PAIN HAS A PERMANENT ADDRESS - READ BETWEEN THE LIES

READ BETWEEN THE LIES - EPISODE FIVE

18  Paul raised his empty glass, more like a half-pint in his big hand.  "Ready for another?"  

 I declined and was about to finish my drink and go home when a familiar voice spoke behind me. 

 "I thought this was where I'd find you." 

 I turned to see Yazmin standing behind me.   

"Are you OK?" 

 "I walked." 

 "You walked," I sighed.  "We have a possible serial killer walking around 

Oxmarket and you're on foot." 

 "It didn't feel like a night for sitting alone." Her smiled faltered   

I stood up and said to Yazmin, "Becks?"  

She nodded as usual. 

 "I think I'll have a Becks, please." 

 On my return, she said, "Cheers," and raised the bottle in a little toast and took a drink.  "I know the landlord doesn't like me doing it, but it just doesn't taste the same from a glass." 

 "And it's less to wash up, so you're actually doing him a favour." 

 "I'll remember that next time he tells me off."  She was pensive for a moment and fiddled absent-mindedly with a beer mat. "I just can't believe what's happening.  It's so awful, isn't it?  I mean, three dead bodies all in the space of ten days.  All from around here.  I thought places like Oxmarket were supposed to be safe." 

"You should know. You work for the local paper." 

 We grinned at each other.  "What did the vicar have to say for himself?" 

 "Still working?" 

 "I'm always working." 

 I laughed, but before I could say anything the pub fell silent at the sight of ACC White in the doorway.  She scanned the room and then made straight for me. The crowded pub parted like the Red Sea. 

 "Outside," she said I and followed her out into the warm clear night. 

 We were greeted by the boom of a bittern, which added to the eerie feeling. 

 "Everything all right?" 

 She turned.  "I've just had Dr Laurie on the phone.  The autopsy's revealed that the girl was sexually assaulted. The killer's sperm showed signs of radiation damage.  The body's prematurely desiccated.  It wouldn't have dried out this quickly unless there was major blood loss. The level of radiation the killer has left in his wake should have killed any normal man by now."    I was silent for a few moments digesting what I had just been told.  "The girl could have been killed somewhere else?" 

 "There was numerous small cuts on the torso and limbs, superficial. Dr Laurie can't say for sure whether it was the throat wound or the head  

injuries that killed." 

 Whatever this girl has gone through, Woodhouse and Charles Steele had faced the same.  And if Neil Woolner wasn't dead already, it was only a matter of time. 

 Barring miracles. 

 "Did Mr Carlisle contact you?  What do you think?" 

 "We're checking that out," she said.  "I've also called a temporary halt to the search for Neil Woolner.  I'm going to issue a statement warning everyone to stay out of the woods until the environmental protection agency has given the all-clear." 

 "You know what will happen, don't you?  The mood in Oxmarket will change with that news.  It will turn to one of real fear." 

 "One other thing," she looked down at the floor before continuing.  "The 

Ministry of Defence has commandeered our mysterious object." 

 "You're joking." 

 "I wish I were. The forensic investigators managed to check the radiation levels of the object, and they were higher than normal." 

 I sighed with exasperation.  "Is there anything else?  I would like to go back to my drink." 

 "Keep a clear head, John." 

 "I always do." 

 I started for the door and then as an afterthought, I turned to the Assistant 

Chief Constable.  "Will you be going to church tomorrow?" 

 "Why?" 

 "I think there'll be a great more people there than normal." 

 "So?" 

"Is there a possibility the killer will be among the congregation?" 

19   

The Virgin Mary had seen better days.  Her face was pockmarked and worn, her features without the distinction they might once have held.  With her bowed head, she seemed to bear the weight of the world on her shoulders.  Yet, there was something noble about her resignation, as though, unwelcome as it was, her lot was one she nevertheless accepted. 

