Requiem Mass (17 page)

A combination of the weather and his attitude had changed her mood completely again since leaving the pub and she was starting to find maths homework quite appealing.

The window was shut fast; even Ron’s attempts to open it were unsuccessful.

‘No good, then. You’d best take me home.’ She huddled under the eaves, damp and cold.

‘I’m not giving up that easily now we’re here. Anyway, you said a door might be open.’ He walked off round to where the door to the music block was just visible in the fading storm light.

‘It’ll be locked!’

‘How d’you know?’ He turned the handle and the door opened, screening the entrance to the changing room on the left as it swung back on the hinges. ‘Come on – it’s open.’

Melanie peered over his shoulder and up the gloomy stairs. ‘I’m not sure we should do this, you know. The rain’s easing off now – what if the caretaker comes round?’

‘Don’t be bloody stupid. If we close the door behind us, he’s not gonna know – and anyway, we can nip upstairs. I bet he doesn’t go that far.’

‘Oh, all right, but come on then. I’ve got to be home by half seven; I’ve got homework to do.’

The couple clambered up the stairs and into the choir room, which was still warm from the earlier rehearsal. Ron threw his jacket on the ground and instantly threw Melanie on to it. A disappointing ten minutes later he was dressed again, sitting on one of the metal chairs, satisfied and on his second cigarette, having ignored Melanie’s instruction not to smoke.

‘You can do that downstairs. Look, it’s gone half six already. We need to go.’

Melanie sounded peevish. The events of the past hour had turned her previous unease into clear disappointment and distaste. Ron sensed something was wrong and was sulking, partly because it felt good and partly because it was a test of the strength of his power over her. She wouldn’t go without him. At the very least she needed a lift home.

‘Ron, come on. I’m cold and Mum’ll kill me if I’m late.’ It was a feeble lie and Ron knew it, but he was bored and cold too. Without speaking he got to his feet and loafed downstairs. Melanie bent to pick up her overcoat and noticed the smudged outline of their footprints on the wooden floor. In the heavy twilight she took it for rain but it didn’t look like water – it looked like paint – dark cherry red. Ignoring it she started down the stairs.

Ron was standing at the bottom, motionless, staring through the right-hand door into the changing room. He was leaning heavily on the door frame as if ill. Something about him made Melanie freeze by his side.

‘Ron, Ron, are you OK?’ There was no answer. He turned to look at her and his face became the thing of Melanie’s nightmares for months to come. It was a blank, white oval with black pits for eyes and a gaping hole for a mouth. As she reached his side, she could hear a sickly gagging at the back of his throat – as if he were trying to speak or scream but kept swallowing his tongue. His breath was tainted and foul.

‘Ron, what is it? For God’s sake, tell me. Are you ill?’

As if they were words of command, Ron’s cheeks filled and he started retching. He just managed to reach outside before he lost the contents of his stomach in a coughing, splattered mess.

Alone, Melanie turned and looked into the dark changing room. Her first thought was that somebody, probably the judo team, was going to have hell to play for leaving it in such a mess. There was a pile of clothes on the floor and some idiot had thrown paint around the walls. Then she noticed the smell and the hand on top of the bundle of clothes. Instinctively she moved closer. The sickly sweet stench, mixed with vague smells from the chemistry lab on a very bad day, filled her nostrils.
There was an iron tang at the back of her throat that reminded her of nose bleeds but still her bemused brain refused to put the clues together. It was only when she saw the face, with its ghastly second smile, staring up from beneath a bench in the middle of the room that the truth slammed into her head.

‘Miss Johnstone? Miss Johnstone! Oh God, nooooo.’ Her words became a repetitive cry as she fled from the music block. She ran wildly towards the main school and then stopped, realising it would be deserted. Then she remembered the caretaker, with his office by the boiler room, and she veered round to find him. She could see the light through the rain and threw herself at the door.

‘Mr Yardell, Mr Yardell. Call the police – quickly, there’s been an accident, a terrible accident. I think Miss Johnstone’s dead.’

