Authors: S. J. Bolton
‘But from what you told me, mummification, which is basically what we’re talking about, occurs naturally.’
Harry gave a soft laugh. ‘Of course it does,’ he said. ‘I’m not trying to claim the work of the Holy Spirit in this case, far from it. It just got me thinking.’ He turned to face her. His eyes were bloodshot and there were lines on his forehead she hadn’t noticed before. ‘You see, if you’re not taking the supernatural route,’ he continued,
‘you can argue that one of the reasons why so many members of the clergy, relatively speaking, have so-called incorruptible bodies is that their remains were stored in the places most likely to produce mummification – cold, dry church crypts with airtight stone coffins. Like the one almost directly below us.’
Evi couldn’t stop herself glancing down. ‘You’ve told Rushton this?’ she asked.
‘Yep. He’s sceptical at the moment, because the crypt was thoroughly searched in the days after Megan disappeared. But he’s going to have to go down there again now. If they look carefully enough, they’ll find traces.’
‘He’s going to want you on the force,’ said Evi, trying for a smile.
Harry was still looking at her. ‘I find him uncomfortably tactile,’ he said. ‘Always touching me on the shoulder or the arm. Do you think he fancies me?’
Evi gave a little shrug. ‘Can’t think of any reason why he wouldn’t,’ she said.
‘Good answer. Are you busy tonight?’
She made herself turn her face away. ‘No,’ she said slowly. ‘But …’
‘Why is there always a but?’ said Harry.
Evi turned back. ‘I can’t stop seeing Gillian right now,’ she said. ‘The timing is all wrong. And it doesn’t take a genius to see she’s nuts about you.’
‘And that’s my fault?’ He’d taken hold of her hand, was tugging at the glove. She could feel his fingers on her wrist. She tried to pull away, he held firm.
‘Maybe not,’ she said. ‘But whether it is or isn’t your fault, it’s still your problem. Cheer up, there’s probably a guideline you can refer to. Women have been falling for the curate for centuries.’ The glove was being peeled off her fingers. She caught her breath.
‘Never the right ones,’ he said, his hand closing around hers. ‘And what do you mean, maybe not?’
‘You have a great deal of charm, Vicar. I can’t believe you save it all for me.’
‘Well, that’s where you’re wrong. You – and Detective Chief Superintendent Rushton, of course.’ His index finger had slipped inside the sleeve of her jacket. ‘You have such soft skin,’ he muttered.
‘If that child they found last night does turn out to be Hayley,’ said Evi, taking hold of his hand and pulling it firmly away from hers, ‘I can’t begin to predict how Gillian will react. I can’t stop seeing her, not even …’
She stopped. It didn’t really need saying.
‘If the child they found last night does turn out to be Hayley,’ said Harry, leaning back on the bench again, ‘I’m going to have to bury her.’
9 November
‘Y
OU WERE RIGHT,
REVEREND.
THEY WERE KEPT IN THE
crypt. In the third tomb along from the front. We found traces of hair and blood, from both of them. Other bodily fluids as well. Even a button.’
‘God rest their souls,’ replied Harry.
‘Quite.’ Rushton’s voice down the phone was unusually subdued. ‘Of course, we searched that tomb back when we were looking for Megan and it was empty then,’ he went on. ‘So she was obviously kept somewhere, possibly even in the killer’s own house, while we were searching, then moved after all the fuss died down.’
Harry looked at the clock. Six o’clock in the evening. Was there any point calling Evi? It was four days since she’d even bothered answering the phone.
‘We also found traces of blood in the main part of the church,’ continued Rushton. ‘What do you call it, the nave?’
Harry muttered something.
‘From just underneath the gallery. The stones had been washed clean but we dug some of the mortar out from in between them,’ Rushton was saying. ‘We managed to match it to both girls.’
‘And they’ve been confirmed as Megan and Hayley?’
Rushton sighed. ‘Aye. We got the results of the DNA tests a couple of days ago. Not that any of us really had any doubts. We’re
still waiting to hear about the remains in the urn that was given to Gillian Royle. God help us if that’s another missing child.’
‘Quite,’ said Harry. ‘Any suspects?’
‘Several leads we’re following,’ replied Rushton.
Harry waited. ‘What about the effigy I found beneath the gallery?’ he asked when he realized Rushton was going nowhere further.