 The statue had drawn my attention during the church service.  I couldn't say what I liked about it.  Mounted on its stone pillar, it was roughly hewn, and even to my unschooled eye, the sculptor had a poor sense of proportion.  But whether it was the softening effect of age or something less definable, there was something about it that appealed.  It had endured for centuries, seen countless days of joy and tragedy played out beneath it.  It would still be there, watchful, and silent, long after everyone else had faded from memory.  It was a reminder that, good or bad, everything passes. 

 The old church was cool and musty, even on a warm morning.  The light fell through the stained-glass window in blues and mauves, the ancient glass warped and uneven in its leaded frames.  The central aisle was flagged with uneven stone slabs now worn smooth, interspersed with ancient gravestones.  The one nearest me was engraved with a skull, beneath which some medieval stonemason had inscribed a sombre message. 

As you are now, so I once was.   

As I am now, so you will be. 

I moved my weight from side to side on the hard-wooden pew as Carlisle’s insidious baritone echoed off the stone walls.  What had set out to be a Solemn Eucharist had predictably become an excuse for the vicar to inflict his brand of piety on a captive audience? 

 "Even as we pray for the souls of Charles Steele, Alan Woodhouse, and that poor unknown young woman, and for the deliverance of Neil Woolner, there is a question all of us want to be answered.  Why would this have happened?  Is it a judgement that these poor unfortunate children of God have been taken from us so brutally?" 

Gripping the aged wooden pulpit in both his hands, Carlisle glowered down at his congregation. 

"Judgement can fall upon any of us, at any time." 

Flashbulbs popped silently as Carlisle paused for breath.  More police had been drafted in that morning and the national press had finally woken up, descending on Oxmarket with their microphones and cameras, giving the village the feel of being under siege. 

Carlisle had allowed the press inside the church, adding to the unreality of the situation.  By the time Yazmin and I arrived the pews were full, and we forced our way through to the back.  

The reverend was beginning to wind down. "Perhaps there is no reason, no prevailing wisdom behind our universe." 

He paused, dramatically.  I wondered if he were deliberately playing to the cameras.  

"Or perhaps we are too dazzled by our arrogance to see it."  He leaned forward, thrusting his fleshless head at us.  

"We should all of us, everyone, look into our hearts.  Evil doesn't cease to exist just because we choose to ignore it.”  

There was an uneasy silence as people tried to digest his words.  Carlisle didn't give them a chance.  He lifted his chin and closed his eyes, as the camera flashes cast shifting shadows on his face. 

 "Let us pray." 

 After the service there was none of the milling around outside that normally follows.  A police trailer had been set up by the town square, and its white, bulky presence seemed both incongruous and intimidating.  Despite the attempts of the press and TV cameras, few people felt inclined to provide interviews.  This was all still too raw, too private for that.  It was one thing watching coverage of other communities that had been struck by tragedy.  

Being part of one yourself was another matter. 

 Yazmin and I watched Mr Carlisle preaching to soundbite-starved journalists in the churchyard, while behind him excited children played in the graveyard, trampling the wilted flowers that still decorated it as they hoped to get in a shot.  His voice, if not his actual words, carried to where we stood under the horse chestnut. 

 "I've never heard so much rubbish in all my life," Yazmin said angrily.  "What was it, God's judgement on our sins?  We've bought this on ourselves?"   "Something like that," I admitted. 

 Yazmin snorted.  "Just what Oxmarket needs.  An invitation to paranoia." Standing behind Carlisle as he continued his impromptu press conference, I noticed the ranks of his hard-line parishioners had been swelled by new converts.  The likes of Martin and Jeanette Brett and Valerie Beal and her son Richard had been joined by many less regular church-goers.  They looked on in mute, approving chorus as the vicar raised his voice to drive home his point to the cameras. 

 Yazmin shook her head in disgust.  "Look at him.  In his element.  Man of 

God?  Hah!  This is just a chance to say, ‘I told you so'." 

 "Still, he has a point." 

 She gave me a sceptical look.  "Don't tell me you've been converted."  "Not by Carlisle.  But whoever's behind this must be local.  Someone who knows the countryside here.  Knows us." 

 "In that case, God help us because if Carlisle gets his way things are going to get a lot worse before they get any better." 

