It read;
I know what your secret is. Soon everyone will know about it
as well.
I’ll be in touch.
I handed the bag back. The type-face was unmistakable.
“When did he get this?” I asked.
It was Laura Smith who answered. “We found the note inside Reverend Upton’s spiritual journal – a sort of diary he kept. It appears that he received this note on the day that you discovered the body of Jennifer Carter. He had told no-one about it, but from the journal we can tell he was getting increasingly desperate.”
“Whoever sent it wanted him to suffer for a while before they killed him.” DI Palmer added. “So you can imagine how delighted we were to find that the person who mysteriously was at the centre of Jennifer Carter’s death, also had their finger prints all over Reverend Upton’s house. Being at the centre of one death might be seen as unlucky, but two?” He left the question hanging in the air.
“Do you know what the note means by his secret?” I asked.
“Oh, yes,” Michael Palmer said. “The killer wanted to make sure that no-one was in any doubt about that.” His voice suddenly became accusatory.
“How long had you been aware of his sexual difficulties?”
The question took me completely by surprise. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said.
“The person who murdered Reverend Upton wanted to make sure that he died in disgrace,” he said coldly. “The body was discovered yesterday late afternoon by a reporter from the Yorkshire Evening Post. They had received a phone call from an unidentified person who suggested they go to St. Thomas’s Vicarage. They called us after they discovered the scene that had been arranged for them. Perhaps you can guess what they found?”
I shook my head, too bewildered to speak.
“Was it the file, is that how you found out?” DI Palmer continued.
“What file?” I asked. It was like I had stepped into a nightmare world where everyone knew what was going on except me. Michael Palmer glanced at DI Smith.
“Reverend Upton had been a patient of Jennifer Carter’s,” she said speaking patiently. “His file had clearly been removed by the person who killed her. They very thoughtfully left the file next to Reverend Upton’s body.”
“What was in it?” I asked in a whisper.
“I think you already know,” DI Palmer said, before she could answer.
“I don’t,” I insisted. “All of this is news to me.”
“Did you feel betrayed when you found out?” he demanded. “Did you feel sick at the thought that this person who you’d looked up to and trusted was really a sick pervert? Is that why you decided that he had to die?”
“I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about,” I continued to protest. My decision not to have a lawyer present was starting to feel like a big mistake.
Again it was Laura Smith who supplied some answers. “You’ll find out tomorrow anyway. Miss Carter’s file disclosed that Reverend Upton saw her because he claimed to be afflicted by an addiction to hard-core pornography. They were working, apparently without success, to help him battle it.”
It just seemed to be one shock after another. “Why will I find out tomorrow?” I said. I know it sounds a stupid thing to ask, but it was the first question that came to mind.
“Someone made very sure of that,” Michael Palmer said. “When the reporter discovered Reverend Upton’s body, there were pornographic magazines scattered all around the room. We believe that they probably had belonged to Reverend Upton. In addition, his computer was turned on in the room, displaying pornographic images.”
“And this is all going to be in today’s paper?” I asked, trying to assimilate this information with the Christopher that I knew.
“The reporter agreed to hold off running the story until tomorrow,” Laura Smith said. “We wanted the time to interview some suspects first.”
“Some suspects?” I questioned. “Or just me?”
“Look at what we have for a moment, Mr. Bailey,” she answered. “We have a counsellor murdered. Our criminal psychologist believes that the most likely explanation for her lips and tongue being cut off, is that the person who did it was a patient who felt she had failed to help them. Now we have a vicar who was murdered in such a way as to publicly discredit him, presumably by someone who felt he had let them down. Both crimes are almost certainly the work of the same person. And the common denominator of this, the person who found Mrs. Carter’s body and who at the moment is the last person we know of who saw Reverend Upton alive, is you.”
“The last one to see him alive?” I echoed. “When do you think he died?”
“We’re not absolutely certain yet,” she admitted. “But he had certainly been dead for some days. He was due to be on holiday over the weekend, so no-one was surprised not to see him on Sunday. Our best guess at the moment would be Thursday or Friday of last week.”
“Thursday being the day that I received the letter,” I noted.
“Oh yes, the letter,” Michael Palmer said sarcastically. “It’s good of our killer to keep you informed about his plans.”
“But even you can see that this must be what he meant by all the talk about religion, and how false it was.”
“Certainly I think that the person who wrote it had already either killed or decided to kill Reverend Upton,” he conceded. “But I’m finding it hard to buy a killer who has singled you out to be his confidante while he goes about killing all the people you’re closest to. Last time you suggested this theory you couldn’t come up with any ideas of who might hate you so much. Have you been struck with inspiration?”
“No.” I shook my head. “I can’t think of anyone who would do this.”
“I should tell you that I am currently applying for a warrant to search your home,” DI Palmer continued with a look of triumph. “But to save me the suspense, what do you think my chances are of finding a copy of the anonymous letters on your computer?”
