Simon Beckett - The Chemistry of Death

He glared around, as if waiting for an answer. When none came, Scarsdale turned and murmured something to Lyn Metcalf's husband. The man blinked as if waking up. He looked blankly into the crowded hall.

'You have something to say, don't you, Marcus?' the reverend prompted, moving the microphone in front of him.

Marcus seemed to come to himself. He looked haunted. 'He killed Lyn. He killed my wife. He…' His voice faltered. Tears had started running down his face. 'He's got to be stopped. We should find him, and… and…'

Scarsdale put a hand on his arm, either to comfort or restrain. The reverend's expression was one of pious satisfaction as he slid the microphone in front of himself again.

'Enough is enough,' he said, in reasoned, measured tones. 'Enough… is… enough!' He slowly beat the table in emphasis. 'The time for doing nothing has passed. God is testing us. It's been our weakness, our complacency, that has allowed this creature masquerading as a man to conceal himself among us. To strike with impunity and contempt. And why? Because he knows he can. Because he sees us as weak. And he doesn't fear weakness.'

The microphone jumped as he banged his fist on the table.

'Well, now it's time to make him fear us. Now's the time to show our strength! Manham has been a victim for too long! If the police cannot protect us, then we should protect ourselves! It's our duty to root him out!'

His raised voice merged into a howl of feedback. As he sat back the hall burst into commotion. Many of the people in the chairs came to their feet, applauding and shouting approval. As the cameras flashed and journalists shouted questions, Scarsdale sat centre stage and surveyed his work. For a moment he looked right at me. His eyes burned with fervour. And triumph, I realized.

Unnoticed, I made my way out.

'I just can't believe the man,' I said angrily. 'He seems to want to stir people up rather than calm things down. What's wrong with him?'

Jenny threw a piece of bread for a duck that had waddled up to our table. We were at a pub on the banks of the Bure, one of the six rivers that run through the Broads. Neither of us had wanted to stay in Manham, and although this was only a few miles away it could have been a different world. Boats were moored on the river, children played nearby, and the tables were full of people chatting and laughing. Textbook English pub, textbook English summer. It was a far cry from the oppressive atmosphere we'd left behind.

Jenny gave the last crumbs to the duck. 'He's got people listening to him now. Perhaps that's what he wants.'

'But doesn't he realize what he's doing? One man's already been put in hospital by idiots who got carried away, and now he's encouraging vigilantes. And using Marcus Metcalf to drum up support!'

I remembered how Scarsdale had been with him even during the search for his wife. I wouldn't have put it past our reverend to have been priming him even then, getting ready to exploit the tragic husband. I wished now I'd spoken to Marcus when Lyn went missing. I hadn't wanted to intrude on his grief, but I couldn't deny there might be a selfish aspect as well. Seeing him had been a painful reminder of my own loss, but by standing back I'd given Scarsdale a free rein to exert his influence. And he hadn't missed the opportunity.

'You think that's really what he wants? To stir things up?' Jenny asked. She hadn't been to the meeting; said she didn't feel she'd lived in the village long enough to take part in it. But I think it was also the prospect of the crowd that had kept her away.

'That's what it sounded like. I don't know why I'm surprised. Fire and brimstone makes more of an impression than turning the other cheek. And he's spent years standing in front of an empty church on Sunday morning. He's not going to miss his chance to say "I told you so" now.'

'Sounds like he's not the only one who's worked up.'

I hadn't realized how angry Scarsdale had made me. 'Sorry. I'm just worried somebody might do something stupid.'

'There's nothing you can do about it anyway. You're not the village conscience.'

She sounded distracted. It occurred to me that she'd been quiet all evening. I looked at the line of her profile, the faint pattern of freckles across her cheeks and nose; the fine blond down on her arms, whitened by the sun against her tanned skin. She was gazing off into the distance, lost in some internal dialogue.

'Anything the matter?' I asked.

'No. I was just thinking.'

'What about?'

'Oh… just stuff.' She smiled, but there was a tension about her. 'Look, do you mind if we go back?'

I tried to hide my surprise. 'Not if you want to.'

'Please.'

We drove back in silence. There was a hollowness in the pit of my stomach. I cursed myself for making such a fuss about Scarsdale. No wonder she'd had enough. Well, now you've blown it. Congratulations.

The light was fading when we reached Manham. I indicated to turn off onto her road.

'No, not here,' she said. 'I… I thought you could show me where you live.'

It took me a moment to understand.

'OK.'

The word didn't come out right. I felt breathless as I parked the car. I unlocked the door to the house and stood back to let her in. The delicate musk of her perfume made me light-headed as she passed.

She went into the small lounge. I could feel her nervousness, matching my own.

'Would you like a drink?'

She shook her head. We stood awkwardly. Do something. But I couldn't. In the half-light I couldn't see her clearly. Only her eyes, bright in the darkness. We looked at each other, neither of us moving. When she spoke, her voice was unsteady.

'Where's the bedroom?'

Jenny was hesitant to begin with, tense and trembling. Gradually, she began to relax, and so did I. At first memory tried to impose its own template of shape, texture and scent. Then the present took over, sweeping away everything else. Afterwards, she lay curled against me, breath soft on my chest. I felt her hands go to my face, explore the tracks of wetness running down.

'David?'

'It's nothing, just…'

'I know. It's all right.'

And it was. I laughed, hugging her, then tilted up her chin. We kissed, long and slowly, and my tears dried unnoticed as we moved together again.

Some time that same night, while we were in bed together, across the village Tina thought she heard a noise in the back garden. Like Jenny, she'd avoided the meeting in the village hall. She'd stayed in, a bottle of white wine and a block of chocolate for company. She'd intended to stay up until Jenny got home, eager to hear how the evening had been. But by the time she'd watched the DVD she'd hired she was yawning and ready for bed. It was as she turned off the TV that she heard something outside.

Tina wasn't stupid. There was a killer at large who had already murdered two women. She didn't open the door. Instead, snatching up the telephone, she turned out the light and went to the window. With the telephone poised, ready to connect to the police, she peeped cautiously into the back garden.

Nothing. The night was bright, the moon full and revealing. The garden, and the paddock beyond, was empty of menace. Even so, she watched for a while before she convinced herself it had been her imagination.

It was only next morning that she saw what had been left outside. In the centre of the lawn was a dead fox. It might almost have been arranged there, so carefully was it positioned. If she had known about the swan wings, or the mallard, or any of the other dead creatures the killer had used to decorate and elaborate his creations, Tina would not have done what she did next.

But she didn't know. Country girl that she was, she just scooped it up and deposited it into the dustbin. Judging from its wounds, it had probably crawled there after being savaged by a dog, she reasoned. Or perhaps been run over. She might still have mentioned it to Jenny, if only in passing. Who might then have told me about it. Except Jenny hadn't come home that night. Jenny was still at my house, and when Tina saw her again the topic of conversation was naturally about matters far removed from dead wildlife.