Shepherd's Cross (23 page)

‘Alright,’ he said. ‘We’ll be off then.
Just be careful going back to the village later: the snow’s stopped falling but
the roads are like sheet ice.’ As he turned to leave, he paused and gave Blackmoor
a lingering, knowing stare; telepathically warning him, that guilty or not, he
was on his case.

Blackmoor returned the stare with
typical indifference. ‘I’ll see you out,’ he said, walking towards the front
door.

‘There’s no need,’ Jennings replied. ‘Thank
you, but we’ll see ourselves out.’ Accompanied by Cara, they turned to leave,
feeling the eyes of the remaining guests burning holes in their backs as they walked
away. Reaching the front door, they looked back, only to see the look on Blackmoor’s
face as he closed the ballroom doors behind them; the smug, conceited look of a
man who had gotten his own way and wanted nothing more than to rub it in.

The doors closed, isolating Cara and
Jennings in the front entrance. ‘Let’s go, Sarge,’ said Cara, opening the front
door. ‘We’re not wanted here. Besides…this place gives me the creeps.’

‘I’m with you on that one.’

They climbed into the Land Rover and
fired up the engine. Without looking back, they began their journey back to
Shepherd’s Cross, completely unaware of the chaos that was about to greet them.

10.30am:
Chloe Price was not in the habit of spending a second longer in bed than was
necessary; especially in the morning, when her in-built alarm clock would have
her leaping out of bed at six-thirty on the dot. So when Ben had the rare
opportunity of waking up under his own steam at eight o’clock that morning, he
knew immediately that something was wrong.

The cold air had hit him as soon as he’d
opened her door. The reason for the arctic temperature became apparent when he
looked over to the window, which for some inexplicable reason had swung
completely open. He’d rushed over to it and pulled it shut, before turning
round to check on his daughter, whom he’d found lying on top of the sheets, her
nightie drenched in sweat. She had been shivering, drifting in and out of
sleep; her matted hair stuck to her forehead, which, when he’d placed his hand
on it, had been burning red-hot with fever. He’d sprinted to the medicine
cupboard in the bathroom, returning thirty seconds later with a digital
thermometer and a bottle of Calpol. Her temperature had read 39.5C. Propping
her up against the pillow, he’d forced a spoon of the sweet,
strawberry-flavoured liquid down her throat, before returning to the bathroom
to fetch a wet flannel to cool her forehead. That had been over two hours ago,
during which time he must have checked on her at least twenty times.

‘Daddy…DADDY!’ shouted Chloe, calling
out to him. He was sat at the downstairs table, half-heartedly trying to finish
a sales report that was due to go to Board later that week.

‘Coming, darling,’ he replied, jumping
up from his chair and bounding upstairs, taking the steps two at a time. On
reaching her room, he was relieved to see her sitting up; a sign that the
medicine was doing its job. ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked, checking her
temperature again and breathing a sigh of relief when the display read 37C.

‘A little better.’

‘It must have been all that messing around
in the snow yesterday.’ He conveniently forgot to mention that a wide open
window might have had something to do with it. ‘Not to worry. Your temperature
has gone down, so as long as you keep taking your medicine, I think you’ll pull
through.’

‘I’m tired,’ she said, closing her eyes
and yawning. ‘And thirsty.
And
hungry. Can I have something to eat,
please?’

‘Of course you can.’ And then foolishly:
‘Anything you want.’

Chloe looked up at the ceiling and
considered her options. ‘I would like…a bottle of Lucozade and a bowl of
Cheerios.’

‘Ahh…well…there’s good news and bad
news. The good news is you can have as many Cheerios as you can eat. The bad
news, I’m afraid, is that we’re clean out of Lucozade. As a matter of fact, I
don’t think we’ve got anything except plain old water.’

Ben could see Chloe’s bottom lip
starting to quiver, and he knew that any second now she would start crying. It
wasn’t that she was particularly spoilt as such – well, no more than the
average daddy’s girl – but rather that she wasn’t keen on water at the best of
times, let alone when she was feeling under the weather. And Ben had to admit
that she had a point: a bottle of sugary pop was just the ticket when one was
confined to one’s sickbed. ‘Look, don’t cry,’ he said, wiping the first tears
from her eyes with the back of his hand. ‘I tell you what – why don’t I pop
next door and see if Charlotte wouldn’t mind keeping an eye on you while I nip
across to Turner’s store?’

‘Okay,’ she replied, unable to summon
the energy to respond with her usual undiluted enthusiasm. ‘Thank you.’

