Something Evil Comes Read online

Chivers was flustered now. ‘No … Yeah, well it might have been a minute or two but that’s all.’

  ‘What about the lid?’

  Chivers’ eyes darted to his solicitor. ‘What lid? I don’t know anything about no lid.’

  ‘Come on, lad. The lid covering the stone structure where the body was.’ He mustered patience. ‘You’ve admitted being in there. Give it up.’

  The solicitor’s head was swivelling from Watts to his client and back. ‘What’s this about a body? If this is more evidence you’ve got—’

  ‘Like I said, all in good time,’ said Watts, his eyes fixed on Chivers. ‘What did you see?’

  ‘Nothing. There wasn’t anything.’

  ‘Who was with you on this little jaunt?’

  ‘Nobody. I was on my own. I always work on my own.’

  Watts gave a soothing nod, then: ‘Remember the candles? Wax is good for holding onto fingerprints.’

  Hanson’s eyes were on Chivers’ face, seeing craftiness arrive as he tracked Watts’s reasoning. Chivers might be street-smart but intellectually nimble, he isn’t. She saw another smirk, watched his mouth open. And evidently lacking the sense to quit when he should.

  ‘So what? Like you said, I’ve admitted I was there.’

  Watts gave him an unwavering look. ‘What about the other fingerprints?’

  Chivers looked smug. ‘Don’t try any of that bluff with me. I’ve been in situations like this since I was a kid. You can’t have any more prints because …’ He shut his mouth.

  Corrigan leant towards Hanson to whisper the words Chivers had left hanging. ‘He wore gloves.’ He looked down at her and smiled.

  Chivers’ solicitor leapt in. ‘I want more time alone with my client.’

  Watts said, ‘In a bit.’ His eyes fixed on Chivers. ‘Whoever was with you, I want his name.’

  Chivers flopped back on his chair, his face turned away. ‘My cousin, Barney. But he’ll be no help. He’s got special needs. If you get him in, all you’ll do is frighten him. He won’t be able to tell you anything. Plus, our mom will go barmy at me for getting him into trouble.’

  Watts nodded. ‘Let’s see how well we get on in the next few minutes, Colin, and maybe we won’t have to do that. Tell me everything about that night at the church, starting with why that church?’

  ‘I knew security there was next to non-existent. Not overlooked. No cameras. It’s a doddle.’

  ‘You’d been there before?’

  ‘No.’ He squirmed under Watts’s gaze. ‘I just knew.’

  ‘Looks like I’ll be needing your cousin’s address,’ said Watts, arranging his face into an expression of deep regret.

  ‘No!’ Chivers bowed his head. ‘There’s this kid I know, right? He specialises in churches. He goes for the brassware. It was him that told me the security at St Bartholomew’s wasn’t that hot. Some churches have cameras and alarms but not that one. He told me it would be dead easy to get inside. We tried getting in by the main door but couldn’t. I was ready to call it a night when I saw steps leading down to another door at the side and we got in that way. I thought it might be like a storeroom for valuables.’ He fell silent.

  ‘Find any?’ asked Watts.

  Chivers gave him a sulky look. ‘I’ve already told you there was nothing.’

  ‘That’s when you moved the lid off the sarcophagus and saw what was inside. Didn’t you, Colin?’ The solicitor’s head was swivelling again.

  ‘It was horrible,’ said Chivers, wriggling his shoulders, his face a study in disgust. ‘At first I thought it was some Halloween thing that somebody had left down there. Soon as I realised what it was, me and Barney got out of there fast. I was already spooked by a noise—’

  ‘What noise?’ demanded Watts.

  ‘Like somebody singing. Probably somebody who saw us go down the steps and wanted to scare us off.’

  ‘Male voice? Female? Adult? Kid?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Chivers was looking agitated. ‘It was soft-like. I couldn’t hear it that well. Just enough for me to know what it was.’

  Watts leant forward, his eyes fixed on his face. ‘What was it, Colin?’

  ‘This’ll sound barmy, right, and it was only a few seconds but it was like that little kids’ song, “Oranges and Lemons”. We should have got out of that place, there and then. We should never have went.’

