Murder Club (27 page)

‘Stay back, Padre,’ said the man holding the assault weapon.

‘What are you people doing here? This is a simple mission. What harm can we do you?’

‘A simple mission,’ said the one holding the sack, hefting it in his hands. ‘Then perhaps you could explain this.’

‘I’ve no idea what it is.’

‘It’s diamonds, Meneer,’ said the thick-set man. ‘Diamonds to fund your so-called bloody People’s Liberation Army. Diamonds stolen from the mines of South Africa by nigger-loving liberals to send bombs and death to the rightful owners of this land.’

‘I know nothing of this.’

‘White men!’ He took off his bandana and spat on the ground. ‘White men fornicating with kaffirs. Lying down like beasts of the field with the black animals.’

The man had an iron-grey beard and moustache to match his hair. There was fury in his eyes. ‘Well, white men bleed,’ he continued. ‘Just as much as the black monkey. White men feel pain and white men talk when hot coals are held to their skin, and their genitals, and their eyes.’ He smiled like a wolf baring its yellow teeth and weighed the sack of stones in his hand. ‘And white men confess,’ he said.

The missionary stepped in front of the children, making an extra human shield of himself.

‘You have got what you have come for. Leave now. I will see no harm come to these children.’

‘You have prayed to a higher power, Reverend,’ said the grey-haired soldier and raised his pistol. ‘And he has failed to listen to your supplication.’

Then he pulled the trigger, the bullet punching a hole into the reverend’s chest, sending him flying backwards.

Bible Steve was staring upwards at the ceiling.

The surgical registrar, Dr Lily Crabbe, was gowned and ready as her anaesthetist brought the gas trolley over to the gurney. ‘We’re going to try and help you now,’ she said.

‘I don’t want help. I want to die,’ he replied.

The registrar didn’t respond. She was all too aware that the homeless man might very well have his wish granted.

The anaesthetist lowered the mask over the bearded man’s mouth. ‘Count backwards from ten,’ he said.

Bible Steve didn’t respond, keeping his blood-shot eyes open. After a few seconds, though, they fluttered and closed. When the anaesthetist took the mask away he was already unconscious.

It was as dark as midnight outside now. The snow showed no sign of stopping. The traffic crept along the Harrow Road and the windscreen wipers of Delaney’s old Saab had fallen into a slow, steady rhythm. An almost hypnotic sound, and, given the fact that Delaney had cranked the heating to as high as it would go, Sally was feeling sleepy.

Delaney’s phone trilled in his pocket, waking Sally out of her trance, and she leaned forward concentrating on the road ahead.

‘Hi darling,’ said Delaney. ‘What’s new in Glockemorra?’ He listened for a while. ‘Okay, honey, keep me posted.’

DC Cartwright looked over at him. ‘Bob Wilkinson?’ she asked.

‘Sure if you make me laugh much more today I swear my funny bone will fall out of my body, Sally.’

‘Kate, I take it.’

‘She’s on her way to the morgue’

‘What’s the squeal?’

‘You’ve been reading too many American detective novels, Constable.’

‘No time to read, sir. Catching up on Sky Atlantic.’

‘Well, the squeal is that someone matching the description of the woman Bible Steve says he killed has turned up. Died on Friday night according to Dr Bowlalong Bowman’s best guess.’

‘And Bible Steve?’

‘Being operated on.’

‘So we have two dead bodies. One male from twenty years ago. And one young female, recent. And the two people who might be able to tell us something about them are both in hospital and unable to speak. They don’t make it easy for us, do they, boss?’

‘Didn’t they teach you that in Hendon?’

‘Everything I learnt as a detective I learnt from you, boss.’

‘God help us all then,’ said Delaney.

‘Exactly.’

Sally swung the wheel and parked outside a medium-sized detached house in Pinner. The driveway and pavement had been cleared. A man in his late forties was making a snowman in the middle of the left-hand lawn.

He raised a hand in greeting as Delaney and Sally Cartwright walked up to his house.

‘Caroline is inside, Detectives,’ he said. ‘But I don’t
know
why you couldn’t have a meeting at the school.’

‘I’m sorry?’ asked Sally.

The front door opened and a woman in her mid-thirties appeared. She was of medium height with a curvy figure and shiny, coppery hair. She had bright-red lipstick and long eyelashes. She reminded Delaney of somebody but he couldn’t place her.

