Last Rites (30 page)

Rebecca Nurse's parents' home was a modern detached house in Higham, a small village a few miles from Pendle Hill. Once a farming village of stone and slate, Higham was now a commuter magnet, its size doubled by the curves and cul-de-sacs of modern housing, close to the motorway, but near enough to the hills for the faux country set.

As I approached the door, I saw the curtains were drawn. The doorbell rang out in an electronic tune, slow and loud. It was a while before anyone came to the door, but just as I was about to turn away, I saw a shadow behind the frosted glass.

A woman opened the door, in her fifties, thin and pale, her hair grey and unkempt.

‘Mrs Nurse?’ I queried.

‘Yes?’ she replied, her voice nervous.

‘My name is Jack Garrett and I'm a reporter,’ I said. ‘I'm writing a story on the murder of Sarah Goode, and I think it might be connected to Rebecca's death.’ Her face twitched when I said Rebecca's name. ‘I'm sorry to intrude, but I wonder whether you would be willing to talk to me.’

She looked back into the house, and I got the sense that she wasn't alone. After a few seconds, she turned to go inside but left the door open. I guessed I was meant to follow.

I was led into the living room, all flowered carpets and patterned wallpaper. There was a picture above the gas fire, large and framed, a teenage girl in a school photo. I recognised the face. Rebecca. I looked around the room and I saw other photographs. Baby photographs. Rebecca as a toddler, a young girl, a gawky teenager.

As I turned around, I saw that Mrs Nurse was watching me.

‘It's not what you think,’ she said quietly.

‘How do you know what I'm thinking?’ I said.

‘You'll write it up that the house is a memorial to Rebecca.’ Before I could answer, she continued, ‘But it's not like that. We loved her, you see. She was our daughter, someone special, a beautiful young woman. If she was alive today, those photographs would still be there.’

I nodded and smiled my apology. I understood.

‘Why are you here about Sarah Goode?’ she asked. ‘The man who killed our daughter is dead.’

There was no way to dress it up.

‘Maybe not,’ I said bluntly.

I saw her fingers clench and her eyes fill with tears. ‘Mack Lowther murdered my daughter,’ she said quietly. ‘I know that.’

‘How?’

‘The police told us. They couldn't prove it, but they were certain.’

‘And if they were wrong?’

Mrs Nurse sat down heavily and I thought I could hear movement from the back room. Was someone listening in?

‘There have been more deaths,’ I said. ‘The police think he killed someone last night. Sarah Goode.’

Mrs Nurse looked confused for a second, and glanced towards the back room. ‘I don't understand,’ she said, her voice quiet.

‘More women have been killed, Mrs Nurse,’ I repeated, ‘and it looks like the person who killed Rebecca also murdered them.’

Mrs Nurse went pale, and she looked distant, as if she were going to faint.

‘Mrs Nurse? Are you okay?’

She looked at me, and then towards the other room. She shook her head. ‘Can you leave please,’ she said to me.

‘Mrs Nurse?’

‘Now,’ she insisted.

I did as I was asked, but as I looked back towards the house, I knew that something wasn't right. Something I'd said had troubled her, more than I expected. And who had been in the back room?

I checked in my pocket for my camera. I wanted to know who had been listening in. I looked at the house, just to check that no one was watching me, and then I walked quickly up the driveway to the garden, my camera in hand, past the garage, the door of which was slightly ajar. I peered round the back of the house, checking that there was no one there. I saw just a small patch of lawn and a conservatory made out of white PVC. I couldn't
see anyone, but when I turned to go I saw a glimpse of something that made my palms break out in a sweat.

I walked towards the garage, just to check, and peered in through the gap in the door. It was the same, I knew it straight away. It was the white van, an Astra, shabby and old, the registration number ending in DDA, the one that had been following me for the past few days.

Before I could do anything else, I heard a voice behind me.

‘What are you doing round here, Mr Garrett?’

Carson was angry as he walked quickly down the corridor. Olwen was in his cell, waiting for the first interview, the forensic swabs done, his hands, his fingernails, the humiliation of the penis swab, but now there was someone to see him who could give him an alibi.

