Requiem Mass (46 page)

He took out his notebook and put key words down randomly, as he would with anagram letters: ‘Fenwick’; ‘mothers’; ‘police’; ‘bomb’. Then he added ‘cathedral’; ‘Debbie’; ‘Doug’; ‘Tom’. He stared at it hard for ten minutes. Then he remembered who Fenwick was, the case, the publicity. With three unsolved serious crimes the man would not have been involved in another big case – which made yet another connection. But what had it to do with the activity in the cathedral and the killing of a man called Doug?

He remembered the station where Fenwick was based and dialled directory enquiries. He reached the station switchboard, his years in local journalism making prying easy.

‘Oh hello, yes. This is Jason MacDonald, I’m new to the local paper. I’m doing a piece on long-serving public servants in our community. Who handles local press? Could you put me through?’ He oozed naïvety. ‘Hello?’ He repeated his fabrication to the girl at the end of the phone, who tried to explain that the press officer was in an urgent conference and could not be disturbed. She sounded flustered, nervous because her boss couldn’t take the call.

‘Oh, but I can’t wait – I’ve got a copy deadline and I’ve only got a couple of very simple questions. Please?’ He made himself sound young, keen and nervous of failure on his first assignment. ‘I was sure that you’d have the names of a few long-serving officers.’ He let her rattle on, ask him questions, check his credentials – yes, she would do some research and call him back.

Jason MacDonald was very plausible, very cunning. He had done so many similar pieces and people were always obliging. He let her think she was in control and then – an afterthought. ‘Oh, I’ve just thought, there was a great chap I used to know – came to our school, saw him around town. Now, what was his name? Don? Doug? – Yes that’s it, Doug somebody. He’d be excellent.’ He heard her intake of breath, knew he had struck home. ‘Yes, Doug. He’s a real community policeman, very rare breed. And he reads our newspaper. I’m sure he’d love to see his name in it.’

‘No, not PC Adams, he’s … he’s not available.’

‘But he’d be perfect, good old Doug.’ Was that a stifled sob? Yes, she was crying!

‘Are you OK? What’s up, love? Come on, Doug would be ideal.’

‘No, I’m sorry. You can’t … not now. Please, I have to go.’

The phone went down but MacDonald didn’t mind. If his hunch was right he now knew the name of the victim: PC Douglas Adams. He still had to work out the connections. Time
was passing. If he wanted to call the nationals and get in first he would have to take a few risks. If he hurried, he could even push the name to the London
Evening Standard
for an item of late news in the West End Final.

He rang their news desk and got through to a hard-nosed subeditor. He was highly sceptical at first but MacDonald didn’t shift from his story. He had the names of two of the victims in the bombing and believed that it was linked to the murder inquiries that had kept press and TV going over a dull summer. How did he know? A little bit of luck and the balls to make something of it. The men at each end of the phone sized each other up. Both were taking a risk; MacDonald that he would get some credit, the sub that this was not a hoax. Both bit the bullet and the sub agreed to check it out. Jason listened disinterestedly to the payment details,
if
the information was used. He wanted his name as a contributor on the feature. He was told that if he was right it might be.

He returned to the cathedral in the mood to take another risk. With his new confidence he found it easy to call the local paper and demand a photographer, Dave. He had worked with him before on burning ricks, wrecks and baby shows. He was free and willing to oblige. In the cathedral, a couple of men had started searching the long gallery above the nave, while others continued below as MacDonald waited impatiently.

Dave arrived and sat down unobtrusively in a pew; Jason could see his camera was set. Time passed. Four o’clock rang out, then quarter past. There was a small commotion near a door in the nave from which steps led to the gallery above. Several of the searchers went over. Jason’s thumbs pricked again; they had found whatever it was they had been looking for. Dave was on his feet. The door to the gallery was open and unguarded as the searchers crowded up the narrow stairs.

The two newsmen followed, pausing at the top to assess the scene. A tight group was looking at something on the ground. There were six men, plus the middle-aged one in tweed, looking into what appeared to be an old chest. It was impossible to see what was in it. Jason nodded to Dave and the photographer
sprinted forward. He shot off twelve to fifteen exposures in rapid succession, aiming wildly over their heads into the box, snapping startled faces, retreating to take a general view. Then he was gone.

