Something Evil Comes Page 6

  ‘I can do that,’ said Corrigan. ‘What did you think of the parents?’

  ‘The mother seems like a nice woman.’

  ‘What about the father?’

  ‘A man who knows what he wants and gets it,’ said Watts. ‘Came across as on the controlling side to me.’

  Corrigan gave a slow nod. ‘You mean his demand that Mrs Flynn fix him something to eat straight after being told their son was dead. I thought the same but it could have been the stress of the moment: folks can say and do some odd things at those times.’

  Watts stared at the details on the Smartboard then across at Corrigan. ‘On the other hand, a willingness to push people around could explain how he comes to be where he is: head of a business empire worth a few million.’

  Corrigan moved to the desktop and opened databases. After a few minutes’ search he turned to Watts with a headshake. ‘No allegations of violence, domestic or otherwise against Brad Flynn.’

  Watts nodded at the box they’d brought back from the Flynn house which Corrigan had gone through. ‘Anything useful?’

  ‘Some timesheets and other stuff relating to his agency job is all. If there ever was anything, you can bet it was inside his long-gone laptop.’

  SIX

  The door of Church House swung wide, the huge man who had responded to Corrigan’s ring seeming to fill the space. Smiling, he waved him inside and reached out his hand.

  ‘I’m Father Delaney. Lieutenant Corrigan, I assume?’

  Corrigan took the soft, plump hand in his. ‘I appreciate your time, father.’

  Delaney inclined his head. ‘Come inside. We’ll use my study.’

  Corrigan followed him across a wide hall, stairs directly ahead and along a dark passageway into a square, high-ceilinged room.

  ‘Have a seat,’ said Delaney going to the high-backed chair at the desk and settling himself down. ‘I was just putting the final touches to a sermon. I can’t offer you anything because my housekeeper hasn’t arrived yet.’

  ‘That’s not a problem, sir.’

  Delaney smiled again. With his fleshy face and light brown curly hair he had the look of a massive cherub. He folded thick arms over his wide frontage, looking conspiratorial. ‘You’re American.’

  ‘Yes, sir. From Boston.’

  Delaney’s face was rapturous. ‘What a wonderful city! I was there, you know. Many years ago, of course. Before I came here.’ He gave Corrigan some good-natured scrutiny. ‘I assume you’re familiar with churches like mine and that you’re not here for my theological background. You’ve come to tell me what occurred here the other night. Or should that be early yesterday morning?’

  ‘An attempt was made to break into the church,’ said Corrigan. ‘We don’t have any information about whoever was responsible although we believe there were two of them.’

  Delaney gave a slow headshake. ‘Thank goodness it was only an attempt. St Bartholomew’s has many fine items of brassware and other artefacts.’ He looked up at Corrigan. ‘But didn’t I see officers and other people in and out of the crypt?’

  ‘A second attempt was made via the crypt.’

  Delaney’s face relaxed. ‘They couldn’t have got into the main building that way. When the church was built at the beginning of the 1900s there was some structural difficulty in providing access from it to the church proper. Don’t ask me what that was. I have no idea.’ He paused. ‘From what you say it sounds as though they were very determined to get inside.’

  ‘A body has been found inside the crypt, sir.’

  Delaney came bolt upright, cheeks quivering. ‘What! But that’s impossible. The crypt has never been used to my knowledge. It was planned as a final resting place for the wife of the industrialist who funded the building of St Bartholomew’s. He died first and his wife had him buried here in our churchyard. Records don’t show what happened to her. As I said, you can’t reach the crypt from inside the church so it had no function.’ He glanced at Corrigan, looking flustered. ‘You did say a body?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Delaney stood and went to a bookshelf, reached up to a high shelf and brought down a bottle. He returned with it to the desk, took two glasses from a drawer and held one out towards Corrigan.

  ‘No, thank you, sir.’

  ‘I hope you don’t mind if I do,’ said Delaney, sitting heavily and pouring a generous measure of whisky. He lifted the glass and swallowed half of its contents. ‘You’ll have to excuse me. This is shocking news.’ He met Corrigan’s eyes. ‘You’re saying there was a falling-out among thieves and one of them killed the other?’

