The Mills of God (14 page)

Tennant manfully said nothing.

‘Have you ever thought of becoming a speaker? Because if so I am sure the Lakehurst branch would be most interested in booking you.'

‘I'm afraid I don't have time for that,' the inspector answered, looking round the room for Potter to rescue him, then saw him having an altercation with Jack Boggis. ‘Potter,' he called, and a note in his voice must have told his junior officer that he needed rescuing.

‘Yes, sir?'

‘Time I went home, I think. I feel fit to drop.' He turned to Ivy Bagshot. ‘If you will forgive me, madam. It's been a long day.'

‘Of course. Thank you again.'

She went to rejoin her group, signalling to Ceinwen Carruthers as she did so.

‘What did you say to bloody old Boggis?'

‘I told him that any further interruptions at a meeting would be treated as impeding officers in their course of duty and could lead to arrest.'

‘What did he say?'

‘He started waffling about freedom of speech but I just turned on my heel and left him.'

‘Good. I'm beginning to heartily dislike the fellow.'

‘So am I,' said Potter with feeling.

Having walked home with Kasper, Nick plunged into the vicarage to hear the phone ringing. His heart sank as he heard the voice of Sonia Tate.

‘Oh hello, Father Nick.' The volume dropped sexily. ‘How are you? I've been thinking about you. Worrying about you.'

Nick's eyes rolled heavenwards. ‘Were you at the lecture tonight?'

‘Yes. I was sitting near the back. I was offered a lift home and I took it. Nick, when is this dreadful business going to stop?'

‘I wish I knew, Mrs Tate.'

‘Sonia,
please
.'

‘Sonia,' he said reluctantly.

‘Anyway I haven't rung you to discuss that.'

‘No?' Nick answered feebly, certain that he knew what was coming.

He was right. ‘I was ringing up about our dinner date. When are you free?'

‘Sonia, I have decided to stay at home as much as possible at the moment. Obviously parish duties must continue but I feel that other than those we would all do as well to stay put.'

She tinkled a laugh at him, a sound which had him holding the receiver away from his ear.

‘But I don't have any parish duties.'

‘You know what I mean. I think we should all be especially careful.'

‘In other words you don't want to come.'

‘It's not that,' Nick lied, ‘it's just that I feel we should all be listening to the police advice and not socializing at the moment.'

‘No, you're right I suppose.'

She sounded bitterly disappointed and Nick felt a pang of guilt but quickly dismissed that when he thought of her reputation. He considered her age and guessed at sixty-five minimum. Not, he reprimanded himself, that there was anything wrong with that, provided that one looked like Joan Collins of course.

‘I'm so sorry,' he said, ‘but I think it's more sensible.'

‘Yes, of course. Another time then.'

‘Certainly. Another time.'

He went into the kitchen, justifying himself. It really wasn't safe to move round Lakehurst at present, not at night anyway. He wondered briefly whether Sonia Tate could be the murderer and that was why she was so confident about going out nocturnally. Then he dismissed the idea because in actual fact he hadn't a clue who it might be. All he could pray was that it was someone who lived outside the village and just roved in with killing on his or her mind.

Nick had locked the church's main doors at dusk and had had the vestry lock changed a few days previously. In fact he was due to give the new keys on Sunday to those who had claim to one. Yet he felt hesitant about doing so. Suppose it was a member of the choir who had fled past him in the darkness leaving him feeling afraid and nervous.

The vicar couldn't help smiling to himself as he thought about that idea. Half of them were elderly women with quavering voices, their leader a well-preserved seventy who boomed out so loudly that she drowned the rest. Absolutely nobody had had the courage to tell her that her voice had been shot to shreds years ago. The other half were assorted ages and sizes, two boy sopranos who, no doubt, would have the old ladies in tears at Christmas time; three very spotty schoolboys; one gay young man with bright red hair and masses of after shave. The rest were elderly men in various stages of baldery.

