In the Light of Madness (22 page)

“Tell me more,” she asked, stepping out the front door.

“It came addressed to me and the note attached reads ‘with sympathy’. The office is positively electric, and I’ve found some interesting info about cults on the web.”

“Never mind that now. I need you to get everything to the lab at the station straight away. Don’t let anyone else touch it.”

“Always the dramatic one, sis. I’ll do it after I’ve had a photo taken of everything for a future article.”

Wednesday was about to reproach her for her lackadaisical manner, when Lennox arrived behind her at the simultaneous moment that Scarlett hung up on her. She’d missed her moment.

“What’s up?”

“I’ll tell you on the way to the station.”

Once back at the station, Lennox urged Wednesday to inform Hunter of the incidents involving Scarlett. Against her better judgement, she moved towards Hunter and requested a word in private.

“My half-sister—”

“The journalist,” he interrupted.

“Yes, Scarlett. She’s been receiving threatening messages at home and her office. I’ve asked her to bring the items in for the forensic guys. I believe it has something to do with her cult article in the paper.”

Hunter was looking at the computer screen as he listened, clearly not entirely interested in Wednesday’s information.

“She’s probably tapped into the lunatic level in our society who have latched onto her crazy notion. She’s given meaning to their misplaced paranoia.”

He tapped on the keyboard until Wednesday’s fixed gazed finally aroused his attention.

“Is there something else?” he asked, looking directly at her.

“She seems convinced that she’s on the right track because of the attention it’s got her. I’m wondering about her safety, that’s all.”

“I’m sure she’ll cope. But if you’re really worried, do you want protection for her? Not that I’ve got the manpower at the moment,” he replied, barely drawing a veil over his loathing.

“I’ll keep an eye on her and have a word with her editor.”

She felt dismissed by Hunter’s stubborn silence. Unbeknown to her, Lennox watched her flounce off in the direction of her office and firmly shut the door behind her. Rubbing the back of his neck he walked over to her.

Entering, he found her snapping off a chunk of chocolate and throwing it into her mouth. The bulge in her cheek made her face look like a hamster. She frowned and waited for him to speak.

“Look, Hunter may not have taken you seriously, but I do. Why don’t I spend the evening in your home, in case anything else occurs?”

Wednesday, having swallowed the chocolate, sat back and stared at him. “If it’s home cooked food you’re after, you’re in luck, but I can’t guarantee the company.”

“That’s settled then,” he said before walking back to his office.

Wednesday curled her toes in her shoes.

Wednesday was very conscious that Lennox was driving behind her. She pulled up onto her drive and switching off the engine, her hand slipping on the door handle as he pulled up alongside her.

On opening the front door the warmth embraced their chilled bodies, but she was embarrassed about the stale tobacco smell that lingered in the air. She had smoked more than she intended to last night without airing the kitchen.

Wednesday opened a bottle of red wine and poured two glasses. She smiled as she handed him a glass.

“Got any modern stuff,” he asked as he perused her small shelf of CDs.

“I don’t suppose you consider folk as modern?”

Lennox shook his head slowly. “Never mind. What’s for dinner?”

“Chicken thighs, homemade potato wedges, and spring greens, or I could throw it altogether to make a curry. Any preference?”

A shrug of his shoulders indicated that it was her choice, so she chose the former.

“Did Scarlett bring that box of flowers to the station?” he asked.

“No, I’ll take it in myself tomorrow. She’s not taking this seriously.”

“Are you taking it too seriously, perhaps?”

“I don’t consider threats to a member of my family as a light matter.” She tossed the potato wedges in the sizzling garlic oil, aware that she had snapped at him.

The smell of the chicken crisping in the Aga infused the air and enveloped the pair in a comforting embrace.

As she served up the food she suggested that they call a truce and discuss something other than work as she was keen to know more about him.

Between mouthfuls of food, Lennox talked about his seemingly idyllic childhood, when he spent a great deal of time fishing and building inadequate camps with his two best mates. As he spoke, Wednesday realised he had a dry sense of humour, and she suddenly saw the charm she suspected all the women at the station saw in him.

Lennox was working his way towards discussing her mother’s health, when the front door opened, funnelling a torrent of cold air into the kitchen.

“Well don’t you two look cosy,” Scarlett said as she threw her coat over a chair.

“There’s some food in the oven,” replied Wednesday, disregarding the less than subtle comment.

“So, Jacob Lennox, to what do we owe this pleasure? I hope it has nothing to do with me?”

“I thought I’d offer my support in light of the recent incidents.”

“I’m touched that you care enough about me to do that.”

Scarlett flicked her flame curls over her shoulder and peered at him from underneath her heavily made-up eyelashes. She poured herself some wine and ran the tip of her finger around the rim of the glass as she fixed on him with her mottled green eyes.

“Have you read my article?”

“I’ve glanced at it,” he replied, pushing his knife and fork together.

