Fear No Evil (3 page)

So, glass of a nice, crisp white in my hand – the gourmet’s choice to accompany pizza – I sat down, expecting nothing. And certainly not expecting one really good, big fat hit – an entry dated a couple of years earlier made by a ‘Dan 666’, ha bloody ha.

He’d dealt with a similar case, in Oxford. Another young student, Katie Bell, had fallen from her bedroom window on the third floor of her lodging house. Her parents alleged she had been pushed – by a murderous hand from the Other Side. She was probably just pissed, but it was worth a shot, so I read on.

At the very least it made me feel like I was justifying the cheque Mr and Mrs M had handed over. I’d love to skive for a bit, maybe watch the audition show for American Idol and laugh at the strange people singing ‘Wind Beneath My Wings’, but I was genetically incapable of it. My parents would thrash me if I ever lost my work ethic. It’d be considered almost as bad as voting Tory, and I’d never be invited for Sunday tea again.

Finding Dan 666 should be a lot simpler than finding my supernatural bad guy, as everyone who subscribes to pi.share submits contact details. I clicked on his profile, and sure enough a few sketchy facts appeared. No photo, but a full name. Dan Lennon.
Lennon?
I stared at the screen for a second – was I being set up here? Was this all some sick joke my former colleagues had plotted for a laugh? Would Corky Corcoran and half of Ball Street CID leap out of the wardrobe any second? Probably not. It was too clever for them.

Dan Lennon. Hilarious – maybe we could form a double act and do tribute shows for sixtieth birthday parties. We could buy moptop wigs, a couple of sharp suits, and we’d make a fortune.

I jotted down his address details – an easy drive up the M6 to the Lakes. Then I did the obvious: Googled him. What can I say? Even us fully trained crack professionals slum it sometimes.

Strangely enough I couldn’t find anything much at all for Dan Lennon. It was similar to when I Googled myself – come on, we’ve all done it! – a mishmash of real-life stuff that was relevant and a huge array of ephemera about Paul McCartney and a completely different Jayne. When I edged out all references to John Lennon and Steely Dan, assuming he wasn’t actually a member of an American jazz rock band from the seventies, I was left with very little, and most of it referred to a
Father
Dan Lennon. I instantly felt guilty for being half-drunk in charge of a laptop.

Father Dan, it seemed, was a priest – in some place I’d never heard of between Kendal and Windermere. Resorting to my favourite search engine that begins with ‘G’ again, I found out it fit – it was close enough to the address given on pi.share to make it fairly certain that my ghost-hunting super sleuth was, in fact, Holy Joe. Or Holy Dan, in this case.

That should certainly make tomorrow interesting, I thought, popping the wine back in the fridge. No more for me. Not when I had a copy of the Coroner’s Report to read before bedtime, and a long drive ahead of me the next morning – not to mention a date with a Man of God.

Chapter 3

The next day dawned bright and crisp and way too soon. Watery sunshine was fingering its way through the blinds, and I forced myself up and out of the duvet, dragging on my running gear.

It was late September and we were experiencing one of those beautiful autumnal weeks where the world feels fresh and perfect. I pounded along the dockside paths, completely alone apart from a few other poor joggers and the occasional delivery man wheeling crates of booze into the back doors of the bars.

The sky above the city was a flawless pale blue, streaked white with seagulls gliding and circling over the river. On the home stretch I passed the marina, where Scouse millionaires had moored their yachts, masts bobbing and flags fluttering in the gentle breeze. By the time I showered and left, I was two coffees and a three-mile waterfront run in. By my reckoning that earned me at least a two-doughnut breakfast on the journey.

The drive was relaxed and easy – apart from the traditional disagreement with the snooty bitch in my sat nav, who was constantly insisting on me doing a U-turn. Does telling your dashboard to fuck off and hitting it with a rolled up newspaper make you crazy? I have my suspicions she secretly wants me to end up dangling from my seatbelt, upside down in a ditch. She reminded me of Rose Middlemas.

Eventually I pulled up into the driveway of a stone-built cottage. Not a chocolate-box cottage, but a ruddy, rugged, sturdy cottage, weather-beaten and solid. It was built of blocks of rock that looked like they’d been hewn from the centre of the earth by prehistoric midgets covered in woad. The kind of building that would still be standing when the rest of us had disappeared up our own globally-warmed backsides.