  Watts was looking deeply unimpressed. ‘Tell us about this kid you know, the one that’s partial to nicking brass and put you onto St Bartholomew’s.’

  ‘He’s just a kid I’ve seen around the place.’

  ‘Name!’ barked Watts.

  Chivers flinched. ‘I dunno his name!’

  Watts sat back, giving the wall clock an obvious look. ‘Take your time while I give some thought to your cousin Barney.’

  Chivers sighed, his chin hitting his chest. ‘Spencer Albright. But you never got it from me.’

  ‘Address.’

  Gazing upwards, voice a monotone, he supplied it.

  ‘Right,’ said Watts. ‘I’ll ask you again: did you or your cousin remove anything, any single item from that crypt?’ Chivers gave an adamant head shake. ‘I’ve told you. There was nothing there. Even if there had been, I wouldn’t want anything from that place.’

  They were back in UCU. Chivers had been charged with breaking and entering. Watts came from the printer and dropped a wad of A4s on the table. Hanson upside-down read the top sheet: Spencer Albright’s Criminal Antecedents.

  ‘What do you hope to gain by following him up?’

  ‘Nothing specific. It’s basic policing: follow every lead to its usually bitter end, meaning we mostly get nothing but just occasionally one or other of them gives us an angle. We won’t know until we do it. None of us needs reminding that we have to get a hold of this case and quick.’ He looked up at her. ‘What’s your view of Chivers?’

  ‘The information you got from him sounded reliable. I think he’s told you everything he knows.’

  ‘What do you think about this singing he says he heard?’

  Hanson considered it. ‘Not sure. In that situation his senses would have been heightened, he was unnerved and suggestible. He could have heard something. It’s equally possible he imagined it.’

  Watts folded the printed information and pushed it into an inside pocket. ‘Right. This afternoon I’m tracking down Albright. What did you say you’d do, Corrigan?’

  ‘I’m visiting the house Matthew Flynn shared. I’ve checked. The other two guys are still living there.’

  Watts looked to Hanson. ‘You doing anything?’

  She gave him a steady look. ‘Plenty, like every woman with a job, a home, a family, a—’

  ‘If you get a minute, go over and see Father Delaney. Ask him if the names Colin Chivers and Spencer Albright mean anything. Mention the name Callum as well.’ He picked up the phone and dialled as Hanson headed for the door, his words following her.

  ‘Thanks, Everywoman!’ Walking from the room she rolled her eyes and grinned.

  TEN

  Hanson pointed to a specific paragraph in Julian’s draft research paper. ‘I’ve checked the stats and they’re statistically significant as you’ve shown but—’ she turned pages – ‘I think you’re overstating your case somewhat in the Results section.’ She slid the paper across the desk to him.

  He quickly read the section she was indicating. ‘I see it. OK, I’ll rein it back.’ He gathered his papers, gave her a parting wave and headed for the door and out.

  She glanced at the six other draft papers on her desk awaiting similar attention, each a ticking clock in the form of their final submission dates. She’d work on them this evening and arrange to see the students who’d researched them as soon as she could. Stretching her arms, rotating her shoulders, she checked the time. There was something straightforward she could do right now. Getting her bag and coat she called to the adjoining room. ‘I’ll be back in about an hour, Crystal.’

  Turning off th
e quiet road, Hanson parked to one side of the expanse of land and looked across at the church in the weak sunshine. She recalled the early morning she’d first come here when the area had been full of forensic workers. All gone now. It was deserted and very quiet despite the suburban sprawl and roads she knew were not far away. Out of her car, heading for the church, she was startled by a sudden, loud cawing. She looked up to see magpies, several of them, dark against the sky, others rising from nearby trees and swooping downwards to walk purposefully between the headstones, unperturbed by her presence. What’s a collective of magpies? A murder? No. That’s crows. Very apt, if it was.

  The church itself looked deserted. She tried the door. It was locked. She turned away, seeing Church House on the other side of the large swathe of land, sombre, solid against a pale sky. She approached it, looking up at the windows, all of them covered in heavy lace curtains. She recalled what Corrigan had said about Father Delaney: he’d worked in Boston years ago, was something of a modernist but with an eye fixed firmly on tradition and a quiet living. Which seems to have been what he’d got. Until Matthew Flynn’s body came to light.