 "What do you mean?" 

 "Have you ever heard about the Salem witch-hunts?" 

 "Yes." 

 "Well, that's going to be nothing to what goes on here if this carries on much longer."  I thought she was joking, but the look she gave me was entirely serious.  "Keep your head down, John.  Even without Carlisle stirring things up, the mud-slinging and finger-pointing are going to start soon.  Make sure you don't walk into any of it." 

 "You're not serious?" 

 "No?  I know what our good friends and neighbours are like in this town.  

The knives are going to be sharpened already." 

"Come on, don't you think that's stretching it a bit?" 

 "Is it?" 

 She watched Carlisle, who had turned back towards the church having finished whatever he had to say.  As the more persistent of journalists tried to follow, the verger Dave Saw stepped to block them with his arms outstretched, a vast barrier of flesh none of them felt inclined to pass.  Yazmin gave me a meaningful look.  "Something like this brings the worst in everyone.  Oxmarket's a small place.  And small places breed small minds.  Perhaps I'm being overly pessimistic.  But if I were you, I'd watch your back all the same."   She held my gaze for a moment to make sure I'd got the message, then glanced over my shoulder.  "I thought you said the Assistant Chief Constable would be here?" 

 I turned to look at all the locals milling around. There was surprisingly very little police presence.    

 It was from ACC White.   

 They'd found a body.  

20  The floodlights cast a ghostly brightness onto the area. Despite being only the middle of the day, the surrounding trees were transformed into a surreal landscape of light and dark and in the centre, the team of crime scene officers went about their business.  A rectangular section of ground was marked out with a grid work of nylon string, and to the background hum of a generator they painstakingly scraped away at the earth.  

 ACC White stood nearby, crunching on a mint as she watched.  The floodlights leached the colour from her face and accentuated the shadows under her tired eyes. 

 "We found the grave this afternoon.  It's only shallow, about a foot deep.  

We think the killer left it here to come back and mutilate later." 

 The site was in Oxmarket forest, about two miles from where Alan Woodhouse's body had been found.  The forensics team had cleared away most of the top layer of the earth by the time I arrived, just after midday.  I watched one of the officers examine something, then discard it and continue. 

 "How did you find it?"  I asked White. 

 "Sniffer dog." 

 I nodded.  The police used specially trained dogs for more than just drugs and explosives.  Locating a grave was rarely easy, and the larger the area to be searched the harder it got.  I even knew Dr Reed to have some interesting results divining for graves using pieces of bent wire. 

But dogs remained the best search tool for discovering where a body was buried.  Their sensitive noses could detect the taint of decomposition through several feet of soil, and good cadaver dogs had even been known to locate bodies buried over a century before. 

 "Radiation?" 

 "Little but not so much as to kill or enough to kill anyone." 

 The forensics team was scraping the soil from partially exposed remains using small trowels and brushes, working with an almost archaeological precision.   

 I looked at the shallow excavation.  The body was now almost fully exposed and there was no doubt in my mind it was Neil Woolner. 

 Our attention was suddenly diverted from the shallow grave by Parliamentary

Under Secretary of the Ministry of Defence, George Henderson flanked by two RAF airmen wearing sunglasses, approaching the crime scene. 

 Perhaps it was my imagination, but he seemed to stride taller than before.  Out of everyone, he was the only person who was flourishing from the events that had overtaken Oxmarket.  Nothing like tragedy and fear to make a government official the man of the moment.  I felt ashamed.  He was only doing his job, so I shouldn't let my dislike of him colour my thinking. 

 For a moment they stood in silence, as though pausing for dramatic effect.  Henderson looked about at the assembled forensic team. Then he broke into a huge grin, exposing his small, even, and perfectly white teeth.   "I would like everybody to stop what they are doing."  He said with 

authority.   

Everyone looked at each other for guidance but no one was forthcoming.  

White crossed to Henderson in a few swift strides. 

 "What's going on?" she asked. 

