I smile. Thank you, God.
‘Actually, I’m Reverend Jack Brooks.’
‘Oh, right. I’m Frank, from BT.’
‘And you, quite literally, are the answer to my prayers.’
While Frank the BT man fumbles around with connections and drills holes in the living-room wall, I shower and get dressed. I’m just heading downstairs when Flo pokes a dishevelled head out of her bedroom.
‘What’s that noise?’
‘That is the sound of us rejoining civilization.’
‘Internet?’
‘Yep.’
‘Hallelujah.’
I regard her for a moment. The knife.
‘How’s your leg?’
‘A bit sore, but okay.’
‘Want a cup of tea or coffee?’
‘Coffee would be good.’
‘Okay. I’ll bring one up.’
She stares at me suspiciously. ‘Why are you being so nice?’
‘Because I love you.’
‘And?’
‘Do I need another reason?’ I smile, lovingly.
‘You’re being weird,’ she says, and retreats back into her room.
I walk downstairs and make her a milky coffee, one sugar. I pop my head into the living room and check on Frank.
‘How’s it going?’
‘Almost done in here, love. Then I just need to go and check the connection up the road.’
I smile politely and try to batten down my annoyance at being called ‘love’.
‘Thanks. I can’t tell you how happy we’ll be to have internet again.’
‘Funny. Never think of vicars using the internet.’
‘Well, sending prayers to Sainsbury’s for the shopping doesn’t work so well.’
He stares at me and then laughs, awkwardly. ‘Oh, right. Good one.’ He looks around. ‘Y’know, I remember the other bloke who was here.’
Of course. Small village. Even the BT man is local.
‘Reverend Fletcher?’
‘Yeah, decent fella. Shame what happened.’
‘Yes. Very sad.’
‘Thought that would be the end of it, to be honest.’
‘End of what?’
‘Here. The chapel.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, they had it up for sale at one point.’
This is news to me. ‘Really?’
‘Yeah. After the old vicar – Marsh – retired, it was closed for well over a year. Then Reverend Rushton started a campaign to save it. They got this big donation and decided to keep it open.’
‘Well, that was very fortunate. Who was the generous donor?’
‘Local bloke. Simon Harper. Never had him down as the religious type, but I suppose it’s village history, innit?’
‘I suppose,’ I say.
‘Right.’ He stands. ‘I’ll just scoot up the road. Be back in a minute.’
‘Okay.’
I take Flo’s coffee upstairs, mind ticking over. So, Simon Harper made a large donation to the church. Rushton had mentioned the family ‘doing a lot’ for the church. He obviously meant bailing it out. But why, I wonder? To make himself look good? Or something else?
I knock on Flo’s door.
‘Come in.’
I walk in. She’s sprawled on her bed, headphones on. I put the coffee down on her bedside table.
She mutters, ‘Thanks.’
I wait. She notices me hovering and takes her headphones off.
‘Yes?’
The knife.
‘I just wanted to ask you something, about last night?’
‘O-kay?’
‘When you were in the house, with Wrigley, were you together all the time?’
‘Yes. Why?’
Too quick. She’s lying.
‘So, he didn’t use the toilet or anything?’
‘Maybe. Why are you asking?’
I shrug. ‘He didn’t put the seat down.’
‘Is that a crime?’
‘It is in this house.’
Her eyes narrow. ‘Why are you really asking?’
I hesitate. I don’t want to accuse Wrigley without proof, and I don’t want to start another argument. Fortunately, I’m saved by a knock on the front door. Frank.
‘Better get that,’ I say.
‘Knock yourself out.’ She puts her headphones back on.
I have my answer anyway. Looks like young Lucas Wrigley and I need to have another chat. I trot downstairs and open the door, expecting to see Frank’s bald head gleaming in the sun. Instead, a young woman with short hair and a skull tattoo poking out from the arm of her T-shirt stands on the doorstep. She looks familiar.
‘Hello again,’ she says.
And then it clicks. It’s the same young woman I met in the village hall. Kirsty?
‘Oh, hi. Can I help you?’
‘I’m hoping I can help you.’ She holds up a large tool case with ‘TPK Stonemasons’ written on the side.
She grins. ‘Something about a hidden vault?’
THIRTY-EIGHT
They don’t have children.
They do have a dog, a small brown-and-white terrier who alternates between sitting at the man’s feet, eyeing the bacon sandwich he is eating, and pawing agitatedly at the adjoining door to the living room.
‘Settle down,’ he says, and chucks it a bit of bacon fat.
The dog looks at the door, whines and then trots over and eats the bacon.
Man’s best friend, he thinks. Yeah, right. The extent of a dog’s devotion begins and ends with food. Although, to be fair, the terrier probably doesn’t quite understand that his owners will not be taking him for walkies ever again.
He glances at the door. He didn’t mean to. But he had little choice. By the time he reached the farm his ankle was so painful he could barely hobble. Even if he could have managed to talk his way inside, there was no way he could overpower anyone. All he had was the element of surprise. He had found the axe embedded in some logs in a small shed outside. He could see the occupants through the patio doors. The doors hadn’t even been locked. Old folk. Too trusting. Oblivious to the horrors that could be lurking outside, even here, in the middle of nowhere.
It had been quick. Bloody, but quick. They had both been sitting, backs to him, watching TV. One swipe had taken the wife’s wispy grey head almost clean off. Her husband, equally grey and withered, had started to rise, but another swing had opened up his chest. The final blow had cleaved his skull almost in two. The terrier had yelped and yelped hysterically and then, when he turned towards it with the dripping axe, it had run and hidden in its crate.
He had stared at the bloody mess of bodies on the worn rug. Less than a couple of minutes for their lives to be snuffed out. But they were old, he reasoned. They had already lived their lives. He had probably only slashed them short by a few years. He didn’t feel so bad. It was necessary.
He had gone upstairs and ransacked the bathroom for painkillers. Another benefit of them being old was a medicine cabinet crammed with drugs. He had necked four codeine tablets and then gone back downstairs in search of alcohol. He found two bottles of sherry and one decent brandy in the kitchen cupboard. He had opened the brandy and downed several glugs. Finally, he had lain down on their large double bed and closed his eyes.