As Carson strode into the Incident Room, someone pointed to a uniformed officer sitting by a window. Carson marched towards him, and was about to bark something at him when he spotted the pips on his shoulder.

He stopped himself just in time. ‘Inspector. What can I do for you?’

‘Hello, Mr Carson.’

‘Have we met?’

‘We have, but you probably don't remember me,’ the inspector said. ‘I was just the local hierarchy when you breezed into town. My name is Rod Lucas, and I believe you have arrested Olwen for the murder of Sarah Goode.’

Carson nodded and waited for Rod to continue.

‘I know where Olwen was last night,’ Rod said.

Carson didn't respond at first, knowing that the conversation was going to take a turn he didn't like. Then he asked, ‘Where was he?’

‘The same place he had been the night before, in a coven ceremony,’ Rod said.

Carson sighed wearily. ‘Between what times?’

‘All evening,’ said Rod. When Carson didn't look convinced, Rod added, ‘I was watching him. I'd been there both nights,’ and then he told Carson all about the attacks on the old women in the area. ‘I knew there was some link with Olwen, or else he could end up as a victim, and so I watched him. The only place he went was to a barn, and some of his coven members were there. They were having a bit of a party, food and drink, and they conducted a ceremony. I was still there when I heard about Sarah's body being discovered.’

Carson looked down and took some deep breaths, and then asked Rod whether he could put that in a statement. Then he headed towards the door, barking as he went, ‘Will someone fill in the inspector on what we know.’

The room stayed silent at first, just the echo of the slammed door. Rod coughed and said, ‘So who's going to start?’

There was a man in front of me. Rebecca's father, I guessed. He looked nervous and upset.

‘Why have you been following me?’ I demanded angrily.

He stepped closer to me. ‘Mr Garrett, it's not what you think.’

‘You don't know what I think,’ I responded.

His hands were stretched out in front of him, tears in his eyes. ‘Please don't be angry,’ he said, pleading softly.

‘You've been following me,’ I stressed. ‘I want to know why.’

‘I wanted to know what you were doing,’ he said, fidgeting as he spoke.

‘Why didn't you just ask?’ I replied. ‘I haven't made it a secret.’

He took some deep breaths and bent over.

‘Mr Nurse?’ I asked, my tone softer now, worried. ‘Do you want to sit down?’

He straightened himself. ‘You said this person is still killing people, that Mack Lowther didn't kill my daughter.’

I nodded. ‘The killer is more specific than that. He's attacking members of a local coven.’

He looked surprised, and then he leaned against the wall, his face pale. ‘Rebecca got involved in that,’ he said quietly. ‘Just a bit of fun, she said.’ He looked at me. ‘And you think that's why she died?’

‘That's the working theory.’

‘That girl last night,’ he asked, ‘are you sure that it was done by the same person who killed Rebecca?’

‘Pretty much so.’

He took some more deep breaths.

‘So Mack Lowther was innocent,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘God help me.’ Then he turned back and looked at me. ‘Please leave,’ he said, echoing his wife's plea.

I watched him for a moment, and then I saw his wife appear behind him. She took hold of him and put her
arms around him, and he began to sob into her shoulder. I turned to walk back to my car, looking backwards as I got there, and I saw Mrs Nurse watching me. I smiled at her sympathetically, but she put her eyes down and avoided my gaze.

I tried Laura again. Still no answer. I tried the police again, and this time I was put through to Joe.

‘Jack? Have you heard about Olwen already?’

‘It isn't that,’ I replied. ‘It's Laura.’

‘What about her?’ he asked, but I could tell that he sensed some panic in my voice.

‘Katie Gray wasn't Sarah's lodger,’ I said, ‘and she isn't a student. Laura is with her, and I can't get through to her.’

There was silence on the other end for a few seconds, but then he said, ‘We'll put out a call. Where are you going?’

I thought about Katie's words, to go back to the start. Was it a clue, a tease? And the witch link started with the death before Rebecca, with the woman who had jumped from Blacko Tower.

‘I'm going to see April Mather's family,’ I said, and then I threw the phone onto the passenger seat before screeching away.