  ‘No, sir. It seems the body could have been there for up to a year.’

  Delaney stared at him, mouth agape. ‘But …? That’s not …? How did whoever put it there get it inside? Why would anybody leave a body down there?’

  Corrigan did not respond with the most obvious answer: concealment. He watched Delaney drink more whisky, seeing his thought processes playing catch-up.

  ‘I suppose it would be a good hiding place but there have been no previous reports of damage to the crypt door. I certainly don’t recall any in the years I’ve been here.’

  ‘We have similar questions to yours, sir, and we’ll be looking for answers.’ Corrigan took out his notebook.

  Delaney drew a hand across his forehead, gave his head a quick shake. ‘Yes, of course. My apologies for being so slow, lieutenant. Please continue.’

  ‘We know the victim’s identity. His name was Matthew Flynn. Twenty years old. He lived in the Erdington area of the city. Is any of that information familiar to you?’

  Delaney shook his head. ‘No. None of it.’

  Corrigan took a photograph from his inside pocket and held it out to him. ‘This was Matthew Flynn.’

  Delaney took it, looked at it, some colour returning to his face. ‘So young,’ he whispered, handing it back. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve never seen him.’

  ‘When Detective Sergeant Watts and I saw you last night, you made a reference to “vandalism”. We need to know what that’s about, sir.’

  Delaney slow-nodded. ‘I thought that was why you were here. That you’d received a report of more vandalism in progress. We’re a thriving community here at St Bartholomew’s with a large congregation compared to many churches in the city, but we’ve had our share of destructive behaviour.’ Corrigan waited for more. ‘Four incidents over the last eight months or so. A couple of windows broken, fortunately not stained glass – they cost thousands to repair. Graffiti on some of the headstones between this house and the church. By far the worst incident was an attack on the main door of the church: a pentagram, a circle enclosing a five-point design executed in red paint. It made a terrible mess of the door and the flagstones leading up to it – drips everywhere.’ Delaney’s mouth tightened, his face registering prim disapproval. ‘We scrubbed off what we could, then got a firm in to remove it completely in case it encouraged similar incidents from whoever was responsible.’ He hesitated. ‘There were one or two other … occurrences. Members of the congregation here on church business reporting seeing one or two young people loitering around the grounds.’ He looked at Corrigan. ‘They couldn’t give any useful details and this is a public space after all. People can cross it for legitimate reasons so I personally did not set much store by the sightings, but they were unnerving for our older members in particular.’

  ‘Did you report the incidents of vandalism?’

  Delaney shook his head. ‘No. It was discussed in committee but one of my deacons advised that there was little point in doing so because the vandalism was inevitably the work of very young people whom the police would struggle to identify and apprehend. After all, they did occur over a fairly protracted period of time.’

  Corrigan wrote quickly. ‘Always best to report every incident in case they escalate.’

  ‘Yes. I see that now.’ Corrigan finished writing and looked up at him. ‘You said you’ve been here twenty years.’

 
; Delaney swallowed more malt. ‘Around that, yes.’

  ‘The crypt door has a keyhole.’ Corrigan watched the plump face change as he got the inference.

  ‘Surely you’re not suspecting what you’d call an “inside job”? If there ever was a key I never saw it.’ Delaney frowned. ‘I thought you said the burglars forced the door?’

  Corrigan gave him a steady look. ‘I’m referring to a year ago when Matthew Flynn’s body was placed there.’

  Delaney shook his head, looking drained. ‘Please forgive me, lieutenant. This is all very shocking and confusing.’

  Corrigan nodded understanding. ‘Sir, if there’s been no historical damage to the door then whoever took Matthew Flynn’s body into the crypt twelve months or so ago would have needed the key.’

  ‘This is dreadful,’ whispered Delaney. ‘I shall have to inform the bishop!’

  ‘Earlier, you mentioned St Bartholomew’s being a large church. You don’t work alone here?’

