Bill Franks: Jesuit

“Oh, just a flu jab I had about a month ago,” she replied, dreamily. She tensed ever so slightly as she felt the slim needle slide into the same minute hole made by the flu jab. She smiled as the fluid surged into her bloodstream.

The immediate reaction was dramatic in the extreme. Debbie’s eyes flew open as wide as they were able and her lips parted in an involuntary snarl. Then the muscles began to jump. The man prodded her, savouring the response; with every touch, the muscle in that particular area reflexed wildly. This progressed into violent muscle spasms throughout the body, causing the victim to thrash and flail erratically, a strange moan escaping the restricted throat. It was an attempted scream but it came as a long, deep wail, the extreme pain hitting every fibre.

The man watched as a scientist may watch an important experiment. Debbie’s skin began to turn blue as the quantities of de-oxygenated blood increased in the tiny vessels. She was unable to control the movements of her ferociously flapping limbs, and then she began to choke. Her eyes were still wide open, the pupils dilated. She saw, and did not see, the benign face of the man above her; her eyes were focused but effectively blind. It took only minutes for her to die, minutes that were absolute hell, but sheer pleasure for her killer.

He rose as the life lurched violently from his victim, who suddenly became peaceful and still. “I hope my advice and cure helped,” he said looking into the open and lifeless eyes. “You will not be plagued by demons any more.” After studying the girl for several minutes, dark, secret thoughts filling his mind, he bent to the body and slid her panties back up the legs, manoeuvreing them perfectly into their original position.

He then rearranged her skirt into a modest position before removing a small object from his shirt pocket and carefully placing it beside her left thigh. He cast his eyes skyward and spoke silently and reverently: “Take this beautiful spirit into thy home.”

Being satisfied, he brushed the surrounding area with his feet to erase any footprints and walked away, his feet again using a sweeping action, as though flicking a football to a teammate.

As so often seems to be the case, a dog out on a walk with its master, discovered the body. The animal’s keen sense of smell picked up something unusual in the air, something interesting. Tail wagging furiously, Rex, as was the dog’s name, broke through a patch of gorse and trotted excitedly over to Debbie, sniffing all around her.

The owner, frustrated at Rex’s refusal to obey his command of “Come!” reluctantly followed the pet’s path, grumbling and cursing as he went. On arriving at the scene, he stared in numbed disbelief at the pitiful object before being violently sick and almost passing out.

Graham Sampler had just completed his usual Sunday lunch, the traditional British kind: Roast beef, boiled potatoes, carrots, garden peas, and Yorkshire Pudding, all coated in a thick brown gravy. This had been followed by hot apple pie and Bird’s custard. The sweet coffee and butter biscuits to follow rounded off the meal superbly. Ah! The delectation of wholesome food!

Bethany, his wife, had urged him to take a lighter lunch; a ham salad that would be ideal on a warm day such as this. She knew she was fighting a losing battle; he was a traditionalist where food was concerned. She enjoyed cooking and regularly prepared exotic and foreign dishes but, at the same time, she fed Graham the simpler British fare. It caused her no problem, even in today’s enlightened times, she felt it was up to her to provide the meals and generally do the housework. It was a pleasure to her, so why change? He went out to work and she didn’t.

Having many friends, she often had a few to afternoon tea and cakes, where all kinds of subjects would be discussed. She was also keen on ancient history and spent time at the local library. Her personal collection of books, many covering the enthralling history of the mysterious pyramids and Egyptology, were a source of wonderment to her.

It was Bethany who took the call. Not the Met! Not on Sunday! She felt irritated, knowing the call must be something of immediate importance. As soon as she heard the voice on the other end of the line, it confirmed her suspicions. “Graham,” she called, resigned, “It’s the Met.” She held the phone at arms length waiting for it to be taken from her.

Graham dragged himself from the comfort of his chair and took the phone from Bethany, a frown creasing his brow. “Hello!” he barked, “You do know it’s Sunday, I hope!” His thunderous expression deepened as he listened to the call, without comment. “Right. I’ll be there as soon as possible,” he said at the end of the message.

“Don’t tell me,” said Bethany, going to a corner of the lounge to pick up Graham’s briefcase. “You have to go out right away.” She brought the briefcase to him as he went into the hallway and lifted his jacket from the stand.

“Yes. Sorry, love. Can’t get any peace can we?” He took the case from Bethany. “Thank you. Hope I won’t be too long. Another murder, though, and it could take some time. It’s in Penn this time.”

Bethany looked concerned. “Not another young girl, is it, Graham?”

“Yes, it is. Not as young as the first but, well, seventeen or so and they think it may be connected.” He leaned forward to take the usual kiss, then turned and left.

The drive down to the murder scene, in the locality of the beautiful village of Penn, took nearly an hour. Most delays were due to a heavy build up of traffic in London but once on the A40, better progress was made. Graham moved onto the M40 motorway where, although busy, he was able to maintain a steady seventy miles per hour, leaving at the junction that lead to Beaconsfield and on to Penn.

He had visited this area with Bethany on a few previous occasions, always enjoying the ancient beauty of the place and the unbelievable view of eight surrounding counties from the high position on which it stands.

Strange to think that this quiet, sprawling village spawned the famous William Penn who founded Pennsylvania in the USA and was, curiously for a man of the Quaker faith, a slave trader and owner.

Graham drove carefully along Springhill Lane, through the village, past the church of St. Mary and out into the approaching countryside. As soon as he left the site of the church, he spotted a group of police cars and vans up ahead, with officers standing inside the blue-striped tape used to protect the murder scene.

Bringing the car to a halt close to the group of officers, he got out and introduced himself to the nearest policeman. “Good afternoon, sir,” the man responded. “Sergeant Flint is here and he feels you should have a look at this.” He turned into the wooded area. “I’ll take you to him, sir. Follow me, please.”

They broke through a flimsy thicket and entered a small area of grassed land moving towards another thicket some twenty yards further on. The constable turned his head to the following Detective, explaining: “There is a main path further along, which is probably the one taken by the victim, but this provides a shortcut to where she ended up.”

Reaching the thicker brush, the two struggled through to come upon a clearing. In the middle of this, Graham spotted the body, surrounded by people in white, polypropylene overalls; these would be forensics and, possibly, the pathologist. A man dressed in a summer police uniform stood nearby, watching the proceedings. This must be Sergeant Flint , thought Graham.

His guess was proved right as the man turned to one side revealing the three chevrons on his arm. The police officer approached Flint and introduced Graham to him. “Ah, good afternoon, detective, ” he said, smiling and holding out his hand. “Thank you for coming so quickly. Sorry to have spoiled your Sunday.”