Shepherd's Cross Page 24

  ‘I appreciate your concern, Dr Barratt,’ she replied, unoffended by his warning. ‘But I’ll be fine.’ By then, Jennings had caught up to her. Barratt stepped out of the way to allow them to see behind the recess.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ said Jennings, as he saw the body of Reverend Jackson. He was in exactly the same position as Thompson had found him in that morning: sitting naked on his chair, slumped forward over his desk – white as a sheet. Cara said nothing, but she didn’t back away. Dried blood was splattered everywhere – she couldn’t believe that there could be so much blood in one man. It was as if the walls and floor of the entire recess had been painted a dirty reddish-brown colour. But it was the inscription across his back that monopolised their attention; carved into his flesh with the amateur skill of a child who’d been allowed to hack a face into a pumpkin for Halloween.

  ‘DEUS EST MORTUUS,’ said Jennings. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘God is dead,’ Thompson replied. ‘My Latin’s a little rusty, but I’m pretty confident that’s what it says.’

  ‘He’s right,’ said Barratt.

  ‘Okay,’ said Jennings. ‘What do we know?’

  Barratt picked up his clipboard from beside his medical bag that was resting on the altar. ‘Well,’ he began, reading from his notes, ‘we know he was murdered – there’s no way he could have self-mutilated his back like that, not unless he had arms like Mr Tickle. A cut throat indicates the probable cause of death, although there are clear signs of heavy bruising around his neck that suggest there may have been some asphyxiation beforehand. It’s unlikely that he died at this desk: you can see from the trail of blood that he was probably attacked over there by the step and dragged here.’

  ‘Time of death?’ asked Jennings, moving to the spot where Barratt was pointing to.

  ‘Hard to say exactly, but I would guess he’s been dead for a good twelve hours. Maybe more. We’ll have to wait for a full investigation before we can be sure. It looks like your boys are going to be busy when they get here tomorrow.’

  ‘Fuck, fuck, FUCK!’ Jennings shouted, shaking his head in exasperation as he returned to the body. ‘What the hell is going on here? First we have those…’

  ‘Sarge,’ Cara said, nodding towards Bill Thompson. For a second, Jennings didn’t understand the message she was trying to give him. It was only when he looked across at Thompson that he realised why she’d interrupted him.

  ‘Oh aye, right,’ he said. ‘First we had that…that incident with the Carter boys…and now this.’ He looked at Barratt. ‘Who else knows about this?’

  ‘As far as we’re aware, only the four of us.’

  ‘What about you, Bill? Does anybody else know?’

  ‘No,’ Thompson replied. ‘I don’t think so anyway. As always, I was first to church this morning. Got here around nine as usual. The door was open, which was strange, as only Reverend Jackson and I have a key. I didn’t think too much of it, but it didn’t take long to see that something was up. Anyway, I found Andrew…I mean Reverend Jackson…right here. There was nobody else around.’

  ‘What did you do next?’

  ‘Well, I didn’t feel like hanging around. Besides, you sometimes get a few early-birds wanting to come in before the service for a quiet prayer, so I hurried outside and locked the door so nobody could get in. I went to the Station, then I went to your house – I couldn’t find either of you, so the only other person I could think of calling on was Dr Barratt. We came straight here, but there’s been a crowd gathered outside ever since service was supposed to start. They want to know what’s going on, Sergeant Jennings. They want to know what’s happened to Reverend Jackson.’

  Jennings paused to collect his thoughts and decide his next move. ‘Well done, Bill. It sounds like you couldn’t have handled the situation any better. How are you holding up?’

  ‘Not great, but I’ll live. Shit…sorry,’ he said, aware that he could have given a more appropriate answer. ‘But I fear we won’t be able to hold them at bay much longer. We’ll need to think of something to tell them.’

  ‘We can hold them at bay for as long as I damn well want,’ Jennings said. ‘This is Police business – they’ll have to wait. Does anyone know if the phone lines are back up and running?’

