Blood Harvest (41 page)

Nothing. Which was precisely what he’d found in the eight stone coffins he’d managed to open. No bones, no mummified flesh, no shrivelled grave clothes, and definitely no Joe. He’d probably never know when the remains of the long-since-dead clergy had been taken away from St Barnabas’s crypt, but gone they were.

His nervousness had long since evaporated. There really was nothing like building up a sweat for chasing away the willies.

Only one alcove remained a mystery. The very last in line, closest to the rear of the crypt. None of the keys he’d retrieved from his desk drawer had opened the iron grille. When the police had searched it previously they must have used one of Sinclair’s keys. Harry had tapped out rhythms on the ironwork, he’d stuck a wrench through the bars and banged on the two sarcophagi that he could reach, he’d called Joe’s name and had spent at least ten minutes just listening quietly. At last he’d been compelled to give up. Joe wasn’t in the church. He wasn’t in it and he wasn’t below it.

At least now he knew.

Harry crossed the first chamber of the crypt and found the
doorway to the second with his torch beam. He was now under his own church, and even close to midnight, some light from the street outside was making its way down.

Harry walked forward. Impressed by his own daring, he switched off his torch. Gradually, vague shapes emerged from the darkness. The streetlights outside were shining through the windows of the church and a fraction of that light was seeping through into the cellar.

How exactly?

He walked over to where the light seemed strongest. Yes, definitely light, a square beam. He reached it and looked upwards. There was a grille of some sort directly above his head. He reached up and tugged. It held firm. He tried pushing and it shot upwards.

Sliding it to one side, Harry heard it scrape along the tiled floor. He reached up and grasped the edges of the hole he’d opened up. His fingers closed around the stone tiles he knew covered the uncarpeted part of the chancel floor. Time to find out how strong his arm muscles were.

Strong enough. One massive push and he was up, looking round. He was directly behind the organ, in the cramped, dust-filled void that often existed behind old instruments. Through gaps in the pipes he could see the pulpit, not four feet away from him.

Time to kill.

‘So this is where you were,’ muttered Harry. ‘Our little friend with the voices.’ Harry lowered himself back down, replaced the grille and made his way out of the crypt. The Fletcher children’s strange friend, Ebba, knew her way around this church, that was clear enough. It had probably been she who’d led him such a dance the day he’d arrived.

Harry locked the crypt, then checked that the main doors of the church were locked and bolted. He used the lavatory at the rear of the building and then entered the nave. Thanks to Jenny Pickup, he and the Fletchers had eaten a couple of hours earlier. He had a travel rug from his car, which he’d parked half a mile down the hill in a quiet cul de sac. He was all set.

When he reached the altar, he lifted the drapes that surrounded the old oak table. The altar had been spread with a creamy damask linen and the rich purple brocade of the Advent cloth. He pushed a
couple of prayer kneelers underneath, then crawled in himself. Pulling the altar cloths back into place and the car rug around him, he lay down.

He was in the killing ground. If someone brought Joe here tonight, he’d be ready.

E
VI CHECKED
HER WATCH.
IT WAS ALMOST
TEN O’CLOCK,
but she could see lights in the first-floor window. She crossed the street and rang the bell. The pain in her leg and back had got much worse during the last hour. She’d been stupid not to take some medication from Steve.

After several minutes, light flooded the landing at the top of the stairs. A dark figure could be seen descending. Evi’s chest started to feel tight. The figure reached the bottom of the stairs. The door opened and for a second the two women just stared at each other.

‘Hello, Gillian,’ said Evi.

Gillian seemed to sway backwards; her eyes couldn’t quite focus on Evi’s. ‘Dragged yourself away from him, have you?’ she said. She’d been drinking.

Evi’s ribcage seemed to have shrunk. She almost had to gulp in air. ‘After you saw me in the church, I came straight down here to find you,’ she said, knowing that Gillian would only listen to conversation that was focused on herself. ‘When I couldn’t, I went to see another psychiatrist,’ she went on. ‘We spent a lot of the evening talking about you. I’m worried about you, Gillian. Can I come in?’

‘No!’ Gillian’s hands shot to the doorframe, blocking the way in, as if words alone might not be enough to keep Evi out.

