Cold Sacrifice

by Leigh Russell

  He had brought the exquisite silver cup back to England from the ancient monastery where he had been virtually imprisoned, high in the Himalayas. His visit had come about by accident while he had been trekking in India. Losing sight of his companions, he had spent a day alone on the mountain, where he had been struck down with dysentery. For days he had wandered, lost, and increasingly sick. He would have died if he hadn’t been discovered and rescued by a community of monks who nursed him back to health. Living high in the Himalayas, cut off from the rest of the world, the monks sought freedom from all earthly ties. Abandoning worldly possessions to pursue a life of asceticism, they flagellated one another until sinful impulses bled from their bodies, and revered the hallucinogenic plant extracts that took them to another level of existence. Having saved his life, they insisted that he stay with them. The eldest monk, who spoke with authority, declared that God had led the visitor to their monastery. Too weak to refuse their meagre hospitality, he had remained with them, sharing their diet of weeds and goats’ milk. At night he slept on a slab of rock, with cold seeping into his bones.

  Afraid of corruption from the outside world, the monks never ventured far outside the walls of the monastery. Before long, returning to England seemed as impossible as flying to a different planet. Only when he realised they intended to initiate him into their community was he terrified into action. The night before his castration ceremony he fled while the monks were sleeping. Passing a silver goblet on his way out, he seized it, intending to sell it when he could. Clambering down the mountain path was gruelling. Never obvious, at times the path disappeared completely. His bare feet were soon blistered and lacerated. He could no longer walk but crawled slowly on his hands and knees. Several times he was tempted to despair, but the gods appeared before him in a vision and led him safely down. That was when he understood that he had discovered the path of righteousness.

  ‘You carry the cup of life,’ they told him, and he knew he was saved.

  After his experience on the mountain, he was ready to lead others to enlightenment. He had passed through death and seen the true light.

  63

  IT WAS PAST NINE and Ian still wasn’t home. He probably wouldn’t be home for hours. Bev had showered earlier, and changed ready to spend the evening with him. Her black lacy lingerie was scratchy, her skintight jeans pinched her waist. With no one to see her, there was no point being uncomfortable. She ran upstairs and undressed. Ian’s loss, she thought, stopping briefly to admire her naked body in the bedroom mirror: flat stomach, gently curving hips, the kind of breasts that women paid thousands for – most men would gladly sacrifice a few hours of work to spend an evening with her. In pyjamas and dressing gown, she went downstairs and sprawled on the sofa. There was an old Hollywood film on the television. At least she could watch whatever she wanted when Ian was out, small compensation for another night of solitude. By the time he came home, she was in bed and half asleep.

  ‘Are you awake?’ he whispered as he climbed in beside her.

  She kept her eyes closed and didn’t answer.

  Ian fidgeted all night, muttering in his sleep. Disturbed by his restlessness, Bev was relieved when the morning finally came. How sad, she thought, to be pleased that she could return to the distraction of her day. As usual, Ian set off early, leaving her to clear away the breakfast things before she too left for work. Angrily she shoved crockery into the dishwasher, staring at the reality of her Happy Ever After, tied to a selfish insensitive husband. She wondered if every wife suffered similar regrets, or if she had just been unlucky. Ian had behaved very differently before they were married. How was she to know he would change? To cheer herself up she made a special effort to look smart when she went in to work that day and was pleasantly surprised when her boss complimented her on her appearance. It was a while since he had paid her any attention. Although he was a notorious flirt, lately he had only seemed interested in the younger girls.

  When he suggested they go for a drink together after work, she agreed at once with a flush of pleasure. She wasn’t sure if the invitation extended to all her colleagues, and hoped he was asking her alone. When that turned out to be the case she felt a tremor of excitement, and wondered what she was doing agreeing to accompany him. Still, it was reassuring to know she could still attract the attention of a good-looking man. She would never have guessed it from the way her husband treated her. Grant took her to a bar they knew close to the office.

