Last Rites (5 page)

Just get out, she told herself. Get away from here. Go back to your car and drive to the police station. The police will notify the vicar. Just get out.

She was about to step back towards the main doors when she saw the blood on the floor near the font.

Droplets of it gleamed dully. There was more on one of the stone pillars close by. She guessed it was cat blood. There had been so much of it that had dripped on the stonework beneath the poor creature. But, she reasoned, how had there come to be splatters of it inside the church as well? She moved towards the font, careful not to step in the spilled blood. Her footsteps echoed inside the cold building.The stained-glass face of Christ and half a dozen saints watched her impassively as she advanced.

Anne felt light-headed and wondered if her blood pressure had risen higher than it should. She had her tablets in her pocket. She wondered for a second if she should just sit still in one of the pews and wait until help arrived. The vicar would be here soon anyway. It might be more sensible to wait for him. Let him discover why there were droplets of blood inside the church too. However,Anne disregarded her own advice and continued to advance towards the font, her eyes now fixed on the red streaks that had run down the stonework of the receptacle.

The marble figure of Christ that hung on the large crucifix overlooking the altar also peered indifferently down upon her as she approached the font. If it had seen what happened inside the church then it was keeping the information to itself. The white lips were motionless, the eyes expressionless. Anne looked up briefly at the figure and shook her head in what was almost an apologetic gesture that He had been forced to witness such an outrage.

She glanced once more at the blood on and around the font then she stepped nearer and looked into the holy water itself.

It took Anne only a second to realise that there were several large lumps of excrement lying at the bottom of the receptacle.

Even if she’d bothered to peer a little longer at the thick brown lump, she probably wouldn’t have realised that the reeking faecal matter was human.

As it was, Anne turned and ran as fast as she could, her head spinning, her lips moving in a silent litany. Then, as she was halfway up the aisle, she finally gave voice to the scream she’d been holding in from the time she entered the church.

Christ and all the saints looked on silently.

10

North London

Mason made his way back down the corridor slowly and carefully but with very little discomfort.The muscles in his legs and lower back ached but, he told himself, that was due to more than a week of inactivity and confinement to bed as much as it was to any residual damage caused by his beating. He’d come to look forward to his trips to the lavatory. No longer reliant on a bedpan or a commode to relieve himself, for the last two days he’d been making his own way to and from the toilet. He’d even managed a short stroll to the hospital canteen. Relishing freedom from the confines of his room he’d sat and drunk two cups of tea before returning. Now he pushed the door of his room open, ready to return to his bed and the second-hand battered paperback he’d purchased from the hospital shop for ten pence.

He didn’t recognise the suited figure standing beside his bed as he walked in.

The man turned to face him and Mason saw that he was in his early forties, perhaps a year or two older than the teacher himself. The newcomer reached inside his jacket and pulled out a thin leather wallet that he flipped open for Mason to inspect. The teacher glanced at the photo within, then at the face of his visitor as if to ensure that the likeness matched that of the man now standing before him.

‘Detective Sergeant Ray Weaver,’ the older man announced, pushing the ID wallet back inside his jacket. ‘The nurse said it was all right to talk to you, Mr Mason, I hope this is a convenient time.’

Mason nodded and clambered back between the sheets.

‘It’s not like I was going anywhere,’ he added.

The detective reached for one of the plastic chairs and seated himself beside Mason’s bed.

‘How do you feel?’ Weaver enquired.

‘Better than I did when they brought me in,’ Mason informed him.

‘You know why I’m here, Mr Mason, so I won’t waste your time. The quicker we can take a statement from you, the quicker we can initiate proceedings against the youths who attacked you.’

Mason looked impassively at the detective.

‘Has anyone been arrested yet?’ he wanted to know.

‘Not yet,’Weaver told him. ‘We need you to positively ID them before we can continue with the investigation. We need you to name names.’

‘I’m pretty sure who it was.’

‘Who were they, Mr Mason?’

‘Well, I couldn’t see their faces clearly but I’m pretty sure I know who it was.’

‘We need you to be sure, Mr Mason.’

‘There were five of them, two or three were wearing hoods.’

‘The whole case is reliant on your evidence. On you identifying them.’

‘I’m pretty sure I know who they were.’

‘That’s not good enough, Mr Mason.’

‘And what if I don’t identify them?’

‘Then we haven’t got a case.’

‘Five of the kids I teach beat me almost to death and you’re telling me there’s nothing you can do about it?’

‘You have to see it from our point of view, Mr Mason,’ the detective told him. ‘If there’s not enough evidence in the first place then the CPS will just dismiss it.’

‘I want those little bastards arrested,’ Mason interrupted.

‘Then give us some names.’

Mason sighed.

‘I can’t be sure,’ he muttered.

‘Then we can’t help you,’ Weaver explained.

‘They’re animals. If they get away with this they could do it to someone else.’

‘I realise that and that’s why we need you to identify them.’

‘How many times do I have to tell you? They were covered up. Hiding their faces. I didn’t see them clearly.’

Weaver regarded him silently for a moment then sucked in a deep breath. He fished inside his wallet for a small rectangular piece of card that he pushed towards Mason, holding it before him until the teacher took it.

‘That’s got my number on,’ the detective explained. ‘If you remember anything give me a call.’

‘So that’s it?’ Mason said with an air of finality. ‘Just like that? Finished?’

Weaver hesitated a moment then got to his feet.

‘Like I said, call me if you remember anything,’ the policeman said, pausing at the door.

‘Thanks for your time,’ Mason added, caustically.

Weaver hesitated for a second then pushed the door open and stepped through.

Mason glanced at the card, holding it before him between his thumb and forefinger then he drew in a deep breath and closed his fist around it. He dropped it onto his bedside table.

