The Mills of God (11 page)

‘So'm I. Goodnight one and all.'

Nick could not help but notice that Olivia squeezed Kasper's hand as she left the building.

‘A right tidy package, that,' commented Jack, watching her departing form.

Nick agreed in a half-hearted tone, thinking to himself that Olivia deserved far more praise than the Yorkshireman was capable of giving. Trying to be Christian, he murmured, ‘Indeed.'

The pub was emptying now, the majority of customers leaving in twos or threes. Nick turned to Kasper. ‘I locked the church up as soon as it got dark. I didn't like the look of that stranger I had in there recently.'

‘Do you think he was the murderer?'

‘I've no way of telling but he – or she – acted in a most peculiar manner and I don't want a repeat performance.'

‘Well, I'm walking home alone,' announced Jack Boggis, attempting to look defiant, sticking out his chins.

‘I'll drop you at the vicarage and then go on,' said Kasper.

Despite his bravado Boggis seemed glad of their company and strode off with a rather sad attempt at courage when they left him at the car park. Even though it was only a few minutes' walk from the vicarage Nick was equally glad to be dropped at his front door. He walked in, was greeted by that familiar smell of times past, and listened to the silence. Radetsky came to meet him, then his tail swelled up as William creaked overhead.

The last person to leave the pub, mindless with alcohol and shouting loudly about the sodding cops, was Dwayne. He turned into one of the small alleyways that ran from the High Street, then decided that he needed a pee. He unzipped his jeans and was vaguely fumbling for his cock when somebody tapped him on the shoulder.

‘What are you doing?' asked an unearthly voice, neither male nor female but a weird mixture of both.

Fearing the police, Dwayne spun round and looked straight into the eyes of his killer. He fell to the ground instantly and lay in an ever-growing pool of his own cascading urine.

TEN

I
t seemed to Tennant that he had been asleep all of five minutes when the phone went off in his ear again.

‘Yes?' he whispered grumpily.

‘Sir.' It was Potter sounding tense.

‘Oh no! Not again!' He was fully awake.

‘Yes, sir. Sorry.'

Tennant sat up, pulling on a shirt. ‘Who is it this time?'

‘That little squirt we had down here. The one who was so horrible to his grandma. Dwayne Saunters.'

‘Oh God, it will kill the old girl. Meet me outside in ten.'

‘Right, sir.'

Thank heavens for electric razors, thought the inspector, running one perfunctorily over his chin and simultaneously pulling on his trousers. And thank heavens for shoes that slipped on without any bother. He ran downstairs still easing into one just as Potter's car appeared.

‘Tell me everything.'

‘He was last seen leaving the pub at about eleven p.m. He cut down one of those little alleyways where he relieved himself and was stabbed in the neck as he did so.'

‘Any witnesses?'

‘Never a one.'

‘Who found him?'

‘A dog. Old Mrs Carteret, whose house forms part of the alleyway, heard her pet whining at about midnight and let him out. She didn't go with him because she was in her nightclothes but when she heard the redoubtable Roger worrying at something in the alley she tiptoed down in her slippers and came across friend Dwayne. She screamed the place down apparently.'

‘Any message left?'

‘Something chalked on the wall this time. The night-duty boys have already set up a crime scene.'

‘What ungodly hour is it?' asked the inspector, realizing that he had forgotten to put his watch on.

Potter glanced at his. ‘Just gone four, sir.'

‘God almighty. We really do earn our money, don't we.'

‘We most certainly do.'

Forty-five minutes later they were in Lakehurst which seemed utterly deserted and desolate in the chill wind that had come up. But a visit to the mobile headquarters to get protective clothing proved otherwise. It was a hive of activity and, minutes later, they saw that the alleyway had been cordoned off and that there were shapes in blue standing at either end. What appeared to be a heap of clothes was lying in the pathway.

The inspector spoke to one of the constables standing at the High Street end. ‘Has anyone touched the body yet?'

