Silencing the Dead by Will Harker (ready to read books .TXT) 📗

authorities. Evangeline Bell, the victim’s elder sister, was eventually reached by her mother, and following a hysterical and garbled conversation, called a neighbour to check at the house—Cedar Gables, Marchwood. Genevieve had been dead some hours. Burglary was not suspected to be the motive.

Evangeline, who lived in Edinburgh and had since travelled down to be with her mother, said the family was in a state of complete shock. Her sister hadn’t an enemy in the world. Police would only say that the body was so brutally mutilated, DNA analysis was required for identification. The press had then speculated that the motive may have been deeply personal or else the work of a psychopath.

I summarised these facts in my head from the various reports. They were so thin, that from my experience of working such cases, I guessed something highly unusual had taken place at Cedar Gables. Unique details would be kept back as an investigative tool and to weed out false confessions. DNA analysis for identification was suggestive, however. Not a cheap nor a quick tool when easier methods were at hand. The fact it had been resorted to in order to establish beyond doubt the identity of the victim must mean that the killer had—

“Scott, I need you down by the forest road.” My dad swarmed towards me. It was the only appropriate verb. At moments of crisis, he seemed to grow in stature, dominating the situation. “Gillespie’s arrived and is kicking up trouble with the press. Everwood’s on his way and— Ah balls. There he is.”

A bulky black Bentley that looked something like a presidential protection vehicle came hurtling along the forest road, scattering punters in its wake. Some hurled insults, others dug out their phones to take video. I could see the hashtags already: #RoadRageDaz #DarrelEverwanker. A smaller, dark blue Volvo swept in behind the Bentley, containing, so I assumed, the assistant, Deepal, who’d just been speaking to Nick. Without slowing, both cars blazed through the carpark and made for the production trailers set up beside the rectory.

“What do you want me to do?” I asked Dad. “The main road’s public land, I can’t make him leave.”

“But the forest road isn’t,” the old man grunted. “Just make sure he stays where he is.”

As I valued human life a little more than Darrel Everwood, I decided not to take my Merc on a slalom chase down the avenue of trees. Instead, I jogged towards the main road. Halfway there, I could already make out the lights of a camera crew and a small but noisy crowd gathered around a man standing on a platform. Even from the back, I recognised that preening posture.

I came up alongside the mob—mostly Gillespie fanboys and girls with superior expressions and badges in their lapels with slogans like Thank God He Doesn’t Exist and Born Again Atheist. Which was ironic, for they were looking up at the doctor with all the rapt attention of true disciples. Basking in their adoration, as well as the news cameras’ glare, Gillespie was in full flow.

“… the pathetic sideshow that is going to take place here on Halloween is just another example of gullibility being exploited. Darrel Everwood and his kind are like a brain cancer growing on the collective intellect. They must be burned away, cut out, destroyed utterly. Only then can we—”

“What about Genevieve Bell?” someone shrieked from outside the cordon of admirers. “Don’t you feel any sympathy for her?”

Gillespie adjusted his cuffs in that self-conscious way of his. “I’ve already said that what happened to Miss Bell was a tragedy. As a humanist, I mourn the loss of any life, even one that was wasted on the trite nonsense of spiritualism. But Everwood is a different matter.” I’d come around to the front of the platform and so could see the contemptuous curl of his lip. “He deserves to be pilloried for the falsehoods he spreads. For playing the fool and allowing—”

“Oh, give it a rest, Joe.”

Another interruption, this time from a woman in a bright red puffer jacket. Her arms were folded across her chest and she was giving Gillespie the kind of look a parent might bestow upon a child that refuses to stop picking at a scab. She had a no-nonsense beauty about her, high cheekbones and full lips, dark eyes full of disdain. I recognised her voice at once. So Everwood’s assistant hadn’t gone up to the house with him but had been dropped off here in order to deal with this unfolding shitshow. Despite the protests of his supporters, she barged through the mob and joined him on the platform. For once, Gillespie’s façade cracked. He seemed at a loss as the enemy took command and addressed the news crews.

“On behalf of Darrel Everwood, I’d like to assure everyone at home that Dr Gillespie’s bizarre accusations are entirely false. Darrel not only possesses a rare and powerful gift, it remains his greatest joy to share it with the world. Instead of frightening people with talk of a godless, uncaring universe, Darrel has comforted thousands with the truth.” Her tone altered to just the right side of saccharine. “You will see your loved ones again. They are still with you. And if you tune into Ghost Seekers this Halloween night, Darrel Everwood will prove it.”

Shouts from the Gillespie mob, a scattering of applause elsewhere. The doctor himself tried to wrest back control by addressing the cameras again, but one by one, the bright lights began to blink off.

“Quite a performance,” I said as the woman descended the platform. Shouldering the Gillespieites aside, I made a path for her. She glanced at me suspiciously as I walked with her along the forest road. “Scott Jericho,” I said. “Son of George. Also an old friend of Nick Holloway.”

“Ah.” Her brow cleared. “Yes. I’m Deepal Chandra, Darrel’s PA. Nick’s mentioned you. He’s a good man.”

“He is. So I was wondering—”

Her phone chirruped and Deepal held up a finger. “Sorry. The boss.”

A voice, certainly