Forgotten Graves: Whitby's Forgotten Victims Book 4, page 33
‘Sorry, rewind…He? Clive Morton?’
She nodded. ‘One hundred per cent.’
Frank and Gerry exchanged a glance, before he looked back at Hannah. ‘How do you know it was him?’ Frank asked.
‘He told me.’
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Becky Morton toyed with a wooden crucifix around her neck. The necklace held many rosary beads. As her fingers worked, a silver bracelet on her wrist reflected the early morning light penetrating the poky windows, sending sparks dancing over the walls. Because of the gothic religious nature of the room, Reggie couldn’t help but liken the sparks to trapped, restless souls.
She offered him tea, but a graphic painting of the crucifixion had his attention.
‘That’s Hieronymus Bosch’s Christ Carrying the Cross,’ Becky said, following his gaze.
Reggie swallowed and nodded. The tortured faces in the painting seemed to watch him, their agony frozen in oils and time. His stomach twisted at the sight. He swallowed hard and declined the drink.
‘The one next to it was Clive’s favourite. The Temptation of St Anthony.’
Reggie observed a hellish landscape populated by demons and tortured souls, and his blood ran cold. How could anyone live surrounded by such a visceral depiction of suffering? And where were the Christmas decorations?
Shaken up, he asked her without even thinking, ‘You’re very religious, Becky. Where’s the Christmas tree?’
‘The Christmas tree represents spiritual compromise. Have you not read Jeremiah?’
Reggie shook his head.
‘“For the customs of the peoples are worthless; they cut a tree out of the forest, and a craftsman shapes it with his chisel. They adorn it with silver and gold; they fasten it with hammer and nails so it will not totter.” He wrote this before the popularity of Christmas trees. A divine warning unheeded.’
Reggie gave a slow nod, uncertain of what to make of it. ‘I see. So you don’t celebrate Christmas?’
‘A profound spiritual deception that grieves me deeply. Early Christians didn’t celebrate Christ’s birth. I discovered in my readings that Roman Emperor Constantine deliberately chose 25 December. Church authorities then used it to help convert pagans by overlapping with their winter solstice festivals – particularly Saturnalia and the birthday celebration of the sun god Sol Invictus.’
‘I see.’ He really would have preferred Sharon alongside him now, which reminded him… ‘I don’t suppose I can use your house phone?’
‘Disconnected,’ she said. ‘I didn’t pay my bills. So what would you like to know?’
Over her shoulder was the wooden statue of a man riddled with arrows, its agonised expression eerily lifelike in the shifting light. Beside it, a small altar of sorts – a collection of photographs surrounded by flickering candles and withered flowers.
He stepped nearer for a better view.
A chill ran down his spine. A shrine.
To Clive Morton.
She followed his gaze again, her expression unreadable. ‘It is better when the flowers are fresh. Candice brings them.’
‘Your nurse?’
‘Yes. And fresh candles.’
‘Can I?’ He nodded to show that he’d like a closer look.
Most images showed Clive working in various gardens. He looked enthusiastic, peaceful. His immersion in nature seemed to suit him. Quite a contrast with Riverside College’s accounts of intimidation and predatory behaviour.
There was one close-up shot of his face. The candlelight made his face shift. It seemed to move between innocent and sinister, as if unable to settle on a single truth. After a minute, he realised he was becoming hypnotised and forced himself to look away.
‘I never let the candles go out,’ Becky said. ‘And they’ll burn until I can no longer light one.’ He regarded a box beside the shrine, which was loaded with candles. ‘When they are no longer burning, then we shall be together again.’
He noticed a petrol canister near the candles. He pointed at it. ‘That can be dangerous.’
‘It’s empty… I no longer drive. I use it to hold water for the flowers.’
He turned and looked at her. He wanted to regard her face as he delivered the reason for his visit. ‘Did you hear about what happened to the old silo near here?’
She shook her head. ‘No. Candice could not come for a few days. She is my only source of knowledge.’
