Mark Sennen - Touch

A year or two ago she had been involved in a campaign to clear up the dog mess that these days seemed to be everywhere. The campaign went national and she had featured not only on Spotlight — the local news show — but also on the BBC News At Ten. Huw Edwards had interviewed her and for weeks afterwards she was entertaining friends with descriptions of what it was like to be a media celebrity. Of course the campaign might never have amounted to much if it hadn’t been that her son-in-law was the Chief Constable of Devon and Cornwall Police, but then he was her son-in-law, wasn’t he?

Once the dust settled she had handed over the running of the campaign to other people, partly because it had taken up too much of her precious time. That was how Hilary Osbourne had managed to muscle in on the flower rota and that could not be allowed to happen again.

Today’s arranging would be extra special because she had come up with an idea for an imaginative display for the lead into Christmas. She would use autumn colours for the backdrop to a fresh display she would create each week. She would spend the morning completing the arrangement and then it would be there for the next two months for all to see. The congregation would be stunned on Sunday and the Rector was sure to mention her in his sermon. Hilary Osbourne, the smelly old trout, would be forced to give up any pretence she had to ascend to Jean’s position.

It had taken several trips to get the materials into the church what with all the flowers, the branches and bark and the sack of fallen leaves. After the ferrying she spent a good hour getting the trestles and table-tops from the vestry and assembling them at the top of the aisle. She looked at her watch. Her friend and helper Marjorie would be here in a few minutes and they could get to work on the display. Jean had allowed Marjorie to help on the strict understanding that Jean was the artistic director; Marjorie could make comments and they would be noted, but she was to have no input. She had told Marjorie that a camel was a horse designed by committee so by definition a thoroughbred could only be created by an individual. She wasn’t sure if she had the analogy quite right, but Marjorie seemed to understand.

Catching her breath Jean thought she would walk up the aisle to the chancel and stand before the altar. From the top of the church she could see if she had placed the tables in the correct position. It wouldn’t do for the Rector to turn from the cross to be presented with the effrontery of the best display he had ever seen being off-centre.

Halfway up the nave an uneasy feeling came over her. A strange odour wafted through the air. Not incense or a candle burning, but something sweeter, a fragrance she had not been able to smell before because of all the flowers. She turned around to see if Marjorie or somebody else had entered unannounced, but the church was empty. She resumed her journey up the nave and now noticed the altar arrangement looked wrong. The candlesticks and the cross stood on the floor and the white cloth that covered the altar between services had been folded back on itself in a heap. Moving closer she could see the cloth covered something on top of the altar itself. She moved forward. This would all have to be tidied before she could get on with the flower arranging. She supposed she ought to telephone the Rector too, but she would put the altar right first so as to avoid anyone else becoming distressed.

She walked forwards, took hold of the cloth and tugged at the fabric, but the bundle didn’t move. She pulled again, angry now. She braced her feet against the altar foot, reached over the mass of cloth and heaved with all her strength. The cloth slid towards her, bringing whatever was wrapped up in it along too. The whole bundle slipped off the altar and knocked her backward. She crashed down on the floor and the mass of cloth tumbled on top of her. She let out a cry of pain as her back and then her head slammed onto the hard stone floor.

The roof of the church was now spinning above her and a grey milkiness blurred her vision. A heavy weight pressed down on her chest and she felt nauseous. She closed her eyes and took several deep breaths, trying to calm herself and at the same time cursing her stupidity. If only she had waited until Marjorie had arrived they could have sorted this together.

Sighing, she tried to move, but found she was pinned to the floor, the bundle of cloth lying across her chest, something inside heavy but yielding. She extracted her right arm and moved her hand up to touch one side of her head where it throbbed like crazy. Her temple felt warm and sticky and she knew if she opened her eyes she would see blood on her fingers. Better to lie here rather than risk causing any more damage to herself. Marjorie would be along shortly and she would get help.

To pass the time she started thinking about the flowers she had brought with her and how their colours would have complemented the carpet of autumn leaves in her design. What a pity. The display really would have been one of her finest works. Now Hilary Osbourne would be receiving the Rector’s thanks on Sunday and not her. She breathed deeply again. Strange how she could smell the fragrance of the flowers from so far away. A musky smell, sweet and sickly with a hint of peach. It was resonant of… well… sex. Those nights, so long ago now, when her late husband Albert had made love to her, when he had-

A creak echoed through the church. Marjorie! Thank goodness for that! Footsteps tapped out as someone walked up the nave.

‘Jean? Where are you? What…’

The footsteps stopped for a moment before continuing, climbing the three steps to the chancel.

‘Oh Jean, you poor love, whatever has happened here?’

‘Marjorie, thank God you have come.’

‘Hush, lie still, let me help you.’

Jean stared up at Marjorie as she bent down to remove the altar cloth. She closed her eyes again, relieved she was going to be alright.

The next sound she heard was something she would never forget as long as she lived. It was Marjorie screaming. One of those long drawn out screams that would not have been out of place in the old black and white Hitchcock films Jean had watched when she was young.

‘Oh my God! Jean! Jean! Jean! Help someone, please help!’

Jean opened her eyes and glimpsed what was lying on top of her. What had caused Marjorie to scream. It was a body. Naked, dead, female from the look of the long blonde hair cascading out from the altar cloth. Thoughts flashed through Jean’s mind: The body was naked because you went to meet God in the same state as when you were born. Dead because the mess of flesh around where the girl’s mouth should have been could not possibly be part of a living thing. Jean wanted to scream, scream like Marjorie had, but nothing would come out. A pressure began to build in her chest, a sharp pain spreading to her neck and shoulders. At the same time the church roof began to spin once more and the feeling of nausea returned.

As a former nurse she recognised the symptoms only too well.

Heart attack!

Jean Sotherwell closed her eyes again and began to pray.

*

When Enders shouted the report across the room Savage couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

‘Malstead Down? You’re sure about the information?’

‘Yes, ma’am. A DC Newlyn. He says they have found the body of a blonde girl. And he sends his regards, ironically I think.’

Savage remembered the fresh-faced, eager young detective and wondered what he must be thinking, only a month on the job and already two murders on his patch. As a DC Savage had waited years for her first, and the case had been a domestic with the husband holding his hands up as they smashed down the front door.

‘This is bad, ma’am, isn’t it?’ Calter said, her usual chirpy manner absent. ‘I mean, I have done my serial killer 101 course and this sounds like escalation.’