Daughters of Darkness

by Sally Spencer

  ‘There’s a public telephone box in the village. I drove to it, made the call, then returned home and rang the police.’

  ‘But before you made that phone call, you rubbed out the last message on the answering machine, didn’t you?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes,’ he admits.

  He’d had no choice about that, because the machine recorded the messages in the order they were received, and he couldn’t leave one saying he was calling on Friday when there was already a message from Geoffrey Markham in which he must have said something like, ‘Grace, it’s Saturday morning, and you still haven’t got back to me.’

  It was a risk erasing the message, of course, but it was not a big one, as was demonstrated by the fact that the police didn’t even notice it. And even when super PI Jennie Redhead spotted the discrepancy, I had no idea what it meant – and certainly didn’t connect it to Derek Stockton – until I’d collected all the other evidence.

  ‘Where did you hide Grace’s body while the police were here?’ I ask him.

  ‘If you stop to think about it, you’ll realize you already know,’ he replies.

  And he’s quite right. The moment I put my mind to it, I do know.

  ‘It was in the priest hole, wasn’t it?’ I ask him.

  ‘Yes, it was.’

  My sudden wave of anger takes me completely by surprise.

  ‘Why did you show me the priest hole the first time I was here?’ I demand. ‘Did it give you some sort of sick kick to see me looking at it and never realizing what it had been used for? Did you congratulate yourself on having made a complete fool of me?’

  ‘No,’ he says, ‘it wasn’t like that at all.’

  ‘Then why did you do it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he admits sadly. ‘Maybe I thought it would give you some clue as to what had happened. Maybe I wanted to get caught – I believe many murderers do.’

  ‘And now you have been caught,’ I say.

  ‘Yes,’ he agrees, ‘now I have been caught.’

  ‘What did you do with the body?’

  ‘I took her onto Dartmoor – it’s a place we often went hiking, and I knew she loved it. I couldn’t leave a marker to show where the grave was, but I did the best that I could, burying her in accordance with Christian rites and practices.’

  She wouldn’t have wanted that, I thought. She would have liked to go in a burning boat. But there’s no point in telling him that.

  Besides, I don’t want to rob him of what little comfort he has left.

  ‘What happened to Jane’s head?’ I ask.

  ‘I buried it with Grace’s body,’ he tells me.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s what she would have wanted. She needed the head close to her to protect her.’

  It made absolutely no sense, of course. He had buried Grace’s body in accordance with his beliefs, yet had buried Jane’s head in accordance with Grace’s. It was nothing less than an extreme form of cultural and religious schizophrenia, but I suppose that was only be expected from a man who had just killed the woman he loved.

  ‘By the time you got back from Boston, Grace had already buried Jane in the Bluebell Wood,’ I say, ‘yet you were able to tell DS Hobson the colour of the dress Jane was wearing. How could you know it?’

  ‘Oh, that,’ he says, as if it’s of no consequence, which I suppose – my curiosity aside – it isn’t. ‘I found a swatch of the dress next to the head. It must have been a part of the ritual.’

  Ah, yes – I remember now that the police puzzled over why a piece of the dress was missing.

  ‘It’s entirely my fault that she died,’ Derek Stockton says, and to my surprise – again – I feel the need to defend him.

  ‘How is it your fault?’ I ask. ‘She was the one who attacked you. You’d never have killed her if she hadn’t come at you with a knife.’

  ‘But she shouldn’t have needed to come at me with a knife,’ he says. ‘I profess to be a Christian. I should have forgiven her for the hurt she’d done to me, and persuaded her to accept responsibility for the hurt done to others.’

  But you haven’t exactly been quick to accept responsibility for what you’ve done, have you, I reflect silently.

  ‘You think I should have given myself up the moment I killed her, don’t you?’ he asks, reading my mind.

  ‘Well, yes,’ I agree.

  ‘You think I’ve played this whole elaborate game to avoid having to go to prison.’

  ‘That’s the logical inference. Is it wrong?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘Then what’s right?’

  ‘I love my daughter, Julia,’ Derek Stockton says. ‘I’m not talking about the Julia who died – who I didn’t even know existed until three years ago – though I do love her and mourn for her every day. I’m talking about the other Julia, who I’ve believed to be my daughter for over thirty years.’

  ‘Understood,’ I say.

  ‘Since she’s your client, you must have seen for yourself what an effect her mother’s murder has had on her. How do you think she would feel if she learned that her real mother had been murdered by the woman she only thought was her mother, and that the man she thought was her father had killed the woman she thought was her mother.’ He pauses. ‘No, not the man she thought was her father,’ he says, defiantly. ‘I am her father.’

  ‘I know you are,’ I agree.

  ‘I couldn’t put her through it. I simply couldn’t. I wanted to confess – wanted it so badly, because there can be no healing without confession, but for Julia’s sake I decided that I would postpone the punishment I so richly deserve, until such time as I am judged by Almighty God.’

  ‘I have no choice but to report this to the police, even if it does mean that Julia learns the truth,’ I say softly. ‘I wish there was some other way, but there simply isn’t.’