‘Because the school is closed, darling, you know that.’

‘Well, next term then, you bring enough work home with you as it is.’

The woman smiled at Delaney. ‘Ignore him, Inspector, he’s just a grouch.’

‘I’m only saying …’ said her husband.

‘Well, don’t, just keep at it. I want that snowman built before Natasha comes home!’

‘Yes, darling,’ said her husband, with a dispirited grin and picked up another handful of snow.

Inside the house Delaney and Sally sat in the lounge on a large, white leather sofa. It was a comfortably cluttered room. A boudoir grand piano had a bunch of family photos on top of it. Mainly of a young girl whom Delaney presumed was Caroline Lewis’ daughter. She certainly had the same lustrous hair and easy smile.

Except Caroline Lewis wasn’t smiling now. ‘Are you sure I can’t get you anything – tea, coffee?’ she asked.

‘We’re fine, thanks. And sorry to disturb you on a Sunday evening. But it is urgent. A body has been discovered in the grounds of your old church.’

‘What’s that got to do with me?’

‘We don’t know. Maybe nothing.’

‘It was all so long ago.’

‘Twenty years ago.’

‘Yes.’

‘About the same time, a man was shot in the head and buried in the grounds of the church.’

‘Like I say, that has nothing to do with us. With what happened.’

‘What did happen?’ asked Sally.

‘Does it matter now? No charges were brought. We made a mistake.’

‘Reverend Hunt is an old man now,’ said Sally. ‘He is very ill and in hospital. He can’t hurt you now.’

‘He never did.’

‘Are you saying you made it up? He never touched you or Susan Nixon?’

Caroline Lewis reddened. ‘I never said he actually touched us.’

‘What did happen then, Caroline?’ pressed Sally Cartwright.

‘We were both in a play the church was putting on that Christmas. Part of the celebrations for the week.’

‘Go on.’

‘It was a play he had written. Kind of a religious pantomime, I suppose. The girls were dressed as Herod’s serving women. I played Salome.’

‘And he made you take off your seven veils?’

‘No. Not in the play at least.’

‘But when you were alone.’

‘Not really. It wasn’t like that.’

‘What was it like?’

‘He had put a clothes rail up and hung blankets to make a changing area for us girls. There was a gap
and
he would peek through when we were changing.’

‘And you reported him.’

‘The other girls didn’t know. But Susan caught him one day. It was just the two of us. He was touching himself.’

‘And your parents put a stop to it?’

‘No. It was all Susan’s idea. She said he could continue but he had to do it in front of us. And pay us. We were fifteen. We thought it was funny. He gave us fifty quid each.’

‘How many times?’

‘Six or seven. Susan’s parents found her money and all hell broke loose. But you can’t tell anyone about this. I’m a school teacher.’

‘He was still to blame, Caroline. You were fifteen years old.’

‘I know. We weren’t exactly virgins, though. But I can’t have my husband knowing. The man was sick. A Peeping Tom. But we shouldn’t have done what we did.’

‘Like I say, he’s guilty under the law. I can’t make you bring charges,’ said Delaney.

‘It’s too late. What good would it do anyway? Susan and I will never say anything in court. You can understand why.’

‘How many others were there, though?’ asked Sally. ‘How many other children did he peep on, abuse, maybe assault?’

‘We were nearly sixteen, Detective Constable. We weren’t children.’

‘Yes, you were,’ said Delaney.

‘You said he was very ill?’

‘He is.’

‘Then maybe he is being punished. Maybe it’s enough.’

‘Maybe somebody didn’t agree with you, Caroline. Maybe somebody at the time wanted to punish him more. Someone whose body we may just have found in his back yard.’

‘I can’t tell you that, Detective. All I can say is that I have forgiven him, and that I have forgiven myself too. ‘Sometimes that’s all you can do.’

Delaney looked at her for a moment. ‘Sometimes,’ he said. Sometimes we can do a little more.’

The woman would have responded, but at that moment her husband came into the room.

‘Darling, you haven’t even offered the officers a cup of tea.’

‘I did do, darling, but they are just leaving.’

‘That was quick. Did you get everything sorted?’

Caroline looked over at him and smiled. ‘Yes, I think we know where we all stand now.’

‘So you’ll be giving a talk to the school next term, Inspector?’ her husband asked.

Caroline looked at Delaney, her eyes pleading with him. Delaney smiled. ‘Something along those lines. Thank you. I think we have all we needed here.’

