Shepherd's Cross (22 page)

There was no reply. Without removing his
eyes from the body of Christ, Blackmoor smiled, and plunged his knife deep into
Reverend Jackson’s throat.

8.30am:
Cara sat at the Youth Hostel’s long, rectangular kitchen table, playing with a
slice of toast that had long since turned cold and dry. When the Hostel was
busy, the table would be swamped by hungry hikers and cyclists: some laughing
and talking; others engrossed in maps and guidebooks as they planned the day
ahead. Coffee cup stains, scratches and dents: reminders of those who had come
and gone over the years; their mark indelibly etched on the table for as long
as it remained in situ.

She could have done with some company
that morning, specifically that of her friend, Bronwyn. She was still holding
her note, studying it for the hundredth time, and although it clearly suggested
that there was a chance she wouldn’t be home until morning, Cara couldn’t help
worrying that something wasn’t right. It wasn’t like Bronwyn to simply go off
for the evening without saying something; she was too considerate. True, she’d
left a note saying she was going to Kate’s house, and maybe Cara was reading
too much into it. Either way, it was not in her nature to leave matters
unresolved, so with her toast left untouched, she pulled on her boots and coat
and headed towards the door. She would call by Kate’s house on the way to the Station;
it wasn’t too far out of her way, and if Bronwyn was there, then at least her
mind would be put at rest.

The fresh air on the walk to Kate
Irving’s house was welcome and invigorating, affording Cara a brief respite
from her worries. Although the sky remained overcast and grey, the snow had
stopped falling and the wind had settled down to a manageable breeze. There was
a welcome sense of calmness around Shepherd’s Cross: the relentless blizzards
of the previous two days appeared to have packed their bags and moved on;
deciding that their work here was done, for the time being. Depending on the
council’s priorities, the ploughs and gritting lorries would set to work later
clearing the roads, which for the most part remained impassable by anything other
than the most capable four-by-four or tractor. Although small, there was at
least a fighting chance that the next couple of days would see life returning
to somewhere near normality; allowing cherished routines to return again.

After five minutes of trudging her way
through knee-deep snow, cursing every time it cleared the top of her boots and
seeped into the gap and down her trousers, Cara reached the door of number
thirty-four Juniper Street and rang the bell. She wasn’t expecting a quick
response: Kate and Bronwyn were likely to have stayed up drinking and chatting
until the early hours of the morning; so she was slightly taken aback when the
door suddenly opened, a fully-dressed Kate standing there with a look of pleasant
surprise on her face.

‘Hello, Cara,’ she said. ‘What are you
doing here? Would you like to come inside?’

‘Hi, Kate,’ Cara replied, raising her
hand and shaking her head to decline the invitation. ‘I’m sorry for bothering
you. Actually, I wanted to speak to Bronwyn, if she’s up yet? She probably told
you that I’m staying at the Hostel? Anyway, she left me a note saying she was
seeing you, and when she didn’t return last night I…I’m probably being paranoid,
but I just wanted to check that…’

‘I haven’t seen Bronwyn since Wednesday,’
Kate said. ‘She certainly didn’t come here yesterday. Funnily enough, I was
going to ask her out for a drink, but the phone was dead. Probably the snow.’

The colour drained from Cara’s face as
she listened to her reply. It had definitely been Kate’s name on the note, and
as far as Cara was aware, there was nobody else by that name who Bronwyn hung
out with, at least not in Shepherd’s Cross. Perhaps there was another Kate she knew
in Newcastle or Durham, but what with the roads being as they were, there was
no way Bronwyn could have left the village yesterday; not unless she’d managed
to hotwire a tractor.

‘I’m sorry for asking again,’ Cara said.
‘But you’re absolutely sure you haven’t seen her?’

‘Honestly,’ Kate replied. ‘I haven’t
seen her. Nor was I expecting to. I was in the house all day yesterday, so I
would have been in had she called by. She is alright, isn’t she?’