  She reached the steps, went lightly up them onto the veranda and rang the bell, then rang it a second time. A shadow appeared against thick lace on the other side of the door. It was opened by a man in head-to-foot black. ‘Father Delaney.’ She delivered the name as a statement because of Corrigan’s physical description of him.

  The man framed in the doorway was huge. ‘Yes?’

  She held up her Unsolved Crime Unit identification. ‘I’m part of the police investigation into the recent event here. Is it convenient for us to talk?’

  He opened the door fully, standing to one side, arm outstretched, his face kindly. ‘Of course it is. Come in.’

  Once she was inside, he closed the door and beckoned to her to follow. She did, along a chill corridor, its walls painted a dark green, the plaster heavily embossed with a pattern of five-point palm fronds. Or are they hands? She idly wondered.

  Delaney led her into what she assumed from Corrigan’s description was his study and indicated a chair. ‘Please. Make yourself comfortable.’ He sat on the high-backed chair, feet planted, broad hands on his knees, his eyes fully on hers. ‘How can I help, Professor Hanson?’

  ‘You spoke to a colleague of mine recently.’

  Delaney’s face widened into a smile. ‘Ah, yes. The estimable Lieutenant Corrigan. We discussed St Bartholomew’s experiences of vandalism although I’m assuming that, like him, you wish to talk about that dreadful business involving the crypt.’

  She brought her notebook out of her bag. ‘Yes. I have some names I’d like to put to you to see if you recognise them, if they mean anything, no matter how incidental.’

  ‘Of course.’ Delaney glanced at the empty fireplace, a frown appearing on his plump face. ‘Are you warm enough? I could light a quick fire, if not. It’s no trouble.’

  ‘No, I’m fine, thank you. The names are Colin Chivers and Spencer Albright.’ She waited.

  ‘No.’ He gave a slow headshake. ‘No. Neither of those names means anything to me.’

  Undeterred, she asked, ‘What about Callum?’

  Delaney appeared to consider. ‘Again, I apologise. Is there a surname?’

  Hanson wasn’t surprised at the question. A first name was a long shot. She chose her next words. ‘You’ll have had a little time over the last couple of days to think about what was found in the crypt following the break-in. Has anything occurred to you which might throw some light on it or which might help us?’

  Delaney looked adrift. ‘Such as?’

  ‘It might be anything. An event as shocking as this one can trigger memory, help us make a connection, perhaps remind us of past events, people we’d forgotten?’ He continued to look uncertain. She gazed at him. ‘Those are just examples, Father Delaney. Has anything at all occurred to you which might help our investigation into the murder of Matthew Flynn, no matter how trivial?’

  He shook his head. ‘I regret to say not. Was he a good boy, this Matthew Flynn?’

  Hanson was surprised and unsettled by the question. ‘I don’t know. I’m not sure what you mean. He was twenty years old. He lived a rather simple life, as far as we know.’

  Delaney appeared lost in thought. ‘I see a lot of young people these days, unfortunately not at St Bartholomew’s, and they seem troubled. Always talking on their phones, detached from all life going on around them.’

  Hanson recognised the behaviour he was describing. She did it herself often enough. ‘I know what you mean but it might be an unreliable assumption to make from a single observation, don’t you think?’

  He was looking at the floor. ‘Maybe. But I’d like to bring them to God.’

  A silence grew between them. Hanson heard herself filling it. ‘Don’t people have to do that for themselves? If they want to?’

  He straightened, smiling. ‘You could be right.’ Despite his size, he rose suddenly from his chair. ‘Oh, excuse me. I must answer that call. Take your coat off, make yourself comfortable. I won’t be a moment.’

  Not having heard anything, she watched him get up and head for the door and out. Another door nearby opened and closed. Hanson glanced at the few written ideas she’d brought with her, questions she would have asked if Delaney had recalled anything, none of them any use now. She glanced at his desk, covered in sheets of handwritten notes, an open copy of the Bible next to them. Why doesn’t he have the phone in here? Her eyes drifted beyond the desk to a bookcase, its top surface supporting dried flowers under a glass dome, wallpaper the colour of old tea with a design of peacocks and … dragons? And on every surface china figurines: dogs, cats, a doll dressed in dark red velvet, blue eyes set in her china face. She wrinkled her nose. Don’t blame Delaney for the décor. This house and its furnishings come with the job.