 "This is now a military operation," he said loudly, so everyone could hear.  "I would like you all to hand over whatever evidence you have gathered to Flight Lieutenant Robeson and Flight Lieutenant McGarrigle."  "You can't do that?"  White protested. 

 Henderson waved a piece of paper at her.  "I'm afraid I can." 

 White stared straight at Henderson, and for a moment, I was concerned how she would react. 

 "You haven't heard the last of this," she said. 

 Henderson smirked.  "Goodbye, Assistant Chief Constable." 

 Thankfully, White did not take the bait.  She turned to the forensic team who watched, frozen in situ as the confrontation unfolded. 

 "You heard the man," she said with resignation.  "Let's clear up and get out of here."  

 White led the forensic team away from the crime scene, but I remained. 

 "What is it you want, Henderson?" 

 "The government is frankly concerned about the damage being done to their reputation over these murders." 

 "I would've thought they'd be more concerned with the murders of two RAF airmen and that poor young girl.  Isn't that more important than worrying about their reputation?" 

Henderson laughed.  "You're just a lowly private detective trying to make a living in a remote Suffolk coastal town.  You're in over your head, Mr Handful.

Please do not waste any more of my time." 

I moved towards him and the two airmen made their presence known by standing closer to the Parliamentary Under-Secretary.  I said nothing, just smiled at this show of protection.   

 "Do you know Sir William Frederick Patterson?"  I asked him. 

 Henderson bristled.  "Of course I do." 

 "Then, I would suggest you mention my name to him, and then you'll find out whether I'm in over my head or not." 

 Henderson glared at me.  He might have said more, but the Assistant Chief Constable called after me.  Henderson drew himself up, his eyes as hard as granite. 

 "I won't keep you any longer, Mr Handful," he said stiffly, and accompanied by the two airmen, went to inspect the crime scene. 

 Well, you handled that well, I thought sourly as I re-joined White.  I hadn't meant to get into a confrontation, but people like Henderson brought the worst in me. 

 The Assistant Chief Constable waited for me by her car.  "You know what this means, don't you?" 

 "We're finished?"  I suggested. 

 "We are, but you're not.  The police can no longer take an active part in this investigation.  But you can."  She smiled.  "You're a private detective, investigating the unexplained death of Charles Steele on behalf of his widow."

21  The next week passed in a state of limbo.  A subdued tension filled the air, a dull anticipation as everyone waited for something to happen. 

 The general mood matched the landscape, flat and becalmed.  The weather continued as hot and unblemished as ever, without any hint of gathering clouds.  The military investigation ground on, producing no sign of either suspect or victim. 

 The press had started to drift away.  The lack of forthcoming information and developments meant Oxmarket was already losing its hold on the media’s fickle interest.  If anything else happened, they would be back.  Until then, the three victims would steadily diminish in airtime and column inches until their names faded altogether from the public consciousness.  One night I drove Yazmin out for dinner. The tables had linen tablecloths and candles, and the wine list was more than a choice between red and white.  It already seemed like we'd known each other for years instead of having only just met.  Perhaps that was partly because of what we'd each been through.  The knowledge bonded us like a private language, unspoken most of the time, but there, nevertheless.  It had seemed normal to tell her about my history, about Zoë, and Kimberley Ashlyn Gere and Kira Reed, and about some of my cases and what job I'd done when I'd lived in London.  She listened without comment, only briefly touching my hand when I'd finished.  

She allowed the contact to linger a moment before quickly moving her hand away.  And then, without awkwardness or embarrassment, we'd started talking about something else. 

Only on the way back was there any tension, Yazmin withdrew further into herself the closer we drew to my house.  The conversation that had been effortless first became stilted, then dried up altogether. 

 "Is everything OK?"  I asked as I pulled outside my house. 

 She nodded too quickly before opening the car door. Turning back to me, she said, "Look, I'm sorry, I just . . . I don't want to hurry into anything." 

 I nodded.  

 "No, I don't mean . . . It's not that I don't want . . ."  She drew a deep breath. 

"Just not yet, all right?"  She gave me an uncertain smile.  "Not yet." 

 "That's fine. Let's go have a coffee." 

