The Cloned Identity (8 page)

The vicar sat there, unmoved and silent.

I terminated the interview and Joe took him back to his cell.

We returned briefly to my office, and then we left to enjoy what was left of our weekend.

On Monday I presented myself and the evidence we had to the Chief. I sat quietly as he read my report.

“Well, Roger, a turn-up for the book! Who would have thought it would be the vicar!” He passed the file back. “That” – he pointed to the file I was holding – “is a bit light, Roger. I think you will need more to feel safe.”

“Yes, sir, I agree. We are hoping for a statement from the Adwell woman, and, now we know who it was, I am expecting other evidence to surface. We should be all right by the time we get to trial – and there's always a chance that the Wood woman will wake up.”

“I hope so, Roger, because I feel that with a member of the clergy involved this case will attract a lot of attention.”

‘I hope so,' I thought.

“So make sure it's watertight. By the way, how is Miss Wood?”

“Still no change, sir.”

The meeting over, I left. Once I was back in my office, I breathed a sigh of relief. I had expected to find the Bishop with the Chief, or to find out he had been on the phone breathing fire. Perhaps his staying away was a sign that he believed, or knew, the vicar was guilty. Perhaps he had confessed to him.

I called Joe in and told him what the Chief had said, and asked him if he had any news from Adwell. He told me that Miss Cook was away at present, but should be back by Friday.

During the lunchtime I popped out to the local paper shop. On my return to the office I dumped the papers I had bought on Joe's desk.

“Make sure the vicar gets these, Joe.”

Joe picked up the top paper and read the headline. He whistled through his teeth.

“You don't believe in mercy, do you, boss?”

“No, Joe, not with people like him. There could be loads of women out there who have been messed about by the likes of him and are probably too afraid of what he represents to complain. Not only that, but bishops cover things up to protect the good name of the Church. In any other job such people would be thrown to the vultures, as I know from personal experience. With a bit of luck, when the Reverend Thomas reads these reports he might see how hopeless things are and do the decent thing and give us a confession. Mercy, Joe? Nothing doing!

After the Wednesday hearing, the vicar was committed to trial, owing more to a friendly magistrate than to our evidence. The vicar was remanded to our cells because of the prison officers' dispute. They were refusing to accept any more prisoners until their grievances were met. That suited us as we wouldn't have to travel every time we wanted to interview the vicar. There still was no sign of the Bishop, but a solicitor had turned up to help the vicar, and I was sure he had been sent by the Bishop. They could communicate through him and we would never know. The trial date had been set for five weeks' time, so I thought I would take a long weekend off to make up for my previous time off being interrupted.

Chapter 7

On the Friday, I packed a bag and went off on a whim. I had always wanted to visit Wales, so I just drove there. I drove around until I found a nice-looking bed and breakfast, ‘found' being the operative word as I was totally confused and lost by the time I turned into the gate. I parked in front of a delightful stone cottage which had been toned by time and the weather. The sign at the gate looked neglected and forgotten, but my anxious knock was answered by a woman drying her hands on her apron. She was – well, of ample proportions, to say the least, but she had a very pretty face; I suppose she was in her mid-forties. By the enthusiastic way she greeted me, I guessed she wasn't overrun by visitors. Yes, she had a bed and I was most welcome.

The room she took me to was a gem: cosy, with a low ceiling and a huge iron bed. The window was low down so I had to bend down to glimpse the view across the valley. The descending dark was already kissing the tops of the hills. I was grateful when she offered an evening meal, as I hadn't passed any cafés or pubs or anything resembling civilisation on my way and I was starving. I had a wash in the quaint little bathroom, and laid on (well, laid
in
) the bed. The mattress was about three foot thick, and so soft. The darkness spread through the room, searching every nook and cranny for any remnants of daylight.

I must have dozed off, as I was dragged abruptly back into the land of the living by the alien sound of a gong echoing through my brain.

It took me a few minutes to realise where I was; then I rubbed my face and struggled to get up from the bed, the softness absorbing my arm as I tried to find some leverage. Finally I rolled off and landed on my knees and hands on the floor. I stayed their for a few minutes as my fingers felt the texture of the home-made rug, then I got to my feet, my eyes now accustomed to the half-dark. I made my way to the door and out on to the landing. I was grateful that the light which leaked from the heavily shaded bulb was a mellow yellow, instead of the usual eyeball-searing white glare.

I made my way down the narrow stairs and followed my nose into an old-fashioned kitchen. The well-scrubbed heavy table was set with two places. My landlady, Gwen, appeared through a door to my right.

“Please sit down, Mr Watson. Make yourself at home,” she said in a lovely, kind voice, which you would have sworn belonged to a nice young blonde had you heard it on the phone.

I took my place at the table and spent the next hour and a half enjoying the best meal and company I had ever had. After the meal we sat in front of a real fire and I completely forgot my past as I entered a fantasy world devoid of problems and worries as I listened to Gwen talking about her simple life and expectations. The smoky air played havoc with my unaccustomed eyes and I was soon feeling tired. I made my excuses and went up to my bedroom.