‘No, sir. Forensics haven't arrived – and who can blame them.'

‘Who indeed?'

Tennant shone his torch on to the scribbled message on the wall. It read: ‘So the third one is done. Seven to go. Take great care. The Acting Light of the World.'

He moved the strong beam directly on to the corpse. With all his yobbish bravado drained away, Dwayne Saunters looked pathetic. Huddled as if he were asleep, lying in a puddle of dried-out pee, his flies undone and his penis small and somehow childlike, even the inspector – who had had no time for the youth when he was alive – felt a tiny pang of pity. He turned back to the constable.

‘May as well go and have a cup of coffee. There's nothing we can do until the forensic team get here.'

‘Very good, sir,' the officer answered, looking slightly jealous.

Back in the mobile unit, Tennant sat with his feet up and his eyes closed and eventually found that he was barely conscious. Then he woke with a start as the police surgeon arrived. All three of them made their way to the alleyway where Dwayne lay motionless, and bent down over him.

‘Pretty clear cut,' said the doctor. ‘He was stabbed in the neck whilst in the act of urinating. Poor little bugger.'

Without touching it Tennant examined the implement that had killed the boy. It was like a paper knife, but thinner, and obviously sharp as a razor. It had penetrated the side of the neck, severing a main artery. The inspector bent closer, noticing the jewel at the top and thinking it could well have been an old-fashioned hat pin.

‘Potter, look at this. At last we might have a lead to the killer.'

‘I don't know about that, sir. You can pick these things up in any junk shop.'

‘You reckon it's a hat pin?'

‘Looks like it.'

‘The murderer knew just how to use it though.'

‘Yes.' The sergeant stood up and looked at the chalked message on the wall. ‘So he plans on doing another seven, does he.'

‘It can't happen. I've got to catch this lunatic.'

‘Well the lads are working their way through the local population.'

‘And Speckled Wood?'

‘Speckled Wood and every outlying farmhouse. Somebody's got to know something.'

Tennant turned to Potter. ‘Can you get me a detailed map of the district? And quickly. I'll want it by this afternoon at the latest.' He glanced at his watch then remembered that he had forgotten to put it on. ‘Time Potter?' he said quickly.

‘Coming up five, sir.'

‘Where
are
forensics?'

But even as he spoke a posse of white-clad forms, some carrying suitcases, appeared walking silently towards them.

‘Thank God,' said Tennant with force. ‘Now we can go away and have some more coffee and let them get on with it. I suggest we return in an hour.'

Back in the mobile unit Tennant sat silently, turning over in his mind the possibility of a linking thread between the victims. Was it conceivable that Gerrard had run some sort of homosexual ring of which Dwayne had been a member? But what would that have to do with the Patels, honest hard-working folk who ordered Mr Riddell's china tea especially for him? Or could it be what Potter had believed all along? That there was a religious maniac at work who for reasons best known to himself – or herself – was polishing off the inhabitants of the village of Lakehurst.

At eight o'clock, having investigated the corpse of Dwayne Saunters, forensics stating that they had got all they could from it, Inspector Tennant removed his protective clothing and went round, booted and suited, to see the vicar, who he caught shovelling shredded wheat into his face at great speed.

‘Excuse me if I just finish my breakfast, Inspector.'

‘Of course.' Tennant stared somewhat avidly at the toast.

‘Would you like something?'

‘Thank you very much. Yes, please.'

‘Toast?' The inspector nodded. ‘One or two slices?'

‘Two please.'

He spread them thickly with marmalade, feeling he needed the sugar. Then turned to the vicar.

‘I'm afraid I'm going to pick your brains once more.'

Nick looked up questioningly but said nothing.

‘There was another message left at the scene of crime.' And Tennant handed over a piece of paper on which he had copied it down.

Nick looked at it and shook his head. ‘It only confirms my suspicion that there's a religious maniac at work. Have you had a handwriting expert look at them?'

‘We most certainly have but as they're all printed he can't make very much of them.'