 I'd taken out my keys to unlock the front door before I noticed it stood open. 

I looked at Yazmin, and she looked as apprehensive as I felt. 

I briefly considered phoning the police.  But what could I tell them?    

I paused, listening for some sign of life or movement.  But the thump of my heart drowned out any lesser sounds.  I put my hand on the door and started to push it open. 

Suddenly, with an incoherent scream from within, it was wrenched from my hand and a figure came charging out of the house running.  Winded, I lunged for it and felt a waft of air pass in front of me. My hand clutched coarse, greasy material and then something crashed into my face as I staggered back. 

I looked at Yazmin and saw the paleness of her face as the figure passed her.   

 "My God, John, are you, all right?" 

 She was staring at my chest.  I was about to ask what she meant, but then I saw for myself.  I remembered the waft of air I'd felt as I'd grabbed at the intruder.  Now I understood what it was. 

The front of my shirt had been slashed open.  When I looked back at her to confirm I was okay, I saw she was already on her mobile calling the police.   They descended on my house like a fury, taking photographs, dusting for fingerprints, and asking their questions.  White had arrived looking tired and frazzled, like a woman recently woken from a bad sleep. 

 "Go through it again.  You're telling me someone broke into the house, took a slice at you and managed to get away, without either of you getting a look at him?" 

 I was tired and irritable myself.  "It was dark." 

 "So, there was nothing familiar about him?" 

 "No, sorry." 

 "And there's no chance you could identify him again?" 

 "I wish there was, but I've told you, it was too dark." 

 Yazmin had been equally unable to help.  If things had gone differently, Oxmarket might have been waking up to hear of another murder.  Perhaps even two. 

 Judging by White's attitude as she questioned me, she thought that was the least we deserved.  "And you've no idea if anything might have been taken?" 

I could only shake my head.  The house was mostly undisturbed, and the DVD was still in one of the kitchen drawers, but until the forensics team had finished with it, I couldn't say for sure what was missing and what wasn't. 

 White squeezed the bridge of her nose.  Her eyes were red-rimmed and angry. 

"Any idea how the intruder got in here?" 

 "No idea." 

White repeated the same question to Yazmin, and she gave the same unhelpful answer.  The break-in had badly rattled her, and she hadn't improved after almost an hour of interrogation.  She seemed a little recovered now, although her colour still wasn't good. 

 "You two are about as much use as a chocolate teapot."  White looked as though she were trying hard to keep hold of her temper.  "For Christ’s sake, John, you're a bloody private detective." 

 I'd been unable to argue with that.  I felt as culpable as the burglar and should have been more aware of what was going on when I'd found the front door open. 

 Finally, the police had done as much as they could and left at almost three o'clock in the morning. 

 Yazmin sat nervously on the edge of the bed. 

 "Are you OK?"  I asked her. 

 She looked at me awkwardly.  Say something.  But I couldn't.  In the half-light, I couldn't see her clearly.  Only her eyes.  We looked at each other, neither of us moving.  When she spoke, her voice was unsteady. 

 "Come to bed." 

We were both hesitant, to begin with, tense and trembling.  Gradually, she began to relax, and so did I. At first memory tried to impose its template of shape, texture, and scent.  Then the present took over, sweeping away everything else.  Afterwards, she lay curled against me, breath soft on my chest.   

 In the coming days, I would look back on this moment as the one last glimmer

of blue sky before the storm.                                                             

22  After breakfast, we walked into Oxmarket Mountfitchet, hand in hand. We came across Mr Carlisle walking slowly around the bench and staring at the ground as though he'd lost something. 

 I acknowledged the vicar with a cheery wave.  "Beautiful morning." 

 Carlisle nodded, but he seemed troubled.  "Beautiful."  

 "Is there something wrong?"  I looked at the ground.  The neatly cut grass had been churned up by heavy tyres, ruining the pretty verge. 

 The reverend pointed to the damage, and then we all swung round at the sound of marching feet. 

 A group of half a dozen RAF airmen came around the corner, moving smartly in a tight unit. 

