Dark Choir Read online

  Twenty-Four

  Brendan Widdowson unlocked the side door of the chapel and entered. The deafening sing song of the alarm rang out through the church so he quickly went to the illuminated green key pad and jabbed in the number to silence it. He hoped the noise would wake that couple in the house next door who were living in sin together, but the man’s car was not there. Widdowson suspected he’d already left for work earlier that morning.

  The time was eight o’clock and he had a meeting with a town councilor at nine. Widdowson wanted to print off the plans for the new house he wanted to build next to One Farm Road. Councillor Jacobs owed Widdowson a few favours, so he couldn’t see any problems with getting the plans passed. He had enough leverage on the councilor to pretty much get what he wanted. There were three lads who would cough up enough information to cost him his marriage and his job.

  He strode into the chapel and stopped dead. “What the…”

  In huge letters, almost four feet high, the word CHOIR had crudely been hacked into the wall, gouged into the plaster across the back wall, above where Widdowson normally stood to preach.

  The same word his charges had been sent. Gillits, O’Shea, Pendred and the rest. Now the blackmailers were daring to target him. He stared at the letters, his eyes drawn down to the plaster and brick dust spread about the carpet at the bottom of the wall. Whoever did this had left no footprints. Widdowson thought this strange seeing as the dust covered quite a large area on the raised platform.

  “So, you think you can fuck with me now, is that it?”

  Widdowson felt no fear, just a burning desire to destroy whoever had dared go against him. People like Jason and Connor and the rest, they were just little people, sheep who were easily frightened. Widdowson had made tentative investigations on their behalf but had come up with nothing. Some of his eager parishioners, those in his inner circle, had even questioned a couple of suspects with their fists. He’d checked with Gould but the policeman had no information. Now it would be time to get the big guns out. Gould would be fully let off the leash to find whoever was doing this and his bite was far worse than his bark.

  Widdowson ran through all the people he knew who would do this sort of thing. The Hepworth lad hated him enough to do this, but this wasn’t his way. Daniel Hepworth was more likely to try a frontal attack. Use foul language to his face then skulk away. Widdowson still wanted him to pay for his verbal outburst at his own mother’s funeral.

  Then there was that big-chested nurse, Alison Coombs. The one with the smart mouth. He’d got Gould to do a background check on her and her record was clean.

  If Hepworth and Coombs hadn’t actually carved out the word themselves then they might know who’d done it. A trip up to One Farm Road would be in order today. Screw the councilor. He could wait. With all the evidence Widdowson had on the councilor he could afford to be patient. Firstly, he needed to get rid of that. He glanced up at the carved word once more.

  Widdowson strode into the office and seized the phone. He dialed the number from memory.

  “Phillips. Get over here now, and I mean this instant. No, I don’t care if you’re halfway to Derby on a big job, you turn your bloody van around now and get up to the chapel. Bring your plaster and some paint.”

  He went back into the chapel and studied the vandalism again, fists clenching. Someone would pay for this and they would pay dearly.

  The journey to Willow House got shorter and shorter.

  “Are you safe to drive?” asked Alison. “You were pretty drunk when you came in last night. I heard you crashing about in the kitchen trying to get something to eat.”

  “The kebab shop was closed. Besides, my system is getting used to all this alcohol intake.”

  She laughed. “You left to go to the museum and fetch the car.”

  “I went to the pub again. The car is still at the supermarket. You’ll have to drop me off on the way back, and I’ll drive it back. Bloody hell. I never drank this much in London. I’ll have to get used to not drinking again in a couple of days. Anyway, I went to the museum.”

  He briefly told Alison the story about the ghost choir.

  “Karl is going to do a bit more research. Actually, he’s trying to find one of the old nurses from St. Brendan’s. You might know her, but she was a bit before your time. Ever heard of Ann Prendergast?”

  “Ann? Yes, she lives up Clifford Row just outside of a place called Oldthorpe.”

  “Really? Do you think she’ll talk to Karl?”

  “I think she’d like to see you too. She knows Lindsey very well. I’ll give you the address when we get back.”