  ‘They weren’t working half an hour ago,’ said Barratt. ‘They might be now…I don’t know.’

  ‘Okay. Cara: we’re going to need to go to the Station and see if we can get through to HQ. We need to report this pronto or we’ll be in deep shit.’

  Cara nodded. ‘But Sarge; even if we do manage to get through to them, they won’t be able to get out here until tomorrow.’

  ‘I reckon a murdered vicar might punt us up the priority list, don’t you? If this isn’t important enough for them to pry a plough or two away from their precious city streets, I don’t know what is. Either way; it’s our job to inform them. What they decide to do, or when they decide to come, is entirely up to them. The main thing is we make that call. In the meantime, we’re going to have to lock this place up tighter than Fort Knox. Bill, you’ve got the key, right?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘What about Reverend Jackson’s key?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Thompson. ‘I didn’t want to go through his pockets in case I got bollocked for tampering with the evidence.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Jennings said. He went over to the altar, upon which were strewn Reverend Jackson’s cassock and the clothes he’d been wearing the day before. ‘We’ll need to bag these up and take them with us. If the key’s there, then it needs to be kept with us at the Station.

  ‘I can do that,’ Barratt said. ‘I’ll also see to it that Reverend Jackson is covered up.’

  ‘Thanks, Henry. Okay, so here’s the plan. Cara and I are going to go outside and tell everybody not to worry. We’ll then go to the Station and see if we can get through to HQ. Henry, Bill: you finish up here and bring the clothes directly to the Station. And whatever you do, make sure you lock that door on your way out. I don’t really want to leave him here, but for the sake of the investigation, and the village, I reckon it’s our only option. Is everyone agreed?’ Nods from everyone. ‘Good. Come on then, Bill,’ he said, motioning to the door. ‘Unlock this door for us, will you please? And don’t forget to lock it after we go, okay?’

  ‘Understood.’ He led them down the aisle through the chancel to the front door and inserted the key into the lock.

  Jennings looked at Cara. ‘Ready?’

  ‘Ready.’

  Thompson turned the key until the lock clunked open, and opened the door to allow them outside. Some of the crowd had taken Jennings’s advice and gone home, but at least a dozen people remained gathered around the churchyard entrance. Emily Mitford shuffled her way to the front and confronted the officers. ‘Is there any news, Sergeant Jennings?’ she asked. ‘Anything at all you can tell us?’

  Jennings paused. Under normal circumstances, he would have told them to mind their own business and clear off, but this was different. They didn’t mean any harm, and he knew that Emily’s curiosity was borne out of genuine concern. When you lived in a village the size of Shepherd’s Cross, you were expected to look out for your neighbour. They weren’t being nosy do-gooders; they only wanted to help.

  ‘Listen up, everybody,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid I can’t go into any kind of detail just yet. Until further notice, this needs to remain a matter for the Police. What I can tell you, however, is that there appears to have been an unfortunate incident carried out recently within this church.’

  ‘What kind of incident?’ asked Yvonne Turner, who was standing behind Emily in the crowd.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I’m not at liberty to say. I can’t tell you any more at this point; not until there’s been a full Police investigation. I’m going to have to caution all of you, that as of now, All Saints’ Church, and the entire churchyard right up to the gate, is officially a crime scene. As such, it is against the law to enter. If you do so, yo
u will be arrested. PC Jones and I are going back to the Station now and one of us will return with some hi-vis tape to cordon off the area. Until then, I’d be grateful if you would all step outside the churchyard. I need you all to know that we’re taking this incident very seriously, and I’d like to take this opportunity to ask for your cooperation. I’m confident I can rely on your patience and suppo….’

  ‘Cara! Thank God I’ve found you. Help – please help!’

  ‘Ben?’ asked Cara; turning, along with everyone else, to see Ben Price stumbling frantically through the snow towards her. She ran towards him, noticing that he wasn’t wearing a jacket; a desperate look on his face. ‘What’s wrong?’

  He finally reached her and fell to his knees, exhausted. ‘It’s Chloe,’ he said, looking up at her. ‘She’s gone.’