The cool, refreshing air in the bedroom reversed my tiredness. I drew the curtains and selected a paperback from the little shelf and sat in the old armchair. As soon as I started to read the tiredness returned and I must have nodded off.

I woke with a start as my elbow slipped off the chair arm, and I looked round the room, puzzled, until I realised where I was. I looked at my watch: I had only been asleep for a short while. I stood up and stretched away the stiffness, and I decided I would go to the bathroom. I collected my toilet bag and towel from my still-packed suitcase and made my way along to the bathroom. I was just about to open the door when a voice started to sing softly from the other side of the closed door. I quietly cursed my luck, and was about to turn away when I noticed the light poking out through a slit in the aged wood. I stood on my toes and I strained to peer in.

My eyes widened as I saw the rear view of Gwen – a naked Gwen – as she leant over the bath to turn off the taps. The width of her bottom took my breath away. The hairy mass of flesh of her private parts was clearly visible as it was squeezed backwards by the expanding flesh of her thighs. I gasped in wonder as she half turned as she swirled the water with her hand. Her breasts hung straight down and were at least a foot long, and I watched mesmerised as, free of all restrictions, they swung gently in time with her movements. The magic of the moment was broken as, with a sigh, she stood up and heaved her bulk into the bath. Only her back was visible, and I licked my dry lips as the disappointment released the tension that had locked my body. I pulled my eye away from the door and sank back down on to my feet, feeling for the first time the pain in my tortured toes. A wave of guilt flooded over me – not because of my peeping, but because I realised that in the excitement I had been rubbing my knob. Looking down, I took my hand away from the hardness that was tenting my trousers.

I walked painfully back to my room and closed the door. I leant back against the door. My hand brushed my hardness and I was engulfed by a feeling of pleasure. I closed my eyes and remembered what I had seen. I imagined coming up behind Gwen as she leant over the bath, and caressing that width of flesh, reaching underneath and feeling that hairy mound, parting those heavy lips and feeling the sticky warmth, then guiding my throbbing shiny knob up into her and hearing the smack as my body thrust against her soft buttocks, reaching down to steady her swinging breasts as I jerked into her, feeling her hand as she reached back and caressed my swinging balls, and the sudden ecstasy as I came and collapsed across that broad back.

‘Bloody hell!' I said to myself as I realised that in all the excitement I had rubbed myself off and could feel the wetness in my underwear.

I cursed as I took my trousers and underpants off. I used the pants to dry myself. Not having brought a dressing gown, I put my trousers back on and pulled the zip up carefully.

Taking up my book again, I settled down to wait for Gwen to finish in the bathroom.

The next couple of days I spent walking the local area. Despite my spying, I was not able to catch Gwen in the bathroom again, and during my journey home I wondered if she would have obliged had I asked. After all, Gwen with her clothes on was, I expect, a turn-off for most men, me included, so I don't expect she had many offers. I spent a good part of the journey fantasising about bonking Gwen, always from the rear. Just think of getting all that flesh moving on a waterbed! My thoughts were terminated by the stark reality of being home back in the rat race, a fact highlighted by the pile of junk mail on the mat. I bet Gwen never got any – I don't imagine she was on anyone's mailing list.

The first thing I noticed as I entered the office first thing on Monday morning was that Joe wasn't at his desk. Joe was almost always first in, almost always at his desk when I arrived.

‘Perhaps he is in the loo,' I thought.

I checked my watch: eight forty-five. Well, I wasn't
that
early. I settled down in my chair to wait.

‘Come to think of it, there is no one in the outer office either – no Mike or Jenkins. Perhaps there is a flap on.'

I reached out to pick up the phone to see if I could find out where everyone was. Suddenly the phone rang, making me jump.

I grabbed the handset and said my name. It was the Chief – could I go straight up? His tone didn't sound too friendly.

I bounded up the two flights of stairs and nodded to the Chief's secretary and tapped smartly on his door. I entered in reply to his instruction. Joe and Mike were already there, sitting in the two spare chairs, which meant I would have to stand. I nodded to Joe and Mike, noting their obvious embarrassment. I turned back to the Chief and waited for him to explain what was wrong; I didn't have to be a brilliant DI to work out all was not well.

The Chief spoke: “Reverend Thomas Wright—”

“Not topped himself, has he?” I butted in.

The look on the Chief's face told me that wasn't the cleverest remark I could have made.

The Chief continued: “We have been working on this case all weekend.”

I glanced a puzzled look sideways at Joe, who fidgeted nervously in his chair.

“Why?” I asked. “Have there been some new developments?”

“That, Inspector, is quite an understatement.” The Chief spoke with a new sternness in his voice. “The Wood woman came out of her coma on Saturday morning.”

