Forgotten Graves: Whitby's Forgotten Victims Book 4, page 34
Tears spilled more freely down her cheeks now, cutting through her perfect makeup. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Take your time,’ Frank said, although the desire to know the outcome bubbled fiercely within him.
She took some deep breaths.
Beside him, Frank noticed Gerry was frantically taking notes. ‘And then he just lowered his head and froze in front of us. Like his batteries had run out or something. John was grabbing him again, forcing him towards the door, and that’s when the photographs spilled from his pocket.’
She stared downwards in horror as if re-enacting the moment.
‘Photographs?’
She nodded, tears streaming down her face. ‘Thirteen girls. Like trophies. He claimed he could succeed where I’d failed. He said he could purify, and cleanse.’
Oh God, Frank thought. ‘Who were the girls?’
‘My patients… all my patients. The man wasn’t harmless. The man was far from harmless. Of those thirteen, twelve of them were current patients… and they were still alive, thank God… but… the things he’d written on the back of their photographs. Words like: Licentious, homosexual, profligate, impious, idolatrous, defiant. He was defining their problems, or identifying the sins he believed were plaguing them – all from the information he’d been getting from listening in to my sessions with these poor girls.’
Frank took a long breath, knowing what he needed to ask and what the answer would be. ‘Twelve patients. And the thirteenth photograph?’
She fixed him with a stare. ‘You know, already. Sarah.’
Frank felt his insides churn. ‘And what had he written on the back of her photograph?’
‘Wayward.’
Frank lowered his head. His mind wandering back to that moment at the silo when he’d looked at her for the first time, when he’d thought to himself.
I want to know the real you.
And I do, now, Sarah, and it isn’t wayward. Lost, perhaps, for a time, aye… needing guidance, which you got, but you were creative, kind and you forged relationships in your life that were meaningful. Clive didn’t know the real you. To sum you up with a single word.
Unthinkable.
He looked back up. ‘What happened next, Hannah?’
‘John shook the photograph at him, and I will never forget the words that monster used: “I tried. I really did. I wanted so much for her to be pure. To be clean.” And then John just lost it.’ She put a hand to her face and cried.
Hardly surprising, Frank thought, his mind whirring.
Frank decided to give her a moment to compose herself, but Gerry wasn’t as patient. ‘Did John kill Clive?’
Hannah looked up and stared at Gerry, eyeliner running down her face. ‘No, dear…’
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Around him, tortured souls seemed to pry themselves from their frames, hungry for the truth.
Becky’s fingers continued to roll the rosary beads between the palms of her hands on top of a knitted blanket. The silver bracelet continued to send sparks of light across the walls. ‘I’ll show you the truth.’
‘Just tell me.’
‘A servant cannot be corrected by mere words; though he understands, he will not respond.’
She dropped the rosary beads onto the knitted blanket and wheeled her way past him.
He knew he should leave. He’d have to drive into town to get reception and organise backup.
But there could be direct evidence linking Becky, and Clive, to Sarah’s death. If he left now, how much evidence would survive his return? And would she even survive it? Knowing the game was up, she may hasten her exit.
‘You need to know that others are coming,’ he lied. ‘It isn’t in your interests to play me for a fool.’
‘I’m eighty-five years old,’ she hissed as she wheeled out of the room. ‘What could I possibly do?’
Sometimes, the truth demanded risks. And to be fair, this one seemed almost minuscule.
‘Okay, then, I’ll push,’ he said, following and taking the handles of the chair.
The wooden floorboards in the hallway creaked beneath them, each step echoing with an ominous, ancient weight, like those brutal, tortured images. ‘Just there, beneath the stairs. That door.’
‘Okay.’
Age had scarred the wood, its surface bearing the patina of countless hands and secrets.
‘Enough,’ she said.
He released the handles and stepped back, positioning himself carefully. Despite her age and frailty, he still viewed her as a coiled snake.
She swivelled her chair to face the door, the motion precise despite her apparent weakness, then lifted her trembling fingers to turn a key. The lock’s mechanism groaned like something waking from a long sleep. She turned the handle and then wheeled herself backwards with one hand, trying to open the door. She couldn’t. She stopped against the hallway wall, catching her breath. ‘It’s jammed.’
Watching her from the corner of his eye, he leaned over and opened the door. He yanked it open with a groan of rusty hinges. Stale air rushed out.
‘You see the light cord?’
He pulled it and shadows danced as a single bulb flickered to life.
He glanced at the worn steps and couldn’t help snorting. ‘You don’t really expect me to go down there?’
Her voice carried that blend of frailty and steel that made his skin crawl. ‘I can walk, with your help. These legs aren’t completely useless yet. Help me up, and I’ll walk in front of you. You can give me support from behind – how does that sound?’
Ridiculous, he thought. ‘This isn’t the right approach…’
‘Suit yourself.’ A smile touched her lips, cold as cemetery frost. ‘I always thought detectives were curious folk.’
‘I would rather you just tell me.’
‘Better that we wait for your friends to come.’
But they weren’t coming. Sharon would never get through that snow.
