Sacrifice (37 page)

Only when they commenced ‘the Grand Tour’, to use Mrs Clayley’s words, did they start to spot the aforementioned children. Their uniform was conventional, the boys in navy-blue sweaters and maroon ties, the girls in blue pinafores. All were polite and well-behaved, moving in orderly fashion between classes. It was a far cry from the ‘Wild West’ atmosphere in the Lancashire comprehensive where Heck had been educated.

‘The Fifth Form and the Upper and Lower Sixth are in their dormitories and common rooms, on study-leave as they prepare for their exams,’ Mrs Clayley explained as they moved along cloistered corridors decked with photographs depicting innumerable aspects of school life: holidays, field-trips, sporting events, theatrical productions. Lessons were in progress, but there were one or two empty classrooms, which they were able to glance into. These were austere in atmosphere, tall and narrow, filled with rigid rows of all-in-one desks and chairs.

Mrs Clayley talked tirelessly, extolling every virtue of St Bardolph’s, but Heck wasn’t paying a whole lot of attention. He was busy looking out for clues or oddities, something – anything! – that might strike a chord. Nothing initially came to light, but then Mrs Clayley took them into the school carpentry shops, which were currently between classes and where there was an enormous variety of wood-working tools and benches, plus piles of freshly sawn timber. Heck thought about the solidly made crosses on the slagheap off the M62.

After the carpentry shops, they entered the school’s theatre, where Mrs Clayley led them backstage to the dressing rooms and costume department.

‘All handmade here at the school,’ she said, as they gazed along rows of steel racks hung with fanciful period garb. Heck cast his mind back to the Father Christmas outfit and the May Queen gown, neither of which had been traced to any known manufacturer.

Next, Mrs Clayley led them towards the Sports Hall. This was currently being used for PE, so they prowled the corridors adjoining it, and saw yet more photographs: successful, trophy-bearing teams dating from many decades and many disciplines. St Bardolph’s, it seemed, did not just offer the usual rugby, football, cricket, netball and hockey, but also tennis, swimming, athletics – and archery.

Heck’s heart missed a beat when the Deputy Head casually mentioned that the school had its own archery range outside, just beyond the playing fields. She drew their attention to a row of images. In one of them, Heck found himself staring at a sturdy-framed, blond-haired youth with what looked like a hi-tech bow in his hands, and a quiver full of arrows on his back. The bow was of particular interest. According to the ballistics report on the weapon that slew the young couple on the West Pennine Moors, it had been far more powerful than the average target bow – possibly a modern hunting bow adapted for competition use. This one in the picture was what Heck thought was called a compound bow: double-curved and fitted with a levering system – cables and pulleys – to bend the limbs and store massive energy.

The lad wielding it was smiling at the camera, but the smile did not reach his eyes.

‘That’s Doug Latimer,’ Mrs Clayley said proudly. ‘He’s in our Sixth Form and will shortly be leaving, but he’s also the under eighteens inter-county archery champion for the North Midlands region.’

Heck tried not to look at Gemma as they were led away along more passages, seeing different arrays of photographs. In one, a group of eight older pupils in jeans and sweatshirts smiled at the camera as they sat around a campfire, in front of an old wooden building. It caught Heck’s eye because Dr Enwright was with them, as was archery champ, Doug Latimer. In addition, there was a girl with long, platinum-blonde hair. She was cherub-pretty, though there was something faintly aloof about her – as if, like Latimer, her distant smile was only a token gesture.

‘The School History Society,’ Mrs Clayley said. ‘The one I mentioned to you before. You must meet Dr Enwright while you’re here. If he can’t convince you to send your son to us, no one can.’

‘You clearly value his input,’ Gemma said.

‘It’s unquantifiable, if I’m honest. The History Society is completely self-contained and self-governing. But they contribute so much. Organising special day activities, festivals, the school pageant and so on.’

‘It’s not just an educational thing, then?’ Gemma asked.

‘Well no, but it serves that purpose. They indulge in all kinds of detailed research.’

‘The internet is a marvellous thing when you’re hunting something down,’ Heck said.

‘My goodness, yes,’ Mrs Clayley agreed. ‘But they use our libraries as well. They go on regular field-trips and weekends away. All under Dr Enwright’s guidance of course. When they’re putting a project together, they leave no stone unturned.’