The sixty-four million dollar question –
the question that anybody involved in the early stages of a missing person’s
case always automatically asked. Cara nodded and smiled unconvincingly. ‘I’m
sure she’s fine,’ she said, checking her watch to mentally record the time of her
conversation with Kate. ‘Listen, Kate, could you do me a favour? If you do see
her, could you let me know as soon as possible? I don’t think she could have
left The Cross, so I’m sure she’ll turn up sooner or later.’

‘Of course. I’m off to church soon, so
I’ll ask around. I’ll let you know immediately if I hear anything. Oh God, I
hope nothing’s happened to her.’

Cara placed her hand on Kate’s shoulder
in an effort to reassure her. ‘Don’t worry, I’m sure she’s fine. You know
Bronwyn…she’s her own girl.’ Having said their farewells, Cara headed off up
Juniper Street, trying hard to prevent her concern for Bronwyn from turning
into panic.

When she reached the far end of the
street, she rounded the corner and quickened her pace as best she could, given
the slippery conditions of the footpath. Two minutes later, she was standing
outside another house, breathing hard as she tried to compose herself before pressing
the doorbell. Half of her didn’t want to press it: the optimistic, rational
half, which believed in herself and her ability to handle whatever the day was
going to throw at her. The other half, however, didn’t share the same level of
confidence - all
it
could think of was a missing woman and a Station
full of dead people. And it was that
half, the pessimistic,
I-can’t-do-this-alone half, which on this occasion was going to get the better
of her.

Cara pressed the doorbell and prayed to
God that he was home.

9.00am:
Bill Thompson trudged his way through the churchyard to the large oak doors and
reached into his coat pocket for the key. It had been this way ever since he
had begrudgingly accepted the warden’s job almost eight years ago. Joan, his
long-suffering wife, had pushed him into it; at least that’s how he saw it.
She’d told him that it would do him good, that it would give him something to
do now that he’d retired and was at a loose end. He had tried to tell her that
he was perfectly happy being at a loose end, that he was slipping into a life
of post-work laziness quite comfortably thank you very much, but she’d nagged
away at him until eventually he surrendered; just like she’d done ever since
he’d foolishly said ‘I do’ forty-five years earlier. So here he was, plodding
through the same mind-numbing routine as he did every damn Sunday morning, come
hail, snow, rain or sunshine, too weary of his wife’s persistence to dare throw
the towel in; and besides, there wasn’t exactly a long queue of hopeful
successors chomping at the bit to fill his shoes.

As he pulled the key from his pocket, he
noticed that one of the doors was standing ajar, only slightly, but creating
enough of a break in the norm to throw him off guard. He looked behind him at
the path leading through the churchyard: aside from his own, there were no
other fresh footsteps to suggest that Reverend Jackson had beaten him to it.
Not that Thompson thought for a second that he would have done: Jackson was the
kind of vicar who tended to do things on the hoof; usually turning up two or
three minutes before his congregation. Even so, as far as Thompson was aware,
Jackson was the only other key-holder to All Saints’ Church, so unless there’d
been another break-in, there was nobody else who could have unlocked the door.

Thompson sighed. He didn’t know why,
perhaps it was due to an indoctrinated sense of courtesy, but he felt the need
to knock before entering. When no answer was forthcoming, he took a deep
breath, and with a sense of trepidation at what he might find, he opened the
door and walked inside. The door opened directly into the chancel – there was
no porch or separate entrance area – so it came as a relief to discover that
everything appeared to be in order. At first glance, there didn’t appear to be any
signs of vandalism or theft; no overturned pews, no smashed flower vases or
graffiti.

His mind now at rest, he closed the door
behind him and headed down the aisle towards the altar, under which were stored
the various sacred vessels and ornaments he would need to retrieve for the
Eucharist. It was only when he reached the step that led to the nave that he
noticed a large, dried pool of blood on the floor. His eyes followed a trickle
of blood, which led his focus away from the larger pool in the direction of the
hidden recess by the altar, where Thompson knew that Reverend Jackson spent
much of his time drinking, reading and half-heartedly preparing his sermons. ‘Reverend
Jackson,’ he said, looking over to the recess. ‘Are you there?’ He wondered
what on earth the vicar had managed to do to himself this time. He moved towards
the recess, following the splattered line of blood as if he were Hansel
following the trail of breadcrumbs back to the woodcutter’s house.

