The Chemistry of Death (18 page)

Its presence seemed to chastise my sudden optimism, but it had been so long since I'd felt like this I didn't care. Of course, I didn't question the reasons for it too closely. And I was careful not to link my new outlook with Jenny. It was enough just to appreciate the moment while it lasted.

As it turned out, it wasn't about to last much longer.

I was passing the church when a voice called out, 'Dr Hunter. A moment, please.'

Scarsdale was in the graveyard with Tom Mason, the younger of the two gardeners who tended Manham's flowerbeds and lawns. I faced him across the low church wall.

'Morning, Reverend. Tom.'

Tom bobbed his head with a shy smile, without looking up from the rose bush he was tending. Like his grandfather he was happiest left alone to look after his plants, which he did with almost bovine gentleness. By contrast, there was nothing bovine or gentle about Scarsdale. He didn't bother to acknowledge my greeting.

'I'm curious as to your thoughts on the current situation,' he said without preamble. His black suit seemed to absorb the sunlight among the old and uneven gravestones.

It seemed an odd thing to say. 'I'm not sure what you mean.'

'The village faces a difficult time. People all over the country will be watching to see how we acquit ourselves. Don't you agree?'

I hoped this wasn't going to be a repeat of his sermon. 'What is it you want, Reverend?'

'To show that Manham won't tolerate what's happened. This could be an opportunity to forge a stronger community. To unite in the face of this test.'

'I don't see how a lunatic abducting and killing women can be regarded as a "test".'

'No, perhaps you don't. But people are frankly concerned about the damage being done to the reputation of the village. And rightly so.'

'I would have thought they'd be more concerned with finding Lyn Metcalf and catching Sally Palmer's killer. Isn't that more important than worrying about Manham's reputation?'

'Don't play games with me, Dr Hunter,' he snapped. 'If more people had paid attention to what was going on in this community it might not have come to this.'

I should have known better than to argue with him. 'I still don't understand what your point is.'

I was conscious of the gardener's presence in the background, but Scarsdale was never shy about performing in front of an audience. He rocked back on his heels so that he was looking at me down the length of his nose.

'I've been approached by a number of parishioners. It's felt we need to present a united front. Especially in our dealings with the press.'

'Meaning what, exactly?' I asked, though I was beginning to get an inkling of where this was leading.

'It's felt that the village needs a spokesman. Someone best able to represent Manham to the outside world.'

'That's you, I take it.'

'If anyone else is willing to take on the responsibility, I'll be happy to stand aside.'

'What makes you think there'll be need for anyone to do it?'

'Because God hasn't finished with this village yet.'

He said it with a conviction I found unnerving. 'So what do you want from me?'

'You're a figure of some importance. Your support would be welcome.'

The idea of Scarsdale using this as a public platform for himself was galling. Yet I knew the fear and distrust that pervaded the village would create a receptive audience for him. It was a depressing thought.

'I've no intention of talking to the press, if that's what you mean.'

'It's also a question of attitude. I wouldn't want to think anyone was undermining the efforts of those acting in the village's best interests.'

'I tell you what, Reverend. You do what you think best for the village, and so will I.'

'Is that supposed to be a criticism?'

'Let's say we just have different views on what constitutes the village's best interests.'

He considered me, coldly. 'Perhaps I should remind you that people here have long memories. They're not likely to forget any transgressions at a time like this. Or forgive them, unchristian as that may be.'

'In that case I'll just have to try not to transgress.'

'You can be as glib as you like. But I'm not the only one who's wondered about your loyalties. People talk, Dr Hunter. And what I've been hearing is quite disturbing.'

'Then perhaps you shouldn't listen to gossip. As a man of the cloth aren't you supposed to give the benefit of the doubt?'

'Don't presume to tell me my job.'

'Then don't try to tell me mine.'

He glared at me. He might have said more, but there was a clatter from behind him as Tom Mason put his tools in the wheelbarrow. Scarsdale drew himself up, his eyes as hard as the gravestones he stood among.

'I won't keep you any longer, Dr Hunter. Good day,' he said, stiffly, and stalked away.