Heck’s hair prickled at these words, and at the innocent faces in front of him. He noticed that the blonde girl was holding hands with a tall, sullen young man with spiky black hair. The caption beneath listed all their names: the blonde girl was Jasmine Sinclair; the boy holding her hand, Gareth Holker. He was handsome in a clean-cut ‘public school’ sort of way, but he wasn’t smiling and looked unusually stern for someone so young. In one of the other photographs he appeared in a muddied rugby kit in the middle of a trampled pitch, holding aloft a silver plate. He wasn’t smiling in that one either.

Heck pointed this out. Mrs Clayley nodded.

‘Gareth is our school sports captain and Head Boy. It’s a position of great responsibility here at St Bardolph’s, and he takes it very seriously. Gareth is one of our great success stories.’ She lowered her voice. ‘This kind of information is personal, but I don’t mind divulging it as it demonstrates the kind of hands-on services we offer here at St Bardolph’s. Gareth came to us shortly after his parents were killed in a plane crash. He was devastated, the poor child, totally withdrawn. He didn’t have a relative left in the world, aside from a wealthy uncle whom he rarely ever saw. But Dr Enwright took him under his wing. They didn’t just start the History Society together, which seemed to give Gareth a new lease of life, but in his role as pastoral care officer, Dr Enwright was like a replacement father – he slowly encouraged the boy to rediscover his strengths, both intellectually and on the sports field.’

‘He unleashed the beast maybe?’ Heck said.

Mrs Clayley frowned. ‘Not a phrase I’d have chosen, but it isn’t inaccurate.’

‘What’s the building?’ Gemma asked, indicating the wooden structure in the campfire photo.

‘That’s called the Old Pavilion. The school cricket pitches were moved about ten years ago, and a new pavilion was built, so the old one was left empty. Dr Enwright asked permission to use it for the History Society’s meetings, and the Head was happy to oblige. You really must meet Dr Enwright.’ She beckoned them down an adjoining passage. ‘If he’s in his office I’m sure he’ll spare a few minutes.’

Around the next corner, they passed two pupils whom Heck recognised from the campfire photo. The boy was short for his age, and thin, with a floppy mass of carroty-red locks. In contrast, the girl was of solid, athletic build; her raven-black hair was cut severely short. Both stopped dead at the sight of the two visitors.

Mrs Clayley nodded and smiled as she passed them by, leading her guests through an exit door onto a sunlit grassy quadrangle. Heck threw a casual glance backwards. The two pupils were openly staring after them.

There was clear recognition in their faces, which had to be good news.

Mrs Clayley was talking about the advantages of a rural environment and how, once the summer term was underway, it was permissible for the older students to come outside and study in the open air. Heck made a pretence of listening and approving, but glanced back again when they reached the far side of the quadrangle. The two pupils had also come outside. A third figure had joined them; Heck recognised the fair hair and powerful build of archery hero, Doug Latimer. Thus far, none of them appeared to be running.

As Mrs Clayley went chattering into the next building, Heck sneaked a peek at Gemma. She showed him the text she’d just covertly sent to Shawna:

Stand by. But summon extra bods from Div. NB: firearms support.

Dr Leo Enwright occupied a sumptuous and spacious study, filled with leather furniture and lined wall-to-wall with books dedicated to his pet subjects. The arched windows were of diamond-paned glass and overhung with ivy; they looked out through cricket nets onto a sunny pitch, where a man in gardening overalls was riding lazily up and down on a motorised roller.

Dr Enwright himself was shorter than they’d expected and quite overweight, but clad in the same rumpled corduroy jacket and flower-patterned tie they’d seen in his school photograph. There was a certain charisma about him, which they detected immediately. He rose from behind his desk as if they were old friends, pumping their hands and welcoming them in rich, booming tones. He quickly ascertained which type of tea they preferred – he had every brand under the sun – and brewed it for them in an ornate silver teapot.

