The Mills of God (18 page)

‘What about Dwayne Saunters? How does he fit in?' This last from Potter.

‘I think probably two,' Nick answered with a small laugh. ‘You shall not make wrongful use of the Lord your God, and Honour your father and your mother, etc.'

‘But he didn't have a mother and father,' objected Potter.

‘The grandmother, acting in loco parentis. He certainly gave her a hell of a time.' Tennant turned to the vicar. ‘Can you tell me the rest.'

‘The next one that's appropriate is Remember the Sabbath day and keep it holy.'

‘And there's the direct link with Ceinwen. Never on Sunday. It's almost as if the murderer is starting to give us clues. What's the next one?'

Nick glanced up and gave them both a deep look. ‘You shall not murder. I wonder how The Acting Light of the World manages to equate that with their conscience.'

‘Heaven knows,' Tennant answered. ‘Presumably the Acting Light has special dispensation.'

‘Do you want to hear the rest?'

‘Yes please.'

‘You shall not commit adultery.'

‘Blimey, by her own admittance that puts Sonia Tate well in line.'

‘It does rather. You shall not steal.'

Tennant and Potter looked at one another and shrugged their shoulders. ‘Could be anybody.'

‘And the last two are: You shall not bear false witness against your neighbour, and You shall not covet your neighbour's house, you shall not covet your neighbour's wife, or male or female slave, or ox, or donkey, or anything that belong to your neighbour.'

‘Well,' said Tennant, ‘that possibly covers the entire village of Lakehurst. Everybody has got their eye on everybody else's house – but as to the donkey, I wouldn't know about that.'

‘I think, my dear Inspector,' Nick answered solemnly, ‘that those owning beasts of burden should be particularly careful.'

‘Indeed they should,' answered Tennant, and despite the awful occasion the three of them laughed.

SIXTEEN

T
hey had reached the outskirts of Lewes, a large village called Ringmer, when Tennant suddenly said to Potter, ‘Do you know, I think I ought to go back.'

His sergeant gave him a brief glance. ‘Do you mean to Lakehurst, sir?'

‘Of course. Where else?'

‘But why?'

‘I've just got this funny feeling. We know this murderer strikes at night – though we can't be sure in the Carruthers case – but I'm pretty certain that somebody's coming under threat in the next twenty-four hours.'

‘Any idea who, sir, in view of the vicar's revelations?'

‘It was Exodus, actually,' Tennant responded drily. ‘Yes, I think it's going to be Sonia Tate. And it's imperative that we stop the killer now.'

‘Have you any idea who it is?'

‘Presumably the cloaked figure who attacked the vicar. The owner of the cloak marked Turner.'

Potter nodded and turned right to Glynde. It was dark but the headlights picked up the sweep of the drive leading down to the Tudor house behind which the new opera house had been built. Tennant went once every year with a gang of like-minded friends while the rest of the local police force looked on aghast.

‘You don't like that opera rubbish?' his superintendent had once said to him.

‘As a matter of fact I do. Very much.'

‘Too noisy for me. Give me Elton John any day.'

Tennant had not bothered with a reply.

Within half an hour they were back in Lakehurst and Tennant headed straight for the mobile headquarters.

‘Oh, you're back, sir,' said the desk sergeant as the inspector walked in. ‘Thought you'd gone home.'

‘Home? What's that?' Tennant answered briefly. ‘Listen, I want you to call everyone in here – now. I want to see them. Get them here ten at a time.'

Five minutes later he started his first briefing.

‘Well, folks. We've had nearly two weeks and the crimes have not been solved. Operation Titmuss is grinding to an unlooked-for halt. Tomorrow, as you know, we go house-to-house asking for a DNA sample. We're going to get refusals, we can't demand that the villagers cooperate, but I want a careful note of all those who say no and the reasons given.

