In the Light of Madness (14 page)

“I’m merely gathering background information to piece together Tom’s movements and behaviour the last time you saw him.”

“He’d been at school then he said he’d got some project to work on with that Giles boy. He went there and we never saw him again.”

“That wasn’t mentioned before,” said Wednesday, flicking through her notes.

“Well excuse me for being distracted from the details by my son’s death, Detective.” His face flushed as he rose to his feet.

“No one is blaming you.” Lennox spoke calmly, remaining seated.

“She does. She blames me,” replied James, gesticulating in the direction of his wife. His eyes were bulging and he was sweating profusely.

Wednesday willed Emily to speak out to reassure her clearly distraught husband. Her silence had the disastrous affect of squeezing his heart until it pounded so hard it looked like he was on the verge of having a heart attack.

“Mrs Dolby, your husband looks unwell,” prompted Wednesday.

Finally, Emily Dolby found the words to say. “No one is to blame. It was God’s will. Tom wasn’t right for this world.”

“What the bloody hell are you babbling on about, woman?” James shouted as he paced up and down in front of the wood burner, holding a hand over his heart, as though preventing it from launching out of his chest.

“Please Mr and Mrs Dolby; this is a highly emotive time. You need to support one another, fighting is too destructive.” Wednesday had risen to her feet and was guiding James back to his chair. He was compliant but shrugged his shoulders to rid himself of her touch.

Lennox proceeded to ask questions about Tom’s life out of the home; steering the parents’ thoughts to his last hours.

“That’s where the blame lies,” snapped James. “With Darren and his parents, that’s where he went last. You had the stepfather in didn’t you? You must think he’s guilty of something.”

Lennox’s soothing tones went some way to pacify James, but tension still ripped through the air. Silent sounds of internal reflections dominated the room.

The parents had little to say about Tom’s last hours, which made it all the more poignant. Wednesday and Lennox waited a few minutes before judging that it was appropriate to leave. As they closed the front door, the sound of raised voices rang in their ears.

“The death of a child can wreck a marriage,” Lennox said as they walked to the car. Wednesday nodded, fumbling with the cigarette packet in her pocket.

With their nicotine levels topped up, they knocked on the Edwards’ front door. As Greg Edwards opened the door, the smell of fresh coffee seeped out onto the porch. He directed them in and offered them a beverage.

Lucinda Edwards was draped over the chaise longue, appearing more waif-like than in their previous encounter. Her already fair hair was highlighted, and it gave the impression of a halo encircling her head. Wednesday was struck by her cheekbones which were more prominent in the morning light. Lucinda Edwards gave them a slow close and open of her eyelids as recognition of their presence.

Greg entered the room behind them with a silver tray laden with refreshments. He poured the freshly made coffee into the bone china cups and offered them cream and lumps of brown sugar.

“Did your daughter ever mention Tom Dolby or Darren Giles?” Lennox asked as he accepted a cup of coffee, savouring the rich aroma.

“That’s the missing boy and the one found dead?” Greg said cautiously, his eyes skimming over his wife, checking her state of fragility.

“That’s correct; we’re looking to see if there’s a correlation between all the cases.”

“Claudia never spoke of any boys, and as I’ve said before, my daughter was only interested in her education.”

Lennox nodded and drew breath to ask another question when the doorbell rang. Greg excused himself to answer the door, whilst his wife’s eyes followed his every move.

“I think she was quite popular with the boys,” she whispered, forcing the detectives to perch on the edge of their seats.

“Any boys in particular?” asked Wednesday, mirroring Lucinda’s tone.

“I can’t remember any names; she never spoke to me about them. I overheard things when she spoke on the phone, that’s all.” With a swift ballerina style swirl of her arm, she beckoned Wednesday closer.

“Can we keep this from Greg as it would upset him enormously? She was his perfect princess.”

“That may not be possible, Mrs Edwards, as we need to conduct our investigations with clarity and openness.”

Greg re-entered the room with an ostentatious bouquet of lilies and fern leaves.

“From the Women’s Guild,” he informed his wife.

She smiled weakly then asked him to put them in water. Resigned, he returned to the kitchen.

“I’m sure she met some of them after school,” she whispered as she kept an eye on the door. “She’d tell me she was going to a girl friend’s house, but if I phoned her on her mobile, she either didn’t answer or bit my head off for checking up on her. I heard boys’ voices in the background.”

She took a bird sip of coffee before continuing. “I never mentioned it to her father.”

“You never mentioned what?” Greg asked as he stood in the doorway.

Lucinda looked at Wednesday with her mellow eyes glistening.

“It appears that your daughter may have been friendly with a boy or boys, although we don’t know who.”

“What rot, where did you get that information from?”

Wednesday looked towards Lucinda before she recounted her words as he sat listening impassively. His head hung heavily as though his neck could no longer support it.

“Are you saying that she may have known her assailant?” he asked, fixing his gaze upon the Persian rug.

“There was no evidence of forced entry to your home, and her house keys were still in her pocket, so it’s possible.”