Mrs Clayley sat to one side, smiling indulgently while Dr Enwright introduced himself, the school and its ethos animatedly and articulately, but Heck couldn’t help wondering if he didn’t seem to be trying a little too hard. Okay, it was very difficult to associate this jocular, well-spoken figure with the depraved individual known as the Desecrator, but Heck had looked many times into the empty eyes of killers. He’d met the masters of deceit and subterfuge – and he quickly came to suspect that the Dr Enwright they were seeing here was an act. However, there was one thing Heck felt sure about. Even if Enwright’s minions had recognised them as cops, Enwright himself hadn’t – not yet. And perhaps that wasn’t too surprising. Somehow he couldn’t picture the good doctor doing something as inane as watching television.

‘We hear you have a busy timetable of extra-curricular activities here?’ Heck said.

‘Why yes.’ Enwright smiled broadly. His small-lensed spectacles enlarged his eyes unnaturally, and there was all that unruly, grey wire-wool hair; Heck was reminded of Garrickson’s mocking reference to a ‘nutty professor’. ‘Our sports set-up here at St Bardolph’s is pretty well second to none. I can’t claim to have anything to do with that, much as I would love to. My little kingdom is the History Society.’

‘Which sounds very interesting,’ Gemma said. She sat down while Heck remained on his feet. ‘Thomas … that’s our son, is particularly keen on history.’

‘How splendid!’ Enwright rubbed his hands together. ‘Well … I should say straight away that we aren’t strictly about history. At least, not the dry, dusty parts, if you know what I mean. We meet to discuss historical events certainly, usually on the anniversaries … as a kind of commemoration.’

‘A commemoration?’ Heck said.

‘Commemoration is what the History Society is all about.’

Heck glanced sideways and noticed a small group of pupils – the original two who’d first spotted them, and now several others (all identifiable from the campfire photo) drifting along the edge of the cricket square, passing the history master’s window, gazing casually in.

‘We share a mutual grief,’ Enwright said, ‘that modern society has allowed knowledge of those events and people who made us to dwindle to such insignificance.’

The last of those passing the study window was Doug Latimer.

‘Would you agree, Mr Heckenburg?’

Heck nodded. ‘Absolutely.’

‘I hear you put on shows?’ Gemma said.

Enwright nodded. ‘We do indeed. The History Society is in charge of the school pageant … in a nutshell, that means we organise assemblies, carnivals, fetes, parades, that kind of thing. And yes … shows and plays on special occasions. Some of them humorous or satirical, all designed to inform the audience at festive times of year, but also to entertain them.’

‘In effect, you make these special events fun,’ Heck said.

More pupils drifted past the window. If Enwright thought their behaviour odd, he didn’t react.

‘I like to think so,’ he said. ‘A lot of fun. For all involved.’

‘Well …’ Gemma stood up. ‘It looks as if Thomas will be coming to the right place. He’ll be twelve when he starts here. I take it that won’t be too young to join your group?’

Enwright smiled again. ‘We take all ages.’

I’ll bet you do,
Heck thought.
And the younger and more pliable, the better.

Enwright was briefly distracted by the sound of an electronic cock-crow. He glanced down at his desk, and Heck realised that he’d just received a text. In the same moment, Heck’s attention was caught by something else. At the end of a row of leather-bound volumes was a pile of A5 magazines. The top one, which was clumsily typed and stapled, bore a familiar title:

BLOOD FEAST

‘Well …’ Gemma collected her handbag. ‘I think it’s safe to say we’ve seen everything we came here to see.’

Mrs Clayley stood up as well, confident the school’s star turn had yet again done his bit to attract a fee-paying student.

On the other side of his desk, Enwright was ramrod-straight as he perused the message on his phone. He glanced up at Gemma and smiled narrowly. ‘So glad I’ve been of assistance.’

‘You couldn’t have been more helpful,’ Heck said.

Enwright turned to face him. ‘It’s remarkably diligent of you, coming all this way to look us over.’

‘It’s always important to be absolutely sure what you’re dealing with,’ Heck said.

‘And you’re
absolutely
sure, are you?’

‘We’ve seen more than we need to, Dr Enwright,’ Gemma said. ‘Thanks terribly. Darling, we need to make a move.’

Enwright nodded stiffly, and as they left his office, began keying in a hurried return message. Mrs Clayley chattered gaily as she led them back through the corridors towards the front of the main building. En route, Heck sensed that they had company. Over his shoulder, he saw two pupils strolling idly in pursuit, a boy and a girl. They looked younger than those they’d seen before, and neither was recognisable from the campfire photo, but maybe that was only the tip of the iceberg.