‘Excellent, excellent. Well why don’t you come along and have a look at Sammy?’

‘Sammy?’ asked DC Cartwright.

‘Sammy the snowman. I just need a carrot to finish him off.’

He hurried out of the room as Sally and Delaney stood up.

‘Let’s just hope it’s for his nose,’ Delaney muttered to Sally.

DETECTIVE INSPECTOR EMMA
‘Catwalk’ Halliday wasn’t exactly drunk, but she wasn’t exactly sober either.

She was on her third medium-sized glass of wine. Sauvignon Blanc, after declaring her mulled wine undrinkable. Tony Hamilton was on his second pint of Abbot, but had barely touched it.

‘I don’t know how you can drink that stuff,’ said Emma.

‘It’s natural. Nutritional, no chemicals added, just barley, hops and water.’

‘Still tastes like pond water.’

Hamilton laughed. ‘Maybe it’s an acquired taste. Some things are.’

‘Are you hitting on me, Tony?’

‘No. Sorry – don’t do the work/personal thing. Gets too messy.’

Emma Halliday raised her eyebrows. Not sure if she was relieved or offended. ‘I wasn’t saying I wanted you to, Tony.’

‘That’s okay then.’

‘Yes.’

‘What about you?’

‘What about me?’

‘You ever had a relationship with a fellow officer?’

‘Once.’

‘Didn’t work out?’

‘In some ways I thought it would be easier. At least he’d understand the job. The hours. The stress.’

‘There is that, I suppose.’

‘But we never got to see each other. Different shifts. Different shouts.’

‘Shame.’

‘Well, I’m a big girl I guess.’

‘You certainly are that!’

Emma gave him a flat gaze and finished her glass of wine as the barmaid came past.

‘Can I have a word with you’ the barmaid asked Tony.

‘Sure,’ he replied, smiling. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘Outside. I could do with a breath of fresh air.’

‘Okay.’ Tony took a slug of his ale and followed the barmaid to the entrance.

‘Can I get a glass of wine here?’ Emma Halliday called after them, but her words fell on deaf ears.

The snow had finally stopped and the moon was riding high in the sky. The barmaid fished a pack of cigarettes out of her pocket and offered Tony one. He shook his head and looked along the High Street as she flicked at her nearly empty Zippo lighter. It was a picture-postcard kind of town. With the snow covering the ancient buildings, he half expected a coach and horses to come clattering up the High Street. He could see why someone would want to move from Harrow-on-the-Hill to here. Was pretty sure, though, that it would drive him mad after a month or so. He’d miss the adrenaline rush London provided on a daily basis, but right now he could
have
stayed there for a week or two. Recharge his batteries. He thought about Emma Halliday sitting at the bar. A long streak of attitude and smiled. He wouldn’t mind if she stayed with him, come to think of it.

‘So, what’s the mystery?’ he asked the barmaid who had finally got her cigarette alight.

‘No mystery as such, just wanted a fag and I didn’t want the old dragon to hear.’

‘She doesn’t like you smoking?’

‘She doesn’t care as long as it’s outside. I meant her not hearing what I was going to tell you.’

‘Go on.’

‘Lee told me you had been asking about her husband? You think he might have been murdered.’

‘How did he know that?’

‘He was listening at the door. He’s got no time for the old dragon either. He used to be her toy boy before she traded him in for a younger model.’

‘She does seem to be a woman of appetite.’

‘You can say that again. Sure if sex were potatoes she’d supply the town with chips.’

‘That a Cork expression, is it?’

‘It is now,’ she replied with a wink, drawing on her cigarette again and blowing out a long stream of smoke.

‘Well, he heard right. Andrew Johnson was officially logged as a suicide.’

‘I’m not surprised people believed it, especially if they’ve met his wife.’

‘Now we think he was murdered.’

‘You were asking if he had any enemies.’

‘And did he? Do you know something?’

‘There was an incident in his old pub back in Middlesex, at a staff party. Everybody got very drunk apparently. One of the barmaids, Michelle Riley, claimed Andrew Johnson assaulted her.’

‘But she never brought charges?’

‘She was flirting with him in the cellar, they had a bit of a snog. He wanted to take it further, she didn’t.’

‘But he still did.’

‘Raped her. Didn’t take long – I suppose that’s something.’

‘Why didn’t she go to the police?’