Last Rites (28 page)

I saw the lights first.

We were sitting on a blanket, watching the small dots move and shimmer: the orange of the towns, and then the white of car headlights. But then there was another colour: flashing blue. I pulled away from Laura and looked over to Sam Nixon. I knew what it was straight away. Laura looked confused at first, but then followed my gaze to the lights of the police cars racing along the country lanes.

Laura got to her feet and went further away from the crowds, to stand on a dark patch of grass. I held on to Bobby's hand and called over to Sam, pointing into the distance when he looked over. I saw his shoulders slump and knew he had seen them too.

‘I think we need to check that out,’ I said to Laura.

Sam must have heard me, because he said, ‘We'll look after Bobby. Just keep me informed.’

Laura and I nodded our thanks, and then we made our way back down the hill, running into the beams of the oncoming torches. But my mind was filled with the lights we had seen from the top of Pendle Hill. Blue
flashing lights, at least four vehicles, converging on a spot not too far away. Something had happened, and we all knew that our questions about Sarah Goode were about to be answered.

Halloween traffic delayed us from reaching the scene, the narrow roads jammed tight by people who had come to enjoy some spooky fun, but it got easier as we got away from Pendle Hill. As we drove down a long, dark lane, the blue lights lighting up the scene ahead, we saw a police car in the road, blocking our way. A motorway bridge went overhead, and there was a patrol car on the hard shoulder, to stop people having a look from there.

I pulled over and turned off the engine. As I reached for the door handle, Laura put her hand on mine.

‘I need to go there on my own,’ she said.

‘But this is my story,’ I protested.

Laura looked at me and shook her head. ‘Let me do my police work. There'll be a crowd here soon. You work that, see if you can get any information they won't tell the police. Maybe I'll even wait for you if you want to speak to people at the scene later, but right now, they won't let me near if I have a civilian with me.’

I nodded my agreement, feeling suddenly like an outsider. Laura kissed me on the cheek before she left the car. ‘Thank you, Jack,’ she whispered.

Laura saw the darkness lift as she got nearer, the crime scene illuminated by a large lamp. Blue and white tape had already been stretched across the road, and further in she could see a white gazebo, standing head-height like an emergency latrine. There were two people inside the flap, hunched over something black. The sudden flash told Laura that someone was taking photographs, and the brightness illuminated the white forensic boiler suits and the masks over the faces of those inside.

Laura saw a small group of people standing to one side, turned in to each other and deep in conversation. A uniformed officer came over towards her, concerned that Laura was just a curious onlooker, but her ID allowed her through.

‘Is it what I think it is?’ she asked the uniform.

He grimaced, just visible in the police lights. ‘Not very nice, so I hear.’

Laura pointed over to the group of people. ‘Who's over there?’

‘The Home Office pathologist, and a couple of big-shots from the murder squad.’

Laura looked over as there was another flash from the camera and she saw Carson's outline, tall and broad, the light reflecting off his bald head. She took a deep breath and wondered how Carson would react to being wrong. She set off towards him.

As she got closer, Carson turned around, and when he saw her, he folded his arms, his body language defensive. Joe Kinsella was behind him, his toe making circles in the autumn leaves.

‘Your boyfriend not here to gloat?’ Carson asked, his voice bitter.

‘He's not far away. I can call him if you want.’ When Carson just scowled in response, Laura pointed towards the forensic tent. ‘Not much to gloat about anyway,’ she said.

Carson looked away, his hands jammed into his pockets.

‘I'm sorry that you don't think much of Jack Garrett,’ said Laura, trying to sound conciliatory, ‘and if I was in your shoes, I would maybe think the same, but he is a good journalist. If you get him on your side, he'll write it up how it is.’

‘What, that I got it wrong?’ he snapped. ‘I can't wait for that edition to come out.’

‘It's not about you, sir,’ said Laura, her dislike for Carson showing through. ‘There is a dead woman just over there. The blame game isn't that important right now.’