‘It’s been destroyed. Some kids crashed into it.’
‘Are they okay?’
‘Aye, but the silo will have to be taken down.’
‘I see.’
‘Well, it’s not common knowledge yet, Mrs Morton, but there was a body inside it.’
She twirled her cross as she watched Reggie, unblinking. ‘How awful.’
‘Yes, they identified the body as Sarah Matthews. Did you know her?’
A shard of light reflected off the silver bracelet and stung Reggie’s eyes. ‘Not personally. But I know of her. I know she disappeared.’
He shielded his eyes. ‘Yes, in October 1989.’
‘How terrible… and so long ago. She was young.’
‘Aye, twenty-two.’
‘So very young.’
Reggie nodded, still shielding his eyes from the shards of light.
‘“To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted.”’
‘Jeremiah again?’ Reggie asked.
‘No. Ecclesiastes Chapter 3, verse 2.’
He gestured back to the images of Clive in the garden. ‘He loved gardening.’
‘More than anything. He was always at peace there. Gardens are God’s canvas, and we, His humble brushes.’
A particular photograph caught his eye – Clive standing proudly in Riverside College’s grounds, his pose somehow both gentle and imposing. He pointed. ‘Tell me about his time there.’
‘I see where this is going,’ Becky said. ‘First, we talk about the remains of a girl, and then we talk about the vile lies that were told about him.’
‘It’s important that we cover all angles,’ Reggie said. ‘What do you know about the complaints?’
She nodded. ‘I just said. Vile. Listen carefully. “There are six things the Lord hates, seven that are detestable to him: haughty eyes, a lying tongue, hands that shed innocent blood, a heart that devises wicked schemes, feet that are quick to rush into evil, a false witness who pours out lies and a person who stirs up conflict in the community.” Listen to that proverb, and you have my answer.’
‘But why would those girls lie?’ Reggie asked. ‘Some of them felt intimidated.’
‘Because rarely are people so kind… so helpful… so altruistic. When people help, it can unnerve. I assure you he wanted to help… that was all it ever was. And they turned it into hate. Listen to Matthew. “They rely on empty arguments, they utter lies; they conceive trouble and give birth to evil… Their thoughts are evil thoughts; ruin and destruction mark their ways. The way of peace they do not know; there is no justice in their paths. They have turned them into crooked roads; no one who walks along them will know peace.”’
Reggie took a deep breath. ‘I don’t want to upset you, Mrs Morton, but some of what he said was inappropriate. He commented on the lengths of their skirts.’
‘Warned them! How can it be inappropriate to steer the young away from fraternisation, to educate them on dignity, not to destroy themselves with fornication?’
Reggie’s skin crawled at her matter-of-fact tone. This was one argument he would not win.
‘He offered his words with kindness. I knew my husband,’ she continued. ‘Always. If you think he is involved with this girl’s death, you are wrong. He knew the “hands of evil that shed innocent blood” – we both did. The evil comes from those that stir up the rumours and the lies.’
Reggie nodded. ‘Mrs Morton, your husband worked for Dr Hannah Wright between 1989 and 1991. Is that correct?’
She nodded.
‘Now, Sarah Matthews was also working there as a nurse in 1989. Their paths will have crossed. Do you know anything about that?’
‘He tended to Hannah’s garden.’
‘Aye, I know, but do you know if there was any relationship between—’
‘Relationship! See again! Spilling lies, accusations…’
He inwardly sighed. He was feeling this was rather pointless. Plus, he was winding her up, and she didn’t look in the best health. He decided he’d ask another question or two and then call it a day. If Frank wanted to follow it up, he could do.
‘How did you feel about your husband dying in Hannah Wright’s home?’
‘How do you think I felt?’
‘Sorry, that wasn’t what I meant. Were you angry over what had happened?’
‘If you think I am angry over my husband’s death, you’ve not been listening to everything I’ve been saying.’
Reggie nodded. She was obviously referring to her religious beliefs. ‘Why do you think he was within her house?’