“And you knew about this?” he asked his wife.

“I only had my suspicions, dear, she wouldn’t tell me anything.”

Greg let out a deep sigh and picked up his coffee cup from the side table. He rotated the cup and watched the liquid swill around. “I suppose the next thing people will be saying is that she was a flirtatious trollop who deserved what she got.”

“No sir, no one deserved what she got,” replied Lennox, noticing Greg’s eyes flicker.

“Was she . . . assaulted in a . . . sexual way?”

“It doesn’t appear so.”

“Thank God for small mercies.” Greg bowed his head.

“Mrs Edwards, if any names come back to you, please do give us a call,” said Wednesday handing over another card. She knew the first one invariably gets lost in the mêlée of the first hours of grief.

“One last thing before we go, are you attending the church service tomorrow?” Lennox checked.

The Edwards looked at one another, before replying that the reverend had called around to invite them, but they had yet to make a decision.

Chapter Eleven

Wednesday sat at her kitchen table, nursing a mug of filter coffee. The steam drifted across her eyes, forming a mist to soften her view. After allowing her mind to wander aimlessly, she returned her focus to the sheets of paper spread out before her. It was customary for her to draw mind maps of a case in order to visualise the evidence and possible suspects.

“Still working the old fashioned way,” Scarlett said, pouring herself a coffee.

Wednesday hummed a response and then looked up at her.

“You look over-dressed for a Sunday morning.”

“I can’t go to church in my PJs, now can I?”

Wednesday bit her lip and allowed her breath to seep slowly through her nostrils. “I don’t need to ask
you
why a church service is on the agenda.”

“And from your dour attire, I can see that you’re breaking your atheist rule,” replied Scarlett before lighting a cigarette and opening the back door.

“It’s work related,” said Wednesday, also lighting a cigarette.

“And the same goes for me. You can’t stop me.”

“No Scarlett, I can’t stop you, but I can ask that you keep out of my hair and refrain from causing me any trouble.”

“Okay sis. By the way, how’s it going with the divine Jacob Lennox?”

Wednesday abstained from rising to Scarlett’s bait; over the years she had learnt to master the skill. Blowing out smoke, she allowed a faint smile to grace her lips and brief flashes of Lennox to pass before her eyes. The sound of the doorbell intruded her thoughts. Scarlett flicked the half smoked cigarette onto the patio and went to answer it.

“Jacob Lennox, we were just talking about you,” she announced, standing back to let him in.

Wednesday hurriedly gathered up the strewn paperwork and shoved it in a drawer.

“I thought we’d travel together to give us time to talk through our plan for today. Hunter wants us to check out people arriving so we need to go now.”

“I couldn’t cadge a lift could I?” asked Scarlett with hope in her voice.

“No. Lennox and I want to talk shop without the ear of the press looming over our shoulder.”

Scarlett watched the pair leave before picking up her bag and keys. Marching outside she slammed the door for no one to hear.

Sitting in the passenger seat, Wednesday repeatedly brushed her hands over her black trousers to smooth them over her knees. His car smelt less of pristine leather and more like an overflowing ashtray.

“You seem on edge about something,” he ventured.

“I detest churches. They conjure up tortured confusion in my mind.”

“Hell, that’s got to hurt.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m agnostic, but when I’m inside a consecrated building I feel both the presence of an omniscient power, and feelings of both hope and hopelessness.”

“No wonder this case is gnawing away; you’re far too sensitive.”

She was about to bite back when she realised they were already there. Lennox parked a short distance away from the church so they could remain in the warmth whilst monitoring the arrival of the parishioners.

A gust of wind hurled autumnal leaves around the graveyard as though spirits were making their presence known. They watched Reverend Olong appear from the vicarage; the wind furling his black cassock around his ankles. He pulled the clothing tighter around his neck and walked towards the church with his head bowed down. Before he entered the graveyard, he gave them a quick wave in order to show he had seen them. Perhaps the people of God are indeed, all-seeing, thought Wednesday.

Small groups of people began arriving, but so far they were unfamiliar faces. Clusters of older people dressed in suitably mournful attire; black hats trimmed with black satin ribbon, and faces with the severity of the occasion drawn across their sagging flesh. The reverend stood by the arched doorway to meet and greet the arrivals.

Finally, recognizable faces began arriving. The first was Emily Dolby who appeared conspicuously alone, her face bearing a ghost-like image. She hesitated by the spot where her son was found, and after a few moments she reached the reverend at the door. He took her hand in both of his and could be seen offering words, no doubt, of peace and condolences to the grieving mother.

Next came a group of familiar faces from Markham Hall; a handful of irksome students interspersed by four members of staff. Stewart Cleveland headed up the group of students, with the receptionist keenly tagging alongside him. Wednesday could make out the boys who had gone to Claudia’s house the night of her disappearance, and a couple of girls they had not as yet met. Following the group was Colin Pollock with his hands shoved deeply into the pockets of his chestnut tweed trousers.

“We need to think about going in ourselves,” said Wednesday, putting on her leather gloves.