In the Light of Madness (25 page)

Wednesday rolled her eyes and thanked Shaun before winding up the window. As much as she wanted to have a soak in the bath whilst drinking a glass of wine, she switched on the engine and drove towards the hospital. Muttering under her breath she gripped the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles turned white.

Visiting time was almost over by the time she arrived. Walking down the windowless corridor that echoed with foreign sounds, Wednesday tried not to breathe in the clinical stench of insanity by holding her finger under her nose.

The charge nurse let her onto the locked ward, but warned her that she only had twenty minutes. Thanking him, she went off in search of her mother, whom she found sitting up in bed with her knees pulled up under her chin. Oliver was sitting on the chair next to her.

He raised his heavy eyelids to greet her. He looked like he was being slowly eaten by the chair, with stubble speckling his chin.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t get here sooner—work’s rather hectic. How is she?”

“She isn’t deaf or stupid, she is sitting right here,” Joan said in a child-like voice.

“Sorry Mum, didn’t mean to ignore you.”

“Was that said with feelings of sincerity or guilt?”

“Please don’t start,” replied Wednesday as she dragged a chair over to sit next to Oliver.

He leaned in to her. “She’s been like this all day,” he whispered as he patted her knee.

“I’m still here, you two. I know you’re colluding with the doctors to keep me in here ’coz you want a rest.” She jabbed an accusatory finger in Oliver’s direction.

He took her hand and kissed it, but she withdrew it sharply and folded her arms across her chest. Oliver exhaled quietly.

“Why did you stop taking your meds, Mum?”

“I was feeling better. The tablets slow me down and dull my artistic flare. I paint better when I’m drug free.”

“You know it’s the meds that are making you better. When the levels are back up, you’ll soon be home.”

“Only when I’m subdued like a ragdoll.”

Wednesday turned to Oliver. “Are you looking after yourself?”

He nodded and patted her knee again, as though she was a worried seven-year-old who was concerned about her parents arguing.

“Where’s Scarlett?” asked Joan.

“Busy at work.”

“She’s not got mixed up in that cult thing has she?”

“No Mum. There isn’t a cult around here anyway.”

“There must be if Scarlett’s written about it. She doesn’t lie, my Scarlett doesn’t.”

Wednesday felt a twinge zip across her chest at her mother’s words.
Scarlett’s no ruddy angel
.

“Is everything okay, you’re looking tired,” asked Oliver.

“Oh you know, work is rather harrowing. The death of young people is always difficult to come to terms with and sometimes, my brain just won’t switch off.”

The next ten minutes were spent watching Joan drift in and out of sleep. Periodically, her mouth would twitch as though she was speaking to the ghosts in her head.

“I’m here if you need me,” Wednesday said quietly to Oliver. His face crumpled into a million creases and folds as he smiled.

“Please try and encourage Scarlett to come. I’m sure it would help your mother.”

“She’s not always easy to pin down, but I’ll try.”

A nurse announced that visiting time was over, so they both bent down and kissed Joan before tiptoeing out of the door.

Wednesday’s eyes began welling up with forgotten tears. Her deep, compounded fear was that she would follow in her mother’s footsteps and weave herself a mad future, where her only source of company would be the staff on a psychiatric ward. She remotely unlocked her car, got in and helped herself to a cigarette before heading home.

The house was in darkness when she arrived home, and part of her was glad Scarlett was still out, as she was in no mood for confrontation. But another part of her worried.

She picked up the post and placed it on the console in the hall. It was then that she noticed the note from Scarlett, saying she had found out some juicy facts on Reverend Olong. The article would be published tomorrow.

Wednesday frowned. Scarlett was prying too closely to her own casework. She made an Earl Grey tea before moving upstairs to run a bath.

As she lay amongst the fragrant bubbles, her mind drifted to the recent interviews to try and figure out what she was missing. The school, the church, and the complicity of the village all held some mystery with regards to the murders.

Emerging from the bath with skin a deep pink colour, she picked up her mobile and called Scarlett. Voicemail kicked it.
Where the bloody hell is she?

Chapter Seventeen

Wednesday trundled downstairs, rubbing her sleep sore eyes. The house was as quiet and as untouched as when she went to bed, six hours earlier.

Whilst the coffee brewed, she tramped upstairs to speak to Scarlett; she was going to tell her that she had to visit their mother that evening, no excuses.

Wednesday tapped on the bedroom door, and when she got no reply, she tapped harder and called out to her. The resounding silence began to unnerve her, so very slowly she opened the bedroom door and peeked around it.

The bed was untouched. Wednesday’s heart started to pound in her temples and she began scouring the room for any evidence to indicate where she had got to.

On the dressing table sat Scarlett’s burgeoning make-up bag and range of perfumes; but Wednesday knew that she carried a more compact version of both items in her handbag. Nothing was missing. She ran back downstairs to get her mobile, dialled Scarlett’s number and got the voicemail once again.