  Dan felt like he’d struck gold. He couldn’t wait to tell Karl. Maybe he’d see if they could visit her tomorrow. He was due to return to London on Saturday.

  When they pulled up at Willow House, Melody met them at the door. She looked worried and for one horrible moment Dan thought something had happened to Lindsey. Lindsey was in the lounge making exited squeals at something on the telly. She didn’t even notice Dan and Alison. Melody asked to speak to them in the office.

  “You look worn out, Melody.” Alison showed genuine concern for the caregiver.

  “I’ve had two stressful nights. I need to ask you something.” She looked to the lounge almost suspiciously. Her Nigerian accent usually placed heavy emphasis on every word she spoke but today even more so. “Tell me. Does Lindsey ever speak? Speak words, I mean?”

  “No,” said Alison. “She hasn’t the cognitive processing to form speech. Her brain was damaged at birth.”

  Dan felt dread in his stomach, his mind thrown back to the Saturday night when he was left alone with her. The night the intruder came. Dan knew what Melody would ask next.

  “I heard words being spoken in her room. Two nights in a row. This was through the intercom. It was a man’s voice. When I went to investigate there was no one in her room and she was asleep.”

  Twenty-Five

  Widdowson pulled onto the muddy, uneven drive of One Farm Road. To his surprise neither the old Morris Traveler or the wheelchair-adapted car were parked there. The Morris he’d seen sitting in Morrison’s car park in Scarsdale since the funeral, so where was Alison and Lindsey? Widdowson remembered she went to the St. Brendan’s hospital site two nights a week, so the nurse must have gone to fetch her. That was good. He could give Hepworth a proper talking to without that smart-mouth bitch interfering.

  He parked and got out. Without knocking, the pastor marched straight in. Why not, this was his house and Hepworth was practically squatting.

  “Daniel. Daniel. It’s Pastor Widdowson,” he called out. There was no reply. He passed into the lounge and through to the kitchen area.

  “Hepworth!” he shouted. “I want to speak to you.”

  No answer, just silence. The house was obviously empty. In that case, Widdowson decided to have a look around. He might find something here he could use to get a handle on the boy and Coombs. A diary, bank statements. You’d be surprised what turns up in people’s correspondence, what you can use against them. He was sure that nurse had her sticky fingers in some pies. She was clever but he knew she was hiding something. The bitch was far too clever to spend her life wiping Lindsey Hepworth’s arse. Widdowson was an excellent judge of character, a skill he’d used again and again to coax confessions from the people of this town. Alison Coombs was a manipulator and, as the old saying went, it took one to know one and he knew exactly what she was.

  He opened Lindsey’s bedroom door and froze. “What the hell?”

  When he laid eyes on the black scrawl on the wall, an uneasy feeling came over him. Why the hell had they written this word on their own wall? Then he realised they’d been visited by this choir character too.

  A thin smile drew over his face like a slow cut through flesh. Alison Coombs. She was doing it. She was a nurse, had worked in St. Vincent’s and St. Brendan’s. She knew about his charges somehow. Maybe Prendergast had spilled
her guts to this con artist and she was targeting Hepworth too. He wished her well with that. The boy didn’t have a penny to his name.

  “Choir,” he said out loud. Despite his deductive conclusion the deep unease persisted.

  A noise caused him to start. A clunking above shattered the silence as the water pipes in the wall became active. The house groaned as water forced itself through the old plumbing.

  At first, Widdowson thought the heating had come on automatically, but then he heard water gushing from upstairs. He stood at the bottom of the stairs. So, someone was in. Hepworth hadn’t heard him and was now running a bath, the sound of water spewing from those old brass taps into that big, enamel bath could be heard but was muffled behind the bathroom door. Diane had changed nothing in the time she’d lived here. He remembered that bath from when he’d used the toilet here on his many visits.

  He started up the stairs. Widdowson had a plan. He would burst in on Hepworth as he sat in the bath. It would be undignified and intimidating for him. He’d be in a position of vulnerability. This would give the pastor the psychological advantage. He’d done it before, with men and women. People were a lot less cocky with their clothes off.