Ben smiled at her, his heart aching at
her vulnerability and total dependence on him. ‘Alright then. Listen, I’m going
to have to leave you alone for literally two minutes while I fetch Charlotte,
okay? Can you stay right where you are until I come back with her?’ A nod to
say she could. ‘Good girl. I’m going to go and get her now. I’ll be back faster
than you can say ‘Jack Robinson’.’

‘Jack Robinson!’ she shouted, giggling
mischievously.

‘Very funny. If you’re feeling so
clever, maybe you don’t need any Lucozade after all?’

Her smile faded. ‘No daddy, I really am
poorly. I
need
some Lucozade or I think I’ll die.’

‘Oh well, in that case I better go and
fetch Charlotte. You stay right where you are, do you hear me? Right,’ he said,
standing up and heading to the door. ‘I won’t be a minute. Love you loads.’

‘I love you too, daddy,’ she said,
settling back into the bed and pulling the sheets over her.

Ben rushed down the stairs, threw on his
shoes, and ran outside. The chances were, that even if he had taken more time
and care in getting ready, it was highly unlikely that he would have noticed
the cloaked figure of Reuben King standing behind the kitchen door.

11.00am:
‘Un-fucking-believable,’ said Jennings, carefully navigating the Land Rover
back along the lake road towards Shepherd’s Cross. ‘Here’s me thinking that
those cockneys were up to no good, and in the meantime they’re having
themselves a knees-up with our friends. Would you believe it?’

‘It doesn’t make sense, Sarge,’ Cara
replied, staring out of the passenger-side window to the frozen lake that ran
parallel to the left of them for two miles. ‘I mean, alright, I can see why
Frank and Ted were there: Frank would sell his soul for a drink and Ted would steal
the pennies off a dead man’s eyes. But Bronwyn? I know she’s interested in
local history, but it’s not like her to disappear without saying anything.
Don’t you think that it’s all a bit weird?’

Jennings tried to stifle a yawn, the lack
of sleep during the previous two nights beginning to take its toll. He
desperately needed some rest. As soon as the whole ordeal with the Carter boys
and the investigation was over, he planned on taking himself away for a week or
two, somewhere faraway where the sun was guaranteed to shine and the waitresses
were guaranteed to smile. It wouldn’t be easy to switch off – he doubted that
he would ever be able to forget this weekend – but getting the hell out of The
Cross wouldn’t do him any harm. He would worry about whether or not to return
when he got there.

‘You’re right,’ he said, re-tuning his
mind to the conversation. ‘I agree that it seems a little odd. But I also don’t
think we need to worry too much about her. She seemed perfectly happy with the
situation, as did Ted and Frank. I certainly wasn’t given the impression that she
was there against her will; quite the opposite. It might not be our idea of fun,
but at the same time it’s not our job to tell other people how to spend their
time. And to be honest, Cara, don’t you think we’ve got more pressing issues to
deal with right now?’

‘I suppose so,’ she said, her face
forlorn and frustrated. ‘Still, I’m glad we went up there. At least we know
where she is.’

‘Don’t get me wrong,’ said Jennings. ‘I
don’t like the situation any more than you do. It’ll be interesting to run some
checks on them tomorrow to see if they’re exactly who they say they are. It
wouldn’t surprise me if they turn out to be a couple of mafia men on the run:
they’ve obviously got money – just look at that car for a start – and they
couldn’t have picked a more perfect place to lay low for a while. Anyway, guesswork
won’t get us anywhere. Let’s put the matter to bed until tomorrow and get back
to the village. There’s more than enough work for us to be concentrating on
down there.’

‘What do you mean ‘we’? You’re not meant
to be working today. You must be knackered?’

‘I’m fine,’ he lied. ‘Besides, there’s
no way I can relax until HQ get here. I’ll be better off at work: it’ll give me
a chance to concentrate on something else. I’ll end up going round the bend if
I stay at home twiddling my thumbs all day.’

‘Well, I for one am not going to argue
with you. I could certainly use the company.’

‘Good, that’s sorted then. Let’s get
back to the Station.’

For the following ten minutes, they sat
without saying a word, lost in their own thoughts. Progress along the road was
slow, but conditions were marginally better than the day before. Shepherd’s
Cross crept into view as they rounded the final bend onto a straight section of
road that led directly down to the village. From this vantage point, it was
easy to understand why the houses on Rowan Lane had been snapped up within a
matter of weeks; regardless of the price tag. From here, life could be viewed
through a more flattering, rose-tinted lens: pain and suffering were kept well
out of sight; hidden away under lock and key.

