BLOOD SECRETS a gripping crime thriller full of suspense (13 page)

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Hope Chapel was an anonymous-looking, squat brick building at the end of a row of shops. A plain board attached by the open door made a bald statement:

Hope Chapel of The Select Flock

The LORD shall judge the people: judge me, O LORD, according to my righteousness, and according to mine integrity that is in me.

Swift had decided to smarten up for his visit, donning grey chinos and a rarely worn khaki-coloured trench coat his father had given him years ago. He stepped through the door into a small, austere room with rows of wooden chairs and a table at the front with two white pillar candles and a large bible set between them. The bare windows were metal-framed. They were high and narrow, admitting a dim light. The air was chilly and looking around, he could see only one small wall heater. There were about thirty people seated in silence, men on the left and women and children on the right. A man with a weathered face and a bald patch on the crown of his head like a tonsure stepped forward. He was dressed in a dark grey suit and nodded to Swift.

‘Good morning. You are a new visitor to our service.’ He offered a tight smile.

‘That’s right. I’m interested in The Select Flock. Is it all right if I attend today?’

‘Of course. We always welcome seekers of the true path. The service will start in a few minutes.’

He turned and lifted a hymnal and a pamphlet from a ledge beside the door. Handing them to Swift, he showed him to a chair at the end of a row. It had the kind of hard, shallow seat a tall man cannot get comfortable in. Swift wriggled against it, assuming that mortification of the flesh was part of the package and hoping the service wouldn’t last too long. He looked around. All the men and boys were dressed in dark suits. Most of the women wore sombre dresses and dark brown headscarves, which were tied with a knot at the base of the skull. Younger girls were bare-headed but wearing plain coats, their hair scraped back into pony tails. Swift imagined Judith sitting there on Sundays, thinking about the music she would listen to with Teddy. Everyone was sitting with clasped hands, looking downwards. On the end of the front row of men’s seats was a thickset man in a wheelchair, Steven Saltby, presumably.

A door to the side of the front table opened and a tall, blond man walked out and stood behind the table. He lit both the candles with long matches and opened the bible. He was better-looking than his photograph, slim and attractive, with high cheekbones in a long, narrow face. A Plantagenet face, Swift thought, one you might see in a brass rubbing. His black suit fitted beautifully and his white shirt gleamed. His pale-lashed eyes looked at the congregation and Swift knew he had been noted. He raised his hands and the congregation stood. He started to sing and they joined in the first hymn. Swift recognised it and mouthed the words:
O God our help in ages past, our hope in years to come
. . . There was no accompaniment, just the voices in the shadowy room.

Some prayers and another hymn, one that Swift didn’t know, followed. The congregation stood for these, then sat as the pastor moved to the front of the table, joining his hands in front of him.

He had a thin but clear voice and confident stance. He spoke slowly and without notes for a good twenty minutes, stating that his sermon today was based on Isiah: ‘
and I will bring the blind by a way that they knew not; I will lead them in paths that they have not known: I will make darkness light before them, and crooked things straight. These things will I do unto them, and not forsake them.
’

Swift felt the chair boring into his back and thighs but kept still. The chill air was barely warmed by the bodies gathered and he could feel the muscles of his injured leg tightening. The rest of the congregation, even the young children, sat rigid and upright as they listened to the sermon. There was a good deal about sin and retribution, delivered clinically, without warmth or passion and ending with a warning.

‘God will only forgive any of us if his strict justice has been satisfied. That is why Jesus had to die; he died to satisfy the justice of God, his father. Many people find that difficult to understand. How could a father demand this? We must understand that God is saying he will make straight what is crooked and warped. As soon as you accept this in the gospel you will come to a blessed place. If people will not believe in Christ and understand this there is only one place that they can go to. And that is a terrible place, a place of eternal punishment, hellfire, damnation and banishment from the love and presence of God forever. I do not tell you this to make you fearful but to make sure you know the way you must follow.’

Swift thought the chapel had been misnamed. The sermon didn’t offer much hope. There was a quiet communal ‘Amen,’ another hymn and the pastor extinguished the candles and exited through the door. Everyone stood and started to file out, without speaking. Swift stood at the back of the chapel and let them leave in front of him. A middle-aged woman in a headscarf moved to Steven Saltby and pushed him out. One of the wheels caught on a chair as she neared the door and Swift heard Saltby hiss, ‘
stupid!’
The woman flinched. The man with the bald patch moved quickly beside her and wordlessly helped to manoeuvre the wheelchair. Swift walked to the door at the front of the chapel and knocked. The pastor opened it, straightening his narrow black tie.

‘Joshua Saltby?’

‘That’s correct. I haven’t seen you here before. Can I help you, Mr . . . ?’

‘My name is Tyrone Swift. I would like to have a word with you.’

‘Of course. We’re always glad to welcome new friends.’ He gestured for Swift to pass into the tiny inner room which was narrow and even dimmer than the main chapel. It held a dozen chairs, and shelves with candles and stacks of bibles.

‘Please, take a seat.’

‘I won’t, if you don’t mind. I’m aching from sitting in the chapel.’

Saltby looked put out and straightened a row of bibles. ‘Well, do you know much about our church or would you like me to give you some information? We have a special induction programme for those who wish to join us.’

‘I’m not here as a believer or potential recruit. I’m a private detective and I’m investigating an attack that happened fifteen years ago to a young man called Teddy Bartlett. No one was ever convicted of the crime. I spoke to your sister Judith and to a Mrs Thornley. What they told me brought me here.’

Saltby stood absolutely still and folded his arms. He cleared his throat before speaking.

‘We don’t talk of my sister. She is lost to us, sadly. She has chosen a different path and one that can only lead to despair and damnation.’

