Last Rites (29 page)

We walked back to the station in silence. The scene was busier than the day before, more local officers drafted in. Detectives criss-crossed the corridors with pieces of paper in their hands, looking earnest, and I recognised one from my trip to the moors. He looked away as I got near.

Carson marched into the packed Incident Room ahead of me. I was about to follow when I saw some more people I recognised through an open door further along the corridor. Sarah's parents. I knew by now that Carson was focused on the case, not me. I was a distraction, and so he wouldn't notice if I was no longer there.

I walked towards Sarah's parents, expecting to be challenged, but I made it all the way to the doorway. Next to Sarah's parents, taking notes, was Sam Nixon.

They looked round, and gave weak smiles when they recognised me.

‘I'm sorry I didn't find her in time,’ I said, my voice soft, leaning against the doorjamb.

Mrs Goode shook her head. ‘It's not your fault, Mr Garrett,’ she replied.

I didn't recognise the police officer in front of them, but he was high-ranking, judging from the embroidery on his shoulders. He shifted in his seat and looked uncomfortable.

I smiled my thanks, and then tilted my head to Sam Nixon, to get him to come out of the room. He excused himself and came into the corridor.

‘How are they?’ I asked, as he closed the door.

Sam glanced back to the room, and then replied, ‘Not good. It's strange, though – they feel almost vindicated, that Sarah wasn't the murderer the police thought she was.’

‘And that's your murder case gone.’

‘Sometimes it isn't about the money.’

‘I thought with lawyers it was always about the money.’

Sam put his hands in his pockets and sighed. ‘When most lawyers start off, it's about justice, or something close to that. The money becomes important later on. But occasionally the old Sam Nixon comes back, and I try to do what's right. What's your next step?’

I thought about that. I knew the story wasn't finished yet, so I didn't want to write it up, and I knew I had the run of the Incident Room, the chance for an insider's view before the nationals came sniffing round.

‘Write the story, I suppose.’

He smiled at that, and patted me on the arm. Then he opened the door to go back into the room, leaving me on my own in the corridor.

I looked around, at the flaking paint, the worn paths in the carpets, old dents and chips in the paintwork. I could see the history of the town in the walls, in the
floor, in the smell of the place. Sarah's parents were in the room behind me, their lives ruined, trying to come to terms with the death of their only child. How many times had that scene played out within these walls?

I walked back to the Incident Room and looked in. Carson was pointing at people, talking fast, his eyes animated. Then I heard the rumble of chairs and saw that people were getting quickly to their feet. The squad would be heading out soon to begin their enquiries. I stepped to one side as people filed out, in groups of two, imbued with a sense of urgency. As Laura followed, in step with Joe Kinsella, I put my hand on her arm.

‘Where are you heading?’ I asked.

‘Katie Gray,’ she said. ‘She might remember some more about Sarah's whereabouts, who she spoke to, where she went.’ When she saw my raised eyebrows, she said, ‘Don't worry, I won't play the angry girlfriend.’

‘And what about the rest of the squad?’ I asked.

Laura looked at Joe, who nodded, and so she said, ‘They're going to make an arrest.’

‘Shit!’ I exclaimed. ‘That was quick. Who?’

Laura looked uncomfortable. ‘Olwen.’

I thought I felt the blood drain from my face. ‘Olwen? He was at our house the night before.’ And then I looked at Joe. ‘Do you think he was playing us?’

‘We just want to see what he knows,’ he said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘He went to you, not us,’ Joe said. ‘Maybe that was about control. That's how killers like this operate. Remember Rebecca Nurse, the girl by the stream. Olwen called it in. He found her, so he said, and I bet he even
handled the body, just to frustrate the forensic search. But no one notices, so he carries on, picking off his recruits, persuading young women to join his club.’ When he spotted my sceptical look, he said, ‘We were wrong about Mack Lowther, and I'll always remember that.’

‘And so you stopped looking,’ I replied curtly.

Joe's mouth just twitched. ‘Maybe we've got it right this time.’

‘No,’ I protested, shaking my head. ‘It can't be Olwen.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because it's too neat,’ I said. ‘Why would he kill his own members? The letters were sent as a message. The dumping of the first body will have been a message too. And I've met Olwen. He seems gentle, kind.’

Joe laughed, but there was little humour in it. ‘I've met some very pleasant murderers. Don't take that as a sign. That's part of the control, he exerts it even over himself. You ask anyone who ever met a serial killer, and they will all say the same thing, that he was such a quiet, gentle man. It's a trick. They are all about control. It was Olwen who sought you out, wasn't it?’

‘Only after we gate-crashed his ceremony.’

‘But still he came,’ said Joe. ‘He brought the names. He led us to all of this. Maybe he has been controlling this all along, right from when he dumped Rebecca Nurse by that stream and we didn't spot it. Did you say that he was initiating someone else?’

