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

toasts were being raised to a woman that even her elders had called ‘auntie.’ There would be tears and laughter as the tragedies and comedies of her life were shared, dates picked over and debated, her wisdom dispensed to red-eyed children so that fragments of her might live on. And in whispered asides between the men, the plotting of the killer’s fate would have begun. If little else, this instinct for private justice was something I shared with my people.

A chained Webster greeted me at the foot of my father’s trailer. Reaching down, I scratched behind a tattered ear. Juks are empathetic creatures and this one more than most. Something was happening that he couldn’t solve with a growl or a snap, so instead, he licked the bowl of my palm and whimpered as I mounted the steps.

I opened the door. A welcome waft of warm air, tea and whisky on the kitchen counter, some joyous old photograph of my mother and Tilda at a wedding, freshly dug out and placed in a black frame over the fire. I barely had time to register the three people in the room before Big Sam came rushing towards me. I’d prepared myself for their accusations—why hadn’t I seen this coming? Why hadn’t I protected her? Why didn’t I take that fucking doll more seriously? Wasn’t I supposed to be clever? I didn’t try to defend myself. I just stood there, ready for his denunciation, welcoming his blows.

Instead, he wrapped those enormous arms around me and tucked my head into his shoulder, as if I was a child.

“Jesus, Scotty,” he croaked. “What you’ve seen tonight, I can’t even imagine. Come and have a drink, sit yourself down. It’s gonna be all right.”

I allowed myself to be led to the big locker settee where Sal took my face in her hands and kissed my forehead. “You OK?” she asked.

I shrugged and she kissed me again. Meanwhile, Sam took the armchair next to my dad. Grey-faced with grief and exhaustion, the old man leaned forward and shook my knee.

“So what was done to her, then?” Sam demanded half-heartedly.

“Sam, please.” I sighed. “You don’t want to know.”

“I do,” he insisted, staring up at the ceiling and wiping his eyes. “I need to.”

Sal went over to him and took the great slab of his hand in hers. “Now you listen to him, Sam Urnshaw, and just you remember Tilda as she was. A mad old woman loved by everyone. Am I right, Uncle George?”

My dad nodded, his voice unusually tight. “The very best of old girls. She’ll be remembered in our stories, always.”

As one, we seemed to turn to the photograph hanging over the fire. Two dead women, both the victims of violence, perhaps reunited now, in the minds of some at least.

“You’ve talked to the gavvers?” Dad said. “What are they thinking?”

I explained that, in all likelihood, Tilda had been the second victim of a killer obsessed with ridding the world of what he considered to be ‘witches.’ I also told them she had probably been selected at random. Even then, I didn’t believe that, but it gave the others the comfort that we couldn’t have foreseen what would happen.

“You think that preacher had anything to do with it?” Dad asked. “The one I mentioned hanging around with his pamphlets?”

“It’s possible,” I said. “He was at the fair tonight.”

Big Sam started to pull himself upright. “If he knows anything, I’ll go beat it out of him.”

“You’ll stay put,” Dad said, and after a short battle of wills, his old friend sank dutifully back into the chair. “That fucking chap. If only he’d stayed put too.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “The murderer would have found their opportunity at some point. The chap isn’t to blame. Look, there are people I need to see, questions I need to ask. I’m sorry, but—”

“Go,” Sam muttered. “You find the bastard who did this. You find him, Scott, and then we’ll do what needs doing.”

My dad didn’t say anything but watched carefully as Sal followed me to the door. At the bottom of the steps, we found Webster fast asleep, his body draped protectively across his master’s threshold. I moved to step over the juk and Sal caught my hand.

“You gonna be all right?”

“I am,” I assured her. “This is what I’m best at. What have you told Jodie, by the way?”

She squeezed her eyes tight shut. “Nothing yet. Thought I’d let her get a proper night’s sleep and tell her in the morning. Say Aunt Tils had an accident or something, I don’t know. I just hope the older chavvies don’t let on... That dear old woman, Scott. Remember how she’d peel us apples and sing us songs when we was little kids?”

“I do,” I said, rubbing her arm.

She gave me one of her searching looks, the kind that had wheedled out my secrets ever since childhood. “Once you’ve got hold of this bastard, you hand him over to the gavvers. Do you understand? Whatever Sam and the others might say, I don’t want you to find him if it means losing yourself along the way.”

I left her without the reassurance she needed, and buttoning my trench coat against the night air, set off towards the rectory. I’d barely walked a few steps when my phone pinged with a message: Sal phoned me an hour ago.Scott, I’ve been trying to call. I’m so, so sorry. How has this happened? I wanted to come back onto the fair to see you, but the police at the gate won’t let me through. If you don’t feel like calling, please just message me. I love you, Haz.

I couldn’t help being struck by the irony. Ever since he’d left last night, I’d been praying that he’d reach out and make contact. Now I turned off my phone and started again towards the house. For his own sake, I needed Haz to stay far, far away from me. Until this killer was caught,