Just then, she heard the sound of keys in the front door, and turned to see Scarlett breeze in.

“Bloody hell, where have you been?”

“God sis, what a welcome.”

“We agreed to let each other know if we’re staying out all night.” Wednesday gabbled her words. Her face flushed.

Scarlett just stared at her and shrugged her shoulders.

“Well?” said Wednesday.

“I went for a drink with Niall Barclay, the editor. We got talking about my articles, and one thing led to another. You know me.”

“Yes I do, but you normally bring your conquests home. I was worried about you, especially with what’s going on.”

“You fuss too much. Is that coffee I can smell?”

Wednesday sighed and moved to the kitchen to pour two mugs of coffee.

“Isn’t it a bit too close to home, sleeping with your boss?”

“Says the woman who slept with her work colleague.”

“That was years ago, and it was a bloody mistake. Now stop deflecting the conversation.”

Wednesday drew a cigarette from the packet and offered Scarlett one.

“No thanks, I’m off for a shower,” she replied before taking a mouthful of coffee then disappearing upstairs before Wednesday could rope her into further discussion.

She lit her cigarette and sat pensively, allowing relief to wash over her anger. The letterbox flapped as the paper fell to the floor but she did not move, preferring instead to finish her cigarette. After stubbing it out, she buttered some toast to take up with her whilst she got ready for work.

As she passed the front door, she picked up the paper to sling on the console table, when the front page caught her eye. In bold letters, the headline read “Reverend not as angelic as he seems,” by Scarlett Willow.

Wednesday began reading as she slowly mounted the stairs, butter dripping down her chin. She was stunned, but not overly surprised, to read Scarlett’s finger-pointing ascorbic words, backed by her terrier-like journalistic research.

She sat on the edge of her bed and continued reading. According to Scarlett, it would appear that the reverend had brought similar trouble to Warsbury from his previous parish—Bethnal Green—and she alluded to the fact that a youth club was a ploy he also used to get closer to the youth element.

The story went on to talk about a teenage foster child in the last parish. He was fostered due to being abused by his own father. According to sources, the boy complained to the foster parents that the reverend was getting too personal, and wanted intimate details from the boy about the abuse he suffered. The boy reported that the reverend was persistent, which made him feel uncomfortable. The foster parents reported their concerns to the dean and it was shortly after that the reverend and his wife were relocated.

Wednesday put the paper on her bed and rubbed the back of her neck. She was going to have to speak to Scarlett about her sources and about her articles that had a bias against one of the suspects. She also knew that Hunter was going to be on her case when she got to work.

Scarlett was still in the bathroom and Wednesday was running late; the conversation was going to have to wait.

Greg Edwards brought his wife a cup of coffee in bed, and placed it on the bedside table.

“I wish we could have stayed in London a little longer,” she said as she leant upon her elbows.

“I know, but I need to get back to work.”

“I hate being here with the pitying stares from the neighbours, I feel reassuringly incognito in London.”

Greg moved to the window and opened the curtains so the grey sky was visible over the bare and sleepy garden.

The morning song of the blackbird combined with the cooing of the collar dove made for a heady mix of country sounds that were suddenly repulsive to Lucinda. She longed for the rumble of the black cabs and squeaky-braked buses, intermingled with the shrill of car alarms.

“I’m disconcerted with the distance you’ve put between us since Claudia’s departure,” she said before taking bird sips of coffee.

“Seeing as this is turning into a candid discussion about our feelings, I’m taken aback with how quickly you seem to have come to terms with her death.” Greg began to pace up and down in front of the window, his hands thrust into his cashmere blend trouser pockets.

“Are you insinuating that I loved our daughter less than you did? Because I’ll tell you this, you were always more focused on her rather than me when she was alive, and even more so now that she’s gone.”

“I never took you to be the jealous type,” he roared as he deliberately turned his back on her and stared out the window.

“I’m not, but I’m surprised you’ve noticed anything about me these past few years.”

“Don’t,” he muttered as he turned around to face her again.

“You always saw her as a pure, angelic girl. You never saw the flirtatious young woman she was turning into.”

“That’s twisted.”

“Well, perhaps you prefer it now she’s dead, as that way she can remain your little angel forever.”

James took three large strides towards her and struck her across her face with the palm of his hand. Her cheek stung and so did his hand. But worse than that, was the sentiment for both of them that the relationship they once had was now over.

On entering the Incident Room, Wednesday saw Hunter standing by his office door. His face vivid crimson and the look in his eyes compelled her to run; only her legs disobeyed her orders.

“In my office now,” he bellowed.

On his desk lay a copy of
The Cambridge Times
, with the front page headlines facing upwards. Wednesday swallowed hard as she waited for the volcano to erupt.

“I asked you to be careful around your sister.”

Wednesday was about to respond when he raised his hand in a motion for her to stay silent.