Shepherd's Cross (24 page)

Cara nodded. ‘But Sarge; even if we do
manage to get through to them, they won’t be able to get out here until
tomorrow.’

‘I reckon a murdered vicar might punt us
up the priority list, don’t you? If this isn’t important enough for them to pry
a plough or two away from their precious city streets, I don’t know what is. Either
way; it’s our job to inform them. What they decide to do, or when they decide
to come, is entirely up to them. The main thing is we make that call. In the
meantime, we’re going to have to lock this place up tighter than Fort Knox.
Bill, you’ve got the key, right?’

‘Aye.’

‘What about Reverend Jackson’s key?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Thompson. ‘I didn’t
want to go through his pockets in case I got bollocked for tampering with the
evidence.’

‘Fair enough,’ Jennings said. He went
over to the altar, upon which were strewn Reverend Jackson’s cassock and the
clothes he’d been wearing the day before. ‘We’ll need to bag these up and take
them with us. If the key’s there, then it needs to be kept with us at the Station.

‘I can do that,’ Barratt said. ‘I’ll
also see to it that Reverend Jackson is covered up.’

‘Thanks, Henry. Okay, so here’s the
plan. Cara and I are going to go outside and tell everybody not to worry. We’ll
then go to the Station and see if we can get through to HQ. Henry, Bill: you
finish up here and bring the clothes directly to the Station. And whatever you
do, make sure you lock that door on your way out. I don’t really want to leave
him here, but for the sake of the investigation, and the village, I reckon it’s
our only option. Is everyone agreed?’ Nods from everyone. ‘Good. Come on then,
Bill,’ he said, motioning to the door. ‘Unlock this door for us, will you
please? And don’t forget to lock it after we go, okay?’

‘Understood.’ He led them down the aisle
through the chancel to the front door and inserted the key into the lock.

Jennings looked at Cara. ‘Ready?’

‘Ready.’

Thompson turned the key until the lock
clunked open, and opened the door to allow them outside. Some of the crowd had
taken Jennings’s advice and gone home, but at least a dozen people remained
gathered around the churchyard entrance. Emily Mitford shuffled her way to the
front and confronted the officers. ‘Is there any news, Sergeant Jennings?’ she
asked. ‘Anything at all you can tell us?’

Jennings paused. Under normal
circumstances, he would have told them to mind their own business and clear
off, but this was different. They didn’t mean any harm, and he knew that
Emily’s curiosity was borne out of genuine concern. When you lived in a village
the size of Shepherd’s Cross, you were expected to look out for your neighbour.
They weren’t being nosy do-gooders; they only wanted to help.

‘Listen up, everybody,’ he said. ‘I’m
afraid I can’t go into any kind of detail just yet. Until further notice, this
needs to remain a matter for the Police. What I can tell you, however, is that
there appears to have been an unfortunate incident carried out recently within
this church.’

‘What kind of incident?’ asked Yvonne
Turner, who was standing behind Emily in the crowd.

‘I’m sorry, but I’m not at liberty to
say. I can’t tell you any more at this point; not until there’s been a full Police
investigation. I’m going to have to caution all of you, that as of now, All
Saints’ Church, and the entire churchyard right up to the gate, is officially a
crime scene. As such, it is against the law to enter. If you do so, you will be
arrested. PC Jones and I are going back to the Station now and one of us will
return with some hi-vis tape to cordon off the area. Until then, I’d be
grateful if you would all step outside the churchyard. I need you all to know
that we’re taking this incident very seriously, and I’d like to take this
opportunity to ask for your cooperation. I’m confident I can rely on your
patience and suppo….’

‘Cara! Thank God I’ve found you. Help –
please help!’

‘Ben?’ asked Cara; turning, along with
everyone else, to see Ben Price stumbling frantically through the snow towards
her. She ran towards him, noticing that he wasn’t wearing a jacket; a desperate
look on his face. ‘What’s wrong?’

He finally reached her and fell to his
knees, exhausted. ‘It’s Chloe,’ he said, looking up at her. ‘She’s gone.’