Well, you handled that well,
I thought, sourly, as I continued on past the church. I hadn't meant it to turn into a confrontation, but Scarsdale brought out the worst in me. Still brooding about what he'd said, I didn't notice the car until it pulled up alongside.

'You look like you lost a pound and found a penny.'

It was Ben. Sunglasses on, he had a brawny arm propped on the open windowsill of his new black Land Rover. It was dusty, but still made mine look like an antique.

'Sorry. I was miles away.'

'So I noticed. Nothing to do with the Witchfinder General over there, was it?' he said, jerking his head towards the church. 'I saw you talking to him.'

I had to laugh. 'Yeah, it was, actually.' I gave him a brief rundown of the encounter. He shook his head.

'I don't know what God he's supposed to worship, but if the good reverend's any indication I wouldn't like to meet him down a dark alley. You should have told him to bollocks.'

'That would have gone down well.'

'By the sound of it he's got it in for you anyway. You're a threat to him.'

'Me?' I said, surprised.

'Think about it. Until now he's been a dried-up minister with a shrinking congregation. This is his big chance, and as far as he's concerned you're a potential challenge to his authority. You're a doctor, educated, come from the big city. And secular, let's not forget that.'

'I'm not interested in competing with him,' I said, exasperated.

'Doesn't matter. The miserable old bastard's set himself up as the Voice of Manham. If you're not with him you're against him.'

'As if things aren't bad enough as they are.'

'Oh, never doubt the ability of a righteous man to fuck things up. All in the name of the greater good, of course.'

I looked at him. His normal good humour seemed to have left him. 'You all right?'

'Just feeling cynical today. As you might have noticed.'

'What did you do to your head?'

There was a grazed bump next to one of his eyes, partly hidden by his sunglasses. His hand went to it.

'Got it chasing another bastard poacher in the reserve last night. Someone made a try for a marsh harrier's nest I've been keeping an eye on. I set off after them and went arse over elbow on one of the trails.'

'Did you catch them?'

He gave an angry shake of his head. 'I will, though. I'm sure it's that fucking Brenner. I found his car parked nearby. I waited for him, but he didn't show. Probably hiding, waiting for me to leave.' He gave a hard smile. 'I let the bastard's tyres down, so I hope he was.'

'Taking a chance, aren't you?'

'What's he going to do? Report me?' He snorted derisively. 'You going to the Lamb later?'

'Maybe.'

'Might see you there, then.'

He drove off, the Land Rover's powerful engine leaving a haze of exhaust dissipating in the air behind it. As I set off for my house I thought about what he'd said. There was always a thriving black market for endangered species, and birds in particular. But given the role they'd played in Sally Palmer's mutilation and Lyn Metcalf's abduction it was something the police should know about. The problem was that aspect of the crimes hadn't been made public, so it wasn't something I could suggest to Ben. Which meant it was down to me to tell Mackenzie. I wasn't happy with the idea of going behind Ben's back, especially when it would probably turn out to be nothing. But I couldn't take that chance. Experience had shown me that sometimes even the smallest details could be important.

I didn't know it then, but that was about to be proved in the way I least expected.

That night there was another victim. Not at the hands of the man responsible for Sally Palmer and Lyn Metcalf. At least, not directly. No, this was a casualty of the suspicion and hostility that had started to grip the village.

James Nolan lived in a tiny cottage in a cul-de-sac behind the garage. One of my patients, he worked in a shop in a neighbouring village, a quiet man whose reserve hid both a gentle nature and a deep unhappiness. He was in his fifties, single and four stone overweight. He was also homosexual. The latter was something of which he was deeply ashamed. In a backwater like Manham, where such traits were regarded as unnatural, there had been little scope for sexual adventure. Consequently, as a young man he'd found such satisfaction as he could in the public parks and lavatories of nearby towns. On one occasion the man he'd approached had been an undercover police officer. The shame of the encounter lasted far longer than the suspended sentence he received. Inevitably, word of it leaked back into the village. Already marked for ridicule, now he was seen as something far more sinister. While the exact nature of his transgression was never discussed, and probably not even known, the rumour of it was enough to brand him. In the way that small communities have of ascribing roles to its members, he became the village untouchable, the pervert whom children were warned not to go near. And Nolan lived up to his image by retreating further into his isolation. He moved through the village like a ghost, speaking to few people, asking only not to be noticed. For the most part Manham was happy to comply, not so much tolerating as ignoring him.

