Jake Conley Mysteries Collection

Chapter 16

The crucifix might have kept him safe that night, or it might have been the deal he’d tried to strike with the ghost. Jake could not be sure, but the spectral presence hadn’t returned to trouble him. Yet, he knew that making a pact with the Devil required much more than simply offering to back off. He wasn’t particularly religious, but he knew about Faustus and other stories, and if he had a soul – he felt sure he had – he wouldn’t barter it for anything.

A profound belief that the diabolical ghost would settle for nothing less than his death drove Jake back to St Wilfrid’s in search of the parish priest. Jake was disappointed not to find him mid-morning, because it was Saturday and a parishioner told him, as usual, Mass was conducted at the Shrine of Margaret Clitherow, the martyr crushed to death for refusing to confess to treasonably practising her faith in 1586.

He waited inside St Wilfrid’s and stood in front of the statue of Our Lady of York, reading its history with interest. Having no reason to do so, Jake had not been inside a Catholic church before, but now, in front of this statue, the strange aching returned to the centre of his forehead. It reassured him that he was embarking on the right course of action. To pass the time, he read more details from the explanatory notice. The statue, originally from a wayside shrine in Flanders, had been saved by nuns from French Revolutionaries who suppressed their convent. Thereafter, following various vicissitudes, the statue arrived in England and eventually in York, where the shrine was built. Jake stared up at the crowned and sceptred statue of Our Lady, Mother of Mercy, and understood why people might discover peace in devotion. At this moment of serenity, the co-existence of good and evil in this world had never been clearer to him.

Before his experience at Ebberston, he would have laughed at what he held to be nothing more than superstition. Religion to him, then, had been nothing more than a compulsion for sad people with empty lives. He now realised how arrogant and baseless his attitude had been. He’d really believed that God and the Devil were no more than fairy tales to get people to behave themselves. The evil of the Saxon ghost had touched him to his very soul. He was not a Catholic, but he made the sign of the Cross before the statue and mouthed a silent prayer of his own composition. This visit had brought him respite, some comfort. It had also given him an alibi, but how was he to know that?

The priest received him almost two hours after Jake’s entry into St Wilfrid’s.

“I’m not a Catholic,” he blurted. “I’ve come for advice and help.”

The middle-aged priest, a member of the Oratorian Community, had many years’ experience of pastoral work. He smiled at this agitated young man benignly and sensed his spiritual agitation.

“You won’t be needing the confessional, then. Since it’s a lovely day, would you mind if we sat outside to take tea in the rectory garden?”

Taken aback but pleasantly surprised, Jake grinned.

“Y-yes, that would be perfect.”

He followed the priest through a gate along a neatly laid flagstone path leading towards the rectory at the end of the long garden with its immaculate lawn. They sat at a table, and a gentle grey-haired lady hurried away to bring tea and biscuits for Father Anthony and his guest.

Ginger nut biscuits again – it was his lucky day. The priest, meanwhile, had extracted information almost imperceptibly about Jake’s background, studies, and hopes. He had no need to be guarded and spoke willingly. The cleric’s touching on his aspirations gave him the introduction he needed.

“That’s what’s got me into trouble, Father. I’m afraid my desire to become a writer has unleashed horrible forces, so that’s why I’ve come to you.”

“What’s troubling you, son?”

Father Anthony stared over the rim of his cup at the suddenly grim face of the young man.

Jake plunged right into his tale, but he knew he had to explain his newfound sensitivity after his accident.

To his dismay, the priest picked up on this, and Jake began to worry that the cleric might believe what he had to tell him came wholly from within his ailing mind. But after a moment’s quiet reflection, the clergyman said, “Jake, the Father created us, and only He knows what our minds are capable of. It sounds, from what you tell me, as though your unfortunate accident brought the blessing or curse, if you will, of spiritual awakening. Please go on.”

“Then you believe what I’m about to tell you isn"t the raving of a damaged head?”

“I’m making no judgments, Jake, just listening.”

He smiled encouragingly and settled back with hooded eyes half-closed, enjoying the gentle breeze caressing his cheeks.