 I looked at Yazmin who was frowning.  Completely ignoring us, the airmen came to halt on the village green, not far from the churned-up grass.   Carlisle regarded them intently and a pained look crept over his face.  One of the airmen withdrew a small black box from his jacket and laid it on the grass. 

I could see some kind of dial and a needle which swung sharply to the right. 

At once, another of the men began to dig at the green with a small spade.   Carlisle gasped.  "Excuse me, but would you mind explaining what you're doing?" 

 The airman, wearing the uniform of a Flight Lieutenant, ignored him, and picked up the box and put it in his jacket.  The reverend persisted.  "I really don't think it's right for you to dig up the green.  There's been enough damage

as it is." 

He cleared his throat and shuffled awkwardly.  "Did you hear me?" 

 The Flight Lieutenant scowled at Carlisle and jerked his head in his direction.  At once, two of the airmen marched over to the bench and tried to drag the vicar away.  He protested loudly and one of the men clamped a hand over his mouth. 

 "What the hell do you think you're doing?"  I bellowed. 

 The airman let his hand fall to his side.  He looked at the Flight Lieutenant, who switched on a charming smile.  "It's for the vicar's own good.  He needs . . . Looking after.  

 I put my hands on my hips.  "I think he should be the judge of that, don't you?" 

 The Flight Lieutenant's grin broadened, and for the first time, I noticed a little clump of saliva which clung like cuckoo-spit to his lips. 

 At a slight indication of the Flight Lieutenant's head, his men released Carlisle who slumped back on the bench, his eyes flickering wildly from side to side. 

 I regarded the airmen steadily.  "What are you doing here?" 

 "Flight Lieutenant Smith," he said curtly.  "I'm sure you must realize this is an ongoing military investigation and I cannot reveal any details at the moment." 

 I glanced down at the muddy tyre tracks on the green.  "Would you like to explain what happened here?" 

  The Flight Lieutenant's face assumed an innocent expression, but he said nothing. 

I pointed to the man's uniform.  "That little box.  Some kind of Geiger counter?" 

 The Flight Lieutenant laughed, and a tiny fleck of saliva fell onto his freshly pressed jacket.  "Nothing like that.  We had an accident with one of our vehicles last night, and I was just checking that none of ours. . . The cargo was missing." 

 I looked over at the remaining five airmen, standing in a line, still and impassive, like automaton waiting to be wound up. 

 "And what is your cargo?" 

 The Flight Lieutenant's dark eyes glittered.  "You know I can't tell you that." 

 I smiled.  "Is that right?" 

 I bent down on one knee and fingered some soil. 

 The Flight Lieutenant's face was impassive.  "I have to ask you not to tamper with evidence, sir." 

 Without him giving an instruction, two of the airmen swung round to face me.  I got slowly to my feet. 

 "Very well," I said quietly.  "Very well." 

 The Flight Lieutenant touched the brim of his peaked cap.  "Good day, sir."  I didn't move.  "Perhaps I could come up to the airbase tomorrow and have a look around?  I'm sure it's fascinating." 

 The Flight Lieutenant shook his head slowly.  "I'm afraid that's impossible."  "Really?  I have contacts at the Ministry of Defence, you know."  I smiled pleasantly. 

The Flight Lieutenant wiped his lips with the back of his hand.  "Then I suggest you refer the matter to them.  No one is allowed in without an official pass." 

  He turned on his heel, spoke to two of his men, who saluted him as he left them stood by the bench deterring me to investigate any further.  The vicar got up and crossed to my side. 

 I looked at the two men by the bench and then put my arm around 

Yazmin's shoulder, guiding her away from the village green. 

 "Something's wrong about those airmen," I whispered to her. 

 "You're telling me," she exclaimed. 

 "No, not just that."  I turned and shot one last look at the Flight 

Lieutenant's retreating form.  "When those two men saluted the Flight Lieutenant, they had their right hands, palm, down, and brought the hand up to the right temple.  Almost, but not quite touching." 

 "So?" 

 "The RAF's salute has the palm facing outwards."