‘Gillian, there is no intimate relationship between me and Harry,’ said Evi, hearing her voice shake but forcing herself to look the other woman in the eye. ‘We don’t go out together, we don’t spend
time at each other’s houses and we certainly don’t sleep together. But he’s been under a great deal of strain recently. So have I. What you saw this afternoon was a mistake.’

Evi stepped forward, tried to smile and failed. ‘I’m not his girlfriend,’ she said. ‘But Gillian, I’m afraid you have to accept that neither are you.’

‘Lying bitch!’

The fury on the woman’s face, more than her words, made Evi step backwards and almost stumble.

‘You’re the reason he changed,’ spat Gillian. ‘He liked me. We were close. He kissed me. Then suddenly he started avoiding me. You were spinning him lies about me, weren’t you? Telling him I’m nuts. You poisoned him because you wanted him for yourself.’

‘I don’t discuss you with …’ Evi stopped. She couldn’t even say that any more. She
had
talked to Harry about Gillian.

‘You’re pathetic, you know that?’ Gillian stepped out of the doorway, forcing Evi back towards the road. ‘I thought I was bad, but you’re just delusional. Well, listen to some plain speaking for once. He might fuck you if he gets really desperate, but that’s all he’s ever going to want from a cripple.’

‘Gillian, stop.’ She couldn’t deal with this, not now.

‘And he’ll only ever do it in the dark.’

Dancing in the … She was going to be sick. ‘I’ll come and see you in the morning,’ she managed.

‘Don’t bother.’

‘We’ll find you another doctor. I know our relationship has broken down and that’s my fault …’

Evi was talking to herself. Gillian had slammed the door.

19 December

W
HEN TOM WOKE UP,
THE ROOM WAS DARK.
THE CLOCK
on his desk told him it was nearly three in the morning. He was alone in Joe’s bed.

He closed his eyes again. He remembered seeing a television programme about people having a sort of connection in their heads. Identical twins often had it, the programme had said, they could tell what the other was thinking without speaking out loud. He and Joe weren’t so very far apart in age. Quite often, he knew exactly what his brother was thinking. Maybe he and Joe had this connection. Maybe if he concentrated really hard, Joe could tell him where he was.

Softly, the church clock began to strike the hour. Bong, bong, bong.

The linen of the altar cloth was brushing against Harry’s face. He woke with an effort. He raised his hand to his face and pressed the luminous button on his watch. Ten past three. There was a cold breeze on his face. Someone had opened a door.

As quietly as he could, Harry rolled out from under the altar, got to his feet and crossed to the organ. The church looked empty. The square grille beneath his feet was still in place. No one had come up from the crypt.

He stood still, listening hard. The wind had fallen; the weather forecast earlier that evening had mentioned the possibility of snow.

After five minutes he made his way slowly down the aisle, checking the pews on each side as he went. At the back of the church he tried the door to the crypt. It was still locked and bolted. Upstairs, the gallery was empty. He crossed to the small wooden door that led to the bell tower. It was locked but not bolted. Had he drawn that bolt earlier? He couldn’t have done. But he was sure he had.

Nothing. If Joe was sending messages, Tom wasn’t receiving them. And it was suddenly impossible to lie still. Tom pushed back the duvet and climbed out of bed. He crossed the landing and opened the door to Millie’s room. She was fast asleep, her hair damp with sweat, her little arms clutching Simba to her chest.

What if Joe were outside right now? What if he’d come home and just couldn’t get in? He might be huddled on the doorstep, freezing cold. Tom ran lightly down the stairs and peered out through the glass of the front door. No tiny, cold boy on the doorstep.

He was just about to go back upstairs when a sound in the living room made him stop. Hardly daring to hope, he pushed open the door. His mum, still in the clothes she’d been wearing all day, lay on one of the sofas, a blanket around her hips. On the other sofa sat his dad. His head had fallen back and his eyes were shut. He was breathing heavily.

Tom crept into the room. On the third sofa there were cushions and a brightly coloured throw. He lay down and pulled the throw over himself.