  ‘I could stop you, you know,’ he says. There is a sudden hard edge to his voice, and his body has tensed as if ready to attack. I realize that in his mind he is back in the war – prepared to kill not because he wants to, but because he considers it necessary. ‘I could decide that in order to save my daughter’s life, I might have to rob you of yours.’

  My heart is beating faster – it would be a miracle if it wasn’t – but the truth is, I’m not the least bit frightened.

  ‘Even though I’m trained in unarmed combat too, and I’m much younger than you, there’s a good chance you could kill me if you really put your mind to it,’ I say. ‘But I’m as sure as I’ve ever been of anything that you won’t even try.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’ he asks.

  ‘Because it isn’t what Jesus would do. This is your Gethsemane moment – the moment when you’re given the opportunity to show real courage.’

  His body relaxes.

  ‘You’re right,’ he says, ‘I could never have done it.’ He pauses. ‘Would you just wait twenty-four hours before you turn me in, Miss Redhead?’ he pleads.

  ‘What good will that do?’

  ‘It will give me time to prepare Julia for the future she will have to face alone. Just one day. That’s all I need. I promise you, I won’t make a run for it.’

  I know he won’t. What would be the point in running when he’d always be there, wherever he went?

  He sees me to the door, and stands by the dolphin fountain as I drive away. Looking in my rear-view mirror, I see he has even managed a small, sad smile and half-hearted wave.

  I can’t condemn him, any more than I can condemn Grace. They are both victims of circumstances who have tried to do the best they can. He should never have fallen in love with her, and she should never have left the rainforest, which was her natural moral universe.

  I reach the end of the track, and get out of the car to open the gate, drive the car through, and close the gate behind me.

  I will never see Dr Derek Stockton again, I think. Nobody will. He has found the one course that will protect his daughter from the truth, and he is probably even now
following it.

  PART SEVEN

  23rd December, 1975

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Bright flickering lights are festooned across the street, and rough-and-ready Christmas tree sellers (Christmas tree rustlers?) lurk on street corners, keeping one eye open for potential customers and the other for the police. Countless people bustle in and out of shops, carrying bags crammed with gifts with which they hope to enchant their loved ones the day after tomorrow. Yes, the Christmas spirit is in the air, and even the drunks around the Carfax Tower seem more festively paralytic than usual.

  The students have gone – the poorer ones to earn a little cash by working as relief Christmas postmen, the more prosperous to luxuriate in the home comforts which their rooms in the ancient colleges lack. The dons and professors have gone off with their families – some sunning themselves on Caribbean islands, others racing down the ski slopes in France or Switzerland. And the tourists are gone, because this is the time of year to abandon the wanderlust and return to your own hearth. Even Charlie has gone, back to Wiltshire where, as lord of the manor, he will act as a sort of baronial Santa Claus for his tenant farmers and their families.

  I, on the other hand, am still here. I have turned down Charlie’s offer to accompany him to his ancestral home. I have also resisted suggestions from my mother (half-heartedly made, at best) that I should spend Christmas with her, so no doubt she will instead spend it with my cousin Enid, a parochial narrow-minded pea from the same pod.

  I am standing in front of the St Thomas Aquinas Catholic church. I have been watching it for well over an hour, and so far, I’m pleased to report, it hasn’t moved an inch.

  I’m not really here to watch the church at all – what I’m actually doing is trying to pluck up the courage to go inside.

  In the end, it is not my strength of character that forces me into the church – it is the cold. I push the heavy wooden door open, and it creaks in protest.

  Surely, if God really was as omnipotent as they say, He’d keep it oiled, I think.

  Stop it, Jennie, I tell myself. Stop trying to be a smart arse. Stop trying to turn the whole thing into a joke. You’re here for a serious purpose.

  And so I am, but it’s not proving very easy. I’m uncomfortable enough in Protestant churches (God knows!), but Catholic churches – where the air is thick with incense, and the walls are hung with harrowingly anatomical crucifixions – really give me the creeps. Still, I force myself to walk down the aisle, and park my backside on a bench close to the confessional.

  There is no queue, for which I am grateful, but I hear a low female mumble from inside the box, which indicates that some woman is already in there, baring her soul.

  I used to think that time dragged while waiting for the pub to open its doors, but compared to this wait, it now seems to have positively flown by.

  How do you fill the time if you’re not all wrapped up in holy contemplation? I don’t know.

  Once or twice, I catch myself drumming my fingers on the bench, and immediately close my hands into fists, as if I were expecting a punch up.

  Finally, an old woman in black leaves the confessional, and I quickly take her place.

  ‘Look,’ I say without preamble, ‘I’m not here for myself. I want to make an appeal on someone else’s behalf.’

  ‘That’s not so much unorthodox as truly bizarre,’ says the voice from the other side of the grill.

  I congratulate myself on choosing Father O’Brien for this encounter. Although I’m no expert on priests, I imagine that most of them would have been completely knocked off balance by my opening remark, but O’Brien – that famed swigger of Guinness – has taken it in his stride.