‘We’ve spoken to the family who made it,’ admitted the detective. ‘They say they went to find it on the night of the bonfire and couldn’t. Claim to have no idea how it could have got into the church. There are a couple of prints that don’t match anyone in the family so they could well be telling the truth. The sweater was Millie Fletcher’s, though, her mother identified it.’
‘Then how?’
‘Stolen from the washing line is our best guess. Wouldn’t have been difficult, that garden’s very accessible. I’ve increased police presence in the town for the next few weeks, we’ll be keeping a close eye on the house.’ He gave another deep sigh. ‘We’re talking to young Tom Fletcher and his psychiatrist about this little girl that seems to have been hanging around,’ he said. ‘We need to track her down.’
‘She must live in the town,’ said Harry. ‘It can’t be that hard.’ Rushton had been talking to Evi. Everyone got to see her but him.
‘Trouble is, young Tom’s imagination is on the powerful end of the spectrum. He talks about this girl as if she’s barely human. We can hardly do a house-to-house search for a monster in human form.’
‘Guess not.’
‘And we’ve identified the source of the footprint found in their garden that night. A wellington, as we thought, size eight, rubber soled, made in France. Unfortunately, several thousand pairs are imported every year and there are more than a dozen suppliers in the north-west alone. It’s going to take some time.’
As soon as he’d hung up, Harry tried to call Evi. He got her answer machine and left a message. Then he walked through his quiet house, opened the back door and went out into the garden. On a damp, moss-covered bench beneath a bare magnolia tree he sat down and tried to pray.
17 December
‘F
OR WHAT IT
’
S
WORTH,
VICAR,
I THOUGHT THAT WAS
better than the first one. Shorter. Less standing around in the wind.’
Harry turned to see that Tobias Renshaw had crept up on him through the mourners that were gathered in the large hall of the Renshaws’ house. It really wasn’t his day. After Lucy’s second interment, in a new grave, lower down the hill than her first, he’d raced back to the church, cassock flapping, to try and catch Evi before she disappeared – again – and had practically fallen over the gang of journalists lurking by the church door. He really wasn’t in the mood for this obnoxious old bugger. He made a point of looking round the room.
‘I’m not sure Mike is back from the graveside yet,’ he said. ‘I might pop out and look for him. He seems to be taking this quite hard.’
‘Who?’ asked Tobias. ‘Oh, Jenny’s husband. Never really took to him. Always struck me as being on the make. Still, she seems happy enough. How’s the lovely Alice and her charming daughter? I saw them in church just now. Haven’t they come back?’
‘Detective Chief Superintendent,’ said Harry in relief as Rushton appeared behind Tobias. ‘Good to see you.’
‘All right, lad.’ Rushton nodded at him then turned to the older man. ‘Mr R.,’ he said. ‘My condolences.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Tobias. ‘Can I get anyone a drink? You’d think there’d be a hardship fund, wouldn’t you, for when a second funeral becomes necessary?’ Harry and Rushton watched the old man walk away towards a drinks table.
‘He’s harmless enough,’ said Rushton in a low voice.
‘If you say so,’ said Harry, without the energy even to try to hide his feelings. ‘I’ll tell you what puzzles me, though.’
‘What’s that, lad?’
‘Doesn’t everything round here – the land, the farms, all the property – doesn’t it belong to Tobias? He’s the oldest Renshaw, after all. Yet Sinclair always seems to be completely in charge.’
‘It was all made over to Sinclair a few years ago,’ replied Rushton. ‘From what I can remember, Tobias was ready to retire and Sinclair wouldn’t take over unless he was given a free rein.’
Harry could smell smoke and coffee on the other man’s breath. ‘He made his father sign over control?’ he asked.
‘Oh, that sounds worse than it was. It would all have come to Sinclair in the end. The property is – what do you call it? – entailed. The oldest male always inherits. Now then, I’m glad I’ve caught you. A quiet word, if I may.’
As Harry allowed himself to be gently propelled into a quiet corner of the old school room, he caught sight of Gillian watching them.
‘We’ve had the results of the latest DNA test,’ said Rushton quietly. He too had spotted Gillian. ‘You know, the one done on the burned remains Mrs Royle had in her kitchen cupboard? It took longer than we’d have liked, but anyway, it’s back now.’
‘And?’
‘Result. Perfect match to our friend Arthur.’