Until now.

In a way, it was almost a relief to him when it happened. Ever since Sally Palmer's body had been found, he'd lived in fear, knowing that rationality didn't play any part in selecting scapegoats. At night when he returned from work he would hurry into his cottage and shutter himself inside, hoping that invisibility would continue to protect him. That Saturday night, though, it failed.

It was after eleven when the banging started on his door. He had turned off the TV, was preparing to go to bed. His curtains were closed, and for a while he sat in his chair, praying that whoever it was would go away. But they didn't. There were several of them, drunk and laughing at first as they mockingly called his name. Then the shouts grew angrier, the blows to the door more violent. It danced and shook under the assault, and Nolan looked at the telephone, almost giving in and calling the police. But a lifetime of not drawing attention to himself prevented it. Instead, when the callers changed tactics, threatening to break the door down unless he opened it, he did what he'd always done.

He did as he was told.

He'd kept the chain on, trusting to the steel links to protect him. Like everything else, they failed. The door and frame splintered under the renewed assault, knocking Nolan back into the hall as the men surged into his home.

Later, he claimed he hadn't recognized any of them, saying he didn't get a look at their faces. Whether he did or not, I find it hard to believe he didn't know who his attackers were. At the very least they must have been people he'd seen before, perhaps even young men whose parents or grandparents he had grown up with. They beat and kicked him, and then set about wrecking the house. When they'd smashed everything they could, they set about him again, this time not stopping until he was unconscious. It's possible that some semblance of reason made them stop before they killed him. Then again, his injuries were such they could easily have left him for dead.

It was some time after they had gone when my phone rang. I fumbled for it, still half-asleep, and failed to recognize the whispered voice that told me someone had been hurt. While I was still trying to rouse myself the caller told me which house to go to and then rang off. I stared dumbly at the receiver for a moment or two before I collected myself enough to phone for an ambulance. There was always a chance it was a false alarm, but this hadn't sounded like a prank. And it would take an ambulance long enough to get out here as it was.

On the way to Nolan's I stopped off at the police trailer in the village square. It was manned twenty-four hours a day, and I didn't relish the thought of going to the house by myself. It was a mistake. My call to emergency hadn't been passed on to them, and I wasted valuable time on explanations. By the time one of them agreed to come with me I wished I'd gone alone.

The cul-de-sac where Nolan lived was in darkness. It was easy to see which house was his, because the front door was wide open. I looked at the neighbouring houses as we approached. There was no sign of life, but I had the feeling that we were being watched all the same.

We found Nolan in the wreckage of his home where his attackers had left him. There was little I could do but put him in the recovery position, and then wait for the ambulance. He drifted in and out of consciousness, so I kept talking to him until the paramedics arrived. At one point when he seemed quite lucid, I asked him what had happened. But he only shut his eyes again, blocking out the question.

As he was carried out on a stretcher to the ambulance, one of the police officers who'd arrived with it asked why the caller had phoned me rather than the emergency services. I said I didn't know, but that wasn't really true. I looked at the flashing blue lights reflecting from the windows of the surrounding houses. Despite the disturbance, no-one was visible in them, and no-one had come out to see what was happening. But I knew people were looking. Just as they had looked on, or looked the other way, as first Nolan's door, and then the man himself, was assaulted. Someone's conscience might have been pricked, but not enough to try to stop the attack, or to involve outsiders. This was village business. Calling me, an almost-outsider myself, had been a compromise. There would be no witnesses to this, I was certain, just as no-one would ever admit to making the anonymous call. Even that, it emerged, had been made from the village's only public phone box, making the caller impossible to trace. As the ambulance drove away I looked at the blank windows and closed doors and felt like shouting at them. But what I would have shouted, or what good that would have done, I didn't know.