‘And now to tonight. I'd like the utmost vigilance kept by each and every one of you. Especially on the house of Mrs Sonia Tate who lives at Fernlea, 5, The Dell. I want that under observation all night long until ten o'clock tomorrow morning when you can go and collect the DNA sample. If anyone – and that means anyone at all – should approach the house I want he or she brought in for questioning. All right?'

‘And where will you be, sir?'

‘I hope that wasn't meant sarcastically.' There was a ripple of laughter. ‘I mean to go on a bit of a walkabout. Potter will be here in charge of operations. Any further questions?'

Half-an-hour later Tennant had finished his briefings to the sixty or so extra policemen who had been drafted in for night duty in Lakehurst and drank a hasty cup of coffee before putting on his coat – he liked a good old-fashioned coat, none of your modern designs for him. Then he walked out of the mobile headquarters and turned right down the High Street.

It was a bitter night, a wind whipping up from the lower part of Lakehurst, past the Victorian houses and the Catholic church. It stung Tennant's eyes as he walked down that straight, long street towards The Dell. Overhead the moon and the stars had been totally blacked over by a thick layer of cloud and the inspector thought that this could well be the scene at the end of the world. He suddenly felt miserable and downhearted. To be defeated by some raving lunatic at this stage of his career was disheartening to say the least and he made himself a mental promise that he would not leave Lakehurst until the task was completed satisfactorily.

His thoughts turned to the cloaked figure who had attacked the vicar. He now knew that the cloak was a part of the chorister's uniform and that Mrs Cox had known Old Turner – as the vicar had described him – who had had to retire from the choir through sheer advancing years. That done, the poor old boy had died within six months and his ashes were happily buried in Lakehurst churchyard beside a rhododendron bush. The cloak had been left as an heirloom to one of the newer members but who it actually was, Mrs Cox had not been sure.

The offending garment had now been removed to Lewes in a large evidence bag and was currently under examination by Rosamund in the forensics lab. The thought of her made Tennant realize fully how much he needed a woman to make love to. He still hadn't had time to have that evening with her – and hopefully spend the night – and it didn't look to him as if any of that were going to materialize until the end of this investigation was well and truly in sight.

He fell to wondering about the owner of the cloak. Was it possible, he thought, that these were two entirely different people. That the person who stalked about and so obviously assaulted the vicar was someone entirely different from the savage and sadistic killer who killed his victims in such an horrific manner. Pictures of poor Ceinwen, her throat stuffed with her guileless and innocent poetry, came back to him and he stopped for a moment feeling suddenly short of breath.

A cyclist in bright white trousers, most unsuitable for the weather, was battling against the wind and went past Tennant, but other than for that person there was no one else about. Lakehurst was like a plague village, deserted and still, with nothing except the lights on in houses to tell him that there were living creatures here at all. With a feeling of trepidation, the inspector entered The Dell.

It was a truly depressing place. An enclave of ten identical houses, probably erected in the eighties, all built in a U shape, the end four facing one another so that the owners must have suffered from an appalling lack of privacy. Sonia lived in one of the bottom houses facing up the road so was somewhat better off than most of her neighbours. As Tennant walked into The Dell he noticed a car without lights parked at the far end and thought to himself that his instructions were clearly being carried out. He tapped on the window. It was lowered and he looked into the startled face of a WPC. Beside her, fast asleep, was a fellow officer.

‘Good evening, Constable Belloc.'

‘Good evening, sir.'

The policeman struggled awake, shouting, ‘What the hell's happening?'

‘I am,' answered Tennant, ‘and I'd advise you to keep your voice down. You'll have everybody in the street coming out to see what's going on.'

‘Sorry, sir.'

‘Is Mrs Tate in?'

‘Yes, her lights are on downstairs.'

‘So I see. Has anybody called on her?'

‘Not since we've been here, sir. And that was an hour ago.'

‘If anybody does come – and that includes the vicar and any of the doctors – you are to bring them in for questioning immediately.'

‘Very good, sir.'

‘I'll just have a look round. Stay here until somebody comes to relieve you.'