Two police cars and an ambulance were on the scene in ten minutes. The caretaker was there to meet them, white-faced and silent; he simply pointed in the direction of the music block and stood back gratefully to let the authorities take over.

The scene-of-crime officers turned up quickly and started to erect white plastic tents around the door. Donning white, hooded suits, overshoes and gloves they started a meticulous search of the block and surrounding grounds. A WPC went to find and comfort Melanie.

Fenwick was putting on his raincoat when the call came through. Despite his return to Division there hadn’t been much of interest to occupy him recently and he had got into the habit of leaving in time to read the children a bedtime story. He was a little later than usual but stopped to take the call. The local constable at Harlden, responding to a 999 call, had reported a suspicious death at 18.45. Fenwick checked his watch, told the duty sergeant to make sure Cooper met him at the school, and called home to make his excuses.

The journey would only take him fifteen minutes at this time of day, as the school lay on the outskirts of town. He drove in a fast practical style that cut through the traffic without the
need of a flashing blue light. He could feel the familiar mixture of curiosity, anger and, yes, excitement. Adrenalin pumped into his system, sharpening his thinking and creating a state of alertness.

By the time he arrived, blue and white tape already cordoned off a wide area stretching from the car park gates to the old assembly rooms. A white plastic tent was being stretched from the doorway to the bushes. It was clear from the buzz of activity that the scene-of-crime officers were already at work. They had been fast off the mark, which gave Fenwick a sense of optimism as he parked his car, then dashed quickly through the rain to the uniformed constable on duty by the door.

‘Evening, Constable. Were you the one who responded to the call?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Constable Nolan recognised Fenwick and was pleased at the opportunity to impress a Division legend. ‘I arrived at 18.43 in response to a 999 call from the caretaker, Mr Yardell. He was waiting for me in the car park and brought me straight here. I observed the body of a woman, clearly dead, and immediately notified the station. The SOCOs arrived a short while ago and the pathologist is on his way. DS Cooper has radioed to say he will be here shortly. The body was discovered by a pupil, Melanie White – she’s in the caretaker’s room with a WPC. The caretaker is back there with them now.’

‘Thank you, Nolan.’

The constable straightened his shoulders in pleasure at the recognition. As the DCI turned towards the assembly room he spoke out again. ‘Excuse me, sir. This is just a hunch but …’ When he came to it he found it difficult to presume to make a suggestion to the DCI.

‘Go on, man. What is it?’

‘Well, sir. I don’t think she’s been dead that long – can’t have been. My eldest is in the school choir and they rehearse here. He normally doesn’t get home himself until well after six. If she’s one of the teachers – and Melanie White says she’s Miss Johnstone – she must have been killed within the last hour. And
I’ve been thinking, sir, waiting here – if he’s taken her bag or her keys we might be able to trace him to her house.’

‘Good thinking, Nolan. I’ll speak to the SOCOs.’

Within minutes Fenwick had confirmed that the victim was indeed Katherine Johnstone, identified from her driving licence, and that there was no trace of house keys in any of her bags. Her address was on a gas bill in her handbag – less than five minutes away by fast car.

A startled Cooper was ordered back into his car just as he climbed out of it as Fenwick shouted instructions to follow him and call for backup en route. This time they would need all the blue lights.

Within the blue and lilac bedroom of number 1 Hedgefield, the man was engrossed in a large five-year diary. He had prised open the puny brass lock with a small screwdriver and was reading through her entries for the month of June 1980. It appeared that Johnstone had kept a lengthy, conversational diary; every day there was a chatty description of events with a reflective summary at the end. She had been a thoughtful and considerate girl and in other circumstances he might have read the entries with mild amusement.

Now, however, he was engaged in a search – for information, confirmation, details to conclude the construction of his case for the prosecution. He flicked impatiently to June 20th, a day scratched deep in his memory. It was blank. The entry for the 19th was there, hopeful, excited, but then nothing. Weeks passed with no entries, and then, in late August, she had started to write again.

