Dark Choir Read online

  The first one, the one that was him, now moved with increased speed yet steady, measured steps down the corridor. The second one removed its mask with slender fingers. The same face stared at him.

  Unable to process this, Jason gave into his terror and fell to his knees.

  “How can you be here at the same time? How?”

  They stopped and regarded him, half crouching on the floor.

  “Wait. What are you going to do to me? What are you going to do?”

  Both versions of the patient he had tortured moved towards him.

  Karl was slouched at the bar reading a book on the history of workhouses when his phone rang. It was Fiona.

  “Hi, Fi.”

  “Did you hear that?”

  “What?”

  “A two minute burst. From St. Vincent’s. Just two minutes of wailing.”

  He looked up at the clock. It was nearly five o’clock in the afternoon. The ghost choir never sung this early before.

  “I’m in the pub. Not sure you can hear this far away, anyway, unless the wind’s right.”

  “But why now? What does it mean?”

  The episode of sounds had been increasing in frequency.

  He shrugged. “Perhaps they’re just warming up? Listen, my mate phoned. You know, Dan? We’re going over to visit this nurse tomorrow. She was actually at the performance when the lobotomized choir sang. He’s picking me up in the afternoon. We might start finding out why the hell this is happening.”

  Thirty

  Dan drove the Morris Minor over the exposed moorland and actually felt like he’d gone back in time. The Morris didn’t have a sat nav. What’s more, it didn’t have a power socket for one. Dan couldn’t get a signal on his phone around here, so he was having to use an AA map he’d found in the glove compartment from 1985.

  He had about another ten miles to go until he got to Oldthorpe. Dan had spoken to Ann Prendergast on the phone. She’d sounded friendly enough and seemed like she wanted to speak. He’d not given a definite time for his visit, just said he’d be there in the afternoon.

  He was late because Karl hadn’t shown. Dan said he’d pick him up at the museum, but on arrival the museum had been locked and Karl’s phone was off. Billy and Mooey hadn’t seen him and didn’t know where he was. Unable to wait, Dan had set off.

  The road was isolated and windswept. Stunted trees tried to grow sparsely at the road side and swayed violently in the wind. In the distance, he could see a church spire and guessed Oldthorpe was ahead. He was looking for somewhere called The Cloisters. The care home where Ann Prendergast lived.

  The road into the village curved around, edged by granite cottages. He passed the church and found himself going back out into the village. He turned down lanes and was forced to reverse out of a dead end while the curtains twitched, until Dan saw a postman and asked him where The Cloisters were. The postman pointed to the church and gave brief directions before climbing back in his red van and taking off.

  Behind the church he found a dirt track which led to a group of tall trees. Dan approached a pair of rusted gates which were open, stuck permanently by yellowed banks of grass. The Cloisters reared into view, a lumbering granite edifice with near black roof-tiles and arched windows. If Prendergast didn’t want to be found, she was doing a good job of it.

  Dan ran awkwardly against the wind which caused the trees to sway and entered the wide porch of the care home. He was asked to sign in by a rosy-cheeked young girl behind an oak reception desk.

  The inside of the home belied its ramshackle exterior. Modern wall-mounted lighting gave it a warm hue. Clean carpets covered the floors and framed photos from old Scarsdale and Belper hung on the walls. There was also a number of encouraging Bible verses accompanied by photographic portraits of the sea or mountains. A caregiver in a blue uniform appeared and led him up the corridor. He glanced at her badge and saw her name was Kathy and that she was a Team Leader. Dan hoped she wouldn’t stick around while he and Ann Prendergast spoke. What he had so say would sound pretty odd. Kathy explained that each resident had their own flat here, but staff were on-hand to assist 24 hours a day. He also noticed Kathy wore a silver cross on her lapel. Religion was obviously prominent in this place.

  After being led through a maze of corridors, they arrived at flat 24, a yellow door with a cross made from palm leaf fixed to it with blue tac. Kathy knocked and opened the door.

  “Ann, your visitor is here.”

