The Disciple: a gripping psychological mystery (The Sister Veronica Mysteries Book 2)

by Sarah Sheridan

  Sister Veronica shook her head sorrowfully.

  ‘Crikey,’ Melissa said. ‘What did Art say?’

  ‘It’s not often that Art loses his cool,’ Carter said, taking another sip of beer. ‘But that night he started ranting and raving, calling Mona a liar and a whore, saying how dare she accuse King Arthur of such an immoral act. But then his son Lance – Lancelot – joined in and said he knew it was true because he’d walked in once and saw his father holding Mona down while he raped her.’

  Sister Veronica drew a breath in sharply.

  ‘The poor, poor girl,’ she said, her face grave.

  ‘Art went ballistic at that point and banished Lance and Mona from the hall, saying they’d chosen the path to hell and that they could rot there for all he cared. By banishment he meant for them to go to one of the punishment huts on the edge of the compound. But by morning they’d packed up and left.’

  ‘I don’t blame them,’ Melissa said grimly.

  ‘I’ve come to realise New Avalon is a cult,’ Carter said, exhaling. ‘I’m doing an online psychology degree now and I’ve read a lot about them.’

  ‘Good for you,’ Sister Veronica said.

  ‘Art has all the classic traits of a cult leader,’ Carter went on. ‘He’s good at love-bombing and gaining the trust of his followers. Feeding them his own version of the history of King Arthur, making people believe he is a God-like figure. Encouraging paranoia in the group, brainwashing people to put their whole lives in his hands, telling them what to think and punishing them if they step out of line. I couldn’t see it when I was there though.’

  ‘Is that why you left? Because of Mona?’ Sister Veronica said.

  ‘Yes,’ Carter said. ‘Like I mentioned, I was having doubts before that, but that was the last straw. It was weird, after listening to Mona I suddenly saw Art for who he really is, a dangerous, abusive fake who preys on people, sucking the life out of them. I still can’t believe I bought into that place.’ He looked down.

  ‘You were right, Sister,’ Melissa said with a sigh. ‘New Avalon is a much darker place than their webpage shows.’

  Carter snorted with laughter.

  ‘That load of rubbish? Makes it look like a cross between The Waltons and a National Geographic documentary.’

  Sister Veronica smiled.

  ‘Did other people leave, too, after Mona told them the truth about Art?’

  ‘Yes,’ Carter said. ‘Although some die-hard followers stayed. Morgana’s the worst, she’s a nightmare. Totally loyal to Art and won’t hear a bad word said about him. Celeste, Mona’s sister, is a die-hard follower too. She’ll never leave that place.’

  ‘Yes, we met her earlier today. It’s really quite fortuitous that we bumped into you, Carter,’ Sister Veronica said, accepting her second glass of elderflower champagne. ‘Because we are actually trying to find Mona. That little baby over there,’ she gestured towards the pram, ‘is actually hers. And she seems to have disappeared. I don’t suppose you know anything about her whereabouts?’

  ‘The last thing I heard, from a friend of a friend, was that she’s working as a prostitute in London.’ Carter shifted position. ‘But if she’s disappeared from there, I’d look at Art. Talk about venting spleen, he was incensed, so venomous in his attacks on her after she’d left. Kept saying she was pure evil and would go up in flames in hell, and that if she didn’t he would hunt her down and set her on fire himself.’

  ‘Did he now?’ Sister Veronica sat back, stroking her chin.

  ‘I’ll just check on Hope.’ Melissa stood up, draining her glass.

  Sister Veronica was just mulling over Carter’s last words and wondering how it had got so dark without her noticing, when Melissa’s scream ricocheted around the garden. In one movement she was on her feet.

  ‘Hope?’ Melissa’s whole body was trembling as she bent down to search frantically around the pram. ‘Sister, the baby’s not here. She’s gone.’

  18

  ‘Sorry?’ Art said, unable to believe the words coming from the doctor’s mouth. ‘What did you say?’