Harry sighed. There was a bottle of Irish whiskey on the drinks table but it wasn’t even midday and he had a busy afternoon. ‘So let me get this straight,’ he said. ‘The remains Gillian Royle had in her kitchen cupboard all this time were actually those of a seventy-year-old man called Arthur Seacroft who was originally buried next to Lucy.’
‘Well, strictly speaking, just the remains of part of his right leg,’ said Rushton. ‘The rest of him is still in the grave. Ah, thanks, love, very nice.’
Christiana Renshaw had approached, carrying a tray of sandwiches. Rushton helped himself to two. Harry shook his head, then waited until Christiana had moved away to the next group.
‘So someone dug up Arthur’s grave,’ he said, ‘helped themselves to one of his limbs, broke into Gillian’s house that night, abducted Hayley, left Arthur’s leg behind in her cot and then started the fire.’
Rushton chewed for a few seconds and swallowed. ‘You have to admire their nerve,’ he said. ‘Without some trace of charred human remains in the house, the firemen would have been suspicious. Finding nothing would have given credence to Gillian’s claims that her daughter didn’t die in the fire. There would have been a serious search. We’d have found them in the crypt. Arthur’s right leg put paid to all that. We didn’t look for Hayley. Another serious error for me to account for when I meet my maker.’
‘Hindsight’s a wonderful thing,’ said Harry. ‘I’ve seen the report into the fire. Gillian showed it to me. The fire investigators had no reason to suspect arson.’
Rushton said nothing. He carried on eating but his actions had an automatic look about them. ‘We’ve also had the entomologist’s report back,’ he said after a minute. ‘Goes on at length about egg-laying and hatching cycles, cheese graters, skuttle flies, coffin skippers – sorry, lad, I don’t do bugs. The long and short of it is that he thinks Megan and Hayley joined Lucy in the ground in early September.’
‘About the time the church was reopened,’ said Harry.
‘Exactly.’ Rushton finished his first sandwich and got to work on his second. ‘Whoever was responsible wasn’t prepared to take the risk of the three being found when the new vicar decided to explore the crypt. So they were moved to the graveyard, which is the best place I can think of to stash away a body or two. He or she wasn’t counting on the Fletcher boys and their midnight escapades.’
At the far side of the room, Christiana reappeared. Her tray of sandwiches had been replenished.
‘Christiana knows more than she’s telling us,’ said Harry.
Rushton turned to look at Christiana. She moved slowly, but rather gracefully for such a tall woman. ‘Aye, so you say, lad,’ he said. ‘But when I talked to her she just said who wouldn’t be worried, after two other girls were found to have died the exact way Lucy
did. And after Millie Fletcher so nearly went the same way. You have to admit she has a point. And before you ask, she volunteered to give us her fingerprints – they weren’t on the effigy you found, or on the wine decanter Mike brought in back in October.’
‘Oh, you’re probably right,’ admitted Harry. ‘I’m jumping at shadows.’
‘You know I saw her the morning after we found the bodies?’ Rushton said. ‘To ask her to identify the pyjamas?’
Harry nodded.
‘I showed them to Jenny and Christiana. Jenny wasn’t sure – well, she was very upset that day, but Christiana, now, she was quite something. She brought her workbasket out and showed me the patterns she’d used to make the animals, all those years ago. And then she told me the exact colour and reference number of each embroidery silk she’d used. She’s an odd one, but bright as anything in her own way.’
‘Any news on the wellington boot?’ asked Harry, then waited until Rushton had finished his sandwich.
‘Hit a dead end,’ said Rushton. ‘I’d hoped we might be able to pin it down to a particular batch, but no such luck. If we find the boot itself, we can match it, but a lot of people wear wellies around here.’
As Rushton was speaking, Harry caught sight of Gillian again. She raised a glass of colourless liquid to her lips and swallowed most of it. Rushton followed his glance and the two of them watched Gillian make her way towards the drinks table. She reached out, swaying slightly, and took hold of a bottle.
Gillian’s initial reaction to learning that Hayley was indeed one of the three corpses unearthed by Tom Fletcher had been one of jubilation at being proven right: her daughter hadn’t died in the fire, as she’d always claimed. That had been quickly followed, though, by ongoing torment, as she seemed unable to stop herself imagining the final hours of her daughter’s life. Even without talking to Evi, Harry knew that Gillian’s recovery had taken a severe setback.
He took a quick look around the room. Her mother was nowhere to be seen. ‘Will you excuse me?’ he said to Rushton.