Shaping the Ripples (19 page)

“Hello?” I said, in a voice that was more croaky than efficient.

“Mr. Bailey, it’s Detective Inspectors Smith and Palmer,” came a female voice. “We need to come up to speak to you.”

“I’ll buzz you in,” I said, my heart sinking. The last thing I wanted to start the new year was a long conversation about the author of the anonymous letters. “Just give me a few minutes to pull some clothes on before you knock on the flat door, OK?”

The button hummed as I pressed it, and I hurriedly ran around the room to retrieve some jeans, and a t-shirt and jumper. I had just begun to pull them on when there was a firm knock at the door.

“Just a minute!” I called.

Once I was dressed, I went into the bathroom and splashed some water on my face and sticking up hair, in an attempt to look a little more composed. Then I went and opened the door. The two detectives came in, their faces grim.

“Mr. Bailey,” Michael Palmer began. “We would like you to accompany us to the police station, where we intend to formally question you about the murder of Christopher Upton.”

I stared at him in astonishment for astonishment for a few moments, trying to grasp what he had just said. As the implications began to sink in, a great weight settled in my stomach.

“Am I under arrest?” I asked, my voice shaking as I formed the words.

“That’s an interesting reaction,” he countered. “No, you are not under arrest at this time. You do, however, have the right to have a lawyer present at the interview. You may call one now to meet us at the station if you so wish.”

I considered this for a moment. I didn’t have a friendly lawyer that I could call on, and I doubted that many were at their desk at this time of the morning on New Year’s Day. In any case, I couldn’t see that I had much information to give them.

“No, I’ve nothing to hide. I’ll talk to you by myself.” I answered.

A large smile spread over DI Palmer’s face. “That’s exactly what I told Detective Inspector Smith you’d say. It’s much better if we keep this thing personal, don’t you think? More fun for both of us.”

“I find your comments exceptionally insensitive and distasteful,” I answered, anger starting to rise. “It takes a pretty sick person to find the death of anyone fun.”

“Not as sick as the bastard who did it,” he replied, still smiling without humour. “Shall we go?”

I rode to the police station in the back of Michael’s Mercedes. None of us spoke during the short journey. I was still trying to get my head around the news that Christopher was dead. Once we arrived, they escorted me to the same interview room in which I had spoken to Laura Smith just a few days earlier.

Michael Palmer produced a tape recorder and introduced the three of us for the benefit of the tape. It was clear that he was going to take the lead in this interrogation.

“Let’s make a start then,” he said. “Mr. Bailey can you confirm that you have waived the right to having a solicitor present?”

“I have,” I answered.

“Perhaps you’d like to explain the nature of your relationship with Reverend Upton.”

“Christopher was the vicar of the church which I attend. I probably go on average once or twice a month, but he was very good at getting to know all the people who come to his church. He also leads – led - a house group which I attended from time to time.”

“So your relationship was nothing more than that of any ordinary member of the church?”

“On the whole, that’s true,” I admitted. “But in the last few weeks he seemed to be quite ill. He looked tired and worn out, and didn’t seem to be coping. I was concerned about him.”

“And how did this concern of yours manifest itself?”

“I had phoned him on a number of occasions, and made a point of asking how he was whenever we saw each other.”

“How frequently did you visit him at his house?”

“I never visited him at his house,” I said, and then continued quickly as he looked about to interrupt me. “Except on Christmas Day. After the service he invited me back to his house for a drink. He seemed to need someone to talk to so I accepted. I was probably there for about half an hour."

“What did the two of you discuss during this meeting?”

“It’s hard to put into words,” I answered. “Christopher seemed very troubled by something, but he wasn’t ready to open up about what it was exactly. He seemed anxious that people were only remembered by the bad things that they’d done, and not by the whole of their lives.”

The two of them exchanged a look. Clearly this meant something to them.

“So you claim that Christmas Day was your one and only visit to the Vicarage?” DI Smith said suddenly.

“It was my only visit,” I insisted.

“And that Reverend Upton was in good health when you left him?” she continued.