Harry unlocked the door to the bell tower. Bloody hell, it was cold. The tower was empty, the bell hanging upside-down just as he’d left it hours earlier. There was no point going up there. No one could climb out through the tower.

No adult male could. A slim woman might manage it. And Ebba was the size of a child. Harry pushed himself up until he could see out properly. The tiled roof sloped away from him. At the opposite corner, at the front of the church, he could see one of the three fake bell towers. Unlike the one he was standing in, they were empty, built only to provide aesthetic balance to the church. He could see
the night sky through the stone columns. There was no one on the roof – he couldn’t have drawn the bolt earlier. He climbed back down and left the gallery. Crossing the nave, he looked at his watch again. Twenty to four. Might as well go back to bed.

A
HARSH,
GRATING SOUND.
THEN A LOW-PITCHED
CLANG AS
something heavy was dropped on to stone. Harry rolled from his hiding place just in time to see a dark shape disappear into the floor.

‘Wait!’ he yelled instinctively. He heard the sound of something thudding to the ground beneath him. He reached under the altar, grabbed his torch and sped across the chancel floor. No point in stealth.

Harry dropped to the floor of the crypt and turned on the torch, allowing its beam to pick out every corner, to find any shadows that didn’t belong, any movement other than his. The first chamber seemed empty. He was just about to make his way to the second when he heard another sound. Iron clanging against iron, in the second chamber.

Harry ran towards the opening and stopped. No point rushing into darkness. Still in the doorway, he began to sweep the torch beam around, finding the scallop shell, the first of the alcoves, the second, the – the gate on the sixth and last one was open. The one he hadn’t been able to search earlier – someone was inside it now.

‘Ebba,’ he called. ‘Is that your name? Ebba, I only want to talk. I need you to help me find Joe.’

No answer. He was passing the third alcove, drawing closer.

‘All I want is Joe, Ebba. Can you tell me where he is?’

Past the fourth alcove, approaching the fifth. The gate was still open on the sixth.

He slowed his pace as he drew closer. He remembered four sarcophagi in the sixth alcove, a narrow passageway and a small wooden door in the far wall.

Bracing himself for a sudden attack, he stepped inside the gate. The alcove was empty. Ebba must have left through the door at the rear. Harry stepped towards it. It was hardly more than eighteen inches wide and it opened outwards.

The room beyond was a narrow, tall chamber with an arched brick ceiling. Brick-built shelving lay on either side, each shelf carrying stone coffins. The air was dry and earthy, and a cold breeze was coming through another door at the far end. Ebba had left in a hurry, and through the smallest of gaps he could see the night sky.

He glanced at his watch as he strode past the coffins. Six forty a.m. He pushed the door and stepped out into a tiny courtyard, surrounded by high iron railings. He recognized them at once, although he’d never been on this side of them before. He’d left the church through the Renshaw family mausoleum.

Well, now he knew how Ebba was getting in and out of the church without being seen. But where was she? He crossed the courtyard, his feet crunching on gravel, and pushed the iron gate.

It might be six forty and the world might be waking up, but the sky above him was as black as it had been the entire night. He waited, his heart pounding in his chest. No sound, not even wind.

Then the grasses were being rustled and the bushes shaken. Someone was coming towards him. Harry stepped into the shadow of a tall laurel bush. He could see her, a slight figure, creeping towards him, looking all around, as if scared that something would spring out. Harry stepped forward, grabbed the figure by the shoulders and spun it round to face him.

‘Tom!’ he said, as all the breath went out of his body. ‘What on earth are you doing out here?’

Tom looked back at him, wide-eyed and slightly sullen, the way kids did when they didn’t want to answer a question. Especially a stupid one. He was looking for his brother, of course, what else would he be doing?

‘Do your mum and dad know you’re here?’ Harry asked.

Tom shook his head. ‘They were both asleep. I didn’t want to wake them up.’

‘OK, but we need to get back.’ He put a hand on Tom’s shoulder and urged him up the hill. If Alice and Gareth woke to find another child missing they might just lose any remaining sanity they were clinging to.

They found the path and Harry finally felt relaxed enough to speak. ‘Tom,’ he said, ‘I think I just saw that girl you talk about. The one Millie calls Ebba.’