The only one of those who had any possibilities as the killer was the gay fellow whose name, improbably, was Broderick Crawford, presumably after some long-dead film star. The vicar wondered whether to withhold the key from him but decided that would make him feel put upon and Nick might get reported for being a homophobe. He sighed, wishing that the murderer would be caught quickly so that all the problems could be solved.

William paced a little upstairs and Nick almost welcomed the sound. At least the ghost was harmless. At that moment the telephone rang, making him jump out of his skin. He picked up the receiver and Kasper's voice said, ‘Nick, are you alright?'

‘Yes, why?'

‘I thought I saw somebody hanging round the back of the vicarage when I drove past just now on my way to see a patient.'

‘Oh good heavens. I'd better go and have a look.'

‘Yes, do so. But be very careful.'

‘Thanks.'

‘I shall ring back in fifteen minutes,' Kasper said solemnly, and replaced the receiver.

Nick looked round for a weapon but the only thing that sprang to mind was the poker. Grabbing it, he went quietly to the garden door.

The place was full of pools of moonlight beyond which there were deep dark patches of shadow in which anyone could have been hiding.

‘Hello,' called Nick uncertainly. ‘Is there anybody there?'

There was no answer and no movement, then Radetsky appeared, winding his way round the vicar's legs as he came to find out what was going on.

‘Go inside, cat,' Nick ordered sternly, of which command Radetsky took absolutely no notice whatsoever. Ears flat against his head he let out a low growl and proceeded into the undergrowth, deep into the darkness. A second or two later he let out a howl as if he had been kicked and Nick leapt into action, sprinting towards the sound. And then he heard the noise of running feet and actually glimpsed a cloaked figure leaping over the gate that led from the bottom of his garden to the lane outside.

Nick sped after it, throwing the gate open and caution to the winds. He hesitated momentarily on arriving in the alley, not knowing whether to turn to right or left. All seemed terribly quiet, in fact unnaturally so. He stood listening for the sound of those speeding feet and the direction they were going in, then he heard a sudden noise behind him – and darkness fell.

The vicar regained consciousness to see Kasper bending over him administering cold compresses to his head. As he tried to sit up he felt as if he had been struck by Thor's hammer, so immense was the pain. He fell back again and realized he was lying on his own sofa in the vicarage living room.

‘What happened?' he asked, his voice a squeak.

‘I phoned you as I said I would and got your answerphone,' Kasper said solemnly. ‘So I drove here and found you lying unconscious in the lane.'

‘Do you feel up to answering questions, sir?' asked another voice, and moving his eyes painfully round, Nick saw that a uniformed policeman was in the room, presumably called from the mobile headquarters.

‘Yes,' he said.

‘We think you might have some DNA on you,' said yet another voice, and Nick extended his gaze and saw a figure in white, complete with box of tricks, bearing down on him.

‘But I didn't see anyone,' he protested.

‘But they saw you,' she answered, and set to examining the wound on his head.

It was painful as she dug about with her tweezers but eventually she let out a little exclamation and Kasper asked, ‘Got anything?'

‘Just a fibre or two stuck to a small fragment of wood.'

‘What was I hit with?' Nick asked.

‘It appears to have been a fallen branch or something of that sort. All I can say at this stage is that it was a lump of wood.'

‘And you say there are fibres?'

‘Yes, but whether they come from what he or she was wearing or whether from something else it is impossible to say without further examination.'

The uniformed policeman spoke. ‘Can you tell me what you saw, Vicar?'

‘Not much,' Nick answered, and proceeded to describe exactly what had happened up to the moment when he had been struck.

‘And that's all I can tell you,' he added.

Kasper spoke up. ‘I would like to attend to my patient now, if you have no objection.'

He examined Nick's head and said, ‘You're going to need a couple of stitches.'

‘Can you put them in?'

‘Yes, but you really ought to go to hospital.'

‘Kasper, please.'