  “Send him in, Kath,” said a friendly voice with a local accent.

  Ann Prendergast sat in a large chair with her feet up on a footstool, a woolen blanket over her knees. She had a warm smile but a face that appeared to Dan to have seen hard years. There was kindness in those blue eyes and also sadness. Dan guessed she was well into her eighties, possibly her nineties.

  He sat opposite her in an easy chair. There was a TV which she switched off and just above it a wide window which gave a view of the moors beyond the swaying bare branches of the trees. He could hear the wind in the roof above. Kath made them a hot drink and, mercifully, she left.

  “This is a hard place to find,” said Dan.

  “It’s a Christian residential home,” she said. “Most of the staff are believers and all the residents have a church background.”

  “Including you?”

  “Yes. I was deacon at the Baptist church in Belper for fifty years.” For one awful moment, he wondered if she had anything to do with Widdowson. Dan decided not to ask in case it soured the conversation and she clammed up. “I served in the church up at St. Vincent’s when I was a nurse there.”

  Now we’re getting somewhere, thought Dan.

  “That’s what I was going to ask you about.” Dan leaned forwards and was about to ask her about Reverend Fallon when she interrupted with her own question.

  “That’s not a local accent,” she said. “There are traces of Derbyshire in there though. Were you local?”

  “Yes. I was brought up in Scarsdale.”

  “What made you leave?”

  It’s a shithole, I had an insane mother, there’s no football team, take your pick, he thought. “I went to work in London.”

  “So why come back?”

  Bloody hell, she was the one who was supposed to be answering the questions.

  “My mother died. I came back to bury her. I’m going back in a couple of days.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. What did you say your name was again? I know most of the people from Scarsdale.”

  Dan had imagined he’d be interviewing a woman who would be happy to talk history. He’d not banked on a full-scale inquisition.

  “Daniel Hepworth.”

  She squinted. “Diane’s son. So, you’re Lindsey’s brother.”

  “Yes.”

  “I knew Lindsey. I looked after her in St. Brendan’s. She’s a nice girl.”

  Dan was taken aback. No one had described Lindsey like that before. People generally didn’t compliment or criticize his sister. They avoided talking about her other than to say what a shame it was that she’d turned out like that. In a strange way, Ann Prendergast reminded him of Alison.

  “So, I’m interested in asking you about your time up at St. Vincent’s. I understand you worked under Father Fallon?”

  “That was a long time ago. I was just a girl. I was still training to be a nurse then. Later, I ran the children’s ward at St. Vincent’s before managing St. Brendan’s. Most of my work was with St. Brendan’s.”

  “Did you know the patient’s Marianne Moore or Frank Abbott? Doctor Proctor?”

  “Proctor died before I started. This was in the fifties. The National Health Service was still young and it had all changed from what it had been before. As for Frank and Marianne, I didn’t directly work with them, but I knew about them.”

  “Did Fallon talk about how they ended up that way?”

  “What way?”

  “Lobotomised.”r />
  She angled her head and appeared to study him. “My my, you’re like a dog after a bone, aren’t you?”

  Dan frowned, stuck for words. “Well…um…”

  “Fallon never spoke about the patients that Proctor performed the brain surgery on. I heard it from the other nurses. Things were different then. They kicked and beat the patients. The weak given power over the mad. The awful things that went on. Like I said, things changed when St. Brendan’s opened. I oversaw the building of that place, and I wanted it to be different than St. Vincent’s. For a while, it was.”

  “Going back to the patients Proctor lobotomized. Did you ever hear them sing?”

  “Sing? What a strange thing to ask. Why are you asking all these questions?”

  “Me and my mate are writing a book about St. Vincent’s.”

  Ann peered at him, obviously studying his face. She was scanning him, and he felt it to be quite uncomfortable. She said nothing for quite a while and created a heavy silence in the room, disturbed only by the wind and rain outside. At last, she broke the silence.

  “Don’t lie to me, Daniel. I know you’re not writing a book.”

