The Lamp of the Wicked (43 page)

How and why an evil psychopath was able to ensnare so many in a web of unseeing complicity.

Horrific, but there was no avoiding it any longer. Perhaps she should know. Everybody else in the county seemed to. It was part of the underside of Hereford history. Fred West still crouched like a spider in a corner of so many lives.

Even Gomer’s.

The videos he’d mentioned – the ones he’d only heard of, after the West murders had become public knowledge – were snuff videos. It was said that Fred had rigged up cameras and shot videos of himself doing what he’d done to girls and young women.

Gomer had wondered if maybe Roddy Lodge had somehow got hold of a copy.

The phone rang. Merrily looked at it, didn’t feel like speaking to anyone else tonight and let it go on ringing until the machine picked it up.

This is Ledwardine Vicarage. Sorry we’re not around, but please leave a message after the bleep.

Bleep.

Then, ‘
Bitch!
’

Merrily put the book down.

It was muffled – one of those tissues-over-the-phone voices. ‘
Bitch, if you do that funeral on Friday, you’re gonna regret it. You stay at home on Friday, you understand? You bitch
.’

Jane let herself in very quietly by the side door and padded up the stairs to the attic, collapsing on her bed under the Mondrian walls.

This was killing her, and there was nobody to ring. Nobody at all.

She lay there, numbed by this shattering hyper-awareness, listening to parts of the past clunking into place like the pieces of one of those really obvious wooden jigsaws aimed at very small children.

Or the ratchets on some crude medieval engine of torture, squeezing your brain.

Dad.

Poor dead Dad.
Why exactly
did he go off with Karen, his secretary with whom he’d died in a ball of blazing metal on the M5? Jane remembered seeing Karen a couple of times in Dad’s office, and she wasn’t exactly to die for, was she? Maybe a bit younger than Mum but not as pretty. So what exactly was there
missing
from his marriage that drove Dad into Karen’s arms, Karen’s bed?

And why had Mum, instead of working to save her marriage, thrown herself into the arms of ‘God’?

Consider: it was a known fact that a huge percentage of male clergy were gay. OK, so maybe no figures had emerged on women priests yet, but looking at pictures of some of them in the papers you could soon draw your own conclusions.

Jane sat up. Opposite the bed, the longest Mondrian wall, with its garish red and yellow and blue emulsion, looked like a bad idea clumsily executed. She wished she was lying on Gareth Box’s hearthrug in the red glow of the apple-log fire.
Please, Gareth, show me I’m normal.

Eventually, she got ready for bed. Sleep? No chance. And what was she supposed to say tomorrow over the breakfast table?

What was she supposed to say the next time she saw Lol?

Or maybe he
knew
. Oh yeah, it would certainly explain all that, wouldn’t it? All that keeping-up-appearances shit, Mum and Lol not being able to see one another very often. It was never a question of the relationship going stagnant – because it had never happened, had it? It was another lie.

Jane began beating her forehead into the pillow.
Lies, lies, lies, lies, lies…

The areas called the temporal lobes, which are the most electrically unstable brain areas, create a feeling called a sense of presence when they are irradiated by an electronic signal. This is where a person has an overwhelming feeling that someone is in the room with them and they are being watched…

Albert Budden

Allergies and Aliens: The Visitation Experience – an environmental health issue

Other murderers claim they are being visited by the spirits of the people they have murdered. They see apparitions. They hear voices. With him it was bricks and mortar. The changes in temperature and acoustics in remembered spaces… Hallucinating himself back to his house.

Gordon Burn

Happy Like Murderers

Fred
erick
… no diminutives for
that
man.

Martin Amis, BBC Radio Wales

T
HE DOORS OF
Roddy Lodge’s garage were painted dark green. Somebody had been at one of them with chalk. The message read:

Put him down a cesspit where he belongs

Merrily pulled into the verge just short of the village and took off her dog collar. No point in asking for confrontation on the street, though she might put it back on before meeting the Development Committee at ten.

