Heffernan nodded to Rachel, who began to move from her seat. Steve and the others followed. They would head him off discreetly
and ask him to go with them to the station to answer a few questions. Rachel had rehearsed it in her head a thousand times
during the evening – as history wasn’t really her thing, she had thought of little else.
But the suspect didn’t turn left towards the main door as they had expected. He was heading for the tower room.
It was Steve who moved first, hustling Rachel out of the way, and soon he was half walking, half running towards the back
of the church, like a hunting-dog with the fox in its sights. He pushed past restless children and elderly matrons in his
single-minded pursuit of his man. His quarry disappeared through the door leading to the room below the church tower, but
when he reached the spot a few seconds later Steve found that the room was empty.
He turned round and saw that the others were closing in on him. But this one would be his. He’d show them all he could do
the job as well as Rachel Tracey. He fought with billowing red velvet curtains and discovered that they concealed a great
oak door which led outside. He tried it and found it unlocked.
He hurried out and heard a voice behind him shouting for
him to wait. But there was no way he was going to let Rachel take the credit this time: this was his collar. He ran out into
the churchyard just in time to see the lights of a large vehicle disappearing down the lane.
He could hear footsteps behind him and DCI Heffernan’s booming voice calling his name. They were gaining on him.
The worn stone path seemed longer now, and it was littered with people who seemed determined to impede his progress. As Steve
ran he could hear his own heart beating in his ears as he panted for breath, and his legs felt as if they were weighed down
with lead, heavier with each step. He was unfit, out of condition. He could hear footsteps behind him, but he would be the
one to make the arrest. He had to make it to the car. He had to follow.
He made for the lychgate standing open ahead of him. This was his chance to be a hero for the first time in his life. This
was why he had joined the police force – not to attend racism and sexism awareness seminars and fill in forms. This was dangerous
and real.
He leapt into his car and took off at speed, leaving his colleagues staring at his disappearing exhaust pipe. He could see
them in his rear-view mirror, climbing into Johnson’s patrol car. But he would be there first … wherever ‘there’ was.
Steve rounded a bend and saw the red tail-lights of a large car ahead of him. He smiled as it turned into the long track which
he knew led to Hoxworthy’s Farm. He stopped his car and got out, closing the door carefully so as not to be heard. Then he
scurried up the track, flattening himself against the hedgerow.
As he reached the dark bulk of the old barn, he saw a large four-wheel-drive vehicle parked in front of the building. A shadowy
figure was leaning into the boot, reaching inside and pulling out an object. A box? Steve strained to see but couldn’t quite
make it out. The barn door opened and closed again quickly. The figure had disappeared.
Steve heard a car approaching slowly with purring
engine and creeping tyres. He darted over to the barn door and pushed at it gently until it was open just wide enough for
him to see inside.
A man’s voice was speaking softly. ‘They’ll think you were in here messing about. Lads your age can be careless with matches
… they do something stupid then …’
Steve held his breath, standing quite still. The suspect had someone in there with him. Lads your age … Lewis Hoxworthy? It
was time he showed himself, caught his quarry off his guard … made his arrest. He pushed the door open farther but the hinges
creaked angrily. Steve froze.
The voice again. ‘What was that?’
‘It’ll be my dad. He’ll be looking for me. Dad!’ a young voice called out in panic. ‘Dad!’
The boy’s cry stopped suddenly, as though he had somehow been gagged.
Steve heard the noise of a car door slamming behind him. He turned round. The patrol car was there, the DCI and Rachel had
just climbed out of the back and DI Peterson was still in the front with Johnson. The track was blocked. There was nowhere
to escape to now.
Steve could hear a shuffling sound in the barn and a smell reached his nostrils; the smell of petrol. It was time to go in.
The others were moving silently towards him. He glanced round at Gerry Heffernan, who gave him a nod.
‘Go, go, go!’ Steve shouted, just like he’d seen on the telly. He barged in and looked around the barn. He couldn’t see anybody
there at first, then he raised his eyes to the hayloft.
‘Bloody hell,’ Heffernan growled behind him. He sniffed the air.
‘Petrol,’ said Wesley quietly. ‘He’s going to burn this place to the ground.’