  He was standing in a small room in St Francis’ Hospital. It had taken him two and a half hours to drive from New Avalon to South London in one of the commune’s shared cars; he’d probably broken the speed limit a few times on the way there but it was better than waiting around, bored, behind slow drivers. Art couldn’t abide anyone getting in his way, or stopping or delaying his actions when he’d decided to do something. And now he was standing in a waiting room like an idiot, because for some reason they weren’t letting him see his son. Before the doctor arrived the nurse had asked him to sit down, but he’d refused. It was a sparse area, just three chairs and a utilitarian sofa, a side table and a bland picture of yellow flowers on the wall.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mr Pendragon,’ the doctor standing opposite him repeated. ‘But your son, Lancelot, died this morning. We were trying to get hold of next of kin to let them know, but we couldn’t find a number for you.’

  ‘No,’ Art said. ‘That’s not possible. I’ve come to see him. Look–’ He brandished the box of chocolates he’d bought at a petrol station on the way. ‘I need to give him these.’ The decision to get them had been a hasty one. He never usually showed love to those who’d hurt him. But if there was any way he could get through to his firstborn, persuade him to come back to New Avalon so Art and the other knights could nurse him back to health and help set him back on the path towards salvation, then he would take it. He’d thought the time would be right, now that Lance was so vulnerable.

  ‘I can see this is a real shock for you, and I’m sorry to have to break such bad news, Mr Pendragon,’ the doctor said. ‘We did everything we could, but Lancelot is dead.’

  The realisation that this was the truth hit Art in the face like a ten-ton truck. His stomach lurched and a wave of anger overtook him. He sat down. Stupid boy. It was his own fault. Art couldn’t count the amount of times he’d told Lance to stay away from drugs. The problem was, he never listened.

  ‘Why?’ he said. ‘What happened? I thought he was doing okay?’

  ‘He was showing positive signs to start with.’ The doctor sat down on the chair opposite. ‘He was responding well to treatment. To be honest, I wasn’t expecting things to deteriorate so rapidly. He’d overdosed on a cocktail of drugs–’

  Art shook his head.

  ‘But his underlying health was stable and he was young, two important factors in recovery.’

  ‘So why did he die?’

  ‘To be absolutely honest, Mr Pendragon, we’re not sure at the moment,’ the doctor said. ‘We have not been able to find a probable cause so far, so the coroner has ordered a post-mortem examination to take place, to rule out possible misadventure, or anything else.’

  Art put his head in his hands. This was bad news. His son’s death unexplained; what if this in some way drew people’s attention back to him and New Avalon again? The last thing he needed was any more bad associations with the place. If the police came sniffing around they’d cause trouble, unsettle his followers. No, he didn’t need that.

  ‘I know this is hard for you,’ the doctor said, standing up. ‘Please, stay here as long as you need. Take your time, the nurse will look after you.’

  I’m not going to tell anyone about Lance, Art decided, his eyes shut tight. Maybe Morgana, but no one else, not even Celeste. If he’s gone anyway then there’s nothing I can do. No one needs to know. He sat there, curled over in the foetal position in the chair, for five minutes. The nurse came and sat quietly in a chair near him.

  Then Art uncurled, stood up, stretched his limbs, chucked the box of chocolates in the nearby bin, and walked out of the room, without saying a word.

  19

  The owner of The Chocolate Berry called the police, while everyone who’d been sitting in the garden and café joined in with the search. Melissa had gone back out onto the high street, and was running up and down, staring into any buggies and prams that
she saw, looking at people’s arms to see if they were carrying anything, staring under every car, into all the cars, shouting for help, her voice strained and desperate. Sister Veronica, numb with shock and panic, kept searching round the garden, the toilets, and inside the building, going to the same places, staring at the same people many times. If she looked harder, better, she would find her. Listening out for a gurgle, a coo, a cry, anything. But it was too noisy, too much background din.

  ‘She must be here somewhere,’ she kept saying, over and over again. ‘She must be. Please, God. Help me find her.’