They arrived a short while later at the
outskirts of the village and edged their way towards the Station, taking the
lane that led around the village green. ‘That’s strange,’ Jennings said,
nodding towards the green. ‘There aren’t many kids out playing. This time
yesterday, the place was rammed with the little buggers.’

‘Sarge, look over there. The church…there’s
a crowd of people standing outside it. What do you think they’re up to?’

‘Maybe somebody’s being baptised. Although
why are they standing around in the cold? We better check it out.’

Jennings guided the Land Rover as near
to All Saints’ Church as the snow would allow and killed the engine. Several
members of the crowd came striding over towards it. The first person to reach
the two officers was Glen Passmore, one of the Church readers. Cara and
Jennings climbed out to meet him. ‘Morning, Glen,’ said Jennings. ‘What’s going
on? Aren’t you supposed to be insi…’

‘Sergeant Jennings, PC Jones,’ replied
Passmore, puffing and panting from his exertions. ‘Where have you been? We’ve
been looking everywhere for you.’

‘Hold on now, Glen,’ Jennings said. ‘Calm
down a minute. What’s the matter?’

‘We don’t know,’ said Emily Mitford, who
had caught up to her friend. ‘As usual, we arrived here for service at ten
o’clock, only to find the church locked up; not a hide nor hair of Reverend
Jackson to be found anywhere. We checked the vicarage – no sign of him. Then, a
short while later, Bill Thompson arrived with Dr Barratt. Bill muttered
something about an accident, before unlocking the door and going inside. He
locked the door behind them, and that’s the last we’ve seen of them since. Sergeant
Jennings; if there’s something going on in there, I think we ought to know
about it. Perhaps there might be something we can do to help?’

‘Okay,’ replied Jennings, pausing to
absorb the news she’d given him. ‘Thanks Emily, but I think I better see what’s
going on first. Come on, Cara.’

They walked the short distance to the
churchyard entrance and made their way along the path through the crowd to the
front door. Many of the bystanders were not regular churchgoers: they were
there out of curiosity and concern. Even in its heyday, All Saints’ Church
would have been proud to have had a congregation as numerous as that which was
now gathered outside. When they reached the entrance, Jennings removed his
truncheon and banged it forcefully against the door. ‘Bill, Harry,’ he shouted.
‘It’s Sergeant Jennings and PC Jones. Open up, will you?’

As they waited for an answer, Jennings
turned and faced the crowd. ‘Listen up, everyone. I know you’re all keen to
find out what’s going on. And you will, in due course. But for the time being,
I am going to have to ask you to be patient and remain calm while PC Jones and
I deal with the matter, is that understood? You are welcome to stay here if you
want, but given the weather and the time this may take, can I advise that you
all return to your homes or whatever else you had planned this morning? Rest
assured, when the time is right, you’ll be fully informed.’

Nobody moved. They were all waiting to
see who answered the door.

A voice called out from the other side. ‘Brian,
is that you?’ It was Bill Thompson.

‘Yes, Bill, it is. Can you let us in,
please? Quickly.’

‘Okay. Wait there.’ The sound of a key
being inserted into a lock was followed by the door being opened, ever so
slightly, just enough to allow Bill Thompson to poke his head around to verify
Jennings’s voice. The door opened wider as Thompson beckoned them inside, his
eyes widening at the sight of the crowd standing behind them: staring at him;
searching his eyes for any clue as to what might have happened.

The door was slammed shut as soon as the
officers were inside, Thompson’s impatience irritating Cara as she was made to
jump to the side to avoid being hit as it slammed back into its frame. ‘Watch
it, Bill! You almost broke my leg.’ Thompson didn’t reply; his senses were
fully engaged in making sure the door was properly locked.

‘What’s all this about?’ asked Jennings,
scanning the church.

Dr Henry Barratt emerged from behind the
recess beside the altar, wearing latex gloves and holding what appeared to be
some sort of magnifying glass. ‘Hello, Brian,’ he said, his face stern and
unwelcoming. ‘You need to see this. Reverend Jackson’s dead. Looks like murder.’

Jennings’s jaw dropped. ‘What the…?’ was
all he could manage.

‘I said that Reverend Jackson is dead.
He’s over here.’