Laura braced herself for the response, but she was shocked when Carson's shoulders slumped and he said quietly, ‘I know that.’

Before Laura had the chance to respond, a voice boomed out, ‘Detective McGanity, how glorious to meet you again.’

Laura looked up and saw a lanky figure advancing towards her in a paper boiler suit, the face mask around his chin. Her lips twitched with the beginnings of a smile.

It was Doctor Pratt, a Home Office pathologist. She'd met him before, and, like most pathologists, he seemed to enjoy his work more than appeared normal. She'd attended one of his post-mortems, when he wouldn't start until the stereo play-list was sorted out. She knew that most pathologists liked to slice up to music, but it had to be appropriate. He wanted Pink Floyd, it was turgid enough, but the assistants complained about it being old-fashioned, although there was a consensus that dance music was too frivolous.

‘Good to see you, doctor,’ she said, and pointed towards the forensic tent. ‘What have you got over there?’

His eyes widened and he shook his head. ‘Damn nasty,’ he said.

‘Sarah Goode?’ she asked.

The doctor pointed towards Carson. ‘He is convinced,’ he said, and then he leaned in conspiratorially. ‘It hasn't improved his mood though.’

‘We received a call from the fire service,’ Carson said, trying to take the spotlight from himself. ‘They thought it was kids, you know, Halloween pranks, setting rubbish alight. The residents from over there reported it, said they could see a glow near the river. When they got here, they found Sarah, naked and burning. It looks like
somebody stripped her, poured something on her, and set her alight. She was dead when they arrived; there was never any doubt.’

‘Ah, but you've missed out the strangest thing,’ said Doctor Pratt, his eyes wide.

‘What's that?’ asked Laura, turning to Carson.

‘She was burnt out,’ said Carson, scowling at the doctor, ‘but half of her abdomen had exploded. It looked like someone stuck a giant firework into her and lit it.’

Laura felt her stomach roll over and she closed her eyes, trying not to think of how it must have been, but she found herself clamping her thighs together. She took a few deep breaths and asked, ‘Do we have any witnesses?’

‘No one yet,’ Carson replied. ‘We've got the people who saw the fire once it was going, but no one has come forward to say they saw it start. There are officers doing the door-to-door, but it's not looking good.’

Laura looked around the scene, at the houses nearest to it, all the windows now filled with faces.

‘He parked over there, we think,’ said Joe, his voice weary, pointing towards a scrap of land just underneath the motorway bridge. ‘There are some tyre marks in the gravel, but they might belong to the fire crew or the first patrol car on the scene.’

‘Any speed cameras around here?’ Laura asked. ‘Sometimes people can't stop the panic when something like this happens.’

‘On the main road, I think,’ Joe answered, ‘and we'll check them out tomorrow, but nothing on the back roads.’

Doctor Pratt grinned. ‘You haven't spotted the joke, have you?’

‘I don't see anything funny,’ Carson replied.

‘You said that this is all to do with witchcraft,’ the doctor said. ‘Look at the location.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Carson, looking around.

‘Cuckstool Lane,’ boomed Doctor Pratt. ‘This is where they used to duck witches back in the Middle Ages. You know, all that sink or swim stuff, on ducking stools. This is where they did it: in the river at Cuckstool Lane.’

Carson looked at Joe, who looked back at Laura but said nothing, although Laura thought she could see apology in his eyes. Carson looked tired. ‘Great,’ said Carson wearily. ‘A killer with a sense of humour.’

Laura looked back to where Sarah's body had been found, charred and twisted in death a few yards away, and thought of the bad news waiting for her parents.

‘Go home,’ said Carson softly. ‘Tell that reporter boyfriend of yours that he did well, that he was right and we were wrong. If we'd done more digging, maybe we would have found her.’

‘What about you?’

‘Oh, I'll be here for a while yet.’

‘Who's going to tell Sarah's parents?’