  He’d no doubt shout and swear at him to get out. The usual aggressive front. Widdowson could still see that frightened little boy behind the rage. All he had to do was bring that boy out and frighten him. Widdowson would throw the book at him today for his little performance on Tuesday. Bring up every terror from his childhood, threaten him with incarceration and, when he was cracking, mock him in his weakness. The abused made for such easy victims.

  He reached the top of the stairs, gripped the door handle and waited a few seconds. Timing was everything. Give him time to get in the bath, thinking he was alone, relaxed. Behind the door the sound of water ceased accompanied by a squeak as the brass tap was turned shut. With a smirk, he burst into the bathroom.

  Impossible.

  The bathroom was empty. There was no one in here. Widdowson could have sworn he’d head the tap turn. Someone must have been in here to have turned off the water. Stepping over the threshold, Widdowson stood over the bath. Clear water sloshed from side to side. He could see no steam so bent to touch it; the water was freezing cold.

  From behind he was suddenly aware of thudding, rapidly approaching footsteps, bare feet on bare wood. He turned at his waist.

  “No!” yelled the pastor.

  Dark eyes, a pale naked torso and tangled black hair. This was all he saw before the attacker smashed into him. His shin hit the rim of the bath and upended him, turning him as he went, into the cold water face down.

  Widdowson raised his head, his body frozen in shock on being immersed, and an inhuman scream pierced his ears. One strong hand forced his head down under the water and held it there. He could still hear the squeal through the water, just. Thrashing and panicking, losing breath, Widdowson tried to surface but could not with the weight of the attacker holding him down. His face now pressed into the enamel at the base of the bath.

  An attempt at screaming underwater forced the last of the air from his lungs as his arms were pulled back, and he felt bonds securing his wrists together. Even under the water he could still hear the inhuman screeching of the demented creature drowning him to death.

  Alison and Dan arrived home at the same time but in different cars. Dan pulled the Morris up beside the Daimler parked at an angle.

  “Not only is he here, he’s parked like a twat.” Dan kicked the wheel as he passed.

  “Just keep calm,” advised Alison.

  “It’s fine. I want to know what he thought of my eulogy.” Dan grinned. “Leave Lindsey here, though. She really doesn’t like him.”

  Lindsey was grunting in the back of the adapted car, keen to get inside and have some lunch, no doubt. A dissatisfied grimace crossed her face.

  Dan entered the house. Widdowson was nowhere downstairs. “Widdowson! Widdowson!”

  Alison joined him in the hallway, pushing Lindsey in her wheelchair. They went through the lounge to the bottom of the stairs.

  He wasn’t in the kitchen or in Lindsey’s room. “Perhaps he’s upstairs, going through my mother’s knickers, sniffing them.”

  Alison rolled her eyes. “Dan. Has there been a leak? Why’s there water on the stairs?”

  Faint splashing could be heard. Dan ran up the stairs and into the bathroom. His eyes were drawn straight to the bath.

  “Fucking hell!”

  Widdowson was face down in the full bath. His hands were tied to his feet behind his back with dirty, old rope. He was moving, his struggles slow and difficult. Dan reached into the bath and tried to pull him up by the shoulders. He couldn’t lift the pastor, the man was a dead weight. Dan couldn’t get purchase, even when he grabbed his clothes. Widdowson would drown if he didn’t act fast.

  Dan yanked out the plug and the water started to drain. He grabbed Widdowson under the chin and lifted his face free from the water. The pastor took in air in great gulps, desperate to breathe. Only when the water was drained from the bath did he haul the pastor out.

  Dan found himself in the unusual position of having to lend his hated enemy his clothes. Widdowson sat hunched by the oven, a hot cup of tea in his hands still shivering. His car keys, wallet, and phone lay in an untidy heap on the kitchen table.

