That night he spent in the roofing van, again. He had made it quite comfortable by now, with a mattress of roofing felt and some old towels for a pillow. But it was not home, and he was alone, and vans can't testify on your behalf.
It didn't take long for the dickheads at Burton Police Station to reach their foreskin conclusion – Ken Kavanagh was the culprit. No shred of a doubt. They had diligently interviewed the sect members who could all recall that fateful morning when mad Ken had attacked them in their minibus. The closed circuit television from the filling station had shown how he had swerved into their path and threatened them. By all accounts he had grabbed the said Swan by the neck and promised to kill him. He had been true to his word. Another Kavanagh. It obviously ran in the family. Pull him in.
So it was that poor Kenneth Kavanagh had been arrested, once he had climbed down from the roof he was working on, and taken into custody.
Had he been taken in for questioning in a big city, London, or Milton Keynes, he may have been ushered into a modern room, with state of the art technology, designer furniture and a neat two-way mirror. A psychologist, probably female, would have been present, and an interpreter had he preferred to express himself in Kurdish. But at Burton Police Station it was the classic wooden table, uncomfortable chairs, three world weary, surly plain clothed detectives and a uniformed copper at the door scenario. The interrogation lasted for hours, mainly because he simply refused to cooperate and insisted on his innocence. How much easier it would be for everyone if he could just own up to it. Then we could all go home, or wherever, and get some rest. But no, he had to keep up this pathetic charade. It went something like this.
‘OK, let's run over it all one more time. And remember, you're being filmed. Now, where were you at 11.15 p.m. on the night of Thursday the 17th ?’
They all held their breath. Would he change his mind this time and confess? Or would they all have to go over his ridiculous excuses once more?
‘I was sleeping in my van.’
Oh dear, here we go again. Bastard. It's going to be a long night.
They supplied him with excellent motives for his terrible crime, explained to him exactly how he had planned it, his mental processes as he had thrust the deadly weapon into Johnny Eagle's chest, his comprehensible self-justification, as if they genuinely wanted to help him through this traumatic experience. They knew how he had been thinking and why. They were experts and had seen, believe me, so, so much, they understood just about all there is to know about the mystery of human nature, they were not there to judge. All they asked in return was a little co-operation. To make it even easier they spelled it out for him, taking it clumsily in turns to talk, like at an award winning ceremony.
There's been a lot f talk about your Dad, a lot of mud slinging. Now who's to blame for all that, eh?
That sect of your brother's, right? Because if he hadn't.... done what he did, then nobody would have been any the wiser. But you can't harm your own flesh and blood, now can you?
So you take it out on the man behind the expansion of this cult thing.
Yes, Mr. Swan as he is, or rather was, known. You think that if you do away with the driving force behind the sect things may just die down a bit and you can all live in peace again.
So removing this man is, in a way, a generous act. More importantly, your father's name is not taken in vain, if you'll excuse the expression. That's why you attacked him at the petrol station, isn't it? But there were too many witnesses, eh? So you prepare things a little better, you wait till he's alone.
You know his new address because your brother told you, didn't he?
So you follow him and kill him. That's why you were not at home that night, because you had a job to do, and a knife to get rid of, and some blood stains to clean up. Could hardly just go back home, could you?
Or.
Got a spot of domestic bother so we understand. You're a violent type, too, by all accounts. Maybe you'd like to hurt your wife, or your children, or both. But maybe you can't bring yourself to harm your own family, maybe you decided to go ahead with your threats and kill this Swan character as a substitute for not being able to kill your wife.
Or.
Your father did some very nasty things to a young lady here in Burton, or so they say, so maybe you didn't want to be any less, eh? Following in your father's footsteps, eh?
Poor Ken shook his head at this cheap psychology, shouted 'no' to all the perverse accusations, stood up in outrage and tried to grab a fat sneery one by the neck when he had said that about the kids, which seemed to please them. Why would I want to kill him? You tell us. I am NOT a murderer. We only have your word for that. He denied it all over and over again, but they insisted.
One last try. Which testimony would you like to sign? Silence.
His wife and family would be informed, a toilet bag and a change of clothes would be obtained. In custody he would remain.
Ron had lost his fight against fear. He had tried to remain positive, to put on a brave face, to clench his teeth and his fists, to gnaw and claw his way forward. But it was just too much. The rubber man who always bounced back, the dog with a bone, the relentless fighter who would rather die than..... just too much.
Because it is not every day your younger brother cuts off his balls and proclaims himself to be the new messiah. It is not every day your father is accused, on prime time TV, of being a sadistic rapist. Without the chance to defend himself. It is not every day your car is attacked, your innocent neutral car, right outside your own home. It is not every day your only other brother is accused of murder.