There was a neat, small garden outside – no flowers, no fiddly pots, just grass and a few small shrubs. And no, I can’t tell you what they were. I’m a city girl and I don’t do greenery. I’ve been known to have trouble sleeping at night without the sound of sirens and breaking glass, and I was already starting to feel a bit edgy surrounded by all this green space and nature. There was just so bloody much of it.

I made a quick check of appearance before getting out. Never good to do these things with lettuce between your teeth or panda eyes from last night’s mascara. Growing up with five older brothers made it nigh on impossible to escape a whole day without being told I was looking, acting or sounding like an idiot, so I’ve learned to pay attention to such matters.

I’m thirty-four, look roughly thirty-three and a half in my opinion, and have shoulder-length dark brown hair and green eyes. I’m told that my best quality is my smile, which features a set of dimples I’ve never come to terms with. Dimples equate with cute, and I wasn’t even cute as a child, never mind in my thirties. I tried dumping them as a teenager, when I managed not to smile for a whole year, but they proved resilient. Despite extensive research, I’ve yet to find a way to remove them permanently.

I have to admit, they have their uses when charm is needed. Father Dan would probably be a wrinkly, old-school Catholic. That was good, because wrinkly old-school Catholics always loved me. And my dimples.

I climbed out and beeped my keys to lock the Suzuki. Okay, I know it was unlikely to get stolen from the garden of a priest in the sleepsville that was the Lake District. But when you’ve seen cars go walkabout from petrol stations with the pump still in them, old habits die hard. Maybe I could programme the sat nav cow to shriek at anyone who touched it – that’d be the alarm to end them all.

I strolled over to knock on the door – inches thick wood painted a deep and shining blue, with a brass knocker that I could hear echoing inside as I slammed it up and down. No response. I squatted down, held open the flap of the letter box and stared through. A wide hallway, black and white tiles on the floor, a coat stand draped with all kinds of outdoorsy gear. Raincoats, umbrellas, walking boats lying on their sides. But no people, no telly, no radio. No Rottweiler either, which was encouraging. Dimples are no defence against a mad dog.

I stood up and knocked again for good measure. Still no answer. Hmmm. Well, I hadn’t come this far for nothing, I thought, glancing around to make sure a dog-collared octogenarian hadn’t mysteriously appeared from the bushes bearing a trowel. Shielding the door with my body, I tried to turn the handle. Locked. How very suspicious of Father Dan – bearing in mind we were in a very isolated spot. Maybe he had something to hide.

While I am shamefully proficient at breaking and entering, I do try to save it for special occasions. Instead, I reached my arms up, pretending it was a travel-weary stretch, yawning in case anyone happened to be watching me from a passing spy satellite. I let my fingers do a surreptitious run along the top of the door ledge – no keys. There were too many plant pots to look under and maintain any level of innocence, so I decided to have a gentle snoop around the grounds.

Gravel crunching beneath my feet, I headed to the side path trailing around the bulk of the cottage. At first all I could hear was the sound of my own footsteps, but as I walked on, I paused to strain my ears – there was definitely something going on back there. A dull, regular thudding, with small beats between. It could be an active priestly type doing some DIY. Or hacking somebody’s head off with an axe.

On that pleasant note I proceeded, walking round into a large garden. Well, you couldn’t really call it a garden – it was vast. It was the wilderness. It was the kind of place Ray Mears would go to make first contact with native tribes. The clearing was set against the backdrop of a huge hillside, covered in pine trees so dense it looked like a prickly, deep green picnic blanket had been thrown from the sky. A stream tumbled downwards, gurgling and bubbling its way towards the lower ground, and sheep were dotted on the slope at improbable angles, like tiny balls of off-white cotton wool that could blow away at any minute.

The area immediately behind the cottage was obviously functional – a neat vegetable patch seemed to be producing carrots, potatoes and other green-topped mystery items. There was a small greenhouse. A well, with a wooden bucket dangling over its brick-edged rim. A weather-battered stone shed that probably contained tools I wouldn’t know how to use. And right smack bang in the middle of this rural idyll was a man. He was holding an axe, but thankfully he was chopping logs, not heads. Which was a real bonus on the health and safety front.

I say ‘a man’. But that wouldn’t be quite accurate. In all honesty, this wasn’t so much a man as a Greek god made flesh incarnate.