Carson took a deep breath. ‘I'll do that. I want them to know that I'm not going to dodge whatever comes my way.’ He looked at Joe. ‘Neither of us will.’

‘And what about me, sir?’ asked Laura.

Carson thought about that, and looked at Joe, who nodded to him. ‘Can you make it to the station for midnight?’ asked Carson.

‘I'll be there, sir.’

He nodded. ‘Good. Now go back to your family. Spend some time with them.’

Laura walked away, but she stopped for one last look back and wondered how the final moments must have been, so close to town, to safety, but filled with terror, pain, fear. And loneliness, kept away from her loved ones.

Laura turned away again, realising that she didn't want to think about it too closely.

I woke when I felt Laura's hand on my hair.

I was asleep at the table, my laptop dark, the battery long dead, papers strewn in front of me.

‘What time is it?’ I murmured.

She kissed me on the top of my head. I could smell the remnants of a long night on her, bad coffee and too much sugary food to stave off tiredness. When I looked round I saw dark rings under her eyes. I checked my watch. It was six o'clock.

‘Are you okay?’ I asked.

‘Yeah,’ Laura replied, her voice a drawl. ‘It was a long night, and I get this way sometimes when people die, you know – I'm watching a new day that someone else didn't see.’

I took her hand and kissed it. I knew the feeling. I had lost both my parents, and I remembered that feeling of guilt when the new sun rises, that life is just starting over again.

‘How's your story?’ she asked.

‘It's a struggle,’ I said, stretching. ‘I might try later, if I can keep my eyes open.’

‘Too close to the action?’

I gave a little laugh. ‘Something like that.’

‘Bobby okay?’

I nodded. ‘He's fine.’

Laura went into the kitchen and I heard the kettle click on. I turned on the television, flicked through to the news channels and waited for the local angle. I needed to know if my story was about to become public property.

As Laura passed me a cup of coffee and settled down beside me, a young reporter set the scene, learning his trade when no one was watching. Carson was brief, just something about keeping an open mind, spoken in that brusque police-speak.

The scene flashed back to the studio, the presenter looking appropriately sombre before turning to a story about a dance contest in Blackpool. I flicked off the television.

‘Is that it?’ asked Laura.

‘He's being cagey,’ I said, pulling at my lip. ‘Was he like that at your midnight meeting?’

‘You know I can't talk about that, Jack. Let Carson tell you the secrets.’

‘What about the custody case?’ I asked. ‘Are you okay to be on the team?’

‘Jenny will have done the report by now. We have done all we can.’

I slumped back in the chair and rubbed my face with my hands. I knew I had a good story, filled with local intrigue and murder, but I felt frustrated that I hadn't found Sarah in time, that the story was not complete.

The telephone rang. We exchanged glances before Laura answered it, and as she spoke, I went to the window and watched the rising sun paint the fields with colour, greens coming out of the black. Laura wasn't saying much, but I could guess what it was: the murder team was getting together again, and so she had to be at work early.

When she put the phone down, she looked at me, surprised. ‘They want you there,’ she said, her eyes wide.

‘Who are “they”?’ I asked.

‘Carson, the squad.’

I turned back to the window. As I looked into the valley below me, I saw that the houses had come into view. But they were still dark, just indistinct blocks, and around them I saw shadows.

Karl Carson waited for me on the canal towpath, the police station close by. He looked preoccupied, watching the sunlight reflect off the water. He didn't look round as I got near, staring into the canal instead and saying to me, ‘It looks nice, doesn't it?’

I looked along the canal, saw how it disappeared around a corner, past bramble bushes and the high walls built over a hundred years ago. Lavender bushes overhung the canal on the other side and brushed the surface, although the flowers were long gone, the branches just long spindles. I could see birds sitting on fences further along. I knew that barges cruised along here sometimes, with bright primary colours and tiny windows.

‘Yes, it is,’ I agreed. ‘Very pretty.’

‘It's filled with crap,’ he said calmly. ‘It looks good
from here, but get under the water and it's filled with old bikes and tyres, made dark by algae.’ Then he looked at me and said, ‘Thanks for coming down.’