  ‘Remember when you first came to work for me?’ he asked, gazing earnestly at her as he handed her a glass of white wine.

  She remembered it very well. He hadn’t been able to keep his eyes off her. Although she loved Ian, she couldn’t help feeling flattered by Grant’s interest. She smiled at him, and inclined her head without answering.

  ‘You broke my heart when you married that policeman of yours,’ he added with a rueful grin.

  Bev grinned at his banter. She wondered how different her life might have been if she had married a man like Grant. With his chiselled features and infectious laughter, he appreciated women and enjoyed their company. Of course she would be fooling herself to think a man like Grant could ever make her happy. He was the kind of man who would be constantly running after other women. All the same it was fun flirting with him, allowing herself to forget fleetingly that she was married to a man who had no time for her.

  ‘So how’s married life treating you?’

  Bev was tempted to unburden herself to him, but she held back. Ian was her husband. However much she complained about him to his face, she would never slag him off to a third party. Instead, she smiled and told Grant everything was fine.

  He leaned forward.

  ‘Are you sure you’re happy?’

  Bev began to feel annoyed. She hadn’t come out with Grant to talk about her husband.

  ‘My husband’s very busy working on a very important murder investigation right now,’ she began pompously, and faltered.

  It sounded as though she was boasting about Ian’s career. In any case, she probably wasn’t supposed to talk about his work to anyone else. The conversation moved on and she relaxed. They stayed, chatting, for over an hour.

  At last they prepared to leave, pulling on gloves and scarves against the chilly evening air.

  ‘That was lovely,’ she said, ‘thank you.’

  ‘We should do this again,’ he replied, linking his arm through hers.

  ‘That would be nice.’

  Encouraged, he asked speculatively, ‘You don’t have to go home just yet, do you?’

  Gratified but wary, she told him her husband would be waiting for her at home. It was a lie. Even though she had done nothing wrong, she couldn’t help feeling guilty. She didn’t fancy Grant, she told herself, it just made a pleasant change to enjoy the undivided attention of a man over a friendly drink. They both understood it was nothing more meaningful than a casual flirtation. Far from objecting, Ian would approve of her going out and having a good time. Even so, she decided not to tell him about her outing. With a faint stirring of dismay she realised he probably wouldn’t be interested anyway. Right now, he didn’t seem able to think about anything other than his wretched investigation.

  Watching Grant walk over to his car, she was almost tempted to call after him and ask him what he had in mind. It would serve Ian right if she did have an affair with someone else. But the moment passed. She wasn’t sure whether she was relieved or disappointed when Grant jumped into his car and drove away.

  64

  IAN WENT INTO WORK early the next morning. There was no reason for him to be there, sitting at his desk at half past seven on a Wednesday morning, but he had to do something. Three women were dead and they didn’t know who was responsible. They hadn’t even managed to establish whether they had all been killed by the same person, although it was hard to believe the deaths were unconnected.

  ‘Henry Martin’s the key,’ Rob said when they gathered in the Incident Room in Herne Bay to review
the case. ‘He’s the link between Martha and Jade, and once we get to Jade, she leads directly to Candy.’

  ‘But why would Henry want to kill the woman who was giving him an alibi for the time Martha was stabbed, and why then go and kill Candy who had nothing to do with Martha at all?’ Ian countered.

  ‘We’re missing something and I’m buggered if I can see what it is. But it’s staring us in the face,’ Rob rambled on, voicing his frustration. They all knew they were going round in circles.

  ‘Della – Jade, that is – gave him an alibi. She must have decided to retract, for some reason,’ Ian said.

  ‘Or she was demanding more money than he was prepared to give her?’ Polly suggested.

  ‘Yes,’ Ian agreed. ‘Having lied to give him an alibi, that would have put her in a position to blackmail him. She pushed it too far, he lost it, and decided to get rid of her.’