He reached the walled side of the recess
and edged his way around it, not expecting to find anything or anyone hiding on
the other side, but acting cautiously nonetheless – just in case. Looking down
at the floor, he could see that a second pool of blood had spread its way from
behind the recess and around the base of the wall. Ordinarily, Bill Thompson
was a pragmatic, stoical man: the kind of man who called a spade a spade and
preferred to deal in facts rather than emotions; but even he couldn’t prevent
the more grisly possibilities from entering his mind, no matter how ridiculous
they might have been. ‘Oh, bugger it,’ he said, throwing caution to the wind
and peeking around the side of the wall.

It took all his strength to stifle a
scream as his brain processed the image in front of him. Reverend Jackson was
sat naked in his chair, slumped over his desk as if he had passed out or fallen
asleep. Even without seeing his face, Thompson could tell that the vicar’s
throat had been sliced open: the wound had stretched right across his throat and
around the back of his neck. It was almost as if his attacker had tried to
behead him, only to decide half-way through that it wasn’t worth the effort.
There was blood everywhere, and Jackson’s blanched skin led Thompson to believe
that the wound to his throat must have drained him of every last drop. Thompson
didn’t want, didn’t
dare
, to move him, but he could just about make out
this morning’s sermon lying underneath Jackson’s torso on the small writing
desk that propped him up.

But it was the vicar’s back that held Thompson’s
attention. Carved into it were rough, deep cuts that tore the flesh aside,
creating a series of irregular lines of clotted dark red and black blood; lines
that joined together to form a jagged, uneven inscription that looked as if it
had been written by a young child learning how to hold a pencil for the first
time. The inscription sprawled across his entire back like a rambling tattoo,
and although it may have been rudimentary in terms of presentation, there was
no mistaking the words, which clearly spelled out ‘DEUS EST MORTUUS’.

Thompson spoke the words aloud, slowly
and deliberately, wanting to hear how they sounded. ‘DEUS…EST…MORTUUS.’ And
again. ‘DEUS…EST…MORTUUS’. ‘DEUS – God – EST – is – MORTUUS – Dead.
GOD…IS…DEAD. GOD IS DEAD,’ he repeated, increasingly confident as to the
accuracy of the translation.

The church bell rang out, signalling the
time as being a quarter past the hour. He backed away until one of his legs
bumped against the side of the altar, causing him to yelp with shock. In half
an hour’s time, the bells would begin to ring en masse, summoning the village
to Church. Thompson pulled the key from his pocket and stumbled down the aisle,
tears filling the eyes of a man who had not cried since childhood. He couldn’t
let them see their vicar like this, let alone the message that his killer had so
brutally carved into his skin. Reaching the doors, he glanced outside, making
sure there was nobody around. When he was confident of being alone, he stepped
into the snow and closed the doors behind him, pulling them tightly together
and twisting the key in the lock. Checking and rechecking that the doors were
locked, he sank to his knees, aware that at any moment he would be seeing his
breakfast again. With a determined effort, he pulled himself to his feet, and
without daring to look back over his shoulder, he took a few deep breaths of
fresh air to steady himself, before hurrying away from the Church as fast as
his legs could carry him.

9.30am:
‘Are you sure this is wise, Sarge? I mean, it’s not like we have a good reason
for going back there. What are we going to ask them anyway – “excuse me, but
you wouldn’t happen to have seen a pretty girl by the name of Bronwyn Hess
skulking around your estate by any chance?” They’ll think we’re a couple of
fruitcakes!’

‘I know…you’re probably right,’ replied
Jennings. ‘But something’s telling me that those two haven’t come all the way up
here to spend a few months swanning around archaeological digs.’