  Blue flashing lights swerved to a halt next to the fence, and within seconds two police officers were introducing themselves, assessing the situation, calling for backup, and questioning Sister Veronica and Melissa about what had happened, their manner calm and reassuring. But they were being too slow. Sister Veronica almost screamed at them about this, restraining herself at the last minute. Hurry up, stop talking into radios and asking questions. Just find the baby NOW. She knew there was a protocol, that they were the professionals, but surely their careful investigative attitude was wasting time?

  It was hard to tell exactly who noticed the fire first. But amid the chaos in the garden a shout went up:

  ‘The building over there is on fire. Look, Goddess World is on fire. Someone dial 999.’ A plethora of people got out their phones and began dialling.

  Although distracted into a frenzied state by the ice-cold panic that had electrified her brain since Hope’s disappearance, Sister Veronica turned towards the building she and Melissa had been in only hours before, just diagonally up the hill from the café. The fence in front of her was low, allowing a sufficient view.

  A river of orange-red flames had already engulfed half the top floor of the building. Immense clouds of black smoke rose into the air, visible against the dark sky. The flames billowed upwards, the haste at which the fire spread was terrifying. Higher and higher it climbed, spanning out like a series of giant flaming peaks that soon consumed the rest of the top floor. It billowed out through the now desecrated roof like a scene from a horror film. The adjoining shop roofs were also smoking with flames creeping on to their exteriors. A loud bang inside the building prompted a ground-floor window to explode outwards, with smaller flames soon licking through the open space. The fact that it had all happened so quickly seemed impossible, yet it had. The evidence was in front of her sore eyes.

  Sister Veronica stepped back. Much to her horror, what she saw in front of her was almost the exact image from the Destruction card placed on Hope, that also turned up in Celeste’s tarot reading. Melissa arrived next to her, tears streaming down her face.

  ‘This is like a nightmare,’ she said, anguish filling her voice. ‘Why is the building on fire? It happened so quickly, I had no idea. Oh, Sister, we must find Hope.’

  The police officers that had been asking them questions had disappeared. Everyone else who’d been helping them search was now distracted by the horrific spectacle in front of them, or had gone to help. With furnace-like heat radiating towards the café from the fire, Sister Veronica and Melissa continued looking under tables, in corners, under hedges, behind plants, barging their way through small groups, suspicious of everyone, staring at their arms and their bags, trying to ask if they’d seen anyone take a baby from their pram.

  The unmistakeable wail of fire engines filled the air.

  ‘Everybody out,’ a male voice shouted, seconds later. ‘This area is not safe. We’re evacuating all the buildings near the fire. Everybody out!’

  ‘We can’t go,’ Sister Veronica shouted at the fireman who was walking towards her. ‘We need to find the baby. Someone’s taken the baby.’ Her voice was a scream. ‘All the Saints in Heaven, can’t someone help us?’

  One of the police officers was running back towards her.

  ‘Come with me,’ she said, taking hold of Sister Veronica’s shaking hand, half pulling, half dragging her towards the gate. Melissa grabbed the pram and followed.

  The scene they ran into on the high street, Sister Veronica reflected later, was like Armageddon. Falling debris, charred fragments floating down, firemen battling the blaze, with some pushing people back and shouting for them to leave. Three fire engines parked haphazardly, police cars behind them. And the heat, oh the temperature was unbearable, like being roasted alive in an oven.

  ‘Does anyone have any reason to be in there that you know of?’ a fireman shouted to the crowd, now further down the street. ‘We need to get them out if they’re in there, the building’s about to collapse.’

  Several people shouted back saying the shop was closed and the upper rooms were just used for storage of stock and tarot readings, that no one actually lived there.

  As a fireman ushered her party along, she saw three more firemen run out of the burning door of Goddess World at the same time as loud cracks pierced the night. The entire first floor of the building was collapsing, crashing down, causing a new wave of fizzing flames, smoke and debris to shoot out.

  ‘Couldn’t find anyone,’ she heard one of them say. ‘But we couldn’t get up the stairs. They’d already burnt away.’