“Well, that's good news. Will she be all right for the trial?” I asked.

“Roger, there won't be any trial.”

“You are joking,” I said. “You don't mean she is not going to press charges.”

The Chief held his hand up to instruct me to be quiet. “The reason there won't be a trial is because it wasn't the Reverend Wright.”

“Of course it was. The evidence!” I blurted out angrily. I looked at Joe for help, but he was busy counting the daisies on the carpet.

“No, it wasn't the Reverend. The Wood woman has made a statement. I was there. Joe will give you a copy, and you will see that she clearly states that she didn't know her attacker, who was wearing a mask. You will also notice that the description she gives in no way matches the Reverend Wright. She describes the man as short and fat and having a gold tooth.”

I felt dazed. My mind flashed back to the picture on the screen. What had the Professor said?

“Two areas!” I mumbled out loud.

“What did you say?” asked the Chief.

“Oh, nothing,” I replied.

‘The Professor must have picked the wrong data,' I thought.

“Roger, Roger,” – the Chief brought me back from my thoughts – “we have to sort this mess out quickly. I've released the Reverend into the Bishop's charge while the paperwork is finalised, and I have released a press statement. I want you to go over to the Bishop's and explain to the Reverend that all charges made against him have been withdrawn, and to apologise for our incompetence.”

“Apologise!” I echoed. “But it was him – I know it was.”

“No, Roger, it was not the Reverend. I told you your evidence was flimsy; you should have waited.”

“It was him – I know it was.”

The Chief ignored my whingeing.

“I suggest you get on. I have some calls to make to try to sort out this damn mess.” The Chief's voice quivered with anger as he spoke.

I turned on my heels and stormed out. Joe and Mike jumped to their feet and hurried after me. I reached my office in record time and slumped down in my chair. Joe tapped on the door nervously and came in. He pushed hard on the door for a few minutes before turning to face me.

“I am sorry, boss. We tried to find you…”

“Joe, you know as well as I that he did it – he was the one – so what the hell happened?”

“Well, it was just after dinner time on Saturday. The Chief called me at home. He said he was at the hospital and he wanted me to meet him there at ten o'clock on Sunday morning to take a statement from the Wood woman as she had come out of her coma.”

“So you have seen her?”

“Yes, boss. On Sunday morning I met the Chief and took her statement.”

“How did she seem?”

“All right. She was clear and positive – seemed to know exactly what she was doing.”

“She must be protecting him, Joe. She must be.”

Joe shrugged his shoulders as if to say he was just doing as he was told.

“Didn't you question what she put in her statement? I mean, her description doesn't match with the forensic evidence – surely you noticed that!”

“Yes, boss, I did, but the Chief just wanted me to take the statement; he gave me no chance to ask any questions.”

“OK, Joe. Thanks. I want you to come with me to the Bishop's. I'll call you when I am ready.”

Joe left my office.

I sat there thinking for a while. There was something wrong – I could smell it. I picked up the phone and asked the switchboard to get me the hospital. After a delay they managed to locate Dr Moore for me. I asked him how Miss Wood was. He told me she was doing fine – almost back to normal.

“It must have been quite a shock, her suddenly coming round like that,” I said.

“Yes, totally unexpected. I rang the Bishop straight away.”

“You rang the Bishop? Why?” I asked.

“Well, as she has no immediate family the Bishop left specific instructions that he was to be informed the minute she came round.”

“What about her uncle?” I asked.

“Well, he had returned home to take his equipment back, so we couldn't locate him.”

“But you did try?” I asked.

There was a long silence at the other end.

“So what happened then?” I asked.

“Well, he came rushing in and asked to see her alone. Having spent about an hour with her, he asked to use my phone. About thirty minutes later another man arrived. They spent some time talking in my office, then they both went in to see Miss Wood. Then they both left. The man, whom I hadn't seen before, informed me that he will be back in the morning to take a statement from Miss Wood.”

“The Chief and the Bishop! Well, what do you know!” I thanked the Doctor and rang off.

I swung round in my chair, hands clasped behind my head. Now I knew: the Bishop must have put the fear of God into her. He probably told her what she had to say; then, when they had got their story straight, he called the Chief, and the Chief was duped into collaborating with the story. End of case! But the Bishop and Miss Wood don't know about the forensic evidence, so they just made up a description – which was exactly the opposite to the vicar's, just to make sure, beyond any doubt, that we can't proceed against him. It was funny, but I didn't feel angry any more. I knew he was guilty; Miss Wood knew; the vicar and the Bishop knew; and God Almighty certainly knew. And they all knew that I knew; and that I knew would give them a few sleepless nights, wondering if they were safe, knowing I would be watching, waiting for that mistake.

Feeling better, I collected Joe and we made our way to the Bishop's residence. We were shown into an enormous sitting room, so big it had three sets of settees and chairs as well as tables, bookcases and enough pottery to start a shop. We stood waiting, watching the door.