I nodded. ‘A young woman. Blonde hair, pretty,’ and I went quiet as I said the words. Just like all the others, I thought. ‘Sarah's replacement?’ I queried.

‘Maybe,’ said Joe.

‘And if you're wrong?’ I asked.

‘Then we'll say sorry,’ he said and then he rushed away, the corridor echoing with the clatter of the door as he barged through it.

The tension was high in the police station. Calls were still being taken, leads being pursued, but everyone was twitchy, looking up at every engine noise, waiting for Olwen to arrive.

I was standing by a window in the Incident Room, my camera ready, my visitor's pass stuck to my shirt. He would have to come into the station yard and then be walked across the cobbles to get in. I would get a picture as he went. I could syndicate that, because it would be the image that would be splashed across the papers, the rights to it owned by me. They're the money-spinners, the pictures that become part of the mythology.

I felt uneasy. This had become more than a story, and it didn't seem right that I should profit from it, but my conscience didn't have to wrestle with itself for long. I heard the sirens, and then the blue lights bounced off the walls of the station yard as three cars raced down the ramp. Chairs scraped on the floor as people rushed to the window, wanting to see Olwen as he was brought in.

Olwen was in the middle car, and when he was brought out, his eyes scanned the yard quickly, his
shoulders hunched, looking scared, confused. His pony-tail was untidy, and his jogging bottoms looked creased, as if he had just been dragged out of bed. He was handcuffed at the front, and two officers grabbed an arm each and started to walk him to the station door.

As he walked, I clicked away. He looked around, as if he was trying to make sense of what was going on, and then he looked up and saw me. He stopped. I saw something in his eyes that I couldn't read. Was it anger? Or maybe betrayal?

I put my camera down and looked away. I checked my watch instead and thought about what to do next. Lunchtime. I knew the police would be tied up with Olwen for the rest of the day, and nothing much would happen until they had finished. Maybe it was time to get some more quotes.

I picked up my bag and headed for the door.

I stood at the gate of Sarah's parents' house, nervous about going in. I had looked for them at the police station, wanting to finish my piece with a quote, but they had gone home. I had a sense of what they must be going through, as my own father had died suddenly and violently, and so I felt guilty for badgering them. But I had a story to write.

I tried Laura's number, to see how she was getting on with Katie, but there was no response. I would call her when I got out.

The gate creaked as I opened it. I had expected a few more reporters to be there, but the story was still too new, and there was an arrest to distract them.

The door opened before I got there. It was Mrs Goode. She looked pale and drawn, apart from the flush to her cheeks that had resulted from crying. She was wearing the same clothes as before, when I had seen her at the police station.

‘Come in, Mr Garrett,’ she said, her manners on automatic.

As I went into the house, I was struck by the silence. In the living room, Mr Goode was just staring ahead, his face etched with disbelief, holding a picture of Sarah, one of her as a child, a grinning young girl with her arms around her father's neck.

I tried not to be put off by it. I was doing something I found hard to justify, bothering the bereaved, but the readers wanted the human reaction, the parents' grief. Shame is not part of the reporter's make-up.

‘I won't stay long,’ I said softly. ‘I just wondered whether you could sum up how you feel right now. I know it feels like an intrusion, but if it engages with the reader, it could encourage more information.’

Mrs Goode gathered her thoughts for a while, before she said, ‘I feel like I've nothing left. My whole reason for being here has gone.’ She looked at the floor. ‘No, it's more than gone,’ she said, her voice more strident, tears rippling into her eyes. ‘I feel angry. I feel empty. I feel cheated.’ When she looked up again, I saw a loss in her eyes as deep as anything I had ever seen. ‘But, most of all, I just don't know how I'll get through the rest of my life.’

I breathed out noisily, feeling some of her emotions, a lump in my throat. I scribbled some notes, and then asked, ‘Did you know that they'd made an arrest?’

She looked up at me, and I could tell that it offered little comfort. ‘Who is it?’ she asked.

‘Someone called Olwen. He styles himself as a modern-day witch. He runs a coven near Pendle Hill.’

She thought about that, and then asked, ‘Was Sarah involved in it?’ When I nodded, she said, ‘I thought she had some secrets. It didn't make her a bad person, though, did it?’

‘No, it didn't. It seems a pretty gentle thing,’ I said softly. Her head drooped to the floor and I could tell that the conversation had ended. I had all I needed, though – the quote from the family.

‘Take care,’ I said, and as I stood up to leave, I reached out to take her hand. It trembled in mine.

‘I don't think I can,’ she said meekly, her voice breaking, letting go of me.

I took a deep breath. These people didn't deserve this.

I was just about to head towards the front door when I thought about where I could go next for a quote. Katie was the obvious one, and it would give me the chance to catch up with Laura.