  ‘So far so good, that all makes sense,’ Rob said.

  ‘Then Candy came along,’ Ian went on, warming to his narrative. ‘She was friends with Jade. They lived together. What if Jade had spilled the beans to Candy about her arrangement with Henry? Once Jade was out of the picture, Candy decided to take over, see how much she could screw out of Henry to buy her silence.’

  ‘Taking over the blackmail Jade had started.’

  ‘Exactly. Candy had no idea it was Henry who strangled Jade – or maybe she suspected him but went ahead anyway. With enough money at stake, she might have been prepared to take that risk.’

  ‘Buying her way to a better life for her son,’ Polly said.

  Thinking of the little boy, Ian sighed. ‘A better life for her son,’ he repeated solemnly.

  Everything pointed to Henry, but they had no evidence. A defence lawyer would list the different methods of killing and question whether one person had really murdered all three women. In any case, in the absence of any proof, the case against Henry was no more than speculation based on a credible motive. There was nothing to prove Jade had been lying in the first place, when she gave Henry his alibi. If Jade’s account of spending time with Henry had been false, any chance of proving that had died with her.

  ‘At least we’ve come up with a theory that makes sense,’ Rob concluded, ‘but that’s all it is.’

  Towards the end of the day, Ian picked up the phone and called his wife. There was no answer. With a sigh, he prepared to leave a message but couldn’t think what to say. He felt guilty about having abandoned her at the weekend, guilty about going home late during the week, and generally guilty about being an inadequate husband. If he could turn the clock back, he would have taken her out shopping at the weekend and bought her a beautiful piece of jewellery. He knew she would appreciate that kind of love token. On Sunday evening he had thought she was beginning to change, but by Monday she had reverted to her usual hostility towards his work. It was easy for her, ensconced in an office, chatting to clients on the phone about potential employees she had recruited. She really had no idea what he had to endure on an almost daily basis. And now he wanted to talk to her, maybe even to apologise, she wasn’t answering her phone. He guessed she was on her way home. He tried once more.

  ‘Bev, it’s me, I just wanted to say hope you’re having a good day and see you later.’

  He hung up, regretting having left such a lame message. He might as well not have bothered. Usually he nipped to the canteen for a quick bite when he was on a case. Today, he decided to go out. He needed to get away from the claustrophobic environment of the station. Hurrying past a couple of uniformed constables zipping up stab vests in the corridor, he went out into the cold fresh air. He drove along the front until he found a little café that served hot soup, baguettes and other sorts of rolls. It wasn’t great food, but it would do. He hadn’t realised how hungry he was until he tucked in to an egg and bacon baguette, washing it down with a mug of strong tea. As he ate alone, he wondered where Bev was and what she was doing for supper. Wiping his fingers, he tried her phone again, but she didn’t answer. He felt a lot better after eating. The evening was bright and cold. Walking back to the car, he felt his characteristic optimism return. There was no point getting stressed about things. All married couples had their off days. The row with Bev would soon blow over. As for Henry, he hadn’t struck Ian as particularly intelligent so he was bound to slip up soon. And when he did, Ian would be waiting.

  ‘There’s someone here to see you,’ the desk sergeant told Ian when he arrived back at the station.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘He wouldn’t say, just asked for you by name. He insisted he spoke to you, and no one else. He said it was urgent.’

  ‘Why didn’t you call me?’

  ‘He only just this minute came in and I knew you wouldn’t be gone long.’ The desk sergeant leaned forward and lowered his voice confidentially. ‘He’s cuckoo, if you ask me. Still, you never know.’

  ‘OK, I’ll go and check it out now. I can’t imagine it’s anything important.’

  Ian couldn’t repress a flicker of hope as he strode along the corridor to the interview room where a potential witness was waiting. He crossed his fingers hoping this might be the lead they were waiting for, the missing piece of the jigsaw that would make everything slot into place.