  Since Dan had dragged him out of the bath and untied him Widdowson hadn’t said a word. He’d yelled once untied and pushed Dan away violently but then calmed down somewhat. He crawled into a corner and shook violently until Dan insisted he get out of his sopping wet clothes.

  While Alison changed Lindsey in the bedroom, Dan helped Widdowson to change and brought him downstairs.

  Widdowson looked up suddenly from the cup he was clutching for extra warmth, shooting Dan an angry look.

  “What?” said Dan. “You think I did this? I’ve only just got back from town. If you want an alibi, I had the manager of Morrison’s shouting his mouth off at me for leaving the Morris in the car park for two days with half of Scarsdale watching us. Alison had me in sight the entire time. Also, when I got you out, I wasn’t covered in water. Whoever put you in there would have been covered in water. It’s all over the floor.”

  “You arranged it,” Widdowson stated flatly.

  “Oh, fuck off, Widdowson! What were you doing here, anyway? Did you let yourself in?”

  He gestured to Lindsey’s bedroom. “Why is that written on the wall? Choir?”

  Dan shrugged. “I dunno. Someone broke in and put that there. What’s it to you?”

  “None of your business. Where is she now?”

  “Who?”

  “The woman. It was a woman that attacked me. Came up from behind and pushed me into the bath. Where is she?”

  “There’s Alison, me, and Lindsey here. The house was empty when you came in. Are you sure it was a woman? It wasn’t a bald bloke in a purple robe?”

  “I know what I saw, Hepworth.” He looked to the bedroom. Dan followed his eye line. Lindsey was in the sling, being hoisted back into her wheelchair. He was looking at Lindsey. “I saw just a glimpse. The eyes. Dark.” He looked up at Dan. “Your sister did this to me.”

  Dan hid his shock with a laugh. Beverly had said the same. Now Widdowson. Dan fought through his own confusion to reply to Widdowson appropriately.

  “My sister did this to you? She can’t walk, for fuck’s sake. What, are you saying she’s faking it? When no one’s looking she hops out of her wheelchair and goes out for a Big Mac? Even if that’s true, which it isn’t, she was with Alison. Or maybe she’s got an evil twin we keep in the attic.”

  “Demonically possessed people have been known to bi-locate.”

  “Bi-locate?”

  Widdowson leaned back in his chair, let his shoulders roll back, and regained some of his old composure. “You’re a clever boy, Daniel. Thought you’d know the meaning of a big word like that.”

  “Fuck off.
”

  “To bi-locate means to be in two places at once. A catholic priest called Padre Pio allegedly did this in the forties. Since Catholicism is a false religion and a lie from Satan then this power came from Satan.”

  “Right.” Dan took the mug out of his hands and whipped the blanket from around his shoulders. “You’re better now. You can leave.”

  “Leave my own house? I don’t think so. There is the matter of bringing the attacker to justice.”

  “According to you, Widdowson, she’s in there. Good luck with getting a statement out of my sister. In fact, let’s ring the police now. You can point out the guilty culprit then they can carry you away to Berrymoor where you belong.”

  “DCI Gould will be very keen to investigate.”

  Dan had had enough of this. “Leave now or I’ll drag you out.” Dan squared up to the pastor. Widdowson obviously took the hint. He moved to the hall then stopped.

  “You know what makes me think it was Lindsey?” Brendan Widdowson stood with his hands on his hips. “She has cause to harm me. And the method of this attack, trying to drown me, is her way of letting me know it was her. I used to use water in her exorcisms down at the chapel.”

  Widdowson didn’t move. Dan ushered him into the lounge and shut the door behind them.

  “You better explain yourself. What did you do to Lindsey?”

  “I haven’t got time to go over past events with you, Hepworth.”

  Dan blocked Widdowson’s path. He had to know what Widdowson had done. “You’re not leaving until you spill your guts, pastor. It’s a long walk home.”

  Widdowson was wearing a pair of Dan’s jeans and a T-shirt. His own clothes were still drying in the kitchen. Dan saw Widdowson look to the kitchen where his car keys sat and his water-logged phone. Dan was not going to let Widdowson past to fetch them.