1.00pm:
Reuben King was grinning from ear to ear as he entered the dining room of Fellside
Hall, an uncharacteristic spring in his step as he joined the others.

‘How is she?’ Blackmoor asked him. ‘Is
she asleep?’

‘Dead to the world. The
chloroform
will take a couple of hours to wear off. In the meantime, I’ve locked her in
the cellar; just to be certain.’

‘And you’re sure that nobody in the
village saw you with her?’

‘Quite sure.’

‘Let’s hope you’re right. Anyway, in a
few hours we will no longer need to be so cautious.’

‘A few hours?’ asked Bronwyn. ‘So soon?’

‘Why not? Everything is ready. We have the
witnesses, we have the blood, and most importantly, we have the girl. The final
sacrifice to prove our absolute devotion to Him. We must strike while the iron
is hot, while the window of opportunity remains open. Thus far, we have managed
to conduct our preparations without drawing undue attention to ourselves. That
will change – the bodies will soon be discovered – if they haven’t already. And
when they are, the finger of suspicion will point in our direction. With the Police
snapping at our heels, executing our task without interference will suddenly
become a far greater challenge. No, my friends; we must act this evening…we may
never get this chance again.’

The room fell silent; each of the five
witnesses contemplating the hours ahead of them. Blackmoor’s hypnosis continued
to bind the three new recruits to him, just as it had with countless others he
had used for various purposes over the years.

‘Come,’ said Blackmoor. ‘Let us go to
the Round Room a final time before nightfall. We must be certain it is
precisely as it needs to be. He will not be summoned if everything is not
exactly to His satisfaction.’

Walking together along the candle-lit
corridor towards the centre of the Hall, they arrived at a small, wooden door:
much smaller than any other door in the Hall; so much so, that anyone taller
than five feet would have needed to bow their head to avoid bumping it against
the top of the frame. King was at the front, and from his pocket he removed a
long, metal key with three flattened teeth. It slid into the lock with little
resistance. King wasn’t the first to enter, however. Instead, he moved to one
side, allowing that honour to pass to Blackmoor, who signalled his gratitude
with a smile before opening the door and bending down to walk into the room.

The dwarfish door proved to be
deceiving: once inside, there was more than enough space to stand up and move
around freely without constraint. As the name suggested, the room was round; a
tall, cylindrical shape without windows, approximately fifteen feet in
diameter. The exposed stone walls stretched high above their heads to a large
glass dome that covered the entire room, serving as both roof and window. Many
years ago, in the time of the third Lord Byrne, the dome had been smashed and
broken; exposing the room below to decades of abuse by the elements. One of King’s
most important tasks over the previous three days had been to carry out
makeshift repairs until a new glass ceiling could be commissioned, and although
far from perfect, it was at least watertight and had enabled the room to be
tidied up and scrubbed clean to a surprisingly high standard given all those
years of neglect. There was an open fireplace set into the wall at the opposite
side to the door, unlit but neatly stacked with kindling and logs, ready to do
its job at the touch of a flame.

The floor of the room was made up of
shiny cobbles set into earth, upon which was painted a large, white, five-pointed
star surrounded by two concentric circles: the Sigil of Baphomet - the inverted
pentagram. At the end of each of the star’s points within the two circles, was
painted an individual hieroglyphic symbol, next to which stood a thick, black
candle about ten inches in length. A thin, metal pole pierced the floor in the
centre of the pentagram, onto which hung a large, ornamental horn.

There were ten hooks nailed into the
wall: long, blood-red cloaks hung from five of them, with the other five being
used for a variety of knives and sharp, metal implements. A small table
standing against the wall was the only piece of furniture in an otherwise
sparsely decorated room. Lying upon it was an old, unopened leather-bound book
with a silver clasp; no words or pictures on the cover to suggest its contents.

There was nothing else inside the room.

Blackmoor regarded every item in turn,
checking its position and working his way around the room, like a sculptor
scrutinising his latest creation from every possible angle. After a while, when
he was completely satisfied that everything was as he wanted it, he returned to
the others and smiled. ‘My friends,’ he said, looking at each of them in turn. ‘I
do believe we’re finally ready.’