  She shifted on her chair, aware now of how cold it was in the room. Obviously, Delaney didn’t feel the cold. She folded her coat around herself, suddenly aware of the heavy silence inside the house. Restless, she squirmed on her chair, eyes moving over the high ceiling, then the walls with their heavy framed paintings of biblical themes and others of males wearing vestments, some in red skullcaps, others in tall white mitres, their eyes returning her look, giving her steady scrutiny. Unsettled, the skin across her shoulders prickling, she looked away. The sound of a door closing, followed by Delaney’s voice as he returned made her start.

  ‘Apologies for the interruption. My housekeeper has now arrived and I suspect you are cold. I’m going to ask her to make us tea. Or would you prefer coffee? Maybe some cake?’

  She stood. ‘Thank you, father, but I won’t take up any more of your time. I’m grateful to you for seeing me.’

  ‘My pleasure. I regret it wasn’t fruitful.’

  ‘If you do think of anything you have my number.’

  He held out his hand in the direction of the study door. ‘I need to go across to the church so I’ll walk with you.’

  They emerged into the late afternoon, the sky now overcast. It felt much colder than when she had arrived. She thought over what Delaney had told her. Maybe the church wasn’t a dead end in terms of inquiry. ‘You mentioned a housekeeper just now. Your staff here might be of help if we could talk to them. Is that possible?’

  Delaney glanced down at her with a gentle smile. ‘Staff sounds rather grand. I have two deacons who assist me directly in church services. You’re very welcome to talk to them.’

  ‘What role do they have here?’

  ‘They preach, give spiritual support. They assist me at Mass and they take responsibility for serving the needy in our community. Deacon Fellowes is very much involved in outreach work, Deacon Burns less so. Most of his duties are church-based.’ He looked at her again. ‘In case you’re wondering, they’re both permanent deacons. They had previous lives before they trained.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘What I’m saying is that they are both worldly. They would have been accepted i
nto the church even if married. A foot in both camps, so to speak.’

  Hanson hadn’t been wondering because she didn’t know anything about the organisation of a church such as this. Or any other, come to that. She thought of Corrigan. He was best placed to do future visits here. He would know the sorts of questions to ask. ‘What about others who assist you?’

  ‘My housekeeper is employed by the diocese via its Human Resources Department.’ The eyes twinkled again. ‘I see your surprise. We’re very in touch with the world, you know. The remaining demands of the ministry here are apportioned to a committee, all volunteers. We regard them as “ministers” in their own right because of their invaluable contribution to the church. Together we decide on fundraising and the outreach work St Bartholomew’s undertakes, such as food banks, prison visits and so forth. Staff would indeed be a luxury.’ Hanson was surprised to hear the range of work and the goodwill involved.

  They had reached the church doors. Delaney turned to her, his height and bulk emphasising Hanson’s own small stature. ‘Fundraising is key to our survival. We observe tradition but accept that churches cannot be—’ he smiled – ‘solely spiritual these days. They need strong business acumen. Several of our committee members have years of that kind of experience. They share it willingly for the good of St Bartholomew’s and those whom it helps.’

  Delaney’s mention of tradition prompted another line of thinking related to what she’d been told about Matthew Flynn having a girlfriend. ‘Is the committee made up of both male and female members?’

  He gave her a direct look. ‘Just male and mostly of a significant age. You’re a professor of psychology?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t know if you’re aware, but psychoanalysis and psychotherapy are regarded by some within the church as bordering on the pagan, their purpose being to destroy a person’s identity, then leave him to make himself whole.’ He inclined his head. ‘Or herself, of course.’ Surprised, wondering if her reference to the gender of committee members had somehow found a mark with him, she said nothing. He continued. ‘The view is that psychology does not heal.’ His words provoked questions inside her head. Whose view? The church? Yours?