  Chapter 6

  1.00pm: Reuben King was grinning from ear to ear as he entered the dining room of Fellside Hall, an uncharacteristic spring in his step as he joined the others.

  ‘How is she?’ Blackmoor asked him. ‘Is she asleep?’

  ‘Dead to the world. The chloroform will take a couple of hours to wear off. In the meantime, I’ve locked her in the cellar; just to be certain.’

  ‘And you’re sure that nobody in the village saw you with her?’

  ‘Quite sure.’

  ‘Let’s hope you’re right. Anyway, in a few hours we will no longer need to be so cautious.’

  ‘A few hours?’ asked Bronwyn. ‘So soon?’

  ‘Why not? Everything is ready. We have the witnesses, we have the blood, and most importantly, we have the girl. The final sacrifice to prove our absolute devotion to Him. We must strike while the iron is hot, while the window of opportunity remains open. Thus far, we have managed to conduct our preparations without drawing undue attention to ourselves. That will change – the bodies will soon be discovered – if they haven’t already. And when they are, the finger of suspicion will point in our direction. With the Police snapping at our heels, executing our task without interference will suddenly become a far greater challenge. No, my friends; we must act this evening…we may never get this chance again.’

  The room fell silent; each of the five witnesses contemplating the hours ahead of them. Blackmoor’s hypnosis continued to bind the three new recruits to him, just as it had with countless others he had used for various purposes over the years.

  ‘Come,’ said Blackmoor. ‘Let us go to the Round Room a final time before nightfall. We must be certain it is precisely as it needs to be. He will not be summoned if everything is not exactly to His satisfaction.’

  Walking together along the candle-lit corridor towards the centre of the Hall, they arrived at a small, wooden door: much smaller than any other door in the Hall; so much so, that anyone taller than five feet would have needed to bow their head to avoid bumping it against the top of the frame. King was at the front, and from his pocket he removed a long, metal key with three flattened teeth. It slid into the lock with little resistance. King wasn’t the first to enter, however. Instead, he moved to one side, allowing that honour to pass to Blackmoor, who signalled his gratitude with a smile before opening the door and bending down to walk into the room.

  The dwarfish door proved to be deceiving: once inside, there was more than enough space to stand up and move around freely without constraint. As the name suggested, the room was round; a tall, cylindrical shape without windows, approximately fifteen feet in diameter. The exposed stone walls stretched high above their heads to a large glass dome that covered the entire room, serving as both roof and window. Many years ago, in the time of the third Lord Byrne, the dome had been smashed and broken; exposing the room below to decades of abuse by the elements. One of King’s most important tasks over the previous three days had been to carry out makeshift repairs until a new glass ceiling could be commissioned, and although far from perfect, it was at least watertight and had enabled the room to be tidied up and scrubbed clean to a surprisingly high standard given all those years of neglect. There was an open fireplace set into the wall at the opposite side to the door, unlit but neatly stacked with kindling and logs, ready to do its job at the touch of a flame.

  The floor of the room was made up of shiny cobbles set into earth, upon which was painted a large, white, five-pointed star surrounded by two concentric circles: the Sigil of Baphomet - the inverted pentagram. At the end of each of the star’s points within the two circles, was painted an individual hieroglyphic symbol, next to which stood a thick, black candle about ten inches in length. A thin, metal pole pierced the floor in the centre of the pentagram, onto which hung a large, ornamental horn.

  There were ten hooks nailed into the wall: long, blood-red cloaks hung from five of them, with the other five being used for a variety of knives and sharp, metal implements. A small table standing against the wall was the only piece of furniture in an otherwise sparsely decorated room. Lying upon it was an old, unopened leather-bound book with a silver clasp; no words or pictures on the cover to suggest its contents.

  There was nothing else inside the room.

  Blackmoor regarded every item in turn, checking its position and working his way around the room, like a sculptor scrutinising his latest creation from every possible angle. After a while, when he was completely satisfied that everything was as he wanted it, he returned to the others and smiled. ‘My friends,’ he said, looking at each of them in turn. ‘I do believe we’re finally ready.’