  Thirty-One

  Karl was just clearing the desk and was about to leave the museum and meet Dan when he heard the door downstairs open and footsteps thudding up the wooden stairs. As soon as he heard the rhythmic thudding, he knew this was trouble coming.

  Four men filed through the door, and their uneasy presence shattered the peace of the museum. Two of them he recognised. Widdowson and DCI Gould. The other two he’d never seen in his life. They were built like bouncers and made their threatening presence known. They regarded Karl with obvious contempt. One was a heavy-set black guy and the other was a squat solid dark-haired white man.

  Karl stood and said, “Can I help—” but was cut off when the black guy went up to him and yelled in his face.

  “Shut the fuck up!”

  “I only said—”

  “Shut your fucking mouth or I will break out your teeth, you cunt.” The guy pushed him roughly into the chair, and Karl knew he’d get a kicking if he stood up. The black guy looked around the museum. “What’s this then? Eh? Fuckin’ school project? Why don’t you get a proper job instead of sitting in here all day? And look at your fucking hair. You stinking fucking hippy cunt!”

  He bent down and stared Karl right in the face. Karl looked down, not daring to meet his gaze. Karl was terrified. Confused and terrified. He kept looking at the guys fists. They were huge. If he got it into his head to hit Karl with those fists…

  Karl risked a glance to the door, to see if exiting was an option. The man almost read his thoughts.

  “Don’t even think about it. You move from that chair and I’ll break your fuckin’ fingers one by one.” Just to prove he wasn’t lying, he seized Karl’s hand and bent his fingers back. Through the pain, he looked at Gould and Widdowson. Gould was smirking, Widdowson just looked bored.

  The guy let go of his fingers. Behind him, the other one had picked up a Roman vase.

  “How much is this worth?”

  Karl hesitated in answering. The black guy slapped him in the face, leaving a sharp sting. “The man asked you a question. Answer him.”

  “It’s worth nothing in itself, but it has a historical value beyond any price tag.”

  The second guy smashed it. Karl shot to his feet. “No!”

  The one who’d slapped his face rammed his fist into the curator’s stomach. Karl doubled over. At that point Gould coughed, and the thugs stepped back. He handed Karl a tissue, but Karl nodded his refusal from his bent over position, fighting for breath.

  “So, gentlemen. We’ve found this young man’s Achilles heel. This little kingdom is his pride and joy. This is police Sergeant Blenco,” he gestured to the black guy, “and this is DC Warren Stone. The last man they visited at my request is still in hospital. Brain damage, so I advise you comply with my requests.”

  “What do you want?” Karl gasped.

  “Ah ha. Now we get to it. He is willing to comply,” Gould spoke out loudly in mock jolliness. Widdowson pushed past him and grabbed Karl by the hair, pulling his head up sharply.

  “Who the hell are the choir? Eh? What does ‘choir’ mean?”

  “All the evidence is in there in the cabinet,” said Karl, wincing.

  Blenco stepped into the room and came out with the folder, pulling papers and photos out.

  “Who desecrated my church?” snarled Widdowson.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Was it Hepworth? Is he part of this choir?” Widdowson let go of his hair.

  “Dan? No. He’s as much in the dark as I am about it.”

  “There’s nothing but old photos and shit in this folder,” said Blenco, throwing it aside.

  “Why are you and Hepworth so interested in this choir?”

  Karl explained about the research he was doing. He gave a brief outline of Proctor’s activities and Fallon’s journal.

  “All very informative,” snarled Gould, “but that doesn’t tell us who the hell is going around trying to scare our clients.”

  “If you know who is behind this, you better start talking or by God I’ll let these lads break every bone in your body,” Gould warned.

  “I know who’s behind it,” Karl shouted.

  “Who are they? Where can we find them?” Widdowson was beginning to sound desperate.

  “The Ghost Choir. I’ve heard them. I’ve witnessed them manifest themselves.”

  “Ghost Choir? What’s that, some gang name? Some occult group?”