The police tried to follow but MacDonald blocked their path to the stairs. Below he saw Dave sprint out of the cathedral before anyone could stop him. He relaxed and smiled.

‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?’

He had been right, the tweedy policeman seemed to be in charge.

‘My name’s Jason MacDonald and I’m a journalist with the
Chichester Times.
I’d like to ask you gentlemen a few questions concerning your find this afternoon.’

‘No comment. Now get out of our way.’

‘Perhaps you could tell me what this has to do with the bomb explosion in Richmond this afternoon, which injured DCI Fenwick and killed Constable Adams.’

‘How do you …?’ The man’s face changed from red to crimson to grey and back to red in seconds as he recovered from the shock of MacDonald’s words. Behind him the others looked aghast as they heard him blurt out the story.

‘Clear off, MacDonald. You’ve been told, ‘
no comment
’. Get out of our bloody way or I’ll charge you with obstruction.’

MacDonald left, dictating ideas into a Dictaphone as he drove precariously, one-handed back to the office. He still couldn’t be sure what they had found in the cathedral but the rest came together beautifully. At his desk later he was trying to decide which paper to contact with the exclusive when the call from his editor came through. The whole afternoon had been a waste of his and Dave’s time. The police were insisting on a complete news blackout about the cathedral, and all the facts about the bombing were already being broadcast on the early evening news.

Fenwick came round to agony, the pain of a hammerdrill pushed behind his eyes. His first thought, as the white walls and ceiling assumed crazy, half-focused perspectives, was that it was exactly
like the shots they show in films. A woman’s face zoomed in and out of view, a giant’s hand touched his forehead. He closed his eyes, trying to ignore the pain. He tried to raise his hand to touch his head but passed out again before he could remember how to do it.

The next time he came round he could see more clearly. It was dark beyond the uncurtained window. There were two or three people by the side of his bed, just out of view. He turned his head slightly to see them better and a shaft of pain split his skull from ear to ear, making him sweat and retch. One of the bodies moved closer to the bed. It was Cooper. Fenwick was worried by his appearance; he looked old and grey.

Cooper’s lips were moving but there was no sound. He must have lost his voice. Fenwick tried to tell him to shout but no words came out into the silence. Cooper looked worried now as well as old. Fenwick closed his eyes and drifted into a light sleep.

He woke again, conscious of movement by his side. He gradually became aware of the lack of background noise around him. He was obviously in a hospital; there should be noises – the rattle of trolleys, the squeak of a medicine cart, visitors’ voices, a television in a dayroom somewhere. There was nothing. Cooper was still there wearing his mask of concern. He was calling a nurse over and the girl talking to Fenwick. He struggled to speak. He thought he was saying, ‘I can’t hear you’, but even within his own head, the words made no sound.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

The Friday papers all carried extensive coverage of the bombing, with names and photographs of the four victims. In the
Mirror
there was a small contribution from J. MacDonald, speculating in two short paragraphs that the missing link had something to do with beautiful opera star Octavia Anderson. There was no word about the cathedral, nor photograph of whatever had been found in the oak chest. Dave had been forced to hand the film over undeveloped.

Rowland read the papers, all of them, whilst he listened to the
Today
programme. A television was on silently in the corner of the room. His photograph was everywhere; his name appeared freely in all the articles, as did that of DCI Fenwick. The police were making no secret of their urgent desire to interview him, whilst warning the public not to approach him. He had been so confident that the police would miss the connections that he hadn’t bothered to disguise himself. It had been a serious mistake and one that he had corrected already. He got up and looked at himself in the small, chipped mirror. A stranger stared back, even without the padding he would put in his cheeks before he went out in public.

He folded the papers neatly and started to work through his daily exercise routine, the radio on in the background. A report came on about the murders, his name referred to constantly. He worked harder and faster as the report went on. Sweat rolled down his face, soaked his T-shirt, dripped to the floor, his muscles bunched tighter in exertion, the burn obvious in his
face as he forced himself on. He ignored the pain from his shoulder where a bruise was growing from the bullet that had hit his padded vest. His breathing was faster but remained steady and controlled. He worked on through the report and up to the hourly forecast for the second time. As the pips for eight o’clock ended he moved into a slow, relaxation routine before taking a shower.