Callum Wade

From his vantage point at the top of the hill, Callum Wade could see the lights of Walston below him. Hundreds of yellow and white pinpricks set against the darker panoply of the surrounding hills.

Callum sipped from his can of cider and took a deep breath, savouring the scent of wet grass and rain-sodden trees. He loved this spot and had done since he was a child, since his parents had first brought him here when he was four. Even though that event was now thirteen years in his past Callum could still remember it vividly. Sitting on a thick grey blanket on the hillside with his mum and dad and his older sister, eating the picnic that his mum had made, playing games on the hillside in the summer sunshine. Most of all, he remembered rolling down the hill through the tall, uncut grass and the butter-cups, the smells in his nostrils and a feeling of absolute contentment.

This place always made him think of his childhood and this evening was no exception. He walked along the crest of the ridge, finishing what was left in his can but sticking the empty into one of the back pockets of his jeans. He had no intention of leaving it here, no desire to litter the countryside that he had always been brought up to respect so much. He thought how much he would miss Walston when he left and particularly how much he would miss this hillside and the smells that he associated so strongly with such times of happiness in his life.

He had lost his virginity here too. Given up that last vestige of innocence just three weeks ago to a girl he’d known since he was six. Callum had never been a great one for girls. He got on well with them and he certainly would have liked to have sampled the pleasures of sex before but, he decided, the wait had been worth it. Even if the girl had been drunk. She’d told him the following day that she didn’t think they should become too involved. Not with him preparing to leave but they could go out for a drink now and again and she said that sex would be fine as long as her boyfriend didn’t find out. Well, it was only for a few weeks, wasn’t it? Callum was only too happy to agree. He was going to see her later (her boyfriend was working nights) and the thought of what they would do made him smile. He’d been thinking about her all day.

Callum wasn’t frightened of leaving Walston or his home. He wasn’t afraid of where he might be sent once his training was over. He knew that the time would come for him to do his tour in some Godforsaken part of the world and that when that time came there would be a chance he might not return. His mum had cried when he’d told her he’d joined the army. His dad had cried too but with pride. Callum had been a little overwhelmed. He’d never seen his dad cry before. It had almost started him off too. His sister would definitely cry when he told her, he thought, smiling. They’d worry about him while he was away, but that was only natural.

Ahead of him was the stone bridge that spanned the train tracks leading in and out of Walston. The station itself was about a mile away, just about visible from the centre of the bridge. Callum walked to the centre of the structure and leaned on the parapet, looking down at the tracks, realising that one of the express trains from London would be passing beneath him in the next minute or so. He smiled to himself. He’d only been to London three times in his life and now he was getting ready to embark on a career that would take him around the world.

He heard the rumble of the approaching train and saw a couple of magpies that had been standing on the metal rail take flight. The rumbling grew louder and Callum could actually see the dark outline of the train approaching now. It would be doing seventy by the time it reached the bridge.

Callum swung himself up onto the parapet of the bridge and stood there, swaying slightly as he looked down at the tracks and the fast approaching train.

He actually saw the driver’s face for a split second, the man’s eyes stretched wide in horror and realisation.

Callum Wade stepped off the parapet and dropped like a stone towards the onrushing engine.

11

Walston, Buckinghamshire

The farm was five miles from the centre of the town. A twenty-minute drive if the narrow roads weren’t too busy. Just over sixty acres that supported a small dairy herd, sheep, pigs and just enough arable crops to survive. And, if Andy Preece was honest with himself, that was all he was doing. He survived. He made just enough money to run the farm. Just enough to support his family. His wife worked too. She had little choice. The money that the farm made was barely adequate for their needs. They needed a more stable, regular wage coming in as well.

Andy sold some of his produce to local restaurants and hotels. Even some of his animals, but the farm wasn’t big enough to attract attention from the supermarket chains. He simply couldn’t produce anything in sufficient quantity to ensure a contract with one of the top retailers. That was where the money was in farming. In mass-produced crops or battery-farmed animals.

He’d thought about battery farming, he’d thought about specialising in one specific crop (asparagus, his wife had suggested) but none of the suggestions had been viable. He wanted to be comfortable. Not rich. Not rolling in it. He just wanted to be able to run the farm and make a profit without working eighteen hours a day and worrying constantly whether or not there was going to be enough money to pay the electricity, gas and water bills and keep the kids in clothes. Andy hated it when they asked him for anything new. He hated it when they asked if they could have a holiday this year. He’d been promising them one for the past four years but he knew deep down that his promise was an empty one. He would never make enough money to give them the holiday they wanted. Not even a week in some grotty caravan on the coast somewhere. That hurt him deeply.

The farm was a millstone around his neck and, in the past few months, the prospect of selling it had become even more enticing. But there was something stopping him. Something stronger than the desire to feel secure. Something more powerful than the need to support his family with more than just a pittance. He knew he could retrain for another trade. At thirty-nine, he had been brought up on the farm and it was all he knew but there were opportunities out there if someone was willing to take them and Andy Preece had never been frightened of hard work or the thought of a new start.

What held him back was his pride.The farm had been run by his father and by his grandfather, handed down through the generations like a jewel that is slowly losing its lustre. Andy felt that, if he sold the farm, he would be betraying the memory of his father and grandfather. They had sweated and toiled to make the place what it was so that it could be passed on to him. His father had taught him that it was a man’s duty to provide for his family and those sentiments, engrained from childhood, were difficult to eradicate. As Andy climbed into the Land Rover he looked at himself in the rear-view mirror but found that he couldn’t hold his own gaze. The eyes that had looked back at him had looked lifeless. There was no fire. No ambition. Only tired resignation. Even if his mind wouldn’t accept that his days on the farm were finished, his eyes already betrayed that realisation.