  Chapter 7

  1.30pm: Bill Turner opened the door to the Police Station and walked inside, removing his hat and jacket and hanging them on a nearby coat-stand. Sergeant Jennings watched him as he came in, scanning his face for any signs of hope, but none were forthcoming. Turner shook his head dejectedly, before collapsing into the closest chair he could find. ‘I’m guessing there’s no news?’ Jennings asked, pouring a fresh cup of tea from the pot and handing it to him.

  ‘Good guess,’ replied Turner, taking the cup in both hands and holding it up to his face in an attempt to thaw himself out.

  ‘How many have we got searching for her?’

  ‘Pretty much the whole damn village. We’re looking everywhere.’

  ‘Good. We’ll find her.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  From the moment that Ben Price had come running up to Cara outside All Saints’ Church, the hunt for Chloe had begun. Almost two hours later, the impetus was as strong as ever; the entire village having forgotten about its Sunday lunch and joined the search. Much of the credit for that went to Emily Mitford: as one of the dozen or so people who had been standing in the churchyard at the time, she had leapt immediately into action, and with all the leadership skills of an army general, had instructed the others to form themselves into groups and begin searching. Word had rapidly spread around the village, and in a matter of minutes, the groups had swelled in number. Cara may have been ‘officially’ in charge of the operation, but everybody knew that it was Emily, with all her years of being at the centre of the community, who was pulling the strings.

  ‘Can you tell me what happened in the church, Brian?’ Turner asked. ‘Does it have anything to do with Chloe?’

  Jennings shook his head and sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Bill, but I can’t tell you anything until the investigation’s finished. I would if I could – you know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Aye, I do. Sorry…I shouldn’t have asked.’

  ‘It’s alright. It’s hardly surprising that folk here want to know what’s going on. Are the two incidents related? I hope for the sake of the little girl that they’re not.’

  ‘Any luck with contacting HQ?’

  ‘Nope. The phones are still down. I’ve asked Wilf Blackett to plough his way through the snow all the way up to the highway, but that’s going to take a few hours. As soon as he’s done that, I’m going to drive to HQ and let them know what’s going on. Unless the phones are up and running beforehand.’ Not for the first time that day, he pressed the speaker button on the ph
one in front of him to check for a dialling tone, pressing it again to turn it off when all he was met with was a flat, irritating beeping sound. ‘Damn,’ he cursed, standing up and pacing the floor. ‘We wouldn’t be having this problem if Sid Henshaw had allowed that company to stick a mobile phone mast in his field. For God’s sake: here we are in the twenty-first century and we can’t get a bloody phone signal. It’s like living in the dark ages.’

  ‘It wasn’t only Henshaw who didn’t want that mast here, Brian. Nigh on the whole village was against it – me included. We don’t want to live like they do in the city, running around like idiots, glued to whatever the latest gadget might be. Besides; I’ve heard those mobile phones can cause cancer.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, Bill, not you as well? I thought you had more grey matter between the lugs than to believe that horse shit.’

  Turner didn’t reply, instead he raised his hand to his mouth to stifle a yawn before taking a sip of his tea. The pair sat together in silence; the only sounds coming from the comforting ticking of the clock hanging on the wall and the occasional crunching of footsteps through snow as people passed by the front window.

  ‘Where the hell could she have gone to?’ Turner asked, breaking the silence. ‘She’d been lying in her bed while that Bainbridge woman was sitting downstairs looking after her, for Christ’s sake. How could she have slipped past her without her noticing?’

  ‘We can’t be sure that Chloe didn’t do a runner when Price went to fetch Charlotte Bainbridge. Allegedly, when Charlotte went round to Ben’s house, she didn’t bother going upstairs to check on Chloe for a good five minutes. And Price could have been on his way back from your store by then. By the way, what did he buy?’

  ‘Just some Lucozade and a tube of cough sweets. The poor bloke must be worried sick.’