‘Not even whether it's a man or a woman?'

‘Not even that, I'm sorry to say.'

Nick shook his head. ‘I wish I could throw more light on it for you. But at the moment I'm stumped.'

He handed the piece of paper back to the inspector who put up his hand, barring it. ‘No, you keep it, Vicar. We've got plenty of these. If you get any bright ideas don't hesitate to ring me.' And he handed the vicar a card with his mobile number as well as his land line printed on.

Nick looked apologetic. ‘If I get a brainwave I'll ring straight away.'

‘Thanks.' The inspector stood up. ‘And thanks so much for the toast.'

‘You are most welcome.'

They both stared upwards as from the room above the kitchen there came the sound of footsteps.

‘I didn't know you had anybody else living here,' said Tennant, somewhat surprised.

Nick laughed. ‘Oh, that's only William. He's my resident ghost.'

‘Good God,' said Tennant, and looked at the vicar incredulously.

His earlier mood of extreme tiredness having vanished – probably achieved by eating holy toast, he thought – Tennant looked down the alleyway that had so recently witnessed the death of Dwayne Saunters and saw that an ambulance was parked in the High Street and that a shield had been erected round the body, from which emerged a wheeled stretcher and two attendants. On the stretcher was lying something in a zipped-up bag. The policemen formed a human cordon as the bag was transferred to the ambulance and driven away at some speed.

Tennant was immediately struck by a thought and hurried to the mobile headquarters to voice it.

‘Has anyone told the grandmother yet?'

‘Yes, sir. Sergeant Potter and a WPC are round there now.'

‘In that case,' answered the inspector with a visible sigh of relief, ‘I'll go and visit Miss Beauchamp. Can I borrow a car?'

Fifteen minutes later he reached Speckled Wood, finding the place as delightful as its name. At the top of a hill, which he climbed on the small road leading out of Lakehurst, were revealed a few houses dotted here and there. But by far the most spectacular thing was the view. Pulling up outside a rural-looking cottage, Dominic gazed for miles to a distant glimpse of the sea, surrounded by undulating hills and fields full of sheep. In the distance he could glimpse what had once been a manor house and narrowing his eyes saw a glint of azure water that told him the place was still moated. His heart leapt and the actor in him surfaced. Just for a moment he dreamed that he was spotted by a well-known director, became an overnight success in a major film and could afford to buy somewhere beautiful in Speckled Wood instead of his crummy flat in Lewes. And then, as if to add to his dream, he heard the nearby sounds of a violin played by an extremely competent pair of hands. He turned to the cottage he was standing outside and knew, even before he looked, that he had found the home of Olivia Beauchamp.

To be perfectly honest he made no move to knock at the front door until a good fifteen minutes had passed. She was playing a lesser known work by Tchaikovsky and Tennant stood enthralled, listening to her tackling the same few phrases over and over again, honing them until they sounded to Tennant's ears like drops of liquid crystal. Then she paused and he released himself from his almost trance-like state and knocked at her front door.

She took a minute or two to answer and Tennant thought she might have been in the loo because she had a towel in her hands on which she was wiping them.

‘Hello,' she said.

With a mighty effort the inspector pulled himself together. ‘Miss Beauchamp?' he asked, though he knew perfectly well that it was.

‘Yes. Are you the police?'

Tennant showed his identity badge. ‘Yes, I am. Look I know it's the most awful cheek to interrupt your practice but could I have a few minutes of your time?'

‘Certainly. As a matter of fact I've been expecting you. Come in. Would you like a coffee?'

‘I'd love one. I take it black, no sugar.'

She opened the door wide and the inspector walked into an idyllic little place with superb views from every window.

‘Lovely cottage,' he said. ‘But a bit remote.'

‘Not really.' She gestured through the kitchen window at another house – as old as time in Tennant's opinion – which stood behind her property and slightly to the right. ‘That's Giles Fielding's place. He farms there, you know.'

‘And does he keep an eye on you?'