‘And Tony Blair?’
Tom smiled. ‘There you go, arguably another cold-blooded bastard. In fact the world of politics is an even more fertile place for them to flourish; more so than the world of business. Even the worlds of sport, fashion and celebrities attract sociopaths to the very top, like bees to honey. I imagine, flipping through the glossy pages of Hello!, Heat and OK! magazines, the majority of those perfect, sun-tanned, smiling faces have got where they are by happily trampling on the shoulders of others.’
Tom leaned forward. ‘Let me put it to you this way, Julian. I wonder how many of them would be prepared to quietly stick the knife into someone in their way? Hmm? A competitor, a rival . . . a particularly nasty critic?’
Julian nodded. ‘Sure, I suppose.’
‘How far would they go to hang on to their fame and success? Here’s a question for you. How many celebrities do you think would actually kill to keep their status or climb further, if they knew they could get away with it? Hmm?’
Tom’s voice had begun to grow wheezy. He reached for his inhaler and took another puff whilst Julian dwelled on that idea for a moment. The thought of those endless supermarket celebrity magazines being populated by a procession of potential serial killers left him feeling decidedly uneasy.
‘Let me ask you,’ Tom continued, ‘whom would you kill to ensure you hung on to this particular story?’
‘What?’
‘Would you kill me if I threatened to pick up the phone on my desk here, ring the editor of the Mirror and totally blow your scoop?’ Tom’s beefy hand reached teasingly across towards his desk phone and picked it up.
‘No, of course I wouldn’t. But I’d be really flippin’ pissed off with you if you did!’ Julian answered testily.
Tom’s laugh filled the small office as he put the phone back down in its cradle. ‘There you go then. You’re not one of them. You lack the killer instinct, my friend.’ He smiled. ‘That’s what makes you one of the good guys.’
‘Very funny,’ Julian mumbled irritably.
Tom gestured at his pad full of notes. ‘This chap Preston strikes me as the type who would easily kill to see out his goal - which, from what Lambert writes, seems like an attempt to rebrand the Mormon faith in his own way, casting himself in the role of prophet.’ He stroked his chin in thought. ‘A man like that would kill again, and again, and again. Maybe by his own hand but, just as likely, by getting into the heads of his followers and having them do his dirty work.’
‘You’re not a big fan of the religious type, are you?’
He laughed. ‘You kidding? The underbelly of religious fanaticism is thick on the ground with narcissistic freaks. Rasputin, Tomas de Torquemada, most of the early popes, the crusade-era popes . . . Innocent III, who decreed a crusade against other Christians, never mind Muslims; the imams who groom children to blow themselves to pieces. If ever you wanted a definition of hell, Julian, it’s the inner landscape of minds like these.
‘A messianic narcissistic sociopath.’ Tom smiled. ‘My phrase, by the way. You can use it in your documentary if you want. Just make sure to attribute the quote to me.’
Julian nodded. ‘I’ll make certain.’
‘Yes,’ added Tom, looking back down at his notes, ‘very nasty, very manipulative and very dangerous people.’
CHAPTER 48
Wednesday
Wimbledon, London
Sean Holmwood tossed the stick for Watson out across Wimbledon Common and watched the labrador chase after it, kicking up flecks of mud behind him as he tore across the well-tended grass towards the spinney - an acre of mixed trees, most of them bare and patiently awaiting winter, a few of them hanging on to the last of their golden leaves.
Normally, taking Watson for his evening walk was a daily chore that his wife was happy to do, but this evening he had volunteered as soon as he came home, grabbing the lead and setting out with Watson eagerly pulling all the way.
Sean needed some thinking time. Julian Cooke’s project sounded intriguing.
Watson returned with the stick wedged in his teeth, flecks of saliva across his muzzle. He dropped it at Sean’s feet and sat obediently.
‘Good boy,’ Sean muttered perfunctorily as he scooped it up and tossed it as far as he could towards the spinney.