‘I thought that was obvious. Didn’t the investigation conclude the same thing? He was trying to see if she had a gas leak, maybe even fix it… he made the wrong decision, but then, people who help, who are desperate to help and heal no matter the situation, will sometimes do that… I like to think I have helped, but you know, I am tired now, and I feel that if you have any more questions, I would prefer them another day and…’ She fiddled with her cross again. ‘Maybe, with someone else here? Candice, perhaps? I cannot help but feel that there is pressure here… pressure to condemn…’ she looked at her husband’s shrine, ‘the most precious person I have ever known.’
The room was feeling smaller with each passing moment. The suffering saints in the paintings felt closer to him now, somehow. The last thing he wanted to be doing was dealing with a complaint. He was alone with her, too. Her words would force them to investigate whatever she said. ‘I’ll get out of your hair, Mrs Morton. Thank you for your time.’
She smiled and twisted her crucifix. The necklace suddenly snapped, and the rosary beads fell. He tracked their descent, watching them scattering and bouncing.
‘Let me,’ Reggie said, dropping to his knees to gather them.
The silence pressed against his ears as he crawled, collecting each one. Eventually, a metre from her, he looked up and held out his hand full of beads.
She reached out—
He saw the silver bracelet up close.
Reach for the stars.
Cold dread flooded his veins.
He realised his eyes had already widened, and then he realised he’d frozen and stared too long.
Carefully, he placed the beads in her outstretched palm and rose to his feet, steadying himself.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
She then looked over at her shrine, smiled at Clive, then back up at Reggie.
His mind raced. No mobile phone signal. No house phone. No Sharon or backup. If he asked her, straight out, how she’d got that bracelet that could have been Sarah’s before leaving.
Suicide?
She was old, had little left to lose, and seemed adamant on protecting her husband’s memory. Would she finally let those candles burn out?
Best he tried to get away with it. Alert Frank and everyone as soon as he could and have her invited into custody for a conversation. ‘Okay… thank you, Mrs Morton. You’ve been very helpful. Thank you for speaking to me.’
‘Thank you.’
Reggie moved towards the door, the painted faces of the damned watching his retreat.
‘However, there is something…’ she said.
It felt as if his heart had stopped in his chest. ‘Yes?’
‘Something we haven’t talked about.’
He turned slowly. She knew he’d clocked the bracelet.
She was rubbing the rosary beads between her palms, the silver bracelet – the bracelet that could have once belonged to Sarah Matthews sliding up and down her wrist, catching the light.
‘And this might be your only chance to hear it,’ she said.
In that moment, surrounded by images of suffering and lit by dancing candlelight, Reggie realised that this place could just as likely be a shrine to hell as to heaven.
Chapter Seventy-Eight
The morning light caught Hannah Wright’s face. The silence in the room was heavy – like the buildup of ice on branches.
Frank leaned forward in his chair, his joints protesting the movement.
She met his gaze with the steady composure of someone who’d spent a lifetime analysing others’ truths while guarding her own. Behind her professional facade, Frank detected something he recognised from countless interviews – the weight of a secret finally ready to be surrendered.
Behind her, he saw the start of more heavy snowfall through the window.
‘It was my mistake,’ Hannah said. ‘I genuinely believed Clive to be harmless. The allegations levelled at him by those students at Riverside just seemed so overblown. He convinced me he’d only been trying to help them. His mother’s best friend had been raped and murdered while he was younger, and she’d always drilled it in to her older sister that she needed to be respectable and well-behaved in order to not attract male attention. It was unconventional, yes, warning them about the way they were dressing, and some of their behaviours, claiming it might get them in trouble. It was certainly very inappropriate, and may have come across as threatening, but to me, Clive just seemed to lack a filter due to a multitude of learning difficulties, and seemed to be doing it from an altruistic nature. I saw goodness in him, innocence, vulnerability. I couldn’t have been more wrong. I still, for the life of me, can’t work out how he pulled the wool over my eyes so effectively. Sometimes, when I look back, I fear it was hubris. That I just couldn’t be wrong, and I ignored some signs.’ Hannah turned slightly in her chair, her gaze drifting to the window. Her voice took on a distant quality, as if she was reciting a story she’d rehearsed countless times in her mind, even though this could very well be the first time. ‘It was a couple of years after her disappearance. ’91. John was even more damaged now. He’d lost two of his children and seemed increasingly fragile. In a way, it was better for our relationship. His tendency to vanish on business and ‘adventures’ with his wandering eye diminished. He relied on me, needed me more, rather like a crutch. No, it wasn’t good for him, but it meant I could keep his more self-destructive tendencies at bay. I wanted to believe that we’d a future, even though I knew, deep down, his old habits would return, one day.’