He thought of Christ’s agonised face on the wall in the lounge, the arrows protruding from the figure, and those snow-covered angels. So many fragmented, dark images. No wonder every instinct was screaming at him to pack this in…
If not for that bloody bracelet… ‘Just tell me how you got the bracelet.’
‘No.’
For fuck’s sake!
He thought of Frank if he messed this up and she died with the truth. Bloody hell Reggie. You’re brave enough to wear that horrendous moustache, but not have a look at what an eighty-five-year-old woman who can barely walk has to show you!
He looked down at her again. Would she even have the strength in her arms and hands to use a gun, even if she had the chance to grab one?
Get a grip, he told himself.
‘Okay, but you first.’ He kept an equal distance between Becky and the steps. She wouldn’t have much of a push on her, but best to be cautious. He proffered his hand.
‘Thank you.’ Her fingers were ice cold.
She groaned as he took her weight, and she rose.
But then, halfway up, the bastard blanket slipped from her lap, and the rosary beads scattered.
Shit!
They sounded like the rattling of brittle bones. He wasn’t picking them up again, not in the current situation.
‘Wait…’ she said, gulping air. ‘Stop…’
He released her hand, and she sank back into the chair.
Her breathing came in ragged gasps, her hand pressed against her chest beneath her jacket. ‘That was harder than I realised…’ She coughed and wheezed for a moment. ‘These old bones…’
‘Are you okay?’
‘Getting there.’
‘Shall we leave—’
Her hand shot out again with surprising speed.
‘Okay.’ Reggie took her hand. ‘One last try… okay? Ready…’
He shifted his weight, confident in his strength and that he was in control. He still had one eye on caution, but he’d never been one to be short on pride.
And although pride was the ancient enemy of wisdom – he could handle one frail old lady—
A sudden, sharp pain below his chest made him wince. For a brief second, panic over a heart attack swelled inside him. But then his eyes saw the blade in the hand he wasn’t holding.
Shit! She’d had it hidden beneath that blanket!
He released her hand, and the pain quickly intensified. It was just below his ribs at the top of his abdomen.
Instinctively, he moved backwards so she couldn’t strike again.
He felt his foot rolling over something.
The rosary beads.
Then, everything was spinning. Jarring and bashing against stone. Pain bloomed throughout his body.
Groaning at the bottom of the steps, he stared up at the silhouette of Becky hunched over in a wheelchair.
The pain was intense.
What had he allowed to happen?
‘You won’t take me from my home,’ she said into the cold cellar. ‘I need to be here when those candles burn out. I told you how important that was. When the candles are no more, we can be together again. You shouldn’t have come. You’d have left here, spilling more lies. He tried to help Sarah. Cleanse her. And you would have started something new. You are not innocent, DI Moyes. Not innocent at all. And this sacrifice will be a just one. “Then you will trample on the wicked; they will be ashes under the soles of your feet on the day when I act,” says the Lord Almighty.’
The door closed.
The lock’s mechanism groaned.
He clutched his stomach and looked at the blood on his hands, watched it gleam in the sputtering light.
Ashes under the soles of your feet.
He thought of the candles… and the petrol canister.
Ashes.
Then, he thought of the candles burning out, everything going to darkness.
And then he felt himself moving into that black.
Chapter Eighty
‘Like I said,’ Hannah continued. ‘The bastard was taking pictures of my patients while they waited on my property for their appointments. And with the camera he used for his butterflies, too! It was sinister. It felt… evil. So, to see one of Sarah, in her nurse’s uniform, combined with the word, wayward, just sent John completely mad. I honestly thought he was going to tear Clive to pieces there and then. Instead…’ She swallowed hard, her throat clearly working against the memory.
‘But then John suddenly bolted from the room – no reason, no explanation. Just ran. I didn’t understand, and I just stood there asking Clive why he’d taken the pictures. And he told me: “To help them, to clean them, to save them.”’ She stared at Frank and then Gerry. ‘What the fucking hell was he?’ Her fingers twisted together like pale snakes. ‘Then, John came back with a kitchen knife. I could barely recognise him at that moment. His eyes… God, his eyes. He kept jabbing the blade at Clive, testing him.’ She swallowed hard. ‘Demanding to know where Sarah was. The things John was threatening! God. He said he’d cut Clive into pieces, cut out his eyes. I can see John’s face now. Feral, wild. I don’t think they were an empty threat.
‘But Clive just continued smiling, speaking of Sarah as if she was one of his precious butterflies.’
‘Had you ever seen them interacting before? Sarah and Clive?’ Gerry asked.
‘Of course, she was the nurse at my home! She liked him. Talked to Clive about the garden, about his butterflies. Sarah spoke of him fondly. Maybe she genuinely saw him as a friend. But I doubt he had ever spoken to her like this before.’
‘Did he then admit to killing her?’
‘In his own way.’ Hannah stopped and shuddered. 'His voice seemed to change completely. There was this terrible reverence in his tone. He started quoting scripture, all about cleansing, and the path to purity being a painful one. His eyes... they became fever bright. He explained how she’d come to him one night, seeking help. How he’d listened to her pain and tried to heal her. The way he spoke about her… How he saw it as a sign from God - that she'd been delivered to him for salvation.'