Daphne, take the wheel. Please.
Poor Daphne, she was frightened to the marrow, too. Not for a second did she believe Ken had murdered Mr. Swan. Yes, he was aggressive, and would no doubt have punched him in a brawl, have insulted him with that foul mouth of his. But stab him to death? Neatly, quickly, in cold blood? And with no alibi? Nonsense. Which was worse. Because it meant the killer was still at large. Which meant that she and her husband might also be on his list. But as the police thought they had the killer.......
And now Ronald has reached the end of his tether. Strange, she'd never seen him like this before. Defeated. By events out of his control, granted, but defeated nonetheless. Now he had no initiative, had virtually given up acting, made no frantic phone calls, no more 'to do' lists. He limited himself to locking doors and staring out of the upstairs window. He answered her morosely, as if his destiny were already sealed, so what was the point of fleeing, of kicking up a fuss?
Luckily for Ron, and for all concerned really, Daphne was one of those remarkable women that grow in adversity. Despite her shiny handbags and pursed lips Daphne, née Davidson, was 'capable'. It ran in the family. Beneath that superficial veneer of snobbery and obsessive tidiness lay a woman who, though scared witless, was prepared to join battle with the devil himself.
So it was that with trembling hands Daphne Kavanagh (surname only through marriage) slipped into the driver's seat, readjusted the mirrors, checked her hair and her lipstick. Now that Advanced Driving course she had taken would come in very handy indeed.
‘A lawyer. The best. Give me the number. I'll phone.’
Ron, being a former local politician, knew scores of lawyers - they were his legal bodyguards. He scoured the list for one specialised in criminal cases. Meanwhile Daphne got in touch with a private security company. If the murderers wanted their pound of flesh they'd have to sweat for it.
Jonathan Stanley Eagle, Mr. Swan and Johnny Incognito were buried in a ceremony as grey and uninviting as the word Protestant. The family had preferred cremation, but until the trial was over that was out of the question. His mother and her new man, his father and his third wife, and his elder sister from Scotland attended. Done and dusted in less than an hour. See you at the next one. Maybe.
The Sect had decided unanimously that this was the perfect occasion to create their own funeral rites. It would be a homage to
one of the founding members, a tradition would be born. The Swan's flight to heaven. Poetic, graceful, free. Rani and Diamond took it upon themselves to arrange it all, as their spiritual leader was temporarily absent, at least psychically.
Officially Paul was meditating. It was universally accepted that he could meditate longer and harder than anyone else in the sect, and that his meditation was of a higher quality than that of the mere disciples. They thought he probably got in touch with the Universe and reached Conclusions. He was not to be disturbed.
In reality he was riddled with doubt. Mr. Swan dead. Stabbed to death. And Ken had done it. Or had he? No. Of course not. Or had he? You never know what's going on inside another's mind. Was he like father, like son? Did things really run in the family? If so, why wasn't he, or Ron, like that? No, it couldn't have been Ken. But then who....? Then again he had attacked Mr. Swan at the petrol station, everybody had seen it, and the police are no fools.
Had he been right to seek atonement? Was his cause a just one? Why did he only seem to cause pain and suffering when he so dearly wanted everyone to live in peace and forgiveness. That's what it was all about – forgiveness. Hence the gesture, hence the sacrifice. That's what Mr. Swan would have wanted, isn't it? The mystery of his hidden testicles? To save that poor girl. Because it was dad. It had to have been Dad.
The problem was that when Paul was distraught he had trouble thinking straight for too long. His mind got muddled and he tended to repeat himself, or forget how he had reached that point in his thought process. Then he would try to retrace it back to the beginning, only to get sidetracked once more. Sometimes he thought he had done things that had really happened to others. Sometimes he forgot what he had said earlier and contradicted himself. He had taken a lot of drugs over the years, and they had taken their toll. So he started all over again. Time was on his side if nothing else.
Two days after the burial service, the Sect held their very own funeral for Mr. Swan. A world première. It was filmed and placed on the internet so that people could watch it in Japan and Chile. It was quite a success, being viewed by thousands of web surfers shopping round for a new-generation faith. The ceremony itself was no great shakes, being a pot-pourri of mumbled prayer, flowers, ethnic music and trance like dancing, and of course there was no corpse present, but it had worked.. The word was spreading, the Sect was growing.
So who killed Mr. Swan? Some of you may think you already know the answer to that, but as the Burton police have shown us, it is best not to jump to conclusions. The Mortons? Not directly.
Certainly we cannot blame the overworked detectives for not thinking of the family of the victim of the rape case that took place eighteen years ago. They are fumbling around in the dark and don't have access to all the information available. They have neither the time nor the resources to follow every single lead. They have enough on their plate.