  With visible effort Delaney brought his attention back to the question. ‘No. I have two deacons: Deacon Richard Burns and Deacon Jeremy Fellowes. Feel free to talk to both of them, although Burns is away right now, on retreat. Has been for the last three weeks. There’s also a committee made up of several members of the congregation who help to maintain the grounds, the church interior and assist in other ways, such as playing the organ. The usual chores a church like ours depends on volunteers to perform.’

  He gave a handful of names, watched Corrigan note them then get to his feet. He did the same and they walked from the room, the priest looking preoccupied. ‘Since the vandalism, particularly the one featuring the pentagram, some of our congregation have been pressing for a service of re-consecration. Now that this dreadful event has occurred I shall have to give it some serious consideration. When one has ministered as long as I have, lieutenant, one has heard terrible things and seen their impact. Which makes our work, yours and mine, very similar, wouldn’t you say?’ He accompanied Corrigan to the front door. ‘St Bartholomew’s will support the police in any way it can. This awful business is a coach and horses through our quiet orderly community. I trust you’ll keep us updated on the investigation.’ He held out his hand. ‘Are you married, Lieutenant Corrigan?’

  Corrigan took the hand. ‘No. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I was thinking of myself two decades ago, alone in Boston because of my calling and now you’re here, also alone. Please bear in mind that St Bartholomew’s is open to all, member or not.’

  Corrigan inclined his head and walked away from him to the veranda steps. ‘Thank you for your time, father.’

  SEVEN

  Watts moved along Erdington High Street, his eyes scanning passing faces. Far ahead he saw the one he was searching for coming in his direction. This was no coincidental meeting. He knew that the individual in his sights was on his way to a meeting with his probation officer. Swerving across the pavement, causing an irritable tut from a shopper close behind him, Watts ducked into a narrow alley between two shops and waited. As soon as the peak of the red-and-black baseball cap appeared, he reached out and grabbed its owner’s arm, pulling the rest of him into the alley and shoving him against the wall.

  ‘What the—!’ Equal measures of shock and anger in the pinched face leached away, replaced by a look of sulky resignation. ‘Wha’ do you want?’

  ‘Just a little chat, Desmond, m’boy.’ His big hand gripped the front of the Puffa jacket. ‘How about you and me move down here where it’s nice and quiet, yeah?’ Watts walked the youth backwards until they reached the end of the alley and he was against the chain-link fence. ‘OK, Desmond. I need your expertise.’

  ‘What you on about?’

  ‘I’ll put it another way. I want to run something by you and you as an expert in mugging are going to tell me what you think.’

  ‘I don’t do that no more …’

  ‘Course you don’t. This is a hypothetical little chat.’

  Desmond looked resigned. ‘Just tell me what you’re after. I’ve got to be somewhere.’

  Watts stared down at the narrow, closed face. ‘Picture this: a kid of around eighteen or so walks along a street, a bit like the one I’ve just dragged you off, now that I think about it. He’s minding his own business and wham!’ Desmond flinched. ‘Two other kids start to have a go at him. Before this kid knows what’s happening, he’s on the floor and his bag has gone—’

  ‘It wasn’t me!’

  Watts shook him by the jacket. ‘Now, that’s your trouble, Desmond, lad. You don’t listen. I haven’t told you the whole story. OK, he’s on the floor, bag gone. The next time he’s out and about the same two kids stop him, only this time they demand money, but he hasn’t got any. Fast forward to the next time. It’s broad daylight. They hit him around the head and walk on.’ He kept his voice low. ‘Tell me what you make of that?’

  Desmond looked along the alley then up at Watts. ‘The only reason I’m saying anything to you is because you was good to our old lady in court that time, but I don’t owe you nothing, right?’

  ‘The cold’s getting to me. Spit it out!’

  ‘All right, keep your hair on.’ He adjusted the Puffa as Watts released it. ‘Sounds to me like a pair of amateurs. Everybody’s got some money. Or cards. If you’re recognised in this game – not that I’m in the game no more,’ he added hastily, ‘you’ll have the filth at your door in no time. No offence.’

  ‘None taken. Targeting a mark more than once isn’t something you’d do?’

  Desmond grinned, exposing teeth in need of a brush. ‘Leave it out. It’s brainless, that is, going after the same person, although …’

  ‘I’m all ears, Desmond.’