It seemed Julian had landed on his feet with this find. From what Sean had been told of the story, and from the compilation of fantastically moody footage he had seen on the laptop, there was easily the makings of an hour’s worth of fine-looking documentary. But Julian was quite right to be thinking bigger. This could also be written up as a docu-drama; there were film rights and book rights that could be sold on the back of it. The Mormon angle of the story was also very intriguing. With increasing media attention being focused on the wildcard Mormon independent presidential candidate, William Shepherd, there was a topical relevance to this story.
He looked up at the darkening sky. It was near six, and the dull glow of a drab October day was fast fading.
Watson’s walk was going to be a short one this evening. Sean wanted to get back and put together some notes. If he wanted to fast-track an editorial decision, he needed to sell the project internally. Tonight he’d put together a sales pitch, which he would float across a few desks first thing in the morning.
Watson returned with the stick, and this time Sean tossed it hard into the undergrowth of the spinney.
Let him work off some energy rooting around for it in there.
The labrador hurled himself in amongst the trees in hot pursuit, kicking up fallen leaves and twigs in his wake.
Sean pulled a small plastic freezer baggie out of his pocket and shoved his hand in, pulling it back over his wrist so it was like a glove. He grimaced slightly, still not entirely used to the unpleasant task of scooping up a warm one.
Watson should be just about ready to deliver the goods.
He heard the dog scampering around in amongst the trees and bushes, cracking twigs under-paw and gruffing and growling with frustration looking for the correct branch.
Sean felt a tingle of excitement at the prospect of taking off with this project. Julian’s pitch had sold it, but then seeing Rose’s showreel - moody footage of thick and dark woods, mist undulating through the trees, the haunted feel of a clearing in the woods, the moss-covered humps, the slow and steady zoom-in on the rotting wood of a wagon wheel . . .
‘Marvellous stuff,’ he muttered to himself.
Up ahead, deep amongst the undergrowth, he could hear Watson still scampering about like an idiot.
He laughed quietly - a truly thick dog.
Come on, dummy, one stick’s just as good as another.
Yes, tomorrow morning Sean would get the ball rolling and return to Julian with a firm offer within a day. They needed to be quick. Whilst there was a good working relationship between them, he was certain Julian wouldn’t walk away from a better offer, elsewhere. After all, money’s mon—
Watson yelped.
‘Watson? Here boy!’ Sean called out.
It was silent across the manicured lawns, except for the rustling of a light breeze through the branches and dry leaves, and the distant rumble of traffic around the three distant sides of the common.
‘Watson?’ he called out with a sing-song timbre that usually brought the daft dog to him. ‘Here boy!’
Nothing.
Sean felt a prickling of concern. Watson never, ever ignored him like that. He half walked, half jogged over towards the edge of the spinney and looked inside for the telltale flash of his chestnut-coloured coat in amongst the foliage.
There was no sign of him.
‘Watson?’
He took several quick steps forward, off the well-clipped grass onto a thickening mat of dead, crispy leaves, twigs, acorn husks and conker shells. Sean wasn’t terribly keen on stepping too much further inside. He turned to look back out at the common. There were a few people around; a couple roller-blading along one of the tarmac paths, anothe
r two or three dog owners walking their dogs, a group of teenagers chatting on a bench several hundred yards away.
He wasn’t exactly alone, but in the gathering gloom of early evening, he might as well be.
‘Watson! Dammit! Come here!’
Shit.
It was on Wimbledon Common not so long ago that a woman had been stabbed to death by a care-in-the-community type, a lost and tormented man who’d been convinced that every blonde-haired woman was an agent of Satan, coming to extract his soul and take it down to the underworld.
Sean instinctively reached down and fumbled for a twig big enough to call a branch and grabbed hold of it. It felt reassuring in his hand.
Just in case.