“He seemed very despondent but, yes, other than that, he was in good health.”

“And so it was on Christmas Day that he showed you the anonymous letter that he’d received?” Michael Palmer said suddenly.

This question took me by surprise. “I don’t know anything about an anonymous note,” I replied.

“I want you to think very carefully about this Mr. Bailey.” He said, speaking slowly and heavily. “In the event that we have discovered your fingerprints on the letter, you would need an explanation of how they got there. Assuming that you’re not going to confess to being the author of the note, the only possible explanation is that you were shown the note by Reverend Upton. I will ask you again. Did Christopher Upton show you the anonymous letter he had received?”

There was a definite crackle of tension in the air. I answered as slowly and deliberately as he had posed the question.

“I have no knowledge of any letter that was sent to Christopher. So clearly, he did not show it to me. If my fingerprints are on such a letter, I cannot explain how they came to be there.”

The silence that followed seemed to stretch on for an age. Finally, DI Palmer smiled and nodded.

“Very good,” he answered, almost approvingly. “As you’ve guessed, your prints aren’t on the letter. I was hoping you wouldn’t be sure, and would lie about having been shown it to cover yourself. It was worth a try, but I had a feeling you’d keep your nerve.”

My dislike of him was growing. “It wasn’t a case of keeping my nerve,” I answered coldly. “I genuinely don’t know anything about a note. What did it say?”

“Excuse us for a moment,” he answered and they both stood up. He leant towards the recorder. “The interview was suspended at 9.05 am.”

They left the room. I could hear the sound of murmuring through the door for a few minutes, but couldn’t make out the words. Before long the sound faded, and I was left alone with my thoughts. My mind was in turmoil with the shocks of the morning. Did the mention of another letter mean that this was connected with Jennifer’s death? If it was, was this what the letter I received was hinting at? How did killing Christopher “prove that religion was untrue”? I was determined to find out some of the answers before I left the police station.

Eventually, the door behind me opened and both of them walked into the room and sat down opposite me. Michael was holding a plastic evidence bag in his hand. He turned the tape on again, and spoke.

“Interview recommenced at 9.30am, those present as before. Detective Inspector Palmer has brought into the room evidence bag reference CU17/301, containing the letter recovered from Reverend Upton.

He turned to me. “We’ve agreed that you may see the note. You’ll have to read it inside the evidence bag.” He handed the bag to me. As I looked at the note, my worst fears were confirmed.

It read;

I know what your secret is. Soon everyone will know about it

as well.

I’ll be in touch.

I handed the bag back. The type-face was unmistakable.

“When did he get this?” I asked.

It was Laura Smith who answered. “We found the note inside Reverend Upton’s spiritual journal – a sort of diary he kept. It appears that he received this note on the day that you discovered the body of Jennifer Carter. He had told no-one about it, but from the journal we can tell he was getting increasingly desperate.”

“Whoever sent it wanted him to suffer for a while before they killed him.” DI Palmer added. “So you can imagine how delighted we were to find that the person who mysteriously was at the centre of Jennifer Carter’s death, also had their finger prints all over Reverend Upton’s house. Being at the centre of one death might be seen as unlucky, but two?” He left the question hanging in the air.

“Do you know what the note means by his secret?” I asked.

“Oh, yes,” Michael Palmer said. “The killer wanted to make sure that no-one was in any doubt about that.” His voice suddenly became accusatory.

“How long had you been aware of his sexual difficulties?”

The question took me completely by surprise. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said.

“The person who murdered Reverend Upton wanted to make sure that he died in disgrace,” he said coldly. “The body was discovered yesterday late afternoon by a reporter from the Yorkshire Evening Post. They had received a phone call from an unidentified person who suggested they go to St. Thomas’s Vicarage. They called us after they discovered the scene that had been arranged for them. Perhaps you can guess what they found?”

I shook my head, too bewildered to speak.

“Was it the file, is that how you found out?” DI Palmer continued.

“What file?” I asked. It was like I had stepped into a nightmare world where everyone knew what was going on except me. Michael Palmer glanced at DI Smith.