Jake resumed his tale, leaving out not a single detail. Only once did the priest interrupt to question him more closely about the aspect of the ghost. When Jake finished his account, he opened his eyes wide, and his guest saw the concern in their piercing, pale blue.

“It has appeared here in York, you say?”

“Yes, I had to buy a crucifix in the minster yesterday to…well…I thought it might keep it at bay. But I really don’t know what I’m doing, and I’m scared.”

“Of course, you are, son. But you’ve done the right thing coming here. Only God can combat diabolical presences.”

“Do you think it’s a demon, Father?”

“Quite possibly, one that has possessed an afflicted soul.”

“Do I need an exorcist?”

The priest stared at him with a sceptical look.

“Not to be ruled out as a last resort, but we should move by degrees. I should come to bless your home…and your crucifix, Jake. I would come immediately,” he glanced at his watch, “but pressingly, I have Mass at 12.10. Good Lord, I must dash! Would you knock on the door and get Mrs Fenwick to write down your address? I’ll come around at about half-past two, with my gear!” He said this with a chuckle, bade goodbye, and hurried down the path to the gate.

Jake sat in quiet contemplation in such restful surroundings for a few minutes before easing himself out of the chair and complying with the priest’s request. Later, he would think back on the serenity he had enjoyed in blissful ignorance of events elsewhere.

Sixth sense is not always a blessing. Sometimes it presages the horrendous as when Jake raised his latchkey to let himself into his flat. Negative energy enveloped him, and his skin prickled, but he ignored the warning and entered to see a ghastly sight: a bloodied corpse sprawled in the middle of his sitting room behind the remains of his coffee table. It was the body of a woman, but he didn’t recognise her until he drew nearer and saw the swarthy skin of her lacerated face. Livie! He choked back a scream. His poor, intelligent, reliable Olivia. Victim of multiple cuts, and he had no doubt in his mind what weapon had inflicted them.

She didn’t give back her key to the flat.

She didn’t give back her key to the flat.He immediately felt guilty that he hadn’t bothered to ask her for it. She’d have been alive now in all likelihood. He tiptoed around the edge of the carpet to check the other rooms. He knew he mustn’t contaminate the crime scene and would have to call the police and Benjamin, her father. He worked as a screenplay writer, had lost his wife eight years before and continued to look after Livie. How would Jake find the words to break this to him? The other rooms were in order, so he dialled emergency and asked for the police.

Within minutes, he heard sirens, followed by urgent knocking on the door. The police proceeded with their usual efficiency, photographs, examination of the body and so on. He had to make a statement of how he’d found the victim and how he knew her. From the start he had the impression that he was the main suspect. There had been no break-in, she was his ex-fiancée, and he was in police records, admittedly as the victim of a road accident, but he had been in coma for many days. The police considered there was no telling how that might unhinge a man’s mind.

exhadHe glanced fearfully at Livie’s body as the pathologist rolled her over and caught a glimpse of the tattoo of an aubergine on her left shoulder. Poor Livie had been obsessed with organic vegetables, not that her healthy eating and jogging had bestowed on her a long life. A sob escaped him, and he flopped down in an armchair. A woman PC came over to comfort him, and he mumbled that he ought to call Livie’s father.

“We’ll deal with it, sir. It’s for the best.” She noted down the number and proceeded to make arrangements to meet Benjamin without explaining why, just a matter of urgency.

a matter of urgencyThey zipped up the body bag, and two paramedics in white uniform carried it out of his flat. At the sight, his resolve broke, and Jake burst into a flood of tears. He would never see Livie again. There was a time when he truly loved her. A series of regrets flashed through his head as he wept. He could feel a hand rubbing his back to comfort him and through a veil of tears looked up into the concerned face of the same policewoman.

“I’ll make you a cup of tea, sir.”

He nodded wordlessly, grateful, and after he’d regained some composure after his tea, a detective inspector introduced himself and said, "We have one or two questions, sir. Just a formality and simple routine if you don’t mind.”

His manner was measured and polite, not accusatory, but Jake wasn’t fooled. He knew he had to be the prime suspect.

“Where were you this morning between ten o’clock and midday, sir?”

Jake struggled and failed to remember Father Anthony’s surname, but what better alibi than a Catholic priest?

“He should be here in half an hour. We have an appointment for 2.30.”