  65

  IAN RECOGNISED THE DARK haired young man straight away even though his head was lowered. Mark didn’t stir when Ian entered the room, looking up only when he heard his name.

  ‘You asked to see me?’

  ‘Yes.’ It was barely a whisper.

  He raised his head. His face was very pale, his eyes bloodshot and red-rimmed. He was clearly still suffering from the loss of his mother. Ian felt sorry for him. The boy was barely eighteen but looked younger. At his age he should have been studying, partying, exploring the world. Instead he was slumped on a grey chair in a grey-walled room, his surroundings a metaphor for his colourless life. Ian did his best to inject some cheerful energy into his voice as he started to question the young man.

  ‘You have something to tell me?’

  Mark nodded. He looked terrified.

  ‘It’s OK, Mark. Whatever it is, you can tell me.’

  ‘Yes. I want to. That’s why I came. I wanted to see you, to tell you –’

  Ian waited.

  When Mark spoke again his voice was flat, as though it was an effort to force the words out at all.

  ‘I know who killed my mother.’

  Ian didn’t say anything. Mark’s hands writhed in his lap, long white fingers frenziedly twisting and intertwining.

  ‘It was my father,’ he said at last, in the same impassive tone.

  ‘Are you telling me your father killed your mother?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you certain? Could you swear to that in a court of law?’

  The young man nodded his head.

  ‘How do you know? Did you see him? Or did he tell you?’

  Mark screwed up his face as though he was going to cry.

  ‘I told you, he killed her,’ he repeated, his voice rising in agitation.

  ‘How do you know it was him? Mark, I don’t want to press you, it’s obviously very painful for you to talk about this, but we need to be certain.’

  ‘I know he did it, because he tried to kill me too.’

  The young man dropped his head in his hands and continued, his voice muffled by his hands.

  ‘I wouldn’t have said anything, I don’t care what he does to me, only he killed my mother. He has to be punished for that.’

  ‘How do you know it was him?’

  ‘I told you, he tried to kill me too. That’s why I came here. So you can protect me. You have to stop him.’

  The young man looked up at Ian, his eyes brimming with tears, his cheeks flushed.

  ‘You don’t believe me, do you? Do you really think I’d lie about something like this? He’s my father. I could forgive him almost anything, but not this, not my mother.’

  He was shaking now, and crying.
Ian stood up.

  ‘Mark, you don’t need to worry. You’re safe here. Now, I’m going to get you a cup of tea and then you can tell me exactly what happened.’

  Mark sniffed loudly and wiped his nose on his sleeve. Rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand he mumbled an apology for breaking down. With a word to the uniformed constable who was standing outside the door, Ian went to fetch a mug of tea and a colleague.

  Rob wasn’t at the Herne Bay station but Ian found Polly in the Incident Room. She was taken aback when Ian told her what Mark had said.

  ‘Poor kid.’

  ‘He’s eighteen.’

  ‘I’ve got an eighteen-year-old brother and he’s just a kid,’ she repeated. ‘He’s only just out of school.’

  Armed with a mug of tea, Ian returned to the interview room. Polly accompanied him, chattering excitedly, but he felt dazed. It hadn’t really sunk in yet that the case was over. Henry was as good as convicted. No jury would disbelieve a son who accused his father of attempting to murder him. All that remained was to make sure Mark would stick to his story and prove a credible witness. Questioning him had to be handled with sensitivity and attention to detail. Meanwhile, the slightest slip could leave the way open for Henry’s defence council to shoot Mark’s statement to pieces, even if everyone knew he was telling the truth. Unless Henry confessed, the whole case would depend on Mark’s statement. They had to get it right.

  Mark took a few sips of sweet tea and wrinkled his nose as Ian explained the procedure for recording his statement.

  ‘I was in the kitchen,’ he said as soon as Ian had finished speaking. ‘I was making myself some toast when he came up behind me.’

  ‘He?’

  ‘My father.’