  ‘Maybe they thought this kid you’re on about was an easy mark?’

  The tattoo parlour closest to where Matthew Flynn had lived and which Hanson had tried to contact by phone had a closed sign on its door and a heap of dusty-looking mail lying on the floor inside. She continued along the street in mid-morning chill to the second on her list, a single-storey premises which she couldn’t have missed even if she hadn’t done her research. Its frontage was painted neon red, its name scrolled across the plate glass window in black: ‘Tattoo Inc.’, above a stylised skull. She pushed open the door.

  Inside she found some of the features she had anticipated. The walls were covered in photographic examples of the tattooist’s art, the place itself equipped with angled lamps and reclining chairs, plus a padded table currently occupied. Surprised at the space and the level of daylight streaming inside, she went further, looked up at a wide lantern ceiling, then down to a pristine black and chrome Harley Davidson on a stand. A talking-point ornamentation, rather than a bike in use?

  ‘Can I help?’

  Hanson turned. A woman with short green hair was looking up at her, a fleshy-looking male, face down on the table, his back bared beneath her gloved hands. Hanson held out her headquarters identification. ‘I’d like to speak to the proprietor, please.’

  ‘Hang on.’ She turned her head towards a door at the far end. ‘Fat Mack!’

  Hanson thought she heard a low-level response. ‘There’s a lady here to see you!’ The door opened and an averagely built man in his forties with shoulder-length hair and a beard came through it.

  He approached Hanson looking amiable. ‘Morning. What would you like?’

  She showed him her identification. ‘Information, please.’

  He folded thick forearms, neither of them skin-coloured, and frowned. ‘What about?’

  ‘Have you done a tattoo like this for anyone in the last year?’ She held up Chong’s photograph of the inverted crucifix on Matthew Flynn’s neck.

  The green-haired woman also looked at it. They both shrugged. ‘It’s not that clear, but probably,’ he said. ‘A stock theme, that is.’ He walked over to the wall of photographs. Hanson followed, optimism slipping. ‘See?’ He pointed to one of a disembodied upper arm bearing an inverted crucifix very
much like the one in Chong’s photograph. ‘Trends come and go in this game. Inverted crucifixes are popular with some, but a bit “niche”. He pointed at the photograph on the wall. ‘Now, if they were really popular this photo would be nearer the door.’ Hanson waited. He gave her a patient look. ‘So clients with no ideas of their own would see it as they come in,’ he said, in the manner of a teacher to a not-very-bright pupil. ‘It’s that or have them buggering about for an hour trying to make up their minds what to have.’ The green-haired woman laughed.

  Hanson followed him to one of the black reclining chairs where he sat. ‘How many of these crucifixes have you or your colleague done in the last say eighteen months?’

  ‘Difficult to say.’ He gazed across at the green-haired woman’s intent activity which looked to Hanson to be both meticulous and exacting as far as she could judge. Fat Mack caught her look. ‘Sandy here specialises in artwork. See?’ He pointed to the half-completed head and shoulders. Another quick glance at the customer’s fleshy back and Hanson picked up an inked face which only a mother could love, plus elongated fingers. The customer beneath it twitched and grunted.

  ‘That’s Sandy’s particular speciality: Freddy.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Nightmare on Elm Street. Look at the skill in that.’ He stared at it, shaking his head.

  ‘Mr …?’

  ‘Fat Mack.’

  ‘… Yes. Are inverted crucifixes regarded as artwork?’

  He looked scornful. ‘No. A one-session job, depending on the size. Thinking about it, I’d say I’ve done no more than half a dozen in the last eighteen months or so. Like I said, they’re niche.’ The man enduring Freddy was now grunting at regular intervals.

  ‘Meaning?’

  Fat Mack was back in teacher-mode. ‘It’s like this. You’ve got your Goths, your Satanists, even your heavy metal fanatics. They’re into the inverted cross because it’s two fingers at what they see as established society. It’s a defiance thing. Now, for some others it’s also a bit pagan. The ones who fancy themselves as a bit edgy, a little bit on the “dark side”.’