“If you don’t mind, we’ll wait, then.” Detective Inspector Mark Shaw smiled at Jake’s nodded consent before continuing.

“You said earlier that you and Miss Greenwood had split up, is that correct?”

“A couple of months back. I wasn’t myself after a road accident.”

“How long had you been together?”

“A little over two years. But I hadn’t seen or heard from her after we broke up until I found her here …like that…today.”

“Did you let her into the flat?”

“No, I told you, the first time I saw her was when I got back from St Wilfrid’s, and she was dead.”

“How did she get in?”

“She never gave back her key.”

“And you didn’t ask her for it?”

The tone was definitely sharp for the first time.

Jake raised an eyebrow.

“Well, that would’ve been kind of definitive, wouldn’t it?”

“So, you weren’t reconciled to her leaving you?”

He could see where this was heading and would have to tread carefully.

“To be honest, I haven’t had much time to work through my feelings. As I said, I’ve been researching a novel. It took me out of York for ten days or so. If you need it, I can give you the name of the person who put me up.”

“All in due course, sir. First, I’d like your permission to search the premises.”

“Is that really necessary?”

The reply came very sharp.

“This is a murder inquiry, and there’ll be no problem obtaining a warrant, but I should tell you that if you were to become a suspect, a refusal now would not help your case.”

were“Am I a suspect then?”

The inspector gave him a cold stare.

“In this line of work, we have to treat everyone involved as suspects, sir. It’s quite routine. Now, about this search?”

“You’re quite right, of course. Go ahead.”

“Very wise, sir. It’s obligatory; unfortunately we have no murder weapon.”

“The axe,” Jake murmured.

“What was that?” The trained ear and alert mind of the inspector seized on this immediately. “How do you know?”

Jake stared in confusion at the policeman. How could he have betrayed his knowledge so easily?

“You won’t believe me, but I know who killed Olivia.”

“Try me!”

For the second time that day, Jake related the events that had occurred at Ebberston and provided enough details for the York police to verify. He was sure they would because occasionally the inspector stopped him to repeat and jot down something in his notebook. Only when he had finished did the policeman comment but not before exchanging a look of condescension with his woman constable.

“If I understand you right, Mr Conley, you’re asking me to believe there’s a homicidal ghost on the rampage, which only you can see–”

homicidal ghostonly you“Yes, but I’m not the only one who can smell him.”

“You do realise that this defies all rational, scientific explanation. I dread to think what my superintendent would say if I wrote this in a report.”

He gave a sardonic little laugh, and Jake was only saved from an ill-judged indignant response by a knock at the door. He glanced at his watch: 2.30.

Father Anthony, punctual to a fault, stared in horror at the pool of blood on the floor.

“This is a crime scene, Father,” the inspector said and added, “I’m afraid there’s been no time to clean up.”

“Oh, Good Lord, I hope it wasn’t a killing, but judging–”

“Don’t distress yourself, Father, but a murder took place here. Now, kindly tell me where you were between ten o’clock and midday this morning.”

“Surely you don’t think–”

“Please, Father, between ten o’clock and midday.”

The priest looked at Jake and then at the inspector.

“At a few minutes past ten, I met this gentleman at St Wilfrid’s. From there I accompanied him to the rectory garden, where we took tea and stayed together until midday, when I dashed off to celebrate Mass.”

“So you were together the whole time?”

“We were, yes.”

“Might I ask why Mr Conley had come to see you, Father?”

The priest looked at Jake, who gave him a slight nod, which did not escape the eagle eye of the inspector.

“I don’t see why not. I’m not bound by the confessional. Indeed,” and here his tone became disapproving, “I believe Mr Conley is not a practising Christian. He came to seek my advice concerning a ghostly apparition that is tormenting him. He asked me to find him an exorcist, and in fact,” he pointed to a bag by his feet, “I came to bless this house…but sadly, I see–”

Detective Inspector Shaw, looking for a moment like a haunted man, exchanged a worried look with the WPC and said, “Yes, yes. Thank you, Father. Well, Mr Conley. That’s all for the moment. Our investigation is ongoing, and I must ask you to stay in York until we authorise otherwise. I’ll need your mobile number, sir.”