When she went into the Post Office and Stores to buy some cigarettes and a paper, the fat man behind the counter asked if she was a reporter.

‘Pity,’ he said. ‘We want all the publicity we can get. We ain’t rolling over for this one, no way.’

London accent. Who did he mean by ‘we’?

She glanced at the paper rack. The story hadn’t made the front pages of the tabloids, but she glimpsed the name Fred West in a single-column headline halfway down the
Daily Telegraph
. She took the paper to the counter and said casually, ‘Why
are
people so worked up about this man being buried here? He’s local, isn’t he, whatever he’s done.’

‘So was Melanie Pullman,’ the fat man explained.

‘And how would
you
feel’ – a fiftyish woman in a yellow PVC jacket detached herself from a carousel of tights – ‘if your sister was lying under some cold field you didn’t even know where, and a man who called himself Satan gets a Christian burial?’ Birmingham accent this time: how would
yow
feel?

‘No way,’ the fat man said. ‘
No way
. They should get him cremated on the quiet. Do what they like wiv the ashes, long as nobody knows. You got a situation where this place is finally getting on its feet at long last. Do we want connecting wiv a sicko?
No
way.’

‘You only got to look at this female priest.’ The woman was looking at Merrily without recognition. ‘We all know what
that
’s about. That’s the woman who got herself made exorcist. Making a big thing out of it. Anything to make a name for yourself these days. Publicity mad.’

Merrily nodded. ‘So I’ve heard.’ She folded up the
Telegraph
.

On her way out, she heard the man say, ‘Exorcist? What’s that about, then?’

‘Making sure he don’t come back, Richard.’

‘Dump him somewhere else, and it ain’t a bloody problem!’

Laughter.
Put him down a cesspit. Shove the fame-hungry bimbo priest in after him. Bitch
.

But these two were both incomers. There had to be
some
sympathy for Tony Lodge and Cherry among indigenous villagers. Must be people here who’d known Roddy for years, drunk in the pubs with Roddy, been to school with Roddy, played on the hillside with him, nursed him as a baby – this poor kid with no mother in a house full of taciturn men. The poor kid who turned into a murderer. Who tomorrow gets buried – darkly, quietly, before his time.

You didn’t have to be here long to understand why the undertakers wanted to switch dates.

Merrily took the newspaper back to the car on the main street of Underhowle: exposed at last in fog-free, rain-free daylight. She’d left the Volvo where the road shuffled uphill by the primary school and the new village hall that had once been a barn. The school was utility Victorian Gothic; she hadn’t even noticed it in the dark when she’d walked up with Bliss and the locals, but now there were lights on inside and the windows were lurid with finger-painting and the severity of the main building was mocked by the yellow panels of a mobile classroom in the yard.

It was coming up to nine-fifteen. There might just be time, before the meeting with the Development Committee, to check out the church and the Lodge family graves.
Lay him to rest before anyone sees. Bury him with dignity, if you must, but essentially with speed, because…

Oh God – Lol’s gig! It was Lol’s gig tomorrow night. There’d just be time to get home, get changed, get up to Hereford…

She leaned against the car. Behind the school, the village was crumbling down the hillside, in all the dull multicolours of broken dog biscuits. Close to the centre was the rusty-brown bell tower of the church and the green areas between graves; on the outskirts the blue smoked-glass roof lights of the computer factory fitted into the gap between two small housing estates: one in pink brick, one rendered a drab, sub-Cotswold ochre.

And bestriding all, like the watchtowers of a concentration camp against the forest and the sky, the lines of pylons.

One of them a killer. Why should anyone worry about a single stone marking the spot where Roddy’s body lay when you had only to look up to see the massive instrument of his execution, the real Lodge Memorial, sculpted in grey steel?

It stood defiant, gleeful as a guillotine. But right now nobody else seemed to be looking up. The initial trauma was over and the community was functioning again – happening on the ground in the unforced way it never seemed to in perfect, pickled Ledwardine. Underhowle in motion: vehicles drawing up and moving off, from Land Rovers to a vintage American car with tail fins, people slipping in and out of the few shops with shouts of greeting, hands raised. Soft lights coming on in a unisex hairdressers’ called Head Office.