  “They are a supernatural manifestation. Come on, Widdowson. You believe in God, don’t you? They are the ghosts of this choir Proctor lobotomized. Can’t you see, they want something? Some reconciliation.”

  “You are a bloody idiot.” Widdowson turned to Gould. “He’s mental. He doesn’t know anything.”

  “Oh, I think he does,” grinned Gould. “He’s just covering up. Blenco, Stone.” Gould leaned over Karl and asked, “Those first two cases. What’s that in them? Looks like nautical equipment.”

  “It’s a telescope. 1786 from Oldthorpe house. Leave it alone.”

  “Smash it up. Let’s see if he talks then.”

  Blenco pulled over the case and it exploded in a shower of glass across the floor. He and Stone retrieved each item and destroyed it.

  “You’re no man of God!” he yelled to Widdowson. “You’re a round-head, a fucking vandal. You’re no better than Oliver Cromwell and his lunatics smashing effigies in cathedrals.”

  A second case exploded as it was toppled over. Gould was openly laughing.

  “I KNOW NOTHING!” Karl screamed as his life’s work and the work of previous curators who came before him was destroyed in minutes.

  “You know, I do believe he’s telling the truth,” said Gould.

  “For fuck’s sake!” shouted Widdowson. “We’re no nearer to finding these bastards than we were when we came in here.”

  Blenco strode up to Karl who was now on his feet hyperventilating with rage. He squared up to the thin, slight curator.

  “I want you to thank me for smashing up this collection of shit.” Blenco eyed him with a bully’s arrogance. “You will say ‘thank you, DC Blenco, for what you have done.’ Then, skinny boy, you’re going to get down on your knees and kiss my shitty shoes.”

  Karl sank to his knees before the hulking policeman. “Please, look, I’m begging you, on my knees, don’t smash anything else up.”

  “Shoe-kiss first, then thanks.” Blenco proffered his left foot out.

  “Fuck you,” said Karl quietly but loud enough for Blenco to hear. Karl’s fist shot out and landed straight in his balls.

  Blenco let out a yell and toppled over. From underneath the desk, Karl seized a sharpened World War I bayonet he kept there should anyone try to rob him. He realised he should have got it out as soon as this lot arrived, but he’d no
t had his wits about him then. As Blenco tried to get up, Karl caught him across the face with the blade. Then he was on his feet, the bayonet raised above his head, ready to bring it down on the copper.

  Gould and Stone piled into Karl with lightning speed and had him against the wall. The blade fell out of his hand and clattered to the floor.

  “He cut me!” Blenco whined in outrage. He fixed Karl with a glare. “Right, you’re gonna pay for that.”

  Gould and Stone held Karl against the wall as Blenco’s blows pummeled his thin body.

  Thirty-Two

  “Okay, Mrs. Prendergast…”

  “Ann. Call me Ann.”

  “Ann. Some strange things have been happening to me. And to other people and I think it’s connected to the lobotomized choir. You’re going to think me mad but it’s almost as if…well…the ghosts of the choir are…I don’t know…have something to say.”

  Ann leaned back in her chair. “Do you believe in God, Daniel?”

  “No. I do not.”

  “But you believe in ghosts?”

  “I don’t know what to believe. I know this, everyone I know who believes in God, apart from these two girls I knew at uni who went out feeding the homeless and that, have been total bastards as a people. Excuse my language.”

  “So, that’s your experience of religion then. Unfortunate. I’m not here to preach to you, you seem to have made your mind up about God. In that case, tell me exactly what’s been happening?”

  He told her everything. The bald man he’d seen twice by the river, his intrusion into the house. Karl’s story of his encounter with the choir up at St. Vincent’s. He told her about the attack on his fiancé and finished with the story of the attack on Widdowson. She became uneasy when he mentioned Widdowson which made him wonder what dealings she’d had with him.

  “You do not look like the sort of man who would make this sort of thing up,” she said when he’d finished. “I saw strange things up at the asylum. Heard noises from empty rooms but, then again, it is a very disturbed place. As if the awful things that happened there stay in the walls and the brickwork.”