My God, Frank thought, recalling Sean’s update regarding Sarah leaving Donna’s vehicle by that patch of trees, alongside a dirt path to Morton’s isolated farmhouse. In his mind’s eye, he saw Sarah walking through the darkness, looking for help, a friend in Clive Morton, completely unaware his intentions may have been insidious.
‘Then Clive started reaching out for the photographs – he wanted them back. I’ll never shake the image of John slicing straight through Clive’s palms. But it didn’t deter the monster from reaching out again with his bloody hands. He said, and I remember it so vividly, “I only wanted to help her spread her wings.” The way he said it… so serene… so certain. I think at that point, I realised, understood, that he must have killed her. And so, too, did John. He pinned Clive against the wall, the blade pressed to his eye, threatening again to dig them out. Demanding to know where Sarah was. I screamed at John to stop. He was on the verge of killing him…’ She drew a breath. ‘And I got through to him. He slumped backwards. He turned to face me, confused, and the knife slipped from his hand. I grabbed it and went to call the police. It could have ended there if not…’ She shook her head. ‘If not for what came next. Clive told us about…’ Her hands flew to her mouth, as if trying to hold back the words. ‘The baby.’
Frank tasted bile.
‘He said she’d been so afraid. Pregnant with no one left to turn to, because I’d asked her to leave her job.’
Feeling nauseous, he looked at Gerry. If she was feeling the same, she was hiding it well.
‘And that was enough again to set John off,’ Hannah continued. The idea of her being pregnant. The idea of us taking away her job to make a point. It was too much for him. He just exploded. He threw Clive into the wall, started punching him, and I thought he would go on to beat him to death… except…’
She stared out of the window for a moment. The snow was picking up pace again.
She took a deep breath and continued. ‘Something awoke in Clive. He started fighting back and, before I knew it, Clive was on top of him, strangling him.’ She made a gesture with her hands. ‘He would’ve killed him. And, I guess, in my panic, and fear, seeing the man I love about to die, I lost control too…’ Her voice dropped to barely a whisper, thick with horror at the memory. ‘I grabbed the knife – and I stabbed him in the back.’
Again, she stopped. This time for a short while. Silence filled the room like smoke, broken only by the soft tick of a clock and the whisper of falling snow outside.
Frank set his pen down – he needed a break from writing notes. The story was so harrowing.
And then more suspicion reared up in him. If this was true, then why had Hannah run? She wouldn’t have got a life sentence for that. Maybe some jail time, but that had been a heated situation, and self-defence could be argued. He readied himself to ask that question, but she got there first.
‘Clive was still alive…’ she whispered.
Frank took a sharp breath. Where did this end?
Hannah’s hands trembled as she spoke, her composure completely crumbling now. ‘And I don’t know why… I thought of Sarah… I thought of what I’d caused, and yes, in that moment, I wanted to kill him. A man taking photos of butterflies, pretending he cared… all the time a vile monster. And Sarah pregnant… oh God… And I stabbed him over and over…’
Frank exhaled. Good Lord.
‘He was already long gone before John pulled me away,’ Hannah concluded.
Chapter Eighty-One
‘It’s not the murder that eats away at me,’ Hannah said, her face ashen. ‘It’s the fact that if I hadn’t killed him, we may have found out where he’d put her. Because of me, she remained undiscovered until now… That horrendous old silo. I can’t believe it…
‘John always blamed himself for everything – so this was nothing new. He wanted to confess, himself. But I couldn’t let him. No way. He was insistent. You see, I was pregnant, as well.’ She pressed her hands against her stomach, an unconscious echo of the child she’d carried then. ‘But this was my failure. My mess. I’d brought him into my house. I’d told Sarah to leave. And then I killed him, taking away our chance of finding her.’ Her voice cracked with self-loathing. ‘But John was desperate to keep me out of jail. He told me angrily to think of our child.’ She looked off into the distance with a bittersweet smile. ‘Rosie…
‘He suggested burying the body, but I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t work again as a psychiatrist. How could I? That constant reminder of failure? Together, we caused a gas explosion, placing his body as near to the leak as possible to give the impression he was trying to fix it. Within twenty-four hours, John had obtained a body from a recent car accident, ensuring the face was damaged beyond dental verification. Don’t ask me how. John knew people… he was wealthy. When those two things marry up, you can get what you want.
‘Burning it all away felt like the right thing to do. How else did we have any chance of starting again? He paid for my new identity, arranged a home – everything. The only thing he said I’d never have was him.
‘I know John could never forgive me, deep down, for destroying our chance to find Sarah. But for a long time, he channelled that guilt into protecting our child. He saw it as cosmic balance – having lost one daughter, he could redeem himself by saving another. He could never be with me, but he could be vigilant in the same way he’d been with the other children. Except… he’d failed twice before… and Lewis, his other son, despised him. Monthly deposits, birthday cards with no return address. I retrained as a teacher under my new name, thinking perhaps I could atone by helping others. I tried to keep track of him from afar, but it became harder and harder. He had relationships, continued with his business, developed an alcohol problem which he was treated for. He became more and more withdrawn, becoming a ghost.’