He had to assume that his preparations in the cathedral were worthless. They must have found the rifle and special ammunition he had hidden there. Although they had been careful to make no mention of it to the press, Rowland was determined not to underestimate the police again. As needles of water drummed on to his head and shoulders, pricking his face and scalp, his mind started to work. The initial anger, both at himself and the police, had been replaced by a purposelessness that he had never experienced before. Now, refreshed by the stimulation of exercise, he started to think methodically again at last.

He was safe where he was – a final bolt hole, arranged out of habit, that he had never expected to use, except perhaps to regroup after his escape from the cathedral. There were provisions in the cellar and freezer that could last him weeks, plenty of fresh water and no neighbours. There was a brand-new bike locked in the outhouse, emergency clothes and theatrical make-up and dyes that he had already put to good use. He looked down at the water swirling around his feet; it ran clear, the dye having set completely.

Rowland flicked water from his eyes and towelled down, unconsciously massaging shoulder muscles and kneading his calves. He had four choices: abandon the attempt on Anderson; postpone it to an unknown future date; bring it forward, which meant an attack on her home; or continue with a variation of the cathedral plan.

He could not abandon her. Justice cried out for her death, her execution. All the other deaths were meaningless without hers. To delay was the most sensible solution but it was hard to accept. He had come too close to her to make it easy to let go now. Besides, her plans beyond Monday were unknown to him.
Delay meant starting from scratch. It would never be his preferred choice.

Dry now, dressed only in a loose towelling robe, he considered and made his choice. He would remake his plans for Monday. Deep in his loin a beast turned over as he decided. He imagined Anderson’s face, eyes wide in fright, a slender neck in his hands which he could snap or slash. The prospect was deeply, disgustingly exciting. Killing had never aroused him before and he was amused to see the effect of her imagined execution on his body. He wanted, needed to kill her more than he had ever needed to do anything before.

Carol’s face smiled at him from the fading photograph beside the bed. The old forgotten longing for her hit him. With a groan he threw himself back across the coverlet, reaching for the picture with one hand, compulsively holding and stroking himself with the other. He needed Carol more than ever. All his senses, controlled and restrained for years, broke out clamouring at him as he stared into her eyes. He was sweating again, his breath rasping loudly in his throat. Pictures of Anderson dead, mutilated, slashed, flashed across Carol’s face, confusing him, tormenting him. He heard himself rhythmically groaning, calling out her name, as his hand worked harder and harder and the photograph crackled in his fist. He arched his back in an exquisite agony of pain, hate and passion, shrieking out as he climaxed, unaware, unable to recall, whether he had cried out Carol or Anderson’s name at the last.

There was silence. Gradually sounds returned. From the kitchen, the radio introduced the 8.30 news; suggestive, gurgling noises swirled in the pipes as they filled. His head cleared. There was no walking away. She had to die soon, before his grip on control was gone. It was now merely a question of how and when.

With a flicker of disgust he threw the twisted, damp robe and coverlet in a musty heap on the floor and walked back to the shower.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Fenwick was both infuriated and reassured to learn that his deafness was the result of shock, not physical injury and that his hearing could return at any time. He checked himself out of hospital at Friday lunchtime. It was against the doctor’s advice, and he had to sign two separate forms accepting that any serious consequences were of his own doing. They gave him an outpatient’s appointment for the following Monday. He looked at it stupidly and dropped it in the nearest litterbin. He was desperate to get home and see the children. The nanny, very sensibly, had played down his injuries, kept Bess and Chris away from the hospital and summoned Fenwick’s mother home from holiday. But despite her calm, steady caring both Bess and Chris had burst into tears as he walked in, painfully trying not to limp. He knew he looked a mess, and his deafness confused them, but an hour or two of watching cartoons together had calmed them down sufficiently to allow him a brief nap. When he woke he found them both, fast asleep, on the coverlet beside him, Chris’s hand tucked protectively on top of his own.