August 29th. I must try to put the past behind me – but I can’t. Every day I think about her, and her face as I last saw her. When I go to sleep she sings in my dreams but it’s the screams in my nightmares that wake me. Dear God. I want to forget – but I can’t. She’s always there. Perhaps if I write it will help me. It has in the past but that’s been over silly trivial things. It’s school soon. How
can I face it? Somehow, I’ve got to go on. Maybe this will help.

There were no entries for August 30th or 31st. Then, in September, she started writing again. The theme was similar to that of the 29th – no facts, just a stream of tortured consciousness. He skimmed through quickly, irritated by the schoolgirl drivel and self-pitying prose. Then an entry, just before Christmas, caught his eye.

December 16th. Carol Service. Beautiful, truly beautiful. Octavia took the soprano lead, of course; she was wonderful. But the duets weren’t the same. The other girl tries her best but she just doesn’t have the range or quality. Oh, how we all miss her. I came home in tears – we were all saying, ‘Remember, this time last year.’ She took us all by surprise. The sweetness of her voice and its richness. We’d all known she could sing, of course, but somehow we hadn’t noticed her mature, what with Octavia and others around. And then, during that last year as she and Octavia became closer and closer friends, she was suddenly
there
.

I’ll never forgive myself, as long as I live. If I had only done something, said
something
, I could have saved her. We all knew about her and Octavia – but no one else guessed just how
much
she loved her. I did. I knew. And I could see where they were heading. But she couldn’t cope, of course she couldn’t. Jealousy. It’s the deadliest sin.

The writing stopped abruptly at the end of the page, the final sentence crammed between the last feint rule and the bottom edge. He turned to the next page and carried on, reading avidly, lost in the unfolding story of an affair he could never have imagined until Deborah Fearnside had planted the seeds of suspicion. As he read further, he could feel the denials building inside him. Day after day, the stupid girl wittered on about a love that had to be a figment of her imagination.

He started to hate the stupid bitch and her warped, adolescent
preoccupation with unnatural sexual attraction. Every page built upon the last in creating an edifice of teenage infatuation, underpinned by her abiding sense of guilt, but there were no
facts
. In his fury, he threw the book across the room. Its weak spine burst against the wall, spraying old pages all over the carpet. One drifted back to lie at his feet. As he stared at it disconsolately, a scrap of writing caught his eye: …
why is she saying it wasn’t an accident? Trust Leslie to make up the past. Let the records show the truth
…
. inquest was clear. Why start all o
— He bent to snatch up the page, scanning its full contents. Feverishly he scrabbled on the floor, picking up page after page from the carpet and stuffing them in his rucksack.

At the edge of his hearing he caught an insistent whine and was momentarily distracted. A siren screamed past on the bypass, which he ignored, but it reminded him of the length of time he had been in the house. He cursed himself for his preoccupation and hurriedly scanned the room for any further pages. He couldn’t risk waiting to tidy up. Downstairs he stepped over one of the cats and made his way to where he had propped his bike. A minute later he was cycling east down Copse Lane, away from the bypass when a black saloon car rushed passed him in the opposite direction, showering him with water. There was a glimpse of a dark, tense face, concentrating on taking the corner too fast – that was all – but his instincts screamed at him to get away.

A short time later another unmarked car and a police patrol vehicle drove into view, following the course of the black saloon. Without a doubt they were heading for Hedgefield. He forced himself to be calm and to keep pedalling. He turned right along Waycroft Avenue towards the town centre on roads too deserted of traffic to be comfortable; it would be too soon for roadblocks, surely. He hoped the weather was the cause of his solitude as he pedalled on. With a pricking between his shoulder blades he continued, disappearing at last into a multi-storey car park.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

‘The doors are locked, sir, front and back – no signs of forced entry.’ Cooper was peering into the kitchen through the window over the sink as Fenwick joined him.

‘He had the keys, Cooper. He may have been and gone or still be working his way here. I want to get inside without leaving any signs.’

Cooper stretched up and felt inside a hanging basket by the back door – the obvious place. People could be so predictable. The spare key was in a small freezer bag. He opened the door cautiously and took a step into the kitchen.