The sunlight was streaming down like a spotlight from the angels, splashing gold over a rippling, muscular back as he moved. Stripped bare to his jeans, he had the broad shoulders and narrow waist of a swimmer, and his arms were perfectly sculpted as they rose and fell with the axe. His Levis rode low on his hips, and a tiny trail of golden hair ran down his torso, over the six-pack (approximately – I didn’t count), and disappeared off into the denim waistband to…well, I can only imagine.

Getting a hold of myself as best I could, I coughed gently and he straightened up, using a lean, corded forearm to wipe the sweat from his brow. I was rationally thinking that with a body that good, he was probably cross-eyed or missing his front teeth – in my experience nature has a way of evening these things out. But no, nature was playing silly buggers with this one – he was truly blessed – arctic blue eyes, of the classic Paul Newman variety. Dark blonde hair, slightly too long, plastered down to his forehead and neck with sweat.

A strong nose, aquiline, saving him from prettiness. A wide mouth with sensual lips, skin lightly sun-kissed from all those hours outdoors – chopping wood, digging the soil, romping naked in the forest…

Dragging my mind out of the gutter and back into reality, I reminded myself this was a man of God and I was a very, very bad girl. The Almighty would definitely know if I was imagining one of His servants stark naked and spread-eagled on a Caribbean beach. Or even in a rent-by-the-hour hotel bedroom on the Dock Road.

‘Father Dan?’ I asked, not quite believing that it could be. A man who looked like this facing a lifetime of celibacy? I’d be forced to get a petition up, or write a letter of complaint to the Vatican. But maybe this was just Father Dan’s handsome gardener. Or his illegitimate son – come on, we all know it happens!

He swung the axe down, hard, to lodge it in the tree stump that was obviously its home. It wobbled slightly from side to side. I knew how it felt.

‘You can drop the Father,’ he said, ‘I haven’t been a priest for six years now.’

Chapter 4

‘Can I help you with something?’ he asked, in a deep, touch-of-gravel voice that almost made my bra strap pop open of its own accord. Hmmm. Yes, I thought, you certainly can. You can help me scratch that itch I have inside my—

‘Hi,’ I replied, cutting short that line of thought and holding out my hand to shake his, ‘my name’s Jayne McCartney, and I’m a private investigator based in Liverpool.’

I paused, waiting for the ‘are you related?’ eyebrow to pop up. Nothing. A man of steel. Maybe he hadn’t caught on yet. He probably didn’t get asked it as much without a Scouse accent on the side.

He wiped his hand on one denim-clad thigh, which I watched with great interest, before reaching out to take my fingers in his. Yikes. He was firm and hot, in all kinds of ways.

‘I wondered if I could talk to you about Katie Bell?’

His grip tensed slightly, and my metacarpals made a little ‘eek’ noise as he squeezed a bit too tight.

He stared at me for a few seconds. His expression was bland, but I knew he’d be taking in every flaw, every nuance, every hint as to my intentions. Defrocked or not, he was clergy by training, and in my experience they’re pretty canny judges of character. Father Doheny, our parish priest, could get a job with the United Nations after refereeing the neighbourhood Scouse Catholic mafia for thirty years. He could also read minds – mine at least. I was fairly sure that wasn’t the case with Father Dan, or he’d have locked himself in the shed by now.

‘You’d better come in, then,’ he said, turning and walking towards a back door into the house. He held it open, gesturing for me to follow. The corridor was cool, dim, and smelled of something herby and spicy and more nutritious than my entire weekly shop.

‘Wait in there, I’ll be back in a minute – help yourself to a drink,’ he said, pointing into the kitchen. I heard his footsteps pounding up the stairs over my head as I nosed around. A large room, flooded with light from the garden. Pale stone floor, worn smooth by hundreds of years and dozens of cooks making the journey from stove to table and back. Something that probably had vegetables in it was simmering in a pan, making my tummy rumble. It’d been a while since those doughnuts.

The windows were open, and the breeze ruffled the curtains inwards slightly. A squat glass jam jar full of sprigs of lavender was perched on the ledge, and a wasp from outside was trying to reach it. I glared and tried not to show my fear – stingy things make me poo my pants. I got one stuck under my helmet once when I was on patrol in Anfield on match day, and I had to let it repeatedly sting my scalp rather than show the crowds we were failing to intimidate that I was bothered. Nothing says ‘authority’ quite like a squealing woman running down the street swatting her own head.