My heart sank. “You will find a copy of the most recent letter I received,” I confessed. “I scanned it into the computer before I brought it to Detective Inspector Smith.”
“Of course you did,” Michael Palmer smiled. “When you’ve received a vile, threatening letter it’s the most natural thing in the world to want to keep a copy so that you could read it over and over again.”
“I know it sounds odd,” I replied. “But it’s like this person is challenging me. I thought that if I kept the letter, I might get some idea about who had written it. It has to be someone who knows me.”
“Our psychologist is also of the opinion that whoever is committing these murders believes themselves to be superior to everyone else.” He continued. “He says that it’s quite possible this person will want to place themselves in the middle of the investigation just to demonstrate how much cleverer they are than the fools investigating them.”
I tried to speak calmly to them. “I had no reason to want either Jennifer or Christopher dead. I saw them both as friends and my life is poorer because they are dead. If I had known about Christopher’s problem, I’d like to think that I would have tried to help him, not condemn him.”
“Let me tell you what I think happened.” Michael Palmer offered. “You killed Jennifer Carter in anger. Then you realised that you needed to steal your file because of what she had written about you. While you were doing that, you pulled a lot of files out to confuse the scene, and noticed the one with Christopher Upton's name on it."
I was shaking my head furiously as he continued. “You read his file, and were shocked to discover that he too had let you down. You sent a note to scare him. Your unusually regular contact with him over the following weeks was to enjoy watching as he slowly fell to pieces. After a final gloat on Christmas Day, you decided it was time to kill him.”
“You’re completely wrong,” I said firmly.
“What was it?” he demanded angrily. “Did it drive you mad that you’
d looked up to him, when he was just a sick pervert? Did you get angrier and angrier and decide that he had to be punished – that everyone had to know what he really was?”
“No.”
“Was it because of how he’d betrayed you that you cut off his penis and stuffed it in his mouth while he was still alive?”
It took a moment for these words to sink in. As they did, I felt the blood rush away from my face, and I convulsed forwards and threw up on the floor.
“I’ll get you some water and some towels to clear this up.” DI Smith said, jumping to her feet and glaring at Michael Palmer before she rushed from the room.
He reached out and turned off the tape machine and then leant forwards so that his had was close to my ear.
“I meant what I said at your flat,” he said. “This is personal between you and me. And I never lose.”
He straightened up and turned the machine back on. Almost immediately DI Smith was back, handing me a glass of water. She was followed by a cleaner with a mop and bucket who began to clear up the mess I’d made. I suppose it was fortunate that I hadn’t had time for breakfast.
Once the cleaner had gone, I stared at Michael Palmer’s expressionless face.
“Is that true?” I asked. “Did someone really do that to him?”
“It is,” Laura Smith answered. “Although we’d appreciate it if you kept it quiet. No-one is supposed to know the details.” She shot another pointed glance at Michael Palmer, who ignored her.
“I think that’s all for the time being,” he said. “I would however like you to remain here until the paperwork comes through to allow us to search your flat. We wouldn’t want you to go to any trouble cleaning up before we got there.”
“Are you holding me here then?” I asked.
“No, not at all,” he answered smugly. “You came here of your own accord and you’re perfectly free to leave whenever you wish. I was just suggesting that if you have nothing to hide, it might look better if you waited here and then escort me back to your flat when we do the search.”
I was angry enough to walk out immediately. But I reminded myself that I had nothing to be afraid of. Besides, he already seemed so certain that I was guilty, I didn’t feel I could afford to do anything that would make it even harder to change his mind.
I waited in the room on my own for another hour, before he returned.
“We’re all set,” he announced cheerfully.
He placed the paperwork on the table for me to inspect. I glanced at it and then stood up.
“Let’s get on with it then,” I suggested.
For the second time that morning, I had a silent journey in the back of Michael Palmer’s car. This time, we had an escort of two squad cars. I was sure speculation would be rife among my neighbours about all these policemen visiting me.
Having your home searched is a peculiarly unsettling experience. Strangers go through all your possessions, making judgements about you from what they find. They pulled all the books down from their shelves, making a careful note of what sort of things I read.
One policeman turned on the computer and asked me for my password. Once I’d supplied it, he began working through all the files on it, downloading some, and making notes on others. Some of the team were collecting fibre samples from my carpets, furniture and clothes, while another pair were carefully playing all my videos and DVDs, presumably to check that the contents matched up with the labels on them.
Large parts of the living room were covered in dust, poured out in a search for fingerprints. Another uniformed policeman emerged from the kitchen, holding my kitchen knife carefully in a large evidence bag.
“It looks clean, but we may as well run it by forensics,” he said to Michael Palmer, who was surveying the devastation with an undisguised smirk. “Don’t worry, sir,” he said to me. “We’ll get it back to you within a day or so.”
Finally they were gone, leaving me to clear up all the mess they had left. It was well into the afternoon before I had finished, and I felt completely drained.
The red message light was flashing on my telephone. I reached across and pressed the play button. Katie’s happy voice filled the room.