Cara reacted first, pushing her way
between Thompson and Jennings and heading up the aisle. When she reached the
altar, Barratt held out his hand to prevent her from going any further. ‘I just
want to warn you,’ he told her, his tone of voice low and matter-of-fact. ‘It’s
not a pretty sight. I know you’re fairly new to all this – and for all I know,
you might be an expert in homicide – but he’s in a bad way.’

‘I appreciate your concern, Dr Barratt,’
she replied, unoffended by his warning. ‘But I’ll be fine.’ By then, Jennings
had caught up to her. Barratt stepped out of the way to allow them to see
behind the recess.

‘Bloody hell!’ said Jennings, as he saw
the body of Reverend Jackson. He was in exactly the same position as Thompson
had found him in that morning: sitting naked on his chair, slumped forward over
his desk – white as a sheet. Cara said nothing, but she didn’t back away. Dried
blood was splattered everywhere – she couldn’t believe that there could be so
much blood in one man. It was as if the walls and floor of the entire recess
had been painted a dirty reddish-brown colour. But it was the inscription
across his back that monopolised their attention; carved into his flesh with
the amateur skill of a child who’d been allowed to hack a face into a pumpkin
for Halloween.

‘DEUS EST MORTUUS,’ said Jennings. ‘What
does that mean?’

‘God is dead,’ Thompson replied. ‘My
Latin’s a little rusty, but I’m pretty confident that’s what it says.’

‘He’s right,’ said Barratt.

‘Okay,’ said Jennings. ‘What do we know?’

Barratt picked up his clipboard from
beside his medical bag that was resting on the altar. ‘Well,’ he began, reading
from his notes, ‘we know he was murdered – there’s no way he could have
self-mutilated his back like that, not unless he had arms like Mr Tickle. A cut
throat indicates the probable cause of death, although there are clear signs of
heavy bruising around his neck that suggest there may have been some
asphyxiation beforehand. It’s unlikely that he died at this desk: you can see
from the trail of blood that he was probably attacked over there by the step
and dragged here.’

‘Time of death?’ asked Jennings, moving
to the spot where Barratt was pointing to.

‘Hard to say exactly, but I would guess
he’s been dead for a good twelve hours. Maybe more. We’ll have to wait for a
full investigation before we can be sure. It looks like your boys are going to
be busy when they get here tomorrow.’

‘Fuck, fuck, FUCK!’ Jennings shouted,
shaking his head in exasperation as he returned to the body. ‘What the hell is
going on here? First we have those…’

‘Sarge,’ Cara said, nodding towards Bill
Thompson. For a second, Jennings didn’t understand the message she was trying
to give him. It was only when he looked across at Thompson that he realised why
she’d interrupted him.

‘Oh aye, right,’ he said. ‘First we had
that…that incident with the Carter boys…and now this.’ He looked at Barratt. ‘Who
else knows about this?’

‘As far as we’re aware, only the four of
us.’

‘What about you, Bill? Does anybody else
know?’

‘No,’ Thompson replied. ‘I don’t think
so anyway. As always, I was first to church this morning. Got here around nine
as usual. The door was open, which was strange, as only Reverend Jackson and I
have a key. I didn’t think too much of it, but it didn’t take long to see that
something was up. Anyway, I found Andrew…I mean Reverend Jackson…right here.
There was nobody else around.’

‘What did you do next?’

‘Well, I didn’t feel like hanging
around. Besides, you sometimes get a few early-birds wanting to come in before
the service for a quiet prayer, so I hurried outside and locked the door so
nobody could get in. I went to the Station, then I went to your house – I
couldn’t find either of you, so the only other person I could think of calling
on was Dr Barratt. We came straight here, but there’s been a crowd gathered
outside ever since service was supposed to start. They want to know what’s
going on, Sergeant Jennings. They want to know what’s happened to Reverend
Jackson.’

Jennings paused to collect his thoughts
and decide his next move. ‘Well done, Bill. It sounds like you couldn’t have
handled the situation any better. How are you holding up?’

‘Not great, but I’ll live. Shit…sorry,’
he said, aware that he could have given a more appropriate answer. ‘But I fear we
won’t be able to hold them at bay much longer. We’ll need to think of something
to tell them.’

‘We can hold them at bay for as long as
I damn well want,’ Jennings said. ‘This is Police business – they’ll have to
wait. Does anyone know if the phone lines are back up and running?’

‘They weren’t working half an hour ago,’
said Barratt. ‘They might be now…I don’t know.’

‘Okay. Cara: we’re going to need to go
to the Station and see if we can get through to HQ. We need to report this
pronto or we’ll be in deep shit.’