Emboldened, he advanced further in, pushing through a thorny bush that effectively obscured him from view to those few people out on the common. Something must have happened to Watson if he wasn’t answering. Perhaps he had found a rabbit hole and taken a tumble, or run headlong into a tree trunk and stunned himself; he was that stupid a dog.
Or maybe he’d found a bitch willing to take the silly old bugger on.
‘Watson!’ he called out again.
There was a rustling to one side of him and the dull, muffled crack of an acorn underfoot - it sounded very much like someone shifting weight from one foot to another.
‘Okay, who the fuck’s in here?’ Sean called out, hoping his polished boardroom voice sounded more menacing than it did to him.
The rustling ceased immediately, but somehow that made it seem a million times worse. Sean sensed that this was the moment he ought to back quietly out of the trees, past the bush and onto the common and walk away without his dog.
‘Watson!’ he called out once more, ‘I’m going, you stupid hound!’ He had turned round to head out of the undergrowth towards the open green when he heard movement in front of him.
His eyes picked out a dark silhouette against the edge of the spinney and the darkening grey sky beyond. Any further detail was lost to the last of the early-evening light, but unmistakably it was a man wearing a hood.
‘Yes?’ he said, and then as an afterthought, ‘Can I help you?’
The silhouette remained perfectly still.
‘You after some money?’
‘No,’ a dry voice answered.
Stay calm, Sean cautioned himself. Control the situation.
‘My dog came in here. Did you see him?’
The man advanced a step forward. ‘You spoke with someone I’ve been watching.’
Sean shrugged. ‘I’ve spoken to a lot of people today.’
‘You spoke to him about a story in America.’
Playing dumb probably wasn’t going to help. ‘How do you know about that? Who are you?’
The silhouette was silent. ‘What the hell do you want?!’
‘I’m here to tidy things up,’ said the man.
CHAPTER 49
25 October, 1856
This morning, for the first time, I sense the others looking at us with distrust. I don’t know whether they have collectively discussed who or what killed Dorothy, Sam and Mr Hearst, and decided it is one of us, or whether they each privately harbour that suspicion, but I can see it in the quick, wary glances, the shortest possible exchange of pleasantries with us.
Keats spoke of Mr Larkin, their butcher, not wanting to work alongside Mr Bowen. And visiting Emily’s shelter this morning, I was silently watched by a group of five men gathered around their breakfast fire; watched intently. Moments after entering and talking with Mrs Zimmerman, Mr Vander stuck his head in and made it clear I was to check on her as quickly as possible, then leave.
I do wonder whether—
A buffeting wind shook and rattled the creaking wooden framework of their shelter, whilst the flap over their entrance, tied down against the gusting wind, rustled and whipped, complaining like a tethered dog. A blizzard was coming down almost horizontally, small, dry, sand-like beads of ice that stung against bare skin.
Above the rumpling thud of wind, he heard a muffled voice.
‘Mr Lambert?’
He recognised it as Preston.
‘Yes?’
‘A word, if you don’t mind.’
‘Uh, yes, of course.’ Ben closed his inkpot and put away his journal before readying himself to step outside.
‘I’ll come in,’ said Preston. Ben saw fingers work on the tie, and a moment later the wind whipped it open. Snow hurled in, chased by a vicious, biting blast of freezing air. Preston stooped down low, pushed his way through the flap and settled down on his haunches inside, securing the flap once more.
‘Are we alone?’ he asked quietly, squinting in the dark interior.
‘Mr Keats and Broken Wing are foraging for wood with some others.’
‘Good. I wished to speak to you in private.’
Ben felt his skin run cold, realising he was alone with someone who might just be capable of violent murder and barbaric mutilation.
He’d not do something to me here, now, surely?
Unlikely as that was, he found his hand subconsciously reaching for the handle of his hunting knife, tucked away under his poncho in his belt.
‘What do you wish to talk about?’
‘I . . . find the discomfort of my injury is continuing to be unbearable and I would like to take with me a complete bottle of your medication, that I need not keep bothering you to personally administer it.’