I turned and asked, ‘Has there been any contact from Katie, Sarah's lodger?’

Mrs Goode looked up at that, and I saw some colour flash into her face.

‘Sarah didn't have a lodger,’ she said, almost a snap.

I paused, unsure that I'd heard it right. I felt a moment of confusion, an image of Katie in my head, in her room, at Sarah's house.

‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

‘Just that, Mr Garrett,’ she said firmly. ‘Sarah did not have a lodger.’

‘But I met her,’ I said. ‘Katie Gray. I interviewed her at the house. She had been lodging with Sarah.’

Mrs Goode shook her head, and she seemed angry, tears flashing across her eyes. ‘The police told me that, and I told them the same as I am telling you. But they didn't believe me, told me that daughters do not tell their parents everything, patronised me. I was going to go down there and have it out with her, but I was told that I would be arrested, that Katie was a witness. I didn't matter, you see, because they thought my daughter was a murderer.’ Then she leaned forward, and looked right into my eyes. ‘Sarah did not have a lodger. We were close. I had been in her house a few days before she died. Only one person lived there: Sarah.’

‘But Sarah had secrets. You said that.’

‘A lodger isn't a secret,’ snapped Mrs Goode. ‘It's a living arrangement.’

I thought about Katie. The jumble of clothes, no real organisation. No photographs. How Katie had found Luke. The different accounts of Luke and Sarah's relationship given by Katie and Callum, Luke's friend.

And then I thought of Laura. She was with Katie. I felt my brow go cold, and the hairs stood up on the back of my hand.

‘So who is Katie Gray?’ I asked, confused, alarmed.

‘I don't know,’ came her reply. ‘But if you find her, ask her what she was doing in Sarah's house.’

I looked back at Mrs Goode's house as I got to my car and saw her in the window, watching me. I rubbed my hands together, suddenly edgy. I thought back to my meetings with Katie. I had seen her in Sarah's house. She had a key. She had reported Sarah's death to the police.

Was that the control Joe had talked about, keeping herself involved in the investigation?

No, of course it wasn't. Serial killers are men, that's what Joe had said, and if she had killed those other women, then she was a serial killer. So she couldn't be responsible for Sarah's death.

And would a woman have killed Sarah in that way? It was too graphic. Too intimate.

Forget about it, I told myself. Mrs Goode didn't know that Sarah had dabbled in witchcraft. Why should she know everything about Sarah?

But as I thought back to Sarah's house, I realised that there hadn't been much of Katie in there. I didn't remember seeing any photographs of her on the wall or sills, and it had struck me how her things seemed sort of thrown down.

But it wasn't just the story, I knew that. It was almost as if a doubt that had always been there had just surfaced for the first time: that Katie's behaviour wasn't right; she was too provocative, like she enjoyed the tease.

I tried calling Laura. No answer.

I put my car into gear and set off quickly.

I went to the college first, entering the foyer at a run, moving too quickly to be stopped by security. I had tried to call Joe, but he was still tied up with Olwen and would be unavailable for a few hours.

I must have looked wild-eyed and out of breath, because the woman behind the administration desk stepped back when I got there.

‘Katie Gray,’ I barked at them, out of breath. ‘The police will need to know about her. Just get out her file and have it ready.’

‘Why would the police want it?’ she asked, and she glanced towards the security guard, who started to walk over. She began to say something about data protection, but there must have been something in my eyes that told her that this was no time to hide behind regulations.

The security guard appeared next to me as she tapped on the keyboard.

‘Is everything okay?’ he asked her, looking at me all the time, his chest puffed out.

The administrator paused for a moment, but then she asked, ‘How do you spell Gray? With an “e” or an “a”?’

‘Try both ways,’ I said.

The security guard placed his hand on my forearm,
wondering whether he should try and eject me. I shrugged him off, and just before he could make a better grab, the woman shook her head.

‘There's no file to get out,’ she said. ‘We don't have any female students called Katie Gray, or Kate Gray or Catherine Gray. Are you sure she's a student here?’

I told her that I wasn't sure of anything any more, and then ran out of the building.

Once outside, I thought about where to try next. I called Laura again, but once more the phone went to voicemail. Perhaps she had gone back to the station and was in the interview with Joe?

But I knew that wasn't right, I sensed it.

Go back to the start. Those had been Katie's words. Had it been a clue, a hint? Had she been playing a game all the time? I had doubted Mrs Goode's story that there had been no lodger, but now it seemed that Katie was no student either.

Go back to the start… But what was the start? Olwen was locked up because he had found the girl by the stream. Was that the start? Were they both playing games?

I thought about Olwen's list. Rebecca Nurse. She was the first murder he had mentioned. I should start there, and then work backwards.