‘I see. Did you know Teddy Bartlett?’

‘No.’

‘Judith knew him. He was a good friend of hers at Fairacres. You didn’t know him at school? ’

Saltby shrugged. ‘As I said, I didn’t know him. I attended a different school from my sister.’

Swift took the school photo of Teddy from his pocket. ‘This is Teddy. It might jog your memory.’ He held it towards Saltby who glanced at the photo but didn’t touch it.

‘No, I don’t recognise him.’

‘Teddy used to visit your house after school when you were out. He and Judith used to hang out in her room, play music and such. Did you know about that?’

‘No.’

‘Do you think your parents knew?’

‘No. If we had known, it would have been stopped immediately. Music is not allowed in the home and we do not socialise with people who are not of our congregation.’

‘Did you know any of the Bartlett family?’

‘No. As I said, we don’t mingle outside of our church.’ Saltby pressed his tie between his fingers. They were long and delicate with well cared-for nails. His hands didn’t look like a plumber’s.

Swift rested one foot on the rungs of a chair. ‘Judith was very upset when Teddy was attacked. Surely she must have talked about it at home?’

‘Not that I recall.’

‘Someone anonymously contributed a significant amount of money for Teddy’s welfare. It was four years ago. Do you know anything about that?’

‘No, of course I don’t.’ He opened the door. ‘I can’t help you with your investigation. I don’t appreciate you coming to our service under false pretences.’

‘I was interested to observe your service and listen to your beliefs. I would like to speak to your parents. That was your father in the wheelchair?’

Saltby beckoned irritably. ‘No, my parents would not want to talk to you. We know nothing about that young man. My parents don’t discuss my sister. She is dead to us and I don’t want you bothering them. My father isn’t well. Now, I have a class to take. I’ll see you out.’

He followed Swift to the door and banged it shut after him. There was the sound of a key turning. The congregation had vanished. Swift stood on the pavement, thinking. Saltby had maintained careful control but he had lied about Teddy visiting the house.

There was a small supermarket just across the road. A man came out and held the door open for Mr and Mrs Saltby. She backed the wheelchair out, then pushed it along the road and waited to cross. She was a tall woman but thin and somewhat stooped and the wheelchair was burdensome. She struggled on the kerb with it. Swift darted across and took one of the handles.

‘I’ll give you a hand if you like.’

She glanced at him, then quickly shied away, pale and alarmed. Saltby senior turned his head towards Swift. He had a broad, heavily lined face and bushy eyebrows. His thick skin reminded Swift of an animal’s hide. His expression was impassive.

‘That won’t be necessary. We can manage.’

His wife pushed against the chair and moved quickly forward, her sensible lace-up shoes pattering across the road.

* * *

Simone was pregnant after a successful visit to a clinic. She and Mary beamed across the restaurant table, holding hands. Cedric, Swift and Kris had met them for dinner to discuss the wedding. They toasted the baby with champagne while Simone stuck to apple juice.

‘Would you like a boy or a girl?’ Kris asked. She was still out of breath, having rushed in late.

‘We don’t mind,’ Mary answered. ‘We’ll take whatever is on offer!’

It was the first time Swift had seen Simone since the night she had visited him. They had kissed cheeks, both successfully concealing any discomfort. It felt like a mountain climbed. Simone started a long diatribe about wanting a home birth and the difficulties of having one because of the reluctance of doctors to take risks with women in their thirties. Swift tuned out and looked at Kris, who was nodding intently. He took her hand under the table and squeezed it. She returned the pressure, not taking her gaze from Simone.

Simone’s mother was widowed and apart from her brother, who as head chef would be busy managing the wedding breakfast, she lacked family members to help out on the day. Cedric had been appointed as a general master of ceremonies for the occasion. There were lengthy discussions about table settings, wines, music, speeches and the disco. Mary stressed that she wanted people to have a good time as informally as possible. Swift asked if he could request a special favour as best man, not to be seated at the same table as Joyce.

‘Fond as I am of her, I feel I am entitled to time off for good behaviour and I promise to have one dance with her.’

Cedric laughed. ‘I think we might allow him that,’ he said to Mary and Simone.

When Kris went to the Ladies, Mary leaned in to Swift and stroked his arm.

‘You look well, Ty, lit up. Best I’ve seen you in ages. I think Kris must have something to with it. She seems lovely.’

‘She is. I enjoy her company. She’s talented too, a gymnast and seamstress.’

‘Where did you meet?’

‘In the bar where she works part time. And you? You’re content?’

‘Very. I have everything I want.’ She turned to Simone and took her hand.

‘Ah, young love. I remember it well!’ Cedric said.

‘Approaching middle-aged love,’ Simone replied, resting a hand on her stomach.

‘Simone is an interesting woman,’ Kris said afterwards, when they were stretched out on the sofa in his flat.

‘People are usually being tactful when they say someone is “interesting.”’

Kris laughed. ‘Hmm. It’s an English word I’ve learned to apply. It’s very useful.’

‘She’s certainly forceful. I have to confess I can’t warm to her. Mary loves her, that’s the important thing.’

‘True, that’s all that matters. I thought maybe Simone needed to claim so much attention because she came from a big family, so I was surprised to find that she only has a brother.’ She stroked his face. ‘Sorry I was late, by the way. I know you hate it. I’m a terrible time-keeper, always have been. I get caught up in something, lost in it really and lose track of things. I was dealing with a particularly tricky silk fabric and interfacing.’

It did annoy him because he liked punctuality. But he would just have to get used to it and he was beginning to appreciate the complexities of creating garments. He told her about his visit to Hope Chapel and his encounter with Joshua Saltby.

‘I’m sure he knows something about Teddy Bartlett. I need to find a way in to that family but they’re sealed off.’