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

disgraced former protégé, and in so doing, had got to know many of the old-timers. I pulled out my phone and video-called Peter Garris, angling the screen so that only my face would be in the shot. Suddenly my hands were shaking and I had to use both to hold the phone steady.

Those bland, haggard features appeared onscreen. “Scott. What a pleasant surprise. To what do I owe the—?”

“Move your camera around, let me see the room.”

The dead eyes narrowed. “Certainly.”

I was given a sweeping panorama of that clinical kitchen with its gleaming pans and glistening knives. The picture then returned to Garris. He didn’t beat around the bush.

“What’s happened…? Scott, you clearly wish to know my whereabouts and so obviously someone you care about has been hurt. I promise you, I haven’t moved from the house all day. I trust it isn’t your father? Or Harry?” When I didn’t answer, he sighed and began to move through the hallway and into his soulless lounge. “This is preposterous. You must take a breath, think clearly and dispassionately. You know that I can help you, if you only ask—”

I ended the call.

Garris wasn’t involved. That certainty was all I needed. Only, if that was true, then why hadn’t I called the private detective to verify his location?

I pushed the thought away and returned my attention to the scene. A killer with his rituals, seemingly obsessed with the most extreme biblical commandments. Or perhaps hiding his true loathing for religion and the supernatural by making it appear that he embraced them. A murderer who foretold the fate of his victims by sending them wax dolls. I wondered if Genevieve Bell had also received one? That these two deaths were linked seemed more than probable—a fortune teller and a psychic, both brutally murdered within days of each other, both mutilated, both with their teeth taken as trophies.

I looked down at my phone. It was almost time. Just one more thing to check. Glancing back through the doorway at the ground immediately outside the tent, I saw two sets of lateral marks in the damp earth, evenly spaced. The impression of kneecaps and toes as the killer had knelt to secure the bottom ties. At first, it made me think about what a risk he had taken, for at least some of his clothing must have been heavily stained. And then I saw the costumes passing by—those ghouls and monsters, all chattering and laughing together. Among them, a figure drenched in blood would hardly be noticed.

Except perhaps that whatever costume they had been wearing might not have covered them completely. A patched and mended Harris Tweet jacket unmarked, except for the hem of the skirt? I thought again of Miss Rowell hurrying down the forest road, late for her bus, those muddy splashes at her knees.

I shook my head. Cloade, Gillespie, Rowell. Was there anyone I hadn’t pictured standing here, the hammer in their fist? Yes, one person came to mind, though the thought made me sick to my stomach. Because it was hateful and ridiculous and impossible. But again I returned to that mysterious spill of white wax on his sleeve and the pencil stub in his bag.

Harry in the veiled lamplight, fulfilling the promise of the wax doll.

I dialled and pressed the phone to my ear.

“Yes, police. I need to report a murder.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The fair was still buzzing with light and activity, though now the rides had been silenced and the costumes were different. Two and a half hours after my discovery of Aunt Tilda I was sitting in one of the tents the police had erected around the crime scene. The whole operation had swung into action with polished efficiency. Minutes after the first constables arrived, a perimeter had been established, and within the hour, the punters who were still onsite had all been processed and released, their names and addresses taken for follow-up interviews. I had remained, guarding Tilda until a sergeant and the divisional surgeon poked their heads into the tent and asked me, very gently, to step outside. Then it was the usual forensic rigmarole of swabs and fingernail scrapings before the sergeant returned to take my statement.

“Just hang on for a minute or two, will you, sir?” he had said as we finished up. “The chief inspector will want a word.”

“Looks like you’ve got a pretty decent guvnor.” I nodded. “Everything actioned very swiftly for an out-of-the-blue murder. Unless, of course, you’d expected something like this to happen.”

“Now why would you think that?” the sergeant asked, rising to his feet and looming over me. He was a big man and a free-perspirer, the armpits of his shirt sagging. I considered asking him to take a step back but thought better of it.

“No operation gets out the gate this fast, no matter how violent the killing,” I said. “But of course, I’m happy to hang on for your DCI.”

He looked as if he was about to bite back but instead tapped his pencil thoughtfully against his chin and left the tent. And so I stayed put, waiting for the officer in charge. Before it was confiscated by a random constable passing through, I still had use of my phone. Following the gavvers’ arrival, there had been a flurry of texts from Sal, Big Sam, and my dad, asking if I knew what was going on. Of these, I didn’t think it was wise to respond to any except the old man’s.

In a few words, I explained what had happened, and after a short delay, he replied, calmly and cautiously, knowing that the police might soon have access to my phone. Outrage and promises of vengeance would not do us any favours right now. He told me that the chap that had been guarding Tilda had left his post to use the toilet at about eight-fifteen. On returning, he’d seen Tilda’s sign and assumed she’d gone off for her tea break. Fancying a bit