‘Well, it is no bother,’ Ben lied, his mind recalling the openly hostile glances he had drawn earlier this morning, approaching the Dreyton shelter.
‘That’s as may be. However, there are those amongst my people who would rather your party remain, from now on, on your side of the camp.’
‘Mr Preston, I think I should advise you that this medication is really best only prescribed a few times. There are unfortunate side-effects that can occur when used repeatedly.’
Preston’s face hardened. ‘Make no mistake, Lambert, I do need this medication. The discomfort is such that I am unable to lead prayers and services. My people need me to be strong more than ever now. Not for me to be laid up as invalid.’
Ben nodded. ‘Yes, well, I can continue to give it to you, but I think it’s best that I measure it out for you.’
‘I can manage well enough with the measuring.’
‘But it requires a steady reduction in measure, to ensure—’
‘Lambert!’
Ben hushed. There was a brittle anger in his voice that sounded like the fracturing of dangerously thin ice over a deep rushing river.
‘I will have a bottle . . . if you please.’
Ben could see something in the stern glare of his deep-set eyes.
‘You understand, I could return here with several of my men, and help myself to all of your medicines . . . don’t you?’
‘Y-yes, I . . . I suppose you could.’
‘There are those who think the butchering of our people was your handiwork, Lambert. They know you have training as a doctor and would have skill with a surgeon’s tools.’
‘What?’
‘There are those who think you were becoming unnaturally close with young Samuel.’
‘Unnaturally?’
Preston managed a humourless, predatory smile. ‘That’s what some of them are saying.’
‘But . . . but, what are they . . . what do they mean by tha—?’
‘I’ve overheard some of my men suggest you might have been rejected by Samuel. That you became enraged.’
‘And what? I killed him?’
Preston nodded. ‘And his mother. That Mr Hearst intervened, and that you took your surgeon’s knife to him too.’
‘That’s crazy!’
‘As for myself ’ - Preston’s smile softened slightly - ‘I don’t see that kind of evil in you. You are godless and arrogant; for that you are eternally doomed. But what I don’t see before me is a murderer.’
‘Then you must tell the others that!’
‘And
I must have my medicine,’ he replied.
Preston stared in silence at him, whilst outside the wind buffeted and whistled impatiently, eager to get in.
‘I see,’ said Ben.
‘Good.’
The understanding was passed in silence. Ben turned around and rummaged in his medicine bag, a moment later producing a stoppered dark green glass bottle. ‘I have only this last bottle of the laudanum. That’s it.’
Preston reached for it, but Ben held it back.
‘Mr Preston, do please be aware of what this tonic can do. In some it can stimulate alarming visions, and an increasing dependency—’
‘I have had many visions before now.’
‘Visions of God?’
‘Yes. He comes to me, talks with me.’
‘Only he doesn’t, does he?’ whispered Ben, immediately regretting it.
Preston looked sharply up at him - a look that chilled Ben to the core.
That was very, very stupid.
‘You heard the things Dorothy heard?’ he asked.
Ben nodded. ‘Dorothy came to me, the night before she died.’
‘And what did she tell you?’
He wondered how much more to reveal. ‘That she had lost her faith in you.’
‘I see.’ Preston’s jaw set. ‘And you think I saw to it she was killed?’
Ben refused to respond. He found his hand tightening around the handle of his knife once more. Whether he’d be able to use it was another matter.
‘I loved her, Lambert. I loved her more than any of my followers. And I loved her children, too. They were mine.’
‘You . . . you mean, what? You were Sam’s father?’
Preston nodded. ‘And Emily’s. In fact, many of the children in my church are mine. I would never allow any of them to be hurt. My people know that.’
‘The other men, the “fathers”, they know this?’
‘Of course. They understand this as our way. I am the closest to God - on this evil world - the closest living soul to God. Who else would you rather have seed your child?’
Ben shook his head. ‘They . . . they would turn on you, wouldn’t they? They’d turn on you if they knew.’