The Grotesques (5 page)

“I want this story.” Her journalistic instincts were quashing her earlier reservations.

“I know,” he said softly, eyes narrowed. “Keep in touch. And don’t go down to the Port River area alone at night.”

“Sure, Rob.”

“I mean it, Ella.”

“It was nice to see you, Rob. Not like I expected at all.”

“It was nice to see you, too, Ella.”

She blinked. He sounded like he meant it.

IN THE CAR
, Ella’s stomach rumbled. She dug into her raincoat pocket and extracted the energy bar. In the wake of the macabre morning, the glitzy wrapper appeared decidedly unattractive. She threw it on to the passenger seat and located the last two squares of chocolate in her bag. The sugar fix helped her bury her topsy-turvy emotions while she found Adam’s card in her pocket. She dialled him on her mobile.

“Adam, it’s Ella Jerome. Look,” she continued, not allowing him time to reply, and screwed her eyes closed because that was Rob’s word. “I’d like to meet, down at the Port area.”

He was matter of fact. “How about at the lighthouse, in an hour?”

“Fine.” She hung up, took a deep breath, put the car into gear, and kept her mind numb.

A quick stop at a convenience store produced another block of chocolate and a salad sandwich. With fifteen minutes to spare, she located an empty bench near the red lighthouse in Black Diamond Square. Fending off the aggressive seagulls, she munched on her lunch while flicking away strands of hair the wind insisted on playing with. The fresh air lightened her thoughts so much, she considered returning on Sunday for a rummage through the bric-a-brac market to her left and a dolphin cruise on one of the berthed boats. Her memory wasn’t up to pinpointing the last time she had left the house for pure pleasure.

“Hello.” Adam slipped onto the seat beside her, his face eager beneath attractively tousled hair. His blonde curls reminded her just how much Rob had aged this past year. “So you’ll help?”

“I’m going to investigate the story.”

He looked onto the murky river. “You mean all the disappearances, not just Cecily.”

Ella experienced a pang of guilt, clearer now why he’d come to her, the grieving relative, convinced the police were making insufficient efforts to locate his loved one. She leant forward, resting her elbows on her knees and joined him in contemplation of the black and white steam tug
Yelta
, one of the more interesting exhibits of the Maritime Museum she hadn’t visited since she was a child. “The missing girls, the murders, they’re all connected.” Her gut was certain of it, even if Rob wasn’t. “We need to investigate them as a whole. It’s the best chance for Cecily, and the others.”

He closed his eyes “She’s probably dead. I can’t bear to think about how.”

Ella hesitated. “Not necessarily. As Ro—Detective Hamlyn pointed out, the murdered girls were found within twenty-four hours of their disappearance.”

He searched her face, doubt spread across his features. “Do you really believe that?”

“Truthfully, I don’t know what to believe.” Ella followed a lone dolphin swimming toward the sea, allowing Adam a few moments of silence.

“I’d like to see where Cecily disappeared,” she said when he appeared collected.

Fear was taking its toll on the community. They saw few people on their walk to the Church of the Resurrection, despite it being early afternoon. The church grounds were also deserted. In the daylight, the gothic structure stood at odds with the modern two and three story medium-density houses to its right. Beyond the church, the short canal that led to the river proper bustled with police activity. Inflatable rafts bobbed on the river, waiting for divers who surfaced with unremarkable findings. A pelican glided between them, unconcerned with the disruption to its home.

“Something’s going on,” Adam said, frowning.

“You don’t know? They found the remains of another girl this morning.”

Adam made a strange gurgling sound.

“Melanie Denham,” Ella clarified quickly, and his shoulders lowered a fraction.

He watched a diver struggle aboard a raft. “Do you think they’ll let us into the church?”

“They haven’t cordoned off the entrance.” Her gaze had wandered to the menacing gargoyles on the roof. Their open-mouthed snarls and grimaces, invisible in dark of night, gave chilling warning in broad daylight.

They passed through the gloomy foyer into the sepulchral nave. It was separated from the aisles by a series of gothic arches supported by tripartite columns. A scrollwork balustrade lined a walkway above them and from this more arches sprang to form a spectacular ribbed vault. Through both upper and lower arches Ella spied stained glass windows with colourful pictures of various personages. Saints, she presumed. Skirting the wooden pews, Adam led the way toward a gilded altar.

“It has a decidedly European flavour,” she commented, refusing to admit how breath-taken she was. For all its grandeur, she felt ill at ease. Church was not a place she attended regularly. Crime reporting tended to disabuse one of the notion that everyone deserved to be forgiven, and experience had taught her unconditional love only led to being taken advantage of.

“Quite medieval, actually. I want to check the lower level.”

It was the logical place to start, considering both of them had noticed a light down there on the nights of two separate disappearances. She walked down the central aisle under the pious scrutiny of the superbly crafted statues which lined the walls. She recognised Saint Francis and Saint George from her childhood education at Catholic school, but her attention soon drifted to the luscious carvings of the wood-lined choir stalls. Beyond them, the altar was a golden miracle of filigree. The gallery above backed onto a detailed fresco of cherubs and saints in defeat of a dragon while soldiers slew infidels, a masterful but very un-Christian-like depiction in her view. Ella could only wonder at the expense. Mouth open, she followed Adam left into the south transept, where the grille to the lower level stood open.

A hammering echoed up the stairs. As the workman paused, they heard a yelp. It jolted them into jogging down the stairs into a small, unadorned chamber. The arches ringing it might have impressed if its grey stone blocks weren’t such a cold contrast to the dazzling limestone above. Ella left the final step and stopped. Across the chamber, the bold iron hinges on an oak door bled rust onto the stone. As if that wasn’t enough to give her the creeps, planks were nailed haphazardly across its width, as though after it fell into disrepair a child had made a clumsy attempt to fix it.