“I must be on the right track, otherwise I wouldn’t be getting these threats, don’t you think?”

“There are a lot of cranks out there.”

Scarlett pouted, took a sip of wine, then with her best dulcet tone asked Lennox if he thought she was in danger, and if so, what could he do about it? Wednesday scraped her chair back and fetched a new packet of cigarettes that nestled between a fruit bowl containing a blackening banana and a kiwi. She turned around just in time to see Lennox’s cheeks fill with colour as Scarlett slowly placed one of his cigarettes in her mouth. The glow from the cigarette lighter enhanced her Cupid’s bow.

“There is a wealth of evidence on the web about cults,” she said, allowing the smoke to drift out of her mouth. “I could show you later, if you like.”

Lennox sat back in his chair rubbing the top of his head, all the while keeping his eyes on Scarlett. The smell of garlic oil and rosemary lingered in the air.

“You know society fears the very notion of a cult, as it’s deemed to practice mind control. They coercively persuade people to do as they are told.” Scarlett could see that she had hooked Lennox, encouraging her to keep going.

“Apparently, the charismatic leader targets people who are seeking love and recognition.”

She talked about her research of American sites. “The cult leaders seek out people who are already outside of the nucleus of the community. After a while, the members can actually fear the end of the world and being separated from their charismatic leader, therefore they commit mass suicide.” She paused to draw on the cigarette.

Wednesday could see that she was enjoying being the centre of attention.

“The freaks of society experience unconditional love, acceptance, and attention from the enigmatic leader. The cult practises something called ‘love bombing’, which entails providing constant affirmations to a person, until they feel secure in the group and they feel special.”

“And you think such freaks, as you call them, live around here?”

“They say the countryside is full of eccentric misfits, ideal for an up-and-coming cult.”

“I don’t understand how you came to the conclusion of a cult in relation to these crimes.”

“The internet can throw up diverse scenarios. It’s the journalist in me that sifts through the trash and comes up with the gold.”

Lennox allowed Scarlett to refill his glass whilst he listened intently to her reasoning.

Wednesday opened the back door and stepped outside to gaze up at the canopy of stars. She heard the others talking without hearing the words.

She was transported back to the time when Scarlett had reached maturity with all the grace and beauty of a swan gliding on water. Wednesday had never experienced that and felt virtually invisible to the male population. She smiled to herself and moved quietly back to the table where she noticed Scarlett had placed the box she had received at work.

She poured herself another glass of wine and then slipped away to bed.

“I got the impression from Eva that you didn’t like journalists,” Scarlett said, picking up the bottle to refill both of their glasses. Noticing it was empty she got up and retrieved another one from the fridge.

“I don’t, but you’re growing on me; or perhaps it’s the wine.” He half smiled at her and then covered the top of his glass with his hand.

“It’s okay, you’re staying the night,” she said, removing his hand and filling the glass.

George Olong pecked his wife on the cheek before trudging off for his lay preacher meeting, having been given police approval. She watched him go before unhooking her tweed coat from the rack and wrapping it around her, in preparation for the walk to the village hall for choir practice. The house had an eerie stillness and she thought she heard someone whisper her name.

The village hall did not offer her the change of mood she desired. Recent events and gossip circled around the group. The elder element gravitated towards Colin Pollock to see if they could glean any gossip with regards to the school’s role in the recent crimes. In his gruff, antisocial manner, he informed them that the school bore no relation to the heinous events.

Clusters of people eyed Vera as she moved around putting music sheets on the chairs. Questions draped over the tips of their tongues, but no one dared utter the words.

The choir sang half-heartedly, with Vera struggling to summon up any enthusiasm or meaningful harmony from the group; or indeed from within herself.

Relief swelled in her heart as ten o’clock arrived and the practice was over. One by one, they drifted out into the velvet night, with some members stopping to chat and gossip just outside the door. Vera gathered the music sheets and waited for the last stragglers to exit before locking the door.

George took a slow drive home, his mind whirring with uncomfortable thoughts and rumours. As he drove along the main High Street, he saw Vera standing outside the village hall, talking to someone. He could not make out who it was, but he could see it was a man by the long trench coat and trilby hat. He pulled up alongside them and wound down the passenger window. Vera ducked down and stuck her head through the gap.

“How fortuitous,” she said, smiling at her husband. She stood up and mumbled something to her companion before climbing into the car.

“Did you have a good evening, dear?” she asked, trying to see his facial expression in the yellow glow from the street lights.

“The bible produced answers that I wasn’t expecting. It threw up discord in the verses so I have come away with turmoil and sadness in my heart.”

Vera was used to her husband’s verbose ramblings, but she often drifted off so that she only half heard what he was saying. She caught sight of the reflection of her face in the window, and was pleased to notice age had still not scarred her face.

Arriving home, she climbed out of the car and followed him into the vicarage. She switched the kettle on then took off her woolly hat and tweed coat.

“Who were you talking to?” he asked.