1.30pm:
Bill Turner opened the door to the Police Station and walked inside, removing
his hat and jacket and hanging them on a nearby coat-stand. Sergeant Jennings
watched him as he came in, scanning his face for any signs of hope, but none
were forthcoming. Turner shook his head dejectedly, before collapsing into the
closest chair he could find. ‘I’m guessing there’s no news?’ Jennings asked,
pouring a fresh cup of tea from the pot and handing it to him.

‘Good guess,’ replied Turner, taking the
cup in both hands and holding it up to his face in an attempt to thaw himself
out.

‘How many have we got searching for her?’

‘Pretty much the whole damn village. We’re
looking everywhere.’

‘Good. We’ll find her.’

‘I hope so.’

From the moment that Ben Price had come
running up to Cara outside All Saints’ Church, the hunt for Chloe had begun.
Almost two hours later, the impetus was as strong as ever; the entire village
having forgotten about its Sunday lunch and joined the search. Much of the
credit for that went to Emily Mitford: as one of the dozen or so people who had
been standing in the churchyard at the time, she had leapt immediately into
action, and with all the leadership skills of an army general, had instructed
the others to form themselves into groups and begin searching. Word had rapidly
spread around the village, and in a matter of minutes, the groups had swelled
in number. Cara may have been ‘officially’ in charge of the operation, but
everybody knew that it was Emily, with all her years of being at the centre of
the community, who was pulling the strings.

‘Can you tell me what happened in the
church, Brian?’ Turner asked. ‘Does it have anything to do with Chloe?’

Jennings shook his head and sighed. ‘I’m
sorry, Bill, but I can’t tell you anything until the investigation’s finished.
I would if I could – you know that, don’t you?’

‘Aye, I do. Sorry…I shouldn’t have
asked.’

‘It’s alright. It’s hardly surprising
that folk here want to know what’s going on. Are the two incidents related? I
hope for the sake of the little girl that they’re not.’

‘Any luck with contacting HQ?’

‘Nope. The phones are still down. I’ve
asked Wilf Blackett to plough his way through the snow all the way up to the
highway, but that’s going to take a few hours. As soon as he’s done that, I’m
going to drive to HQ and let them know what’s going on. Unless the phones are
up and running beforehand.’ Not for the first time that day, he pressed the
speaker button on the phone in front of him to check for a dialling tone,
pressing it again to turn it off when all he was met with was a flat,
irritating beeping sound. ‘Damn,’ he cursed, standing up and pacing the floor. ‘We
wouldn’t be having this problem if Sid Henshaw had allowed that company to
stick a mobile phone mast in his field. For God’s sake: here we are in the
twenty-first century and we can’t get a bloody phone signal. It’s like living
in the dark ages.’

‘It wasn’t only Henshaw who didn’t want
that mast here, Brian. Nigh on the whole village was against it – me included.
We don’t want to live like they do in the city, running around like idiots,
glued to whatever the latest gadget might be. Besides; I’ve heard those mobile
phones can cause cancer.’

‘Jesus Christ, Bill, not you as well? I
thought you had more grey matter between the lugs than to believe that horse
shit.’

Turner didn’t reply, instead he raised
his hand to his mouth to stifle a yawn before taking a sip of his tea. The pair
sat together in silence; the only sounds coming from the comforting ticking of
the clock hanging on the wall and the occasional crunching of footsteps through
snow as people passed by the front window.

‘Where the hell could she have gone to?’
Turner asked, breaking the silence. ‘She’d been lying in her bed while that
Bainbridge woman was sitting downstairs looking after her, for Christ’s sake.
How could she have slipped past her without her noticing?’

‘We can’t be sure that Chloe didn’t do a
runner when Price went to fetch Charlotte Bainbridge. Allegedly, when Charlotte
went round to Ben’s house, she didn’t bother going upstairs to check on Chloe
for a good five minutes. And Price could have been on his way back from your
store by then. By the way, what did he buy?’