Finally getting on its feet
. How many ways had she heard that expressed?
Prospered more in the past five years than in the previous forty. And they make it all sound so exciting for the future
.

Well, good luck to them. Merrily got into the Volvo, opened out the paper on the passenger seat and found that the story was straightforward and more restrained than she’d expected.

FRED WEST LINK IN BORDER MURDER INQUIRY

by Eric Birchall

Crime Correspondent

THE SELF-CONFESSED ‘serial killer’ Roderick Lodge, who was electrocuted after climbing a pylon to escape from police, had an obsession with the mass-murderer Fred West, detectives said last night.

An extensive collection of news cuttings about the West killings has been found hidden at Lodge’s Herefordshire home, along with what West Mercia CID describes as

‘substantial evidence that he saw Fred West as a role model’.

West, 53, hanged himself in his cell in 1995, while awaiting trial for the murder of twelve young women and girls, many of whom were found buried in the cellar and garden of his house at 25 Cromwell Street, Gloucester – 15 miles from Lodge’s home in the village of Underhowle, near Ross-on-Wye.

Lodge’s only confirmed victim, Lynsey Davies, a 39-year-old mother of four, was buried under one of the septic tanks he installed over a wide area of Herefordshire, Gloucestershire and Monmouthshire. But police have not ruled out the possibility that he may have murdered at least two other women.

‘Without bodies, we can’t establish how much of this was sick fantasy,’ said Det. Ch. Supt. Luke Fleming, who is leading the inquiry.

‘Lodge operated over a very wide area, using heavy plant equipment. We’ve been able to trace many of his recent customers but it’s clear that not all of them were recorded in his accounts, and we’d like to talk to anyone who has employed him in the last five years or so.

‘I would stress that this man was a known fantasist, with possible psychiatric problems, and the last thing we want is to create any kind of unnecessary panic.

‘Lynsey Davies was Lodge’s girl-friend and it is quite possible that what we are looking at is a one-off domestic murder by an inadequate who liked to identify himself with the most notorious mass murderer of recent years, who happened to have lived and committed his murders in a neighbouring area.’

Meanwhile, a row has broken out in Underhowle village, where many residents are objecting to Lodge being buried in the local churchyard.

They say his grave would become ‘a sick tourist
attraction’, especially if more bodies are unearthed.

The local rector, the Rev. Jerome Banks, has declined to conduct the funeral service. The Diocese of Hereford said a priest from outside the area would be taking it over.

Taking it over. Oh yes, in the capable hands of the Deliverance Consultant what could possibly go wrong? Merrily leaned back in the driving seat, wearily closing her eyes and glimpsing Jane at her most sullen at the breakfast table this morning before leaving for school with hardly a word, and Merrily too droopy with insufficient sleep to make a thing of it.

A tapping on the window made her jerk back, crumpling the
Daily Telegraph
against the wheel.

The face sideways at the glass was a long face, with a wide mouth, springy yellow hair.

Fergus Young, head teacher and chair of the Development Committee.

Merrily wound down the window.

‘Tough night, detective constable?’ Fergus Young said.

What Merrily noticed first was all the red computers, pushing out everywhere, like the heads of wild poppies. She was wondering where she’d seen one before and then realized.

‘Roddy Lodge’s office. Roddy Lodge had one of these.’

‘No surprise in that,’ Fergus Young said in his deep, easy voice. ‘Most households in the village have one now. Not only small children use them but also elderly people who’d never imagined they could operate a computer. And, yes, people like Roddy, I suppose, for the same reason.’

He showed her into his office, a little friendlier now, his long, bony features more relaxed. When she’d felt forced to re-identify herself, he’d closed up, visibly pondering the earlier deception – why had Bliss had introduced her as a colleague? Fergus didn’t get the joke, and why should he?