  ‘Well, let’s hear it, then,’ he says.

  ‘The person in question has committed suicide, which I understand is a mortal sin, for which he could burn in hellfire for all eternity unless he is forgiven,’ I say. ‘And the problem is, he can’t ask for forgiveness now he’s dead, so I was hoping you could intercede for him.’

  ‘Anonymously?’ Father O’Brien asks.

  ‘Well, yes,’ I agree, realizing as I speak how foolish that sounds.

  ‘So I’m supposed to say something like, “Dear God, please forgive this man, Mr X, who I know absolutely nothing about.” Is that it?’

  I search around for a suitable response – and suddenly, I have it!

  ‘God will know who you’re talking about!’ I say, triumphantly. ‘He knows everything.’

  ‘Clever,’ he admits. ‘But perhaps there’s no need to call him Mr X. After all, we are talking about Derek Stockton, aren’t we?’

  ‘How did you know that?’ I ask, before I can stop myself.

  ‘There haven’t been many suicides round here recently, so I don’t really need to be a detective to work out who you’re talking about.’

  I don’t like the emphasis he puts on the word ‘detective’ at all.

  ‘All right, it’s Dr Stockton,’ I admit.

  ‘The Church’s teachings on suicide are not as black and white as you seem to think they are,’ he tells me. ‘Grave psychological disturbance can diminish the suicide’s responsibility for the act. In addition, God provides the opportunity for salutary repentance in ways known only to Him. And the Church will always pray for suicides as a matter of course.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say.

  ‘What puzzles me is why you’re here asking me to forgive Derek,’ Father O’Brien says. ‘I thought you were supposed to be an atheist, Jennie.’

  ‘You called me Jennie!’ I say.

  ‘It’s your name, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, but I thought this was supposed to be anonymous.’

  Father O’Brien laughs. ‘Oh, that old chestnut,’ he says. ‘A priest would have to be blind and deaf – and probably stupid – not to recognize the person on the other side of the grill, and we’ve certainly drunk together often enough for me to know your voice when I hear it. But you still haven’t answered my question – why are you asking for forgiveness when you don’t believe in it?’

  ‘I don’t really know,’ I confess. ‘Maybe it’s because he believed in it. Maybe it’s a question of backing all the horses in the race, just to make sure you have a winner.’

  Maybe, even, it’s because I’m only copying Derek Stockton, who didn’t accept Trinka beliefs himself, but still buried Jane’s head with Grace’s body. Yes, maybe that is it – though even under the seal of the confessional, I don’t feel able to tell Father Jim that.

  And finally, maybe it’s because I feel complicit in the suicide – since I knew what he was going to do, and I did nothing to stop him.

  I go back to my office, but not in the hope that there will be a line of clients so long it reaches down the stairs, each one eagerly waiting to engage my services. That will definitely not happen, because between Christmas and the New Year, people’s crises, questions and unresolved problems seem to be put on hold in favour of mince pies, crackers and family rows.

  No, the reason I return to the office is because, having talked to Father O’Brien, I have decided I have a little tidying up to do. Specifically, since the truth that I’ve uncovered in my investigation cannot be revealed to the wider world without making Derek Stockton’s sacrifice totally pointless, I need to set about destroying what notes I have on the case.

  Most detectives, I suppose, would do this by feeding the notes into their shredder, but I can’t afford a shredder. Instead, I set the notes on fire, page by page, and hold them over the metal wastepaper basket until everything but one corner is burnt, at which point (to spare my fingers) I let go of them, and watch the burning remnants glide into the bin. There is no danger of this setting off the smoke alarm – I can’t afford one of those, either – but it is a time-consuming process.

  It is a depressing process, too, since what I am destroying is the history of three people – none of them wicked – who tried to do their best, but were betrayed by their own weaknesses.

 
Once the task is completed, I step out onto the landing, because – to be honest – my office feels a little smoky, and while I am there, I hear the letter box click open, and the last post before Christmas land with a dull thud on the doormat.

  I go down the stairs to the hallway. I know most of the mail will be for the merchandizer of erotic goods on the ground floor, but it is worth checking anyway.

  It’s always possible, I tell myself, that my fame has reached the ear of some jet-setting millionaire who has misplaced his grandson, and wants me to find him. Unfortunately, the work will involve a great deal of travel to exotic places (such a trial!) the letter will say, but in some attempt to compensate me for such inconvenience, the millionaire is prepared to pay me a fabulous fee and ensure I am only lodged in the very best hotels.

  There is no such letter – surprise, surprise – but there is a postcard. On the front, there is the picture of a vast sandy beach, bathed in brilliant sunshine, on which any number of happy people frolic without a care in the world.

  On the back, there is a message. It reads:

  Having a great time on this cruise. It’s only the second day, but I’ve already met tons of fascinating people (men!)

  Thank you so much!

  Annie Tobin

  In the film Casablanca, Rick says, ‘It doesn’t take much to see that the problems of three little people don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world.’

  And maybe the newly found happiness of one little person doesn’t matter either, but it’s enough to make me feel good about myself – at least for a while.