I drove quickly towards Blacko Tower. I knew I could see the Mather house from there, a small white house on a rise, and so I weaved between fields bounded by stone walls that were brushed by large branches hanging over the road. There was no path, just steep grass verges, so that I had to drive the Stag onto the grass whenever a car swept around one of the bends. I could see the house in the distance, silhouetted on a hill, but then it would disappear from view until a break in the wall allowed me to see it again. I was getting nearer all the time, though, and then as I passed through a cluster of trees, the house suddenly appeared in front of me.

From Blacko Tower it had been a pretty white house on a rise. Now that I was closer, it looked more isolated, almost on a ridge, set against the grey sky. The white walls looked dirtier as I got closer, with a tumbledown extension and old grey tiles. There were no trees on the field in front of it, and a track snaked towards to the house, winding its way through the dark grasses and the brown soil of mole-hills.

As I jumped out of the car, I looked over my shoulder
and saw Blacko Tower, the tall folly high on a hill. I saw how close it was to the house. April Mather had killed herself from the top of the tower, and her husband had seen a reminder of that every time he came out of his house. What was his name? I cast my mind back to the meeting with the vicar. Dan, that was it. Why had Dan Mather stayed there, so close? Then I remembered that he'd had a son. It was mentioned on the plaque in the church yard. How had it been for him? How old would he be now?

I took some pictures of the house, tried to get the outline against the sky, the rural isolation making it a good angle for the urbanites, and then I took a deep breath. What made April jump from the tower?

I left the Stag abandoned on a scrap of grass. The gate to the property was locked shut by a large chain and padlock, and it jangled as I scrambled over it. The path was long and seemed to wind its way to the house, and would make me pass in front of the windows. There would be no element of surprise. I looked for signs of Laura as I walked, but I couldn't see any. The curtains looked drawn, and there was nothing that indicated whether or not anyone was at home. No smoke from the chimney or lights from inside the house.

As I got closer, though, I started to get a view around the back. There were some cars there, a battered old Fiesta and the ubiquitous Land Rover, along with an old grey van with the side windows blacked out. The Fiesta looked familiar, but I couldn't remember where I had seen it.

I looked quickly back to the house. I thought I had
seen movement ahead, a flash of someone ducking behind a wall. I swallowed, my mouth felt dry. A rook cawed from one of the trees at the back of the house, like a warning, but other than that it was silent.

I paused for a moment and wondered whether I ought to carry on, but then I realised that I had probably gone too far anyway. And it was something more than just the story. I wanted the answers, and to get them I had to keep going.

I came to some steps, the final part of the approach, as the track for the cars swept away from the house and went around to the back. They climbed steeply, and ended on a gravel path, so that my footsteps crunched loudly as I got near the door. I turned around and saw where I had just come from, and looked back towards Newchurch. I could see the huddle of cottages and the square block of the church. In the other direction, Blacko Tower stood out on its hill, like a fantasy tower, with a small window and its castellated top.

I pulled out my camera and took shots of the approach. I turned back around and walked towards the door, getting ready to knock, my stomach churning, when I heard a voice from the side of the house.

‘Jack?’

I whirled around and opened my mouth to say something, but then I stopped, surprised. It was Katie. What was she doing there? My mind tried to quickly work things out, the possibilities, but they came at me too fast.

‘It's all right, Jack,’ she was saying, and she walked towards me, her hands stretched out. ‘I can explain everything.’

What was she doing there? I set off towards her, not saying anything, but too late I heard the sound of footsteps on the gravel behind me. I tried to turn as I saw a blur of movement and raised my arms, but then the sound of the rook went faint as something heavy thudded into the back of my head. I looked back towards Katie, but she was blurred, out of focus. I reached out with my hand, and I thought that she was covering her eyes, but the horizon tilted and my feet didn't go where I wanted them to go. I heard footsteps behind me again, scrambling towards me, and then came another bang to the head, and the ground rushed up to meet me.

The gravel dug into my cheeks. I tried to look towards Katie, but it was all blurred again, like a bad television reception. I tried to say something, tried to work out why the view was tilted, why I was down on the ground, but then my thoughts dimmed and the pain faded.

The last thing I saw was Katie smiling.