‘Why don't you want to go? Are you frightened of such places?'

‘Good Lord, no. It's just that I don't want the killer to have the satisfaction of knowing that he put me in A and E.'

‘You just said he, sir. Why was that?' asked the policeman.

‘I don't know really. Except that my assailant leapt over the gate and I swear that I saw a pair of trousers as they jumped.'

‘I'm afraid that doesn't count for much these days. Many women wear trousers.'

‘That's true enough,' answered the vicar. He shook his head. ‘I'm afraid I only caught a glimpse of the person and it wasn't enough to identify which sex it was.'

The forensic expert said, ‘I would normally ask you for your clothes, Vicar, but unfortunately the doctor will have corrupted them when he dragged you indoors.'

Nick smiled feebly and asked, ‘Has anyone seen my cat?'

‘Yes, it's in the kitchen looking a bit sorry for itself. I think it's been kicked.'

‘As long as it's alright.'

‘I'll have a look at it,' volunteered Kasper.

‘I didn't know you were a vet as well.'

The doctor started to make a rude gesture then realized that this was probably not the most appropriate house to do it in and turned it into a wave instead.

An hour later and Nick, feeling rather drowsy thanks to an injection which Kasper had given him, was tucked up comfortably in bed. Radetsky purred beside him – a special treat – and all was serene except for the fact that a police constable stood outside the vicarage keeping a special watch in case the attacker should steal back and try to achieve his or her objective. Meanwhile throughout the streets of Lakehurst police personnel walked in pairs, looking in every dark place imaginable, hoping that they were drawing nearer to catching their victim but realizing only too well that they were dealing with a formidable enemy.

THIRTEEN

T
ennant had an almighty hangover and wished that he were anywhere but in the office of the superintendent receiving a dressing down over what his boss referred to as the ‘Lakehurst affair'.

‘What the hell's going on, Tennant? We've got every reporter in Christendom camped out in Lakehurst, let alone sixty more uniform, to say nothing of the vicar being attacked last night, and we still haven't got a result. What's going wrong?'

‘I don't know, sir. I truly don't. The trouble is that the killer is wearing protective clothing of some kind or another, to say nothing of gloves. In short he doesn't leave any DNA.'

Superintendent Miller looked thoughtful. ‘But how is he or she managing that?'

Tennant felt absolutely lost. ‘Unless they've got some connection with forensics.'

It was a pretty lame remark and he knew it. Miller gave him a long, cool glance. ‘But the vicar reported seeing a cloaked figure. Are you suggesting that they shed the cloak and have a protective suit underneath?'

‘Well, possibly.'

If the superintendent had been the snorting type then he would have done so but fortunately his mind had raced on to other things. He had the notes left at the various crime scenes spread out before him on his desk. He pointed at them.

‘Have you got any further with these?'

‘I'm afraid not, sir. The handwriting expert confirms that they were written by the same person but that's about it.'

‘Do they mean that our killer plans on doing ten murders altogether?'

‘I presume so.'

‘Then it's clearly a religious maniac – or is that what we're meant to think?'

Tennant sighed involuntarily and Miller shot him a penetrating glance. ‘I think maybe it's time we took DNA samples from the entire population of the village – male and female alike. I mean the bugger is bound to leave a trace of himself somewhere. For example the threads on the piece of wood used to beat the vicar senseless – they're going to reveal something or other.'

‘Probably corrupted by the doctor when he dragged him inside.'

‘Never mind that. We must think positively.'

At that moment there was a knock on the door and Potter put his head round.

‘Sorry to interrupt, sir, but there's an important phone call for Inspector Tennant. I think it's rather urgent.'

The superintendent waved his hand. ‘Best go and deal with it. But Tennant . . .'

‘Yes, sir?'

‘Get the DNA sample going as quickly as possible.'

‘Yes, sir.'

Outside, Potter gave him a mischievous look. ‘Trouble, sir?'