That took me by surprise. ‘I know why I'm here,’ I said.

He looked at me warily.

‘It's so I don't say anything,’ I said.

‘You're a reporter, and you've made it clear that I can't control you.’

‘You're trying, though.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘If you keep me close,’ I answered, ‘you're hoping that I won't write the story yet. I'm the only media in the know, and so if you let me think that there is much more to come, by giving me access, you hope that I won't write what I have already, perhaps worried about how you'll come out of it.’

‘And people call me cynical,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘You can say many things about me, but I don't cover up.’

‘So what is going on?’

‘It depends on what you want,’ he said. ‘So how do you want to play it?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Free access to the rest of the investigation, when you want it, or are you going to go with what you've got?’

‘You know how I'll answer,’ I said, ‘otherwise you wouldn't have invited me down.’ When he shrugged his agreement, I asked, ‘So let's start with an interview. How do you feel, knowing that you missed what was going on?’

He flinched, but didn't dodge the question. ‘Someone has died. I didn't kill her, but I didn't stop it either. That will never leave me.’

‘What about Sarah's parents? What will you tell them?’

‘The truth. It is always the best place to start. They are in the station right now, being updated.’

I blew out a whistle. ‘That won't be easy.’

Carson sighed. ‘When someone dies, it never is,’ and he looked distant for a moment before adding, ‘particularly when they might be able to blame me. What are they like?’

‘A decent couple,’ I said, suddenly feeling sorry for him. ‘She's in charge, but they are good people.’

Carson stayed silent for a moment, looking back into the water.

‘Are you going to go public with the witch connection?’ I asked.

Carson shook his head. ‘Not yet.’

‘Why not?’ I asked.

‘It's an operational decision.’

‘Or a trap?’

Carson smiled for the first time that day. ‘It's an operational trap.’

‘Who made the decision?’ I asked.

‘I did, on advice.’

‘Joe?’

‘I had to give him something to do.’

‘He was wrong yesterday,’ I said. When Carson shot me a wounded look, I asked, ‘What's the new plan then?’

‘Joe thinks we have to mislead him,’ said Carson, ‘to make him think we haven't spotted the link. It might
bring him out of hiding, and forensics might not be enough.’

‘How?’

‘Simple. Appeal to his vanity. Who are we to him? Small-town plods. Let him think he's too clever for us, too subtle, then maybe he'll show himself, send a more obvious sign.’

‘Do you think it will work?’ I asked him.

Carson thought about his answer, and then said, ‘Joe Kinsella thinks it will.’

‘It doesn't seem the most complex trap.’

‘No, it isn't, but I've known Joe a few years now, and he's right most times. He thinks the killer is unravelling, losing his control. The letters sent to Katie are a first. None of the other murders had coded clues. So why were they sent?’

‘To taunt you?’

Carson shook his head. ‘That's what Joe thought at first, but now he's not so sure. You see, the letters were sent before Sarah Goode died. I would go with the taunting thing if they arrived now, the day after her death, but not then, when Sarah was still alive. So they can only mean one thing.’

I raised my eyebrows in query.

‘We were supposed to stop him,’ Carson said ruefully. ‘Things have changed. He warned us what he was going to do, and why he was doing it. As we didn't stop him, he may get back in touch, to blame us.’

I pondered on that. I looked away from the canal, and I could see into the streets further away from the police station, on the hills that rose above the town
centre. People were going about their daily business, and I could rejoin them. My job was done. I had no reason to feel guilty about not finding Sarah, because she'd been beyond discovery. I felt sure Carson would tell Sarah's parents how much I'd helped, and eventually they might appreciate that, and I knew, deep down, that I had done all I could. I had no reason to feel guilty. I should file it all away in that drawer marked ‘bad day’ and forget about it. I could write up the feature and sell it before the killer was caught, or maybe write it up for a book.

But I sensed that the story could only get better.