Tennant walked quietly past the curtained windows of The Dell and felt a definite stab of excitement. It reminded him of the past, when he had been a sergeant to a great inspector, one Grey, known amongst the junior members of the force as The Man. Grey had had an uncanny knack of solving his cases, in fact Tennant sometimes wondered if he used psychic powers. At this moment he wished that he possessed some.

Moving silently the inspector stood by the gate of number five. Very faintly he could hear the sound of the television from within. Quiet as a cat, the inspector stepped over the low iron fence and into Sonia's garden. Slinking his way round to the back, he peered in through the kitchen window. The room was in total darkness but he could vaguely make out various objects from the light filtering round the door. It looked normal enough. And then he had a horrid vision of the death of Ceinwen, lying undiscovered in her sitting room. He went round to the front and was about to ring the door when he heard a pair of feet walking up the road and definitely towards this end of The Dell. Tennant froze back into the shadows.

He could see by the street light that it was Jack Boggis making his way, quite steadily for him. He wore an old fashioned anorak – Tennant vaguely wondered if it was Jack who had inspired the word – and his usual grumpy expression. The inspector could not help but notice that Jack's slack jawline swung a little as he walked.

With an increase of pace, he went up the garden path and extended a digit to press the bell.

The inspector stepped forward.

‘Good evening, Mr Boggis. I would like you to accompany me to headquarters, please.'

Jack spluttered so violently that his false teeth nearly came out.

‘What do you mean? What for?'

‘I am afraid that I am unable to reveal that except to say that we would like you to answer some further questions.'

‘And what if I refuse?' Jack asked nastily.

‘Then you leave me no alternative but to place you under arrest,' Tennant answered in the pleasantest voice he could muster.

‘Now look 'ere . . .'

‘No, Mr Boggis, you look here. I have been informed by Sergeant Potter that your attitude throughout this investigation has not been particularly cooperative. In fact, at times, downright obstructive. I am sure you have your reasons for this which we can investigate a little more closely at the station. Now, are you coming quietly, as they say, or do you wish me to place you under arrest?'

‘This is intimidation.'

‘No it isn't. It's normal police procedure.'

Jack began to bluster into Tennant's face, a fact that had the inspector taking a step back.

‘What about civil liberties? I demand my rights. I want my solicitor present. I've a mind to sue the lot of you. There was I, on my way to make a social call, and I'm suddenly wanted for questioning. It takes some beating, it truly does.'

Tennant didn't answer but frogmarched the man back towards the car.

‘Constable Belloc, drive us to the mobile unit, would you.' He looked at the yawning policeman beside her. ‘You wait here and keep your eyes peeled. A bracing walk round The Dell might be just what you need.' He turned to Boggis. ‘Now, sir, get inside out of the cold.'

It was very late and Cheryl Hamilton-Harty was doing her final check on the horses before she went to bed. She was clad in her pyjamas with a thick coat on top and, as she had removed her make-up, was looking far from glamorous. For all her strange character and rampant nymphomania, she genuinely loved the horses and as she entered the stables the smell of horseflesh and the soft whinnies of greeting met her.

She was stabling twelve horses and two ponies at the moment, which was about the number she hired out at weekends. She loved Saturdays and Sundays when the merchant bankers and city whizz kids came down to the big houses they owned round and about, and thought that riding – no longer to hounds unfortunately, or so they agreed – would enhance their image. Afterwards, of course, Cheryl would invite them in for a little drink and then, as she was reasonably attractive and utterly unable to control her libido, they would have a small siesta. Now it was late on Sunday and everyone had left for their flats in London, and it was back to the routine of teaching toddlers and tinies for the intervening five days.

She stroked her own horse's flank. ‘Hello, Florence. Do you want a carrot then?'

Cheryl extended one and was just feeling the soft mouth consuming it when a voice behind her said, ‘Hello, my dear.'

She whirled round to see a figure holding a riding whip, the sort she used when she took out the governess car.