In the Light of Madness (20 page)

Cleveland put his hand to his forehead, and brushed back his fringe.

“Instead of persecuting me relentlessly, why aren’t you looking at Colin Pollock? He’s the form tutor of all these students.”

It was Lennox’s turn to lean forward and talk.

“You’re evading the question, Mr Cleveland. What did Mr Pennymore want with you?”

Cleveland let out an audible sigh. His shoulders once proud, now drooped as he hunched over the desk.

“I need to know that what I’m about to say won’t be made public.”

“I’m afraid we can’t guarantee what would come out in court. However, it’s your duty to aid this investigation into the tragic loss of your students, both dead and missing.”

Cleveland put his head in his hands, and began to rock back and forth. The detectives watched and waited for him to explain himself.

“I owe Pennymore money, a lot of money. I’ve been ignoring him since he told me he couldn’t wait any longer for the cash.”

“What do you owe him money for?” asked Wednesday.

“I thought you said you knew all the answers, Detective.” A smirk traversed his face.

“We’d like to hear the explanation in your own words, Mr Cleveland,” she replied coolly.

Her flat response wiped the smug expression from his face as he prepared to divulge his shame.

“I’m a gambler, and I owe Pennymore money, a stupid amount of money, some of which belongs to the school.”

The detectives listened whilst he unloaded his shame about his addiction. They allowed Cleveland to drown in his own murky waters, whilst they sat back and watched him suffer.

“Does the gambling take place at The Crow?” asked Lennox.

Cleveland nodded and spread his hands open with his palms up.

“I don’t want to get him into trouble.”

“We deal with murder. Another team will investigate those activities.”

Once Cleveland began talking, he seemed unable to stop. He informed them about being approached by Dick Pennymore to join the gambling fraternity, which met every Wednesday and Friday evening in the back room of The Crow. The stakes were high as they were all professional or business people; hence he had a huge debt that Pennymore was calling in. He refused to divulge the other members as they bared no relation to the ongoing investigation. He did say, however, that Pennymore would be able to back up his alibi.

Having unburdened himself, Cleveland visibly relaxed, knowing that his lack of previous alibis could now be traced to The Crow which took him out of the murder equation.

Before terminating the interview, the detectives advised him that another thorough search of the school and the grounds would be taking place, and that they would be seeing Pennymore to corroborate his story.

Wednesday and Lennox moved into the next room, where Reverend Olong sat patiently nursing a plastic cup of weak tea. His demeanour did not shift as they entered the room.

Wednesday was aware of Hunter’s suspicion that the reverend had something to do with the murders, and she did not want to disappoint him. Piece by piece, they moved through the reverend’s movements, who he saw, and who could corroborate his story. His relationship with his wife and his previous position in the former parish.

“My wife said the trouble in the last parish would come back to haunt us, and here I am, having to defend myself again.”

He sat and listened to their questions before answering them with clarity and unfaltering sentences. Tough nut to crack, thought Wednesday to herself, as she also wondered if Hunter was watching the interview through the two way mirror. Instinctively, she ran her hand over her hair to feel how many strands had worked their way loose.

The reverend finally said they could contact his superior to corroborate his story, and with that, he sat back in the chair and placed both his hands in a prayer like position.

“The puzzling issue that you can’t explain, Reverend, is why was Darren’s school book in your attic?” said Wednesday, who subconsciously mirrored the position of his hands.

“I have no answer to give. The only thing I can say is that it wouldn’t be difficult for a young person to find a way into the vicarage undetected. Maybe he was running away from his home life and he thought he’d be safe there, and he only ran away once you started searching the property with your men and dogs. You can ask him when you find him.”

Everything he said could have been true, thought Wednesday, and currently they had no proof to think otherwise. No proof and no body.

As they escorted the reverend out, they heard the recognisable voice of Des Wright echoing down the corridor. The reverend turned to them before leaving.

“Perhaps the truth is closer than you think.”

The detectives returned to the Incident Room and began writing up their reports. The relative calm in the station was interrupted by the occasional expletive that rumbled down the corridor from Des Wright.

Forty minutes later, Arlow and Damlish returned to the Incident Room looking irritated and hot; neither had seemingly managed to break Des regarding the murders, his missing stepson, or the issue of domestic violence.

Jones wrote on the white board that neither the wellington boots nor the travel blanket was found in the searched properties. Each time the telephone rang, everyone hoped it would bring the breakthrough they were looking for.

Wednesday noticed an undercurrent rippling around the office, with several officers looking towards her, only to turn away as soon as she saw them. She was about to ask Lennox if he had disclosed her personal affairs, when Damlish walked over to her and showed her a copy of
The Cambridge Times
. Across the front page was an article by Scarlett Willow suggesting they may have cult activities taking place in the community.

“Hunter isn’t best pleased with this,” said Damlish. “I heard him yell that you need to keep your sister under control.”

“Half-sister,” she replied curtly. “Where is Hunter, by the way?”

“Gone to a meeting with the commissioner, won’t be back until later.”