“Reverend Upton had been a patient of Jennifer Carter’s,” she said speaking patiently. “His file had clearly been removed by the person who killed her. They very thoughtfully left the file next to Reverend Upton’s body.”

“What was in it?” I asked in a whisper.

“I think you already know,” DI Palmer said, before she could answer.

“I don’t,” I insisted. “All of this is news to me.”

“Did you feel betrayed when you found out?” he demanded. “Did you feel sick at the thought that this person who you’d looked up to and trusted was really a sick pervert? Is that why you decided that he had to die?”

“I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about,” I continued to protest. My decision not to have a lawyer present was starting to feel like a big mistake.

Again it was Laura Smith who supplied some answers. “You’ll find out tomorrow anyway. Miss Carter’s file disclosed that Reverend Upton saw her because he claimed to be afflicted by an addiction to hard-core pornography. They were working, apparently without success, to help him battle it.”

It just seemed to be one shock after another. “Why will I find out tomorrow?” I said. I know it sounds a stupid thing to ask, but it was the first question that came to mind.

“Someone made very sure of that,” Michael Palmer said. “When the reporter discovered Reverend Upton’s body, there were pornographic magazines scattered all around the room. We believe that they probably had belonged to Reverend Upton. In addition, his computer was turned on in the room, displaying pornographic images.”

“And this is all going to be in today’s paper?” I asked, trying to assimilate this information with the Christopher that I knew.

“The reporter agreed to hold off running the story until tomorrow,” Laura Smith said. “We wanted the time to interview some suspects first.”

“Some suspects?” I questioned. “Or just me?”

“Look at what we have for a moment, Mr. Bailey,” she answered. “We have a counsellor murdered. Our criminal psychologist believes that the most likely explanation for her lips and tongue being cut off, is that the person who did it was a patient who felt she had failed to help them. Now we have a vicar who was murdered in such a way as to publicly discredit him, presumably by someone who felt he had let them down. Both crimes are almost certainly the work of the same person. And the common denominator of this, the person who found Mrs. Carter’s body and who at the moment is the last person we know of who saw Reverend Upton alive, is you.”

“The last one to see him alive?” I echoed. “When do you think he died?”

“We’re not absolutely certain yet,” she admitted. “But he had certainly been dead for some days. He was due to be on holiday over the weekend, so no-one was surprised not to see him on Sunday. Our best guess at the moment would be Thursday or Friday of last week.”

“Thursday being the day that I received the letter,” I noted.

“Oh yes, the letter,” Michael Palmer said sarcastically. “It’s good of our killer to keep you informed about his plans.”

“But even you can see that this must be what he meant by all the talk about religion, and how false it was.”

“Certainly I think that the person who wrote it had already either killed or decided to kill Reverend Upton,” he conceded. “But I’m finding it hard to buy a killer who has singled you out to be his confidante while he goes about killing all the people you’re closest to. Last time you suggested this theory you couldn’t come up with any ideas of who might hate you so much. Have you been struck with inspiration?”

“No.” I shook my head. “I can’t think of anyone who would do this.”

“I should tell you that I am currently applying for a warrant to search your home,” DI Palmer continued with a look of triumph. “But to save me the suspense, what do you think my chances are of finding a copy of the anonymous letters on your computer?”

My heart sank. “You will find a copy of the most recent letter I received,” I confessed. “I scanned it into the computer before I brought it to Detective Inspector Smith.”

“Of course you did,” Michael Palmer smiled. “When you’ve received a vile, threatening letter it’s the most natural thing in the world to want to keep a copy so that you could read it over and over again.”

“I know it sounds odd,” I replied. “But it’s like this person is challenging me. I thought that if I kept the letter, I might get some idea about who had written it. It has to be someone who knows me.”

“Our psychologist is also of the opinion that whoever is committing these murders believes themselves to be superior to everyone else.” He continued. “He says that it’s quite possible this person will want to place themselves in the middle of the investigation just to demonstrate how much cleverer they are than the fools investigating them.”