‘Lewis Hoxworthy’s up there,’ said Steve, taking off his jacket.
He looked up. A big figure, tall with the profile of a
hawk, stood above him in the hayloft, silhouetted against the light of an electric lantern. Steve tried to sound authoritative.
‘If I were you I’d come quietly, sir.’
The figure froze.
‘You were talking to someone. Who’s up there with you?’
Silence. Steve began to walk towards the hayloft ladder, reciting the familiar words of the caution. ‘You do not have to say
anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court.
Anything you do say may be given in …’
Wesley caught his arm. ‘Be careful.’
But Steve shook him off and began to climb the ladder. Wesley followed; he could see the outline of the man standing at the
top, looking round for an escape route that didn’t have police officers crawling all over it.
As Steve reached the top of the ladder, a leather-soled shoe made violent contact with his hand. But in spite of the sudden
pain, he knew he couldn’t let go. He made a grab at the ankles but they evaded his grasp.
Then the figure sprang forward like a lion leaping on its prey. Steve, unprepared, made another feeble grab at the feet and
ankles, but the legs kicked him off. He began to lose his balance. He had underestimated his opponent’s strength and was paying
for his mistake.
Steve’s hands grasped at air as they searched for something solid. He knew he had to fight back.
And when he lost his footing he let out a scream and hung on for dear life.
The figure crouched against the back wall of the barn like a hunted animal. Wesley took Steve’s place on the ladder, reaching
the top unchallenged and glad to get his feet onto the solid hayloft floor. He saw his quarry in the torchlight. The man who
had put fear into the hearts of the great and good of the public world was watching him, cunning and defiant.
He glanced down at his colleagues, his back-up. Steve was standing next to Rachel, examining his hands and groaning. The others
were looking on anxiously, ready to spring to his aid. He turned his attention to the scene in front of him.
Lewis Hoxworthy was sitting on the floor a few feet away, trussed with rope, a rag stuffed into his mouth. The smell of petrol
was stronger now, and Wesley’s chest tightened. A can stood next to Lewis, its cap missing and its contents scattered on the
dusty, hay-strewn floor.
Jack Cromer straightened himself up, looked Wesley in the eye and smiled, taking a silver cigarette lighter from his pocket.
Wesley reached his hand out to Cromer. ‘Give me the lighter,’ he said softly.
Gerry Heffernan had made it to the top of the ladder. He moved forward to Wesley’s side and both men held their breath and
waited. Jack Cromer had a choice. Life or death.
23rd May in the eleventh year of the reign of King Henry VII (1496)
I, Richard Merrivale, being sick in body but of good mind and perfect memory, do ordain and make this my last will and testament.
First I bequeath my soul to Almighty God my Maker and my body to be buried in the church at Derenham next to my late wife,
Marjory, our daughter, Elizabeth, and my son, John, died of the fever in his twenty-third year, in our chapel there, and I
leave ten pounds for Masses to be said for my soul and for the souls of my wife and the said children.
After my death my house is to be destroyed and the land never built upon. I confess now before my Maker that when I discovered
my son, Edmund, had violated his sweet sister, I struck his head from his body with my sword and buried his remains in the
garden of my said house. For this sin I beg the Lord’s forgiveness and mercy, trusting through the merit of His Son to have
my wrongdoings pardoned and my soul saved. But I ask that the said Edmund’s bones may never lie in hallowed earth and that
the great Last Judgement I caused to be painted for the church remain for ever as a reminder to all of the consequences of
lust and evil.
My other goods and monies I give in equal portions
to the church at Derenham and the poor of the parish.
In witness thereof I set to my hand and seal the day and
year above written.
Wesley watched as Jack Cromer was pushed unceremoniously into the police car, handcuffed and humiliated in front of the assembled
police officers and the fire-fighters who had been called out just in case.
Terry and Jill Hoxworthy had arrived, pushing forward to take Lewis in their arms as soon as he emerged from the barn. They
stood close to each other for warmth and support as they watched anxiously for their first glimpse of their son. He was safe
and that was all that mattered.