‘You didn’t seem to think there was
anything dodgy going on when we met with them on Friday. What’s changed your
mind?’

Jennings sighed. ‘I don’t know. It’s
probably nothing. But ever since they arrived, we’ve had nothing but trouble. That
thing on Wilf’s farm, barroom brawls, two dead kids; and now your friend has
gone and done a runner. I’m not suggesting that these two are somehow responsible
for what’s going on, but let’s be honest; this sort of shit just doesn’t happen
in a place like this. I know these people, Cara. There’s practically not a soul
in the village that I haven’t had something to do with over the years, and if I
haven’t, you can bet your bottom dollar I would’ve heard about them through
someone else. But I haven’t got a clue about those two up there. What’s more, I
don’t trust them; especially the part about Fellside Hall. I mean, come on: who
in their right mind would choose to stay there? The place is falling to bits,
and it must be bloody freezing. Nobody likes slumming it…especially rich people.’

‘We could always run a check on them at
UCL. The phone lines should be up and running in the morning. And if it doesn’t
stack up, we’d have more of a reason for going up there than the one we have
now.’

‘It won’t do any harm to drop by now. Besides,
we can always tell them that we’re merely calling by some of the outlying
houses to make sure everyone’s okay. Routine business. That would work.’

Cara nodded and stared out of the Land
Rover’s window as it made its way slowly up the lake road towards Fellside
Hall. Jennings had failed to convince her that there was any real point in
going up there; she couldn’t see the value in it. All the same, she was
prepared to go along with his train of thought. Besides, she had to admit to
having had reservations about Blackmoor and King from their first meeting. They
were
rather creepy, and Blackmoor in particular had an unsettling aura
about him. Still, she couldn’t see how it was possible that the two of them had
anything to do with Bronwyn’s disappearance.

She’d been so relieved when Jennings had
opened the door to her earlier that morning. The very thought of going alone to
the Station had terrified her, so much so, that if he hadn’t have answered the
doorbell, she couldn’t say for definite whether or not she would have been able
to. But he had answered it, and she was grateful to him for his sympathetic
response. And if he wanted to take her on a wild goose-chase to Fellside Hall, who
was she to argue? Anything was better than the alternative.

Jennings’s concentration was focused on
navigating the snow-covered road as it wound its way along the edge of the
frozen lake. Despite having quit three years earlier, he could have murdered a
cigarette; his body craving the effect of a nicotine rush. He’d hardly slept a
wink all night, unable to shake off the horrific images of Lee and Jed trapped
in their cell. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t absolve himself of the
blame for their deaths, the guilt pressing down on his shoulders like a tonne
of bricks. It had therefore come as a big relief when his Sunday morning had
been unexpectedly disturbed by Cara. He had never been so glad to see anyone in
his whole life – he was comforted that she needed his help – and for him it was
immeasurably more appetising than spending the day cooped up inside, alone with
his dark, repetitive thoughts.

Eventually they reached the tall,
wrought-iron gates, just as they had two days earlier. Beyond them, tyre tracks
stretched into the distance. ‘They look pretty fresh,’ Jennings noted. ‘I’d say
our visitors have either recently just left or come back. Let’s find out.’ Cara
climbed out and opened the gates while Jennings remained in the car. When she
returned, they began their journey along the long driveway to Fellside Hall.

Approximately five minutes later, they
arrived at the front of the Hall and parked their car alongside the main entrance.
Jennings wasted no time hanging around; he was here on Police business, and his
lack of sleep had strangled some of the patience he was usually known for. He
strode purposefully up to the main entrance, Cara struggling to keep up behind
him, and slammed the iron knocker firmly against the wooden door. They didn’t
have to wait long before hearing the sound of footsteps approaching from the
other side. Several seconds later, the door opened inwards, and the person on
the other side smiled warmly as she saw the surprise on Cara’s face.

‘Bronwyn!’ Cara shouted. ‘What the
bloody hell are you doing here? I’ve been worried sick about you. How dare you
bugger off like that without telling me? And why did you lie to me about going
to see Kate?’

