Mark Pearson - The Killing Season

‘Sure,’ I said, picking up my car keys from the empty desk and grabbing my overcoat.

It didn’t take more than five minutes to get there.

It was a sunny morning. Crisp, clear air. The leaves were scudding gently in the light breeze as we got out of my car and walked round to the cemetery in front of the church.

Sergeant Harry Coker and his young sidekick were there ahead of us.

‘Morning, Jack. They’ve released that scumbag out on bail, pending charges.’

‘You couldn’t hold him?’

‘His alibi clears him for the murder of Nigel Holdsworth so even if he did know about the affair it wasn’t him who killed the rev. But as soon as Elaine James is able to make a statement we’ll bang him up soon enough.’

‘Good.’

‘Not so sure about that.’

‘Why?’

‘Plenty of people in this town have got no reason to like Len Wright. And there’s plenty of people who like Elaine James. He’ll be safer in custody, more’s the pity.’

‘So what’s going on here?’

‘A grave’s been desecrated.’

It was an expensive-looking plot with a large marble headstone. The name and inscription had been crudely hacked away.

‘Whose is it?’

‘Don’t know. Was hoping this man could tell us.’

He gestured at a tall, angular man who was striding purposefully towards us. He had longish silver hair and an overcoat. The dog collar gave me a clue about who he might be.

‘Sorry, sergeant,’ he said as he approached. ‘Got stuck behind a beet tractor.’

‘That’s OK. You can see what’s happened.’

‘Terrible business. Disaffected youth, no doubt. But this is really reprehensible, desecrating someone’s grave like this. It’s barbaric.’

‘Can you tell us who the plot is for, Reverend?’

‘I’m sorry, I can’t. I’m the vicar of the church in Upper Sheringham — I’m only covering for Reverend Harris. He’s on extended leave.’

‘Oh. So would anybody know?’

‘I should think plenty of people do, but there is no need to put out an appeal. There will be a registry kept. I have the keys to the office.’

‘I’ll stay outside,’ said Laura, producing a rolled-up cigarette. I followed the sergeant and the vicar into the church.

‘This is Jack Delaney, a detective inspector from the Met. He’s been looking into some cases of petty vandalism at the caravan park next door.’

‘I would hardly call this petty vandalism.’

‘No, no, quite.’

‘Sometimes these things escalate,’ I said.

A short while later and the silver-haired vicar had cross-referenced plot numbers with names and pointed to an entry in the book.

‘Oh my word,’ he said.

‘What is it?’ asked Harry Coker.

‘It’s that poor man’s grandfather,’ the vicar replied.

I looked over the thin man’s shoulder at the entry in the book. Reverend Reginald Holdsworth.

Nigel’s grandfather.

Outside, and the wind had dropped. It was warm, even. Warm enough to open my overcoat.

‘Hey, Kemo Sabe!’ Laura called over from a corner of the cemetery. ‘We’ve got another one here.’

It wasn’t as fine a grave as Reginald Holdsworth’s had been. It was a plot set into the ground and it had a simple brass plaque. My eagle-eyed assistant had spotted that the name of the grave’s occupant had also been gouged out. With angry strokes too, by the looks of it.

Back inside the church the locum vicar did his thing again with the record books and read out a name.

‘William Wright,’ he said.

‘Billy Wright,’ said the sergeant, clearly taken aback.

‘You know him?’ I asked.

‘He was Len Wright’s father. What the hell is going on here?’

It was another bloody good question.

I was back in my office, still pondering the matter and still not getting anywhere when Kate came in.

‘What are you doing here?’ I asked, surprised.

‘Lovely to see you, too. Paperwork day,’ she said, holding up a folder.

‘OK.’

‘And I’ve some to show you that you might be interested in.’

‘Go on, then.’

She sat in the chair opposite my desk and pulled some photographic prints out of her folder. She put one in front of me.

‘This is a close-up of the bone injury on our unknown man who was found in the cave under the collapsed cliff. The terminal injury, shall we say.’

I could see the hole that the weapon used had made in the dead man’s ribs.

‘Can you see the small triangular section of bone at the top of the entry point?’

‘Yes.’

‘That means that the weapon used had a groove in it. It wasn’t completely flat like the blade of a knife or suchlike. And the groove had a purpose.’

‘Which was?’

Kate smiled. ‘Most people think it was grooved to let the blood flow more freely and allow the weapon to be pulled out quickly without getting stuck.’

‘You’re talking about a sword?’

‘Go to the head of the class, Jack.’

‘But the groove isn’t there for that purpose I take it.’

‘No. Just a bit of a myth — most experts agree now it was just to make the weapon lighter to use but still retain its strength.’

‘So our unknown man was killed with a sword.’

‘A small thin sword.’

‘OK, so he was killed with a small thin sword. What does it tell us?’

‘In itself, not a lot. But look at this.’

She handed over a second picture. ‘The entry wound that killed Nigel Holdsworth, the fornicating vicar.’

‘A similar nick. He was killed by a sword, too.’

‘No, no, Jack,’ Kate said and smiled briefly again as she put two even more enlarged pictures on the desk in front of me.

‘It’s just possible that he was killed by the same sword. You’ve either got a copycat killer or someone has waited thirty years or more to kill again.’

Superintendent Dean glared at me as Kate and I left the office that the Norwich CID team had taken over at the Sheringham police station.

She had heard of the developments and wasn’t happy that I was in the loop. Surprise, surprise. But there wasn’t really a lot that she could do about it, especially as Detective Inspector Rob Walsh had let it be known that he had asked for my assistance.

‘Where is he?’ she asked as the reception doors opened and Sergeant Coker and a couple of uniforms came in.

‘We can’t find him,’ he said.

‘Well, bloody get back out there and look. Get more bodies if you need them.’

‘Where from?’

‘Give Yarmouth a shout. Use your initiative. He might not have killed Nigel Holdsworth but that bastard damn nearly killed his fiancée!’

‘She’s made a statement?’ I asked.

‘She responded to questions, though she’s not able to speak properly yet. But yes, she has confirmed that it was Len Wright who attacked her. You should have hit his head harder against that lamp-post, Delaney. Might not have to be looking for him now if you had done!’

The superintendent stomped back into her office, closing the door.

I watched her go. I didn’t care for her attitude but she had a damn fine derriere.

I probably wouldn’t tell her, mind.

I was standing by the printer while Laura Gomez plugged in a memory stick and pushed some buttons.

‘I should teach you how to do this yourself,’ she said.

‘All looks a bit high-tech to me.’

‘What, they don’t have computers and printers in that there London? Not even at the Metropolitan Police?’ she said, pronouncing the last two words with a gushing awe that I found as convincing as a promise from a local politician.

‘No, what we have are junior police officers and assistants who do it for me because I have got far more important things to do.’