Wesley spoke to Terry after the car containing Jack Cromer had driven away and Jill and Rachel had taken a shaken Lewis back
to the farmhouse.
‘Did you know he was James Simms?’ Wesley asked.
Terry shook his head, puzzled. ‘I never thought. I’d seen him on the telly enough times but … Of course, I never had much
to do with James. He was older than me and …’
‘And Angela never hinted?’
‘It was something she never talked about. I think she’d tried to block the whole thing from her mind. When her mother sent
Jonny away and he never came back I just assumed … Everyone assumed …’
‘Why do you think he killed Jonny?’
Terry Hoxworthy shrugged his shoulders. ‘Maybe Jonny recognised him and guessed the truth. I really don’t know. And I don’t
understand why he’d want to harm Lewis. What’s Lewis got to do with all this?’
‘I assume Lewis must have seen him the day Jonny Shellmer was killed and he found out somehow.’
‘How could the bastard harm a kid like that?’ said the farmer innocently.
‘How is Lewis?’ Wesley asked.
‘He’s young. He’ll get over it,’ said Terry with brittle confidence. ‘It’ll be something to boast to his mates about.’
Wesley said nothing, but he feared that the Hoxworthys’ problems weren’t over just yet.
Terry Hoxworthy paused for a few seconds. ‘I used to like Jonny when we were kids. He was a bit wild, a bit unconventional,
a real city lad, but he made the effort to fit in around here. I liked him.’
Wesley nodded. He supposed there was no better epitaph for Jonny Shellmer.
He looked at his watch. Pam had driven off from Derenham church at speed with Neil following behind in his Mini. His powers
of detection told him that she wasn’t happy that her Saturday evening out had been turned into a full-scale police operation.
But he had no time to think of that now. He had to get back to the station and question Jack Cromer. He climbed into the car
beside Heffernan, feeling rather pleased with himself. It was Pam’s class’s venture into learning French that had given him
the final clue.
Jack in England is usually thought of as a diminutive of John. But in France Jacques is James: Frère Jacques – Brother James.
And the real James Simms had been sleeping, all right.
Later that evening Cromer sat across the table from them in the interview room, his eyes bright and defiant. The man’s arrogance
shone out, and Wesley found himself resisting an urge to wipe the self-satisfied smirk off his face. But the fact that Cromer’s
expensive solicitor was sitting beside him was enough to make the police watch their ps and qs.
Ignoring the solicitor’s advice to stay silent, Cromer recited the history of his crimes with something approaching pride;
not a hint of remorse. After a heavy lunch-time drinking session in the Red Bull one sultry summer back in the 1960s, he had
found himself alone in the Hoxworthys’ old barn, where they used to play, with his sister Angela, a
pretty girl of fifteen with a budding, innocent beauty. A few weeks earlier, he’d found some letters in the barn – very old
ones on fragile parchment housed in an old tin box: part of a job lot of supposed junk bought by Terry Hoxworthy’s father
when the contents of the Old Vicarage were auctioned off. He had taken them away to his room and read them in private. A couple
of them had spoken of a young man having sex with his sister, and James read them over and over again; read them while he
drank the bottle of whisky he’d filched from his father’s downstairs cupboard; read them until his imagination was excited
– until he was imagining himself with Angela.
To James Simms everything had been an experiment, an experience: taboos were there to be broken. And what James had wanted,
James had always got. Including Angela. The contents of the strange old letters in the barn stayed in the back of his mind,
tantalising and arousing. And, unfortunately for Angela, the drink stripped him of any inhibitions he might have had.
It had never occurred to James that his action was wrong, or that Angela might suffer. Nothing and nobody got in the way of
the desires of James Simms. This ruthless streak was later to get Jack Cromer to the top of his chosen profession, because
to him every other person was an insect under his microscope, an object to be used for his own ends.
After his hasty departure from Derenham, having told his mother that Jonny, the stepson she so resented, was responsible for
the state of his traumatised sister, he had decided to remove himself from the confined society of the village permanently
and take on a whole new identity, that of a little Scottish boy who had died at the age of eighteen months. It is easy to
change your past with a new birth certificate if you know what you’re doing. And he had always been so good at acting and
mimicking accents.