“Happy New Year, Jack! I was just ringing to say that and to see if you fancied getting together today. I’d really love to see you. I’m at home all day, so just give me a ring when you can, OK?”
There was silence for a moment, and then the second message played. Her voice came again, sounding slightly more concerned;
“Jack, you must have really had a good time last night if you’re still in bed. Ring me when you get up or in. Please.”
I reached out and picked up the telephone to ring her. Then I sat with it in my hand, unable to make myself dial her number. Finally, I replaced the phone, and sat immobile.
Part of me just wanted her with me, to cling on to. But the last thing I wanted was to have to go through all that had happened that day. As well as that, I wasn’t sure how wise it would be for her to get more involved with me while I was at the centre of such a destructive storm.
All the hope and optimism of the previous evening seemed a very distant memory. It even occurred to me that the police might have done me a favour by taking the carving knife out of harm’s way.
The phone rang several more times during the course of the evening but whoever was calling hung up once they heard my recorded message.
Chapter Twenty-one
Yorkshire Evening Post
Wednesday January 2nd
LOCAL VICAR SLAIN IN SEX SCANDAL
An Evening Post reporter discovered the body of prominent local vicar, Rev. Christopher Upton in his Vicarage on New Years Eve. He had been murdered.
Rev. Upton, 39, had been vicar of St.Thomas’s, York for three years. He lived alone. His mutilated body was found in his study, surrounded by obscene images of hard-core pornography. Police believe that he had been dead for some days, but refused to speculate on whether there was a sexual motive to his killing.
“It’s possible that this was a sex game gone wrong,” said a senior officer. “But the nature of the crime suggests that the motive was punishment, not lust.”
There are suggestions that the murder could be connected with the killing of Jennifer Carter, a York therapist who was killed and mutilated in November. Rev. Upton was one of her patients.
Police detained a local man for questioning, but he was later released without charge. “We don’t currently have enough evidence to make an arrest,” the police spokesman admitted. “We are appealing to the public to come forwards with any information, no matter how small, relating to these crimes. The perpetrator is clearly very unstable and extremely dangerous”.
I put the paper down next to me on the couch. I supposed that I ought at least to be grateful that the paper didn’t have my name. All I could feel though was a sickening numbness. My conversation with Christopher on Christmas Day made perfect sense now. I just wished that I’d been a bit more perceptive or insistent. Maybe if he’d been able to tell me about the note he would still be alive.
I’d rung George that morning and briefly explained what had happened. I’d said that I needed a few days off to get my head together. He’d been very understanding and supportive, but I don’t think he really knew what to say. Once I’d finished speaking to him I unplugged the phone. I figured that if anyone really needed me they’d come to the flat.
When the buzzer did sound, it made me jump. I want across to the microphone. “Who is it?” I asked.
“It’s Katie. Can I come up?”
I pressed the button, and went across the room to open the front door. When Katie appeared, she enveloped me in a crushing hug. We stood for some time, until the scream of my lungs for some air made me loosen her arms. We walked into the flat together.
“I was starting to think I’d frightened you off when you didn’t return my calls,” Katie began. “And then George told me this morning what had happened.”
“It
wasn’t that,” I said. “I was just so stunned by what had happened that I didn’t feel up to talking to anyone.”
“It must have been dreadful,” she said. “Did you know him very well?”
“Not really,” I admitted. “I just liked what he was trying to do at the church, and then worried when he seemed so unwell. I went back to his house on Christmas Day for a while. He was trying to tell me something, but I couldn’t get him to really open up.”
“Is it true what they said in the papers?” she asked. “About the pornography and so on?”
“Yes,” I nodded. “It seems he did have some problems with sex. Of course, in his job, that meant he couldn’t talk to anyone about it.”
“Except the counsellor who was murdered,” Katie said. “Is that why they’re linking the two murders?”
“It’s a bit more than that, I’m afraid,” I answered, and went on to tell her about the note that Christopher had received.
“So you think that that’s why he seemed so ill through December?”
“It must be,” I agreed. “He knew someone had found out his secret and was probably going to use it to hurt him. I don’t think he had any idea that it might be a killer. If he’d just told me about it, we might have realised in time.”
“It isn’t your fault,” Katie said loyally.
“It might be,” I answered. “The note I got suggests that whoever it is killed Christopher to get at me.”
“What would be the point of that if you weren’t that close?” Katie argued. “Whoever it is, we know that they like making people afraid. Couldn’t they have just put that in the note to make you feel responsible, or to confuse the police?”
“Well, they’ve certainly managed that. As far as the police are concerned, thanks to the notes, I seem to be their main suspect. In case you hadn’t worked it out, I’m the one they don’t yet have enough evidence to charge.”
“They’ll soon realise that you couldn’t have anything to do with it,” Katie said with more confidence than I felt. “I’m more worried about you. Are the police sure that it’s this same lunatic who is sending the notes to you?”
Shaping the Ripples Page 16
