her eyes wearily. “And then, about ten minutes or so later, he was sick all over my shoes. Apparently, it came out of nowhere and he didn’t have time to react. The way he was knocking the shots back, I could see it coming a mile off. They cost me forty quid, those shoes.”
“Oh God, I’ve been there,” chuckled Blake, a bittersweet memory of when he actually possessed a social life crossing his mind. “Except I lost my favourite shirt.”
Patil gave him a small smile. “What am I supposed to do, Sir? I went to that date thinking
I wasn’t all that bothered. But then, when he said that, and it meant absolutely nothing cause of how drunk he was-“
“You realised that you kind of wanted him to mean it?” Blake finished.
Patil sighed and nodded. “I’ve worked with Matti since I became an officer, Sir. We started a couple of weeks apart and, I dunno, I thought I saw him as just a little brother or something. Last night, I thought I was going to have to tell him that I didn’t feel the same way. I mean, I guessed that he fancied me, but I didn’t think I fancied him back.”
“Talk to him.
” Blake smiled, grabbing his jacket from the back seat. “You know Matti. Right now he’ll be cursing himself for making such a prat of himself. Just communicate with each other.”
Blake got out of the car, wondering why he hadn’t started taking his own advice a long time ago, and walked towards the vicarage, knocking sharply on the door.
“Hello?” bellowed a voice from behind the house. “Is there someone there?”
“Timothy?” shouted Blake. “It’s DS Harte. I was just wanting to ask you a few questions!”
“Oh, I’m in the garden!” Timothy called back. “Just come round the side, I’ll let you in.”
Blake and Patil wandered round the side of the house to a tall white gate round the back. As they arrived, they heard the sound of a bolt being slid across and a moment later, Timothy opened the gate and greeted them, smiling warmly.
“Hello, sorry. I was in the green house. It’s a bit of a delicate time of year for my radishes, you see. Do come this way.”
Blake and Patil followed the old vicar through the gate, and into the most striking garden Blake had ever seen. A multitude of different coloured tulips, roses, acers, and small potted trees and plants stood proudly around them, swaying in the breeze and filling the air with a sweet perfume.
“Wow,” Blake exclaimed. “I’m impressed, Timothy. It’s a shame that you have to have this hidden away at the back of the house.”
“Oh, well one has one’s hobbies.” Timothy smiled modestly, though Blake could tell he was secretly fully aware of how good the garden looked. “I must confess, though, I am rather hoping the annual Best Kept Garden competition is mine this year. I know my floras.”
“I can tell,” Blake replied genuinely. “However, I’m sorry to disturb you, Timothy, but I’ve come about the death of Daryl Stuarts.”
“Yes,” Timothy sighed. “I rather thought you might have. Terrible business. Do you mind if I continue while we talk?”
“No, not at all. Did you know Daryl at all?”