Wednesday and Lennox decided to go outside for a smoke, expressly so she could escape the humiliation caused by Scarlett. She wound a cashmere scarf around her neck before lighting her cigarette.

“How’s your mum?” he asked.

“Surviving, as we all do when this happens.”

Lennox nodded, brushing the top of his head with his free hand. He wanted to ask her more questions, but she didn’t seem in an accommodating mood. They smoked the remainder of their cigarettes in silence before returning inside to finish their reports.

Wednesday pulled up on her driveway and eased herself out of her car. Approaching the front door, she saw a small mound-like shape on the step in the porch. Moving towards it with caution, thinking it might be a hedgehog searching for snails, she bent down and saw it was a dead rat. A tingling sensation scurried down her back. Not wanting to touch it with her bare hands, she moved inside to find a carrier bag.

Scarlett was sitting in the kitchen, hunched over her laptop and seemingly too engrossed to notice Wednesday’s presence.

“How long have you been home?” asked Wednesday as she put her work bag on the floor.

“A few hours. Why?”

“Because there’s a dead rat on our front doorstep.”

“Yuk. It must have just died there.”

“Highly unlikely. This had better not be connected to your bloody article.”

“Wow, if it is then I’m onto something big,” she exclaimed, finally taking her eyes off the screen.

Wednesday shook her head then returned to the porch, after which she washed her hands until they were almost red and sore.

“Have you been to see Mum yet?”

Scarlett shrugged her shoulders and returned to the keyboard, tapping away lightly. Wednesday made herself an Earl Grey before sitting opposite Scarlett.

“Work is tough at the moment, so we need to share the care with her. Your dad can’t do it all.”

“You know I can’t abide those places. They’re just recycling bins; all the nut bars are sent there to be recycled into mainstream people who can respond normally in a mad world. You and Dad are strong enough to cope.”

Wednesday took out a cigarette and offered one to Scarlett.

“Do you know that some mad people smoke to self medicate themselves through stress?” said Scarlett before lighting hers.

“I’m not sure of the scientific evidence for that. Are you worried that you, too, may become ill like her?” Wednesday blew out a trail of smoke towards the ceiling, watching Scarlett through half-closed eyes. “If it helps, I secretly worry that the same fate awaits me; we’re more susceptible because she’s ill,” she continued before taking a sip of drink and waiting patiently for Scarlett to process her thoughts.

“I don’t know why you’re worrying; we may have the same mad mum, but you’re dad is sane—if somewhat boring—but my dad is a fruit cake. What hope is there for me?”

“Do I take then that you are worried about your future sanity?”

“No sis, I’m truly not.” And with that, Scarlett closed her laptop and headed up for a bath.

Wednesday felt she ought to phone the hospital or Oliver to check on her mum, but she was exhausted, and did not feel she had the head space for any more trauma.

Forty minutes later as she lay in bed, she put her book down on the bedside table, switched off the light and settled down to sleep.

During the dark hours, the sound of gravel crunching under-foot entered Wednesday’s dream until her mind alerted her to the fact that it was coming from outside her bedroom window. Lifting her head off the pillow, she listened more closely. The sound stopped and then started again.

She climbed out of bed without switching on the light and moved to the window. She pulled back the curtain very slowly and peered between the velvet swathes. She could not make anything out in the teeming mass of shadows. So, believing her imagination was in overdrive, she stumbled back to bed and drifted into a much needed sleep.

The following morning, Wednesday found she was still trapped in spiralling destructive thoughts about mental illness.

Creeping out of her room and reaching the bottom of the stairs, she saw a newspaper on the door mat. Picking it up, she saw scrawled on the front page, the words “DIE BITCH” with red pen lines slashed across the photograph of Scarlett.

Behind her, she heard Scarlett coming down the stairs.

“Morning sis, is that the paper?”

“You appear to have made an enemy,” Wednesday replied as she thrust the newspaper at her.

Scarlett’s face lit up. “Or a fan,” she replied as she danced around, holding the paper aloft.

“Scarlett, you’re not taking this seriously. First the dead rat and now this. I want you to drop the features on a supposed cult in the area.”

“You can’t tell me what I can and can’t do in my job. This is big, sis, it could set me up as a serious journalist.”

“It could set you up as a victim, think about that.”

Scarlett laughed in her face then skipped to the kitchen and put the kettle on. Wednesday followed her and flopped into the carver chair. She watched the steam from the kettle undulate across the ceiling whilst she contemplated what to do.

“You always twirl your hair when you’re stressed,” said Scarlett, placing a mug of coffee in front of Wednesday. “Please don’t worry about me, I can look after myself.”

Anger mushroomed in Wednesday as she thought how irresponsible Scarlett was being. Irresponsible not only to her own safety, but to the safety of their home. She was angry with Scarlett over several issues, but she had to pick her battle, and the current battle was really about their mother. What really aggravated her was that Scarlett was not even being supportive to her own father.

Wednesday’s appetite had vanished, so gulping down her coffee, she grabbed an apple and set off for work. Scarlett was too lost in her own world to notice.