She pressed her perfectly manicured fingers against her temples. ‘Clive had been with us just under a year. Again, in all that time, I saw nothing to suggest that he had an insidious nature. Yes, his limited vocabulary and intelligence would often lead to him saying the wrong thing, as I mentioned before, especially when offering advice or commenting on the behaviours and sadness of the young women who came to see me, but we talked about it, and he listened, and I genuinely believed he was improving. God, to think what he’d done on that night in October.’
Frank spotted the first tear running down her face.
‘If only I’d known. You should have seen it! He’d be in the garden – loving with the animals, gentle in his day-to-day tasks. He carried a camera and took photographs of wildlife, rabbits, and butterflies. How he loved the bloody butterflies. Some of my patients who came to me would catch a glimpse of him working, and comment on how happy he looked… how gentle. A man in his element. He was instructed not to talk to them and for the most part he followed this rule.’ Her voice hardened with self-recrimination. ‘What a fool I was.’ She turned to Frank, her eyes sharp with a desperate need to be understood.
Frank wanted to reassure her, but not knowing the full outcome, he felt it was too early to judge, so he offered a swift nod for her continue.
Her gaze returned to the window. Outside, the snow was picking up pace. ‘One day Clive approached Marie, one of my patients. He told her it was better she fought against the feelings she was having for close, female friends. That it could affect her happiness. Not only was it inappropriate, but how could he have known that? He must have been listening at my door, or examining my files. His literacy was poor so I assumed the former.’ A muscle twitched in her jaw. ‘You know what he said to Marie? He told her she was like a butterfly who couldn’t see its own beautiful colours, mistaking itself for a moth. Such a poetic way to deliver such poison! Obviously, I planned to dismiss him. It was unforgiveable.’ She gulped and twisted her fingers in her lap now. ‘I never got the chance…’
‘What happened?’ Frank asked.
Hannah drew a shaky breath. ‘Everything. And so quickly. It was 2 March. John made an early, unexpected return from a trip. He caught Clive pressed against my office door, listening. He waited until my patient had left and then dragged him into me. At first, I was angry with John and told him to take his hands off Clive!
‘Yes, I wanted him gone, but I still thought of him as a confused, vulnerable man. I wouldn’t tolerate manhandling. John let him go, but then Clive started pacing, muttering – having some kind of meltdown. It seems the rough treatment of him had woken something.’ Her hands trembled, the movement catching Frank’s eye. She screwed her face up. ‘He came apart in front of us. Ranting about nature and purity. Religious rhetoric, we later discovered, possibly from his overly religious wife, Becky, poured from him. Sin and evil, cleansing and salvation. His words became more confused, more desperate. When I told him to leave the property, he seemed to collapse in on himself…’ She pressed her fingers to her temples, as if trying to hold the memory at bay. ‘In despair, crying, insisting he only wanted to help these “fragile” girls. To clean them. To heal them. He was so pitiable, but at the same time, so sinister. I remember feeling nauseous, panicking. What had I brought into my home? This was my hubris. My unwavering belief that he was misunderstood.’ Her voice caught on the words. She stared out the window at the spiralling snow, steadying herself and then said, ‘John grabbed him, threw him toward the door. Called him disgusting…’