The hammering recommenced, resounding through the small chamber from behind the door. After several beats, the workman stopped.

The church plunged into silence.

Adam knocked.

The hammering resumed.

When quiet fell once more, Adam banged against the wood.

The door creaked open. A hunchback, neck extended, peered out in enquiry. His dusty coveralls hung about his thick body as if he had suffered a precipitous drop in weight. Behind him, yellow light illuminated the room they could not yet see and threw his skewed face into shadow.

Taken aback, Ella stammered a greeting. “We heard you working and were hoping to talk to someone about the church.” She hoped it didn’t sound like they wanted to join the congregation.

The hunchback moved his head, up and down, side to side, examining every inch of her body. Affronted, she buried her hands in her pocket and hunched her shoulders. She was about to make a stinging comment when the man spoke.

“Bitter, bitter,” he muttered, his voice husky. “No good, no good.”

Ella had the distinct impression he was talking about her. Unable to think of a retort, she blinked at Adam, who cleared his throat.

“I’m Adam Lowell. I’m researching bats in the Adelaide metropolitan area. The caretaker, Mr. Genord, is aware of my project. My assistant and I were hoping to examine the bats in their sleeping quarters.”

The hunchback smiled, his mouth gaping through missing teeth. “Bats up. Tower.” With what looked like great effort he pointed a bloodied hand to the ceiling. His finger failed to rise higher than his head. “Up.” He nodded and closed the door. A few muffled scuffles preceded further hammering.

Ella shivered. “Do you think he cut himself?”

“It would explain the scream.” Noticing her discomfort, Adam flashed her a smile and said, “He looks harmless enough.”

“It’s not him. It’s damp down here.” But the hunchback’s appraisal had disconcerted her.

She left Adam to examine the repairs to the door and walked under the closest of the arches which ringed the room. Trailing a hand along the grey stone, she made her way around the shadowed cloister. She could hear herself breathe, her lungs raspy with the moist air. Near the back of the stairs she found the narrow window which must have leached light across the lawn the night Adam had lost Cecily. The absence of an electric bulb was enigmatic, but the wicked axe hanging on the wall below the foggy pane was downright ominous. It looked just the sort of weapon to break through a door.

“I can’t see anything suspicious here. Ready?” Adam queried.

“Yes. No!” She had just spied a glint at the back of the stairs. Recessed by the arch which adjoined the staircase, an iron door devoured most of the back wall. Ella fingered the bold padlock. Too bad none of the lowlifes she’d investigated had taught her how to pick locks.

What little light penetrated the corner dimmed as Adam’s silhouette filled the arch.

“A door. We need to get inside,” she said.

“We’ll ask the caretaker.”

“And have him tell us ‘no’ or ‘later’ and provide the opportunity for him to get rid of whatever evidence may be buried there.”

“You haven’t even met him. What makes you so sure he’s involved?” Adam came forward to examine the lock.

This close, his spicy aftershave overpowered her senses. She must have been comatose not to have noticed how yummy it was before now. “The first rule of an investigation is trust nobody until you have the facts.” It was a dumb, robotic reply, since she got the impression Adam had extended an invitation to incriminate the caretaker. “The police should examine that door.” That was hardly more intelligent. It had to be that aftershave confounding her. He really should have worn less.

“They’ve already searched the church.”

Of course they had.

A desperate scream made them both jump. They raced for the wooden door. Ella grasped the handle and flung it open. The windowless room was illuminated by white candles. They burned on crude wooden workbenches cluttered with implements and cooled wax. The dirt floor was littered with crumbling stones and masonry tools, and the walls were bare save for a gnarled wooden cross so dry and brittle it cast the aura of a bygone age. In the centre of the chaos, the hunchback huddled over a disintegrating statue, crooning unintelligibly. Ella shared a wary look with Adam. While there was nobody else in the room, a door stood wide open in the back wall. Adam ducked around the central worktable and peeked in.

“Bats uuup,” the hunchback cried, before subsiding into a series of agonised moans. One arm over the statue’s pitted shoulder, the other pressed to its side, he reminded Ella of a parent hugging an injured child.

Adam retreated. “It’s a bedroom. Nobody there.”

“Mr Lowell.”

Adam started. “Mr. Genord.”

Reluctantly, Ella turned her back on the hunchback. The caretaker, a tall, thin man, straight-backed and clean-shaven, was staring in disapproval.

“You must excuse Romain. Unfortunately, his lack of language is greater than his incapacity.” His formal words were delivered in a clipped accent.

Ella stole a final glance inside. Romain, left sleeve rolled above his elbow, was plastering a crack in the statue’s side. She gasped as a drop of blood ran down his arm to the point of his elbow and fell to the floor. There wasn’t time to question the mason about his work.

Genord reached behind her and pulled the door firmly closed. “This part of the church is not normally accessible to the public.”

“We heard a scream,” Adam said, not in the least daunted.

“Romain is a little clumsy. He often hurts himself with his tools. It is never anything serious.”

“He’s bleeding,” Ella persisted, because no way had Romain’s husky voice produced the high-pitched cry.

“A minor wound, I’m sure. He is perfectly capable of tending to it himself. In fact, he detests attention. Do not be so quick to judge on appearances.”

Ella felt her cheeks colour and was grateful for the dark. Ordinarily, she would have quipped a tart reply. She needed him on her side, however, and Genord, with his polished tones and condescending manner, perturbed her more than Romain’s gaze. “Is the statue for the church?”

“Assuredly. He is the best mason I know. Perhaps you would like to see some of his work, Miss . . . ?”

“Jerome.”

“Jerome. Ah.”

Ella couldn’t help feeling everyone in the country recognised her name.