‘Just some Lucozade and a tube of cough
sweets. The poor bloke must be worried sick.’

‘Cara’s out there with him. She’ll look
after him. I think they’re quite close. Nice lad, by all accounts.’

‘Aye, he seemed pleasant enough.’

The Station door opened and Liam Turner
walked in, sporting a pair of ridiculously oversized headphones that failed to
confine to his own ears the sound of AC/DC belting out ‘Hell’s Bells’ with
their trademark gusto. ‘Alright, dad?’ he asked, pulling out an mp3 player from
his pocket and switching it off. He removed the headphones and sat down next to
his father.

‘Hi, Liam. Any news?’

‘Not that I know of. There are loads of
people out looking for her. Some of them have spread out into the fields, and
PC Jones has sent a few more to go down to the river and check along the
bankside. Jack Emery has gone off in his tractor to let some of the farmers
know – he’s going to ask them to keep their eyes peeled for her.’

‘Good lad,’ said Turner, ruffling his
son’s shaggy hair. There weren’t many sixteen-year-old kids who were prepared
to get up at silly o’clock in the morning to deliver newspapers. Contrary to
popular belief, running a village store was hard work and demanded long hours
spent juggling all manner of tasks. Bill Turner knew that there wasn’t a
snowball’s chance in hell of his son taking over his store – he was far too
ambitious and inquisitive to settle for that – but in knowing that he wasn’t
interested, Bill loved his son all the more for helping him and Yvonne when
other kids might have locked themselves away in their rooms or stayed out late
with pals.

‘It’s been over two hours now since she
disappeared,’ said Liam, enjoying the opportunity to sit in a real-life Police Station
and play detective. ‘She must be here somewhere.’

‘Unless someone’s taken her away,’
Turner added. There’s always a chance she was kidnapped.’

Jennings shook his head. ‘Possible, but
I doubt it. For one, you wouldn’t get far without a vehicle in these
conditions. Cara has been asking the residents whether or not they can remember
seeing any vehicles either coming in or out of The Cross between eleven and
twelve o’clock this morning. Nobody can recall seeing anything, apart from
Louise Tattersall and a couple of others who said they’d seen Sid Henshaw
driving his quad bike near to the Post Office. Hard to hide a girl on a quad.’

Liam Turner’s face suddenly became a
shade paler. ‘Did anybody report seeing a big black car?’ he asked. ‘A big
four-by-four.’

Jennings looked at him. ‘Not that I know
of. Why do you ask…did you see something?’

‘Errm…well…I didn’t actually see it
in
Shepherd’s Cross, but I definitely saw it in the distance, driving up the lake
road. I was walking Brewster up by Smiddy’s wood at the time – I remember
thinking that it seemed to be going pretty quickly given the state of the
roads.’

‘What time was that?’ asked his father. ‘Think
carefully, son – it might be important.’

‘I’m not sure. But I reckon it must have
been around eleven or eleven-thirty. Not long before I came home, and that was
probably about an hour ago.’

Bill Turner looked at Jennings and
noticed the concern on his face. ‘I know a couple of people who drive a black
four-by-four, Brian. But none of them live out that way,’ he said. ‘Any idea?’

Jennings paused for a moment, gathering
his thoughts before answering. ‘Aye, I have an idea. A good idea.’ He stood up
and began pacing the floor again. ‘Listen up, you two. I need you to do me a
favour.’

‘Of course,’ Turner said.’ What do you
want us to do, Brian?’

‘I want the pair of you to split up and
find Cara as fast as you can. Ask her to come back to the Station straight
away. Tell her it’s urgent; tell her to drop anything else she’s doing, do you
hear me?’

Father and son nodded their reply together
like synchronised puppets.

‘Okay. Off you go. And please be as
quick as you can. We have no time to lose.’

They didn’t need asking twice. They
hurried out into the cold, grey afternoon air: Bill Turner heading left, his
son turning right; stopping only to throw on their jackets as they went
outside. Jennings watched them running off and returned to his seat, burying
his head in his hands. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he said, removing his hands and looking
up at the clock on the wall. ‘Who
are
these people?’