Simon Beckett - The Chemistry of Death

Nobody saw anything.

But all that was only a symptom, an outward expression of the real malaise. After centuries of self-containment, of knowing it could always rely on its own no matter what, Manham could no longer trust itself. If suspicion had been a contagion before, now it threatened to become an epidemic. Old feuds and rivalries developed a more sinister depth. A fight broke out one night between three generations of two different families when smoke from a barbecue drifted over the wrong garden. A woman phoned the police in hysterics, only to find that her 'stalker' was a neighbour walking his dog. And two houses had bricks thrown through their windows; one for a perceived slight, the other for no reason anyone was ever able to determine, or at least admit.

And through it all, one man's presence seemed to grow larger every day. Scarsdale had become the voice of Manham. Where everyone else shunned the media, he showed no such reticence in putting himself before the cameras and microphones. He played all sides off against each other, speaking out against the police failure to catch the killer, the moral complacency that he claimed had led to this situation, and – apparently unaware of the irony – the press for exploiting the tragedy. If it had been anyone else they would have been accused of courting publicity. But, while there were a few mutterings about his willingness to have his sulphurous views broadcast, our good reverend developed a growing support. His voice thundered with the outrage everyone felt, and what it lacked in reason it more than made up for in intensity and volume.

Even so, perhaps naively, I expected him to keep his most vociferous announcements for the pulpit. But I'd underestimated Scarsdale's capacity to surprise, as well as his determination to capitalize on his new-found importance. So I was as unprepared as anyone when he announced he was holding a public meeting in the village hall.

It was held on the Monday after Lyn Metcalf's body had been found. The day before there had been a memorial service for her in the church. I'd been surprised to find that this time Scarsdale had refused to allow the media inside. Cynically, I'd wondered if that was less from consideration for the bereaved family than to make the press feel they were missing out. As I approached the village hall, I saw I'd been right.

The hall was a low, utilitarian building set back from the village square. When I'd driven past that morning on my way to the lab I'd seen Scarsdale outside, imperiously directing Tom Mason in its garden. Now the scent of freshly cut grass sweetened the air, and the yew hedges had been neatly trimmed. Old George and his grandson had been kept busy. Even the already immaculate green in the village square had been mown again, so that the area under the sweeping old horse chestnut and around the Martyr's Stone looked almost park-like in its neatness.

But I doubted it had been for our benefit. Denied access to the memorial service, the press had seized on the public meeting as the next best thing. Except this was less a public meeting than a press conference, I realized as I went into the hall. Rupert Sutton stood at the entrance, sweating and breathing adenoidally as he guarded the door. He gave me a reluctant nod, clearly aware I'd earned Scarsdale's disapproval.

Inside it was already cramped and hot. At the far end was a small stage, on which stood a trestle table and two chairs. A microphone was set in front of one of them. On the floor in front of the stage rows of collapsible wooden seats had been set out, leaving space around the sides and at the back of the hall for the TV crews and journalists.

All the seats were taken by the time I arrived, but I saw Ben standing off in one corner where there was a little more space. I made my way over.

'I didn't think I'd see you here,' I said as we regarded the packed hall.

'Thought I'd hear what the miserable bastard has to say. See what poisonous bullshit he's dreamed up now.'

He stood a good head above most of the other people there. I noticed a few of the TV crews looking over at him, but none seemed inclined to try their luck with an interview. Or perhaps they just didn't want to risk losing their places.

'Doesn't look like any of the police are here,' Ben said. 'You'd have thought they'd show their faces at least.'

'They haven't been invited,' I told him. Mackenzie had admitted as much earlier. He hadn't been happy about it, but a decision had been taken above his head not to interfere. 'Manham residents only.'

'Funny, I don't recognize some of the neighbours,' he said, looking at the assembly of cameras and microphones. He sighed and pulled at the neck of his shirt. 'God, it's hot in here. Fancy a pint afterwards?'

'Thanks, but I can't.'

'Got some late visits?'

'Uh, no, I'm seeing Jenny. You met her in the pub.'

'I know, the teacher.' He grinned. 'Been seeing quite a bit of each other, haven't you?'

I was conscious that my face had coloured like a teenager's. 'We're just friends.'

'Right.'

I was glad when he changed the subject. He looked at his watch. 'Might have guessed he'd keep everybody waiting. What do you think he's up to?'

'Soon find out,' I said, as a door on the stage opened.

But it wasn't Scarsdale who appeared. It was Marcus Metcalf.

The room instantly quietened. Lyn Metcalf's husband looked awful. He was a big man, but grief seemed to have reduced him. His suit was crumpled and he walked in slowly, as though favouring some deep injury. When I'd visited him shortly after the police had broken the news he seemed to have been barely aware of me. He hadn't wanted a sedative, for which I couldn't blame him. Some wounds can't be dulled, and trying only makes them worse. But looking at him now I wondered if he hadn't taken something anyway. He looked dazed and in shock, a man caught in a waking nightmare.

In the silence, Scarsdale followed Marcus out onto the stage. Their footsteps echoed on the wooden boards. As they approached the table the reverend placed his hand supportively – proprietorially, I couldn't help but think – on the younger man's shoulder. I felt a prickle of apprehension, knowing that the presence of the latest victim's husband would give far more credibility to whatever our reverend had in mind.

Scarsdale steered him towards one of the chairs. The one without a microphone, I noticed. He waited until Marcus was seated before sitting down himself. He tapped the microphone once, making sure it was working, then unhurriedly surveyed the people in front of him.

'Thank you all for-' A faint whine of feedback made him draw back, frowning sharply in displeasure. He slid the microphone further away before continuing. 'Thank you for coming. This is a time of mourning, and under normal circumstances I would respect that. Unfortunately, the circumstances are far from normal.'

His amplified voice sounded even more sonorous than usual. While he spoke Lyn Metcalf's husband stared down at the table as though he wasn't aware of anyone else in the room.

'I will be brief, but what I have to say concerns all of us. It concerns everyone in this village. I would ask only for you to hear me out before asking any questions.' Scarsdale didn't look at any of the press when he spoke, but it was obvious who that last point was addressed to.

'Two women we all knew have now been killed,' he went on. 'As unpalatable as it may be, we can no longer avoid the fact that, in all likelihood, someone from this village is responsible. The police are obviously either unable, or perhaps unwilling, to take the necessary steps. But we can no longer sit back while women are being kidnapped and murdered.'

With deliberate, almost exaggerated solicitude, Scarsdale gestured to the man beside him. 'You all know the loss Marcus has suffered. The loss that his wife's family have suffered, having their daughter, their sister, ripped from them. Next time it could be your wife. Or your daughter. Or your sister. How much longer are we going to do nothing while these atrocities continue? How many more women must die? One? Two? More?'