  ‘I’ll take you to the police station,’ the police officer said as they ran towards the cooler – still smoky – air away from the fire. ‘I’m going to do everything I can to help you find the baby. I’m going to need you to tell me as much information as possible.’

  But how can anyone do anything amidst this carnage? Sister Veronica’s brain felt like it was splitting, fragmenting, as she walked down the street with the policewoman. How on earth are we going to find Hope? She was snatched, I’m sure of it. But by who? Who would do that? Oh, God, please help us now.

  20

  Dr Abaeze Obademi, pathologist at St Francis’ Hospital, rubbed his forehead as he stared at the laptop in front of him. He was tired, he’d already been at the hospital for thirteen hours. His patient wife would have covered his plate of cold food, he thought, and gone to bed by herself, as usual. Maybe one day they would actually get to spend the evening together. He’d written so many similar reports over the last few months, and it was sad to write another. Depressing. He couldn’t help imagining how he’d feel if this was his own son, how devastated a family somewhere was right now. He sighed.

  Mr Lancelot Pendragon, he began to type.

  Having met with attending doctors prior to the examination of Mr Lancelot Pendragon, I ascertained that the patient had been admitted to intensive care at St Francis’ Hospital following a self-administered polydrug overdose. After initially responding to treatment and showing signs of improvement, he was found dead by a nurse on the morning of the date stated above. Although every effort was made by hospital staff to resuscitate Mr Pendragon, he was pronounced dead at 9.46am that day.

  I was asked to perform a post-mortem examination directly, for the purposes of verifying the fact of his death.

  At approximately 4.30pm on the day of examination, photographs of the body were taken under my direction.

  I examined the body myself, and noticed that rigor mortis was fully established in all muscle groups.

  The primary pattern of hypostasis was entirely within the posterior with blanching over the mid-back and buttocks.

  There were no signs of forced injury marks on the body.

  His liver and kidneys were found to be in various states of deterioration at the time of his death.

  At the time of writing this report I have just been informed by Dr Timothy Sewell from the toxicology lab of the results from the blood sample taken from the body.

  In summary, it is my opinion that the main factors involved in bringing about the death of Lancelot Pendragon were the high levels of methylenedioxy, cocaine, morphine, amphetamine, methamphetamine and cannabis found in his blood, still present two days after his admission to hospital, and the subsequent oxygen starvation of his liver and kidneys.

  Manner of death: accidental polydrug overdose.

  W
ell there we go, Dr Obademi thought, clicking the send button. No misadventure here, just a sad, predictable result to add to the rest of the rising statistics. His email, with the post-mortem report attached, whizzed away through cyberspace to the inbox of the coroner.

  21

  ‘The first twenty-four hours will be the most critical,’ Detective Inspector Yvonne Harding was saying. A stout, middle-aged woman who looked like she rarely smiled, Sister Veronica couldn’t help wondering if she’d have the maternal instinct necessary to really give power to the search for Hope. Surely the nice PC Matharu, the officer who had guided Sister Veronica away from The Chocolate Berry, and had introduced her to the detective on their arrival at the police station, would be better? She’d said she had children of her own, that this was every parent and carer’s worst nightmare. Her compassion had caused fresh outbursts of tears for both Melissa and herself. DI Harding wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, she didn’t look like the nuclear family type. More of a lone wolf, a dispassionate hunter of criminals. But not necessarily a lover of babies. ‘Like I said, I’m going to do everything I can to help you, one step at a time. I do understand how worrying this is, but try and keep clear heads. In cases like this the child is usually found safe and well relatively quickly. Firstly, is there anyone you can call, anyone at all, who you think might have taken the baby?’

  Sister Veronica and Melissa stared at each other, their faces ashen-grey and exhausted.

  ‘Mona,’ Melissa said. ‘We’ve been looking for the baby’s mother. That’s why we came to Glastonbury in the first place.’ She gave DI Harding a brief rundown of events.

  ‘Right, I’m going to make some phone calls,’ the detective said, staring at her. ‘Stay here, I won’t be long.’ She left the room.