Bronwyn reacted calmly to her friend’s
outburst, smiling and shrugging her shoulders, her body language inferring that
Cara was acting like an over-protective mother. ‘Hello, Cara,’ she said, before
looking at Jennings and acknowledging him with a courteous nod of her head. ‘What
a pleasant surprise. Won’t you come in?’ She opened the door further and
beckoned them inside, Cara and Jennings throwing each other a brief, confused
glance before entering the Hall.

‘There better be a good explanation for
this,’ said Cara, following behind Bronwyn as she led them towards another
room.

‘Don’t worry. All will be revealed.’ She
pushed open a pair of large, arched doors that led to what was formerly the
Hall’s grand ballroom, although very little remained grand about it now. In the
middle of the room was a small circular table, around which sat Benedict Blackmoor,
Frank Gowland and Ted Wilson. They were smiling at Cara and Jennings; seemingly
unconcerned at being discovered together by the two Police officers. With the
exception of a roaring fire and a few randomly placed candles providing warmth
and light, the rest of the room was empty – no furniture, decorative
accessories or curtains. Blackmoor and the others were dwarfed by the sheer
size of the room and the height of the ceiling, which, given its state of
disrepair, had obviously been scrubbed and cleaned to make it as presentable as
possible. There remained a considerable amount of work needed to fix the broken
windows and damp, chipped walls, but an imaginative mind could be forgiven for
seeing the potential to restore it to somewhere near its former glory.

Blackmoor stood up to greet his guests. ‘Well,
well - this is a pleasant surprise. Please,’ he said, motioning to two empty
chairs by the table. ‘Why don’t you join your friends for a drink? As it
happens, we could use your advice.’

Jennings ignored him and turned his
attention to the others. ‘Frank? Ted? What the hell are you doing here?’

‘Calm down, Brian,’ said Wilson. ‘We’re
here on business. As I mentioned to you the other day, Mr Blackmoor needs help
getting this place tidied up. Frank and I are pulling together a schedule of
works for the next few months. Come on,’ he said, pulling a chair from under
the table. ‘Join us for a drink. One for the road, eh?’

‘Speaking of the road,’ Cara said. ‘How
did you get here? Your car’s not outside.’

Wilson looked across at Blackmoor,
stumped by the question. ‘We…errr…we…’

‘I brought them here yesterday,’
interrupted Blackmoor. ‘I invited them to stay with me for the night – I felt
like giving an impromptu housewarming party. Forgive me, Sergeant Jennings. I
should have also invited yourself and PC Jones. Maybe next time, eh?’

‘And you, Bronwyn,’ said Cara, turning
her attention to her friend. ‘What’s your reason for being here?’

Bronwyn’s face beamed with excitement. ‘Oh,
Cara – you wouldn’t believe my luck. Emily told me about Mr Blackmoor and Mr King.
She happened to mention that they’re archaeological historians, and…well, you
know how much I’m interested in local history. Anyway, I bumped into Ted and he
offered to introduce me to them. And what’s more, they’ve offered to let me
join them on a couple of their excursions. How cool is that?’

‘It sounds like an interesting
opportunity,’ Cara replied. ‘But why did you lie to me about going to Kate’s?
You shouldn’t have done that; you should have been honest with me. I went to
her house this morning to check up on you. When she told me she hadn’t seen
you…well, you could imagine how frightened I became. Why didn’t you tell me the
truth about where you were?’

‘I’m sorry, Cara,’ said Bronwyn, her
face suggesting otherwise. ‘I just didn’t want you to worry about me coming up
here for the night. And you
would
have worried, wouldn’t you? In fact, I
bet you would have tried to stop me. Maybe I should have been open with you;
either way, it doesn’t really matter now, does it? I’m here, everything’s fine,
and there’s no need to worry about me.’

‘Is that why you’re here, PC Jones?’ Blackmoor
asked. ‘To make sure that the two evil men from London haven’t kidnapped your
friend and lured her away to their haunted house? If that is the case, I must
admit to being rather disappointed, not to mention upset, by your lowly opinion
of us.’

This time it was Cara and Jennings who
found themselves on the back foot. They looked at each other with a mixture of
embarrassment and shame. Jennings spoke first. ‘Of course that’s not why we’re
here,’ he said, mustering up as much confidence as he could manage. ‘Although I
won’t deny that seeing you all here together strikes me as being more than just
a little bit weird. However, there’s no reason for you to be suspicious; we’re
simply here on a routine visit to make sure that the weather isn’t causing you
any problems. Most of the phones are down, so we’re doing a whistle-stop tour
of some of the farms and houses outside the village. We thought we’d call by Fellside
Hall on the way back.’

‘Well, in that case,’ Blackmoor said, ‘I
am most grateful for your kind concern for our wellbeing. But as you can see, there
is nothing to worry about; apart from a few minor hangovers caused by
overindulgence in my Chianti Riserva. Would you care for a small glass before
you leave, officers?’

‘No thank you,’ replied Jennings. ‘Not
when we’re driving. Come to think of it, where is Mr King? I see your car’s not
outside.’

‘How very observant of you, Sergeant
Jennings. You’re right – Reuben has had to go to Shepherd’s Cross on an…on an
errand. He shouldn’t be too long, if you would care to wait?’

Jennings looked at Cara, who shook her
head to indicate that it was time to get out of there. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘But
I don’t think that will be necessary. We better be on our way. There might be
someone in the village needing our help.’

Blackmoor laughed at Jennings’s last
comment. ‘I’m sure there will be,’ he said, thinking about the previous
evening’s visit to All Saints’ Church. ‘I would imagine the services of the law
are very much in demand during periods of such…disturbance.’

Jennings’s face hardened: he could feel
his temper bubbling to the surface as he became increasingly annoyed by Blackmoor’s
balanced and self-assured behaviour; his calm voice grating on him with its
underlying tones of sarcasm and superiority. He took a couple of deep breaths
to subdue his anger, conscious not to let his emotions get the better of him.
He needed to remain professional; after all, as much as Blackmoor rubbed him up
the wrong way, he didn’t have anything to pin on him. Not yet, anyway.

‘Come on, Cara,’ he said. ‘Let’s get
going.’

‘Yes, Sarge,’ she replied. ‘Okay you lot
– I’ll give you a ride home.’

Silence fell across the room, but the
glances between Wilson, Gowland and Bronwyn said it all; they weren’t going
anywhere. Cara could no longer conceal her frustration.  ‘Bronwyn,’ she said. ‘What
do you think you’re playing at? It’s time to go – come on!’

In the face of Cara’s growing anger
towards her, Bronwyn remained calm and composed, refusing to be drawn into an
argument. ‘I’m sorry, Cara, but I’m not ready to go yet. I’m having a good
time…or at least I was until you arrived.’ She saw the humiliation in Cara’s
eyes, but chose to ignore it. ‘Don’t you see? I’m happy here. It’s nice to meet
new people…interesting people. God knows, it makes a refreshing change to the
same old faces I see day in day out at The Cross.’

‘What about you two?’ Jennings asked,
looking at Gowland and Wilson. ‘Do you want a ride back?’

‘We’re not done here yet, Brian,’ Wilson
replied. ‘There’s still a lot of work to get through. You get yourself back to
the village – I’ll see you later.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Blackmoor, moving
between the two officers and his three guests, as if he were a teacher
protecting his children from the school bully. ‘They’re quite safe here. I’ll
have Reuben run them home later when we’ve wrapped up our affairs. Now; if
there’s nothing else, we really ought be getting back to work.’

Jennings looked at them all in turn, certain
that something wasn’t right but powerless to probe any further. If they wanted
to stay here, he had no option but to let them. After all, as far as he could
see, they weren’t doing anything illegal, and he couldn’t exactly frame them for
having a few drinks together.