As well as a prime suspect.
So far the Mortons had remained off the radar. The rape victim's sister's family did not raise suspicion, was not a line of investigation, was not even considered. There was a tacit agreement to leave the poor woman alone, she had been through enough, and after so much time what was the point? Her sister's family never came into it.
Mr. Morton, ex army, was furious. He grabbed Danny by the neck as he entered the hall and held him up against the recently wallpapered wall, a few inches off the floor so he began to choke.
‘Are you fucking mad? Are you fucking mad?’
The second 'mad' was accompanied by a thump of his head against the wall. Danny took it like a man, as he had leant to do throughout his childhood. It was better that way, lasted less. You kept your honour and were back in the good books in no time for having reacted correctly under duress. He held his father's gaze. There was a tense moment whilst the two stared at each other like fighting stags with their antlers tangled. Eventually Chris let his son go.
‘It wasn't me, Dad. And you know it.’
Which was almost true. Chris Morton had been truly shocked to hear about Mr. Swan's death. Not because he felt it as any great loss for humanity, but because he couldn't imagine who it could have been if it wasn't one of his offspring. They were up to it, the boys at least, or so he thought. But to go off and just do it without consulting? Unthinkable. Unless they were growing up, unless he had a problem on the discipline front, unless that fucking Danny.....
So he had decided to lie in wait for Danny. Trudy was working at the Estate Agents. The other two were at school, or at least supposed to be. Catherine would be floating around the house like a ghost somewhere, but that didn't matter. It was for her sake anyway. Father and son would thrash this out together. If Danny had done it, the fewer people that knew the better.
‘It wasn't you? Then who the fuck was it? Who the fuck gives a toss about that smarmy weirdo?’
He had never met or seen Mr. Swan before, but he had a vivid picture of him in his imagination. Which strangely enough was not far off the mark.
‘It wasn't me, Dad, and you know it.’
He drove the point home as he had seen its effectiveness. It worked, and his father backed off into the spotless, softly furnished living room.
‘Alright, alright. So, who was it? 'Cos you know, don't you, you little bastard. I know you know, and you're going to tell me, right? Come on. Who?’
Danny went sullen. He was in a dilemma. Yes, he knew who it was, but he had sworn not to tell anyone, ever. And you don't make a promise like that too lightly, not to someone crazy enough to knife a stranger to death as a 'favour'. But he couldn't hide it from his Dad, either, not for long. That would be impossible, the harassment would be constant and would increase in intensity by the minute. He would tell eventually, or die in the process. Unsure what to do, he did nothing.
His father saw his predicament and sympathised. Loyalty was top on his list too. But he was his father, so cut the crap and spit it out, or else.
‘You've got two minutes, starting now.’
He used them up, staring at his boots while his Dad stood over him, ticking off the seconds. Time's up.
‘Well? Come on, you know your secret's safe with me. I'm a tomb, a dead man. Who was it?’
‘Bobby Hornsby’
‘God help us!’
The acronym SMS, short message service, is a relative newcomer to world language. Its creators were lucky to have been able to use these initials at all, because SMS was about to come into common usage over a hundred years ago. It finally lost out to SOS. Dot, dot , dot, dash, dash dash, dot , dot, dot is now universally accepted as the international distress signal, Save Our Souls. You can flash a torch, tap it out on radiators, blast the tune on your horn, it is instantly recognised. However not many people know that this was originally intended to read Save My Soul, much nearer the truth, and also shorter, the letter M being designated only two dashes, not three as in the letter S. But diplomacy prevailed, the 'My' was changed to 'Our', solidarity was imposed, selfishness suppressed, primitive survival instincts corrected. Thereby leaving room for future inventions.
Save my soul, sorry, save our souls, was, is, the normal reaction in times of disaster. Ron had thought of his crushed ambitions, of his own demise. Daphne of her safety and the enormity of the task in hand. Paul of guilt, justice and salvation. It was only much later that they stopped and wondered how Jill and her two children were managing under these tragic circumstances. Or how Ken was bearing up in custody. And the fact that this delay is natural and recurrent was no comfort to one side of the Kavanagh family. They felt abandoned.
Ken was incommunicado. He could contact a lawyer, he was told, but he wasn't his big brother and he didn't have a choice of buffets. One would be assigned. Until then, nothing. No inquiries, no visits, nothing. He had disappeared into the bowels of Burton Police Station and been forgotten. The only contact he had was with his interrogators and the warders. Not much of a social gathering. More than anything he wanted to see the kids, little Susan and Rob
bie, though not here, not behind bars. Jill he had no desire to see; he couldn't help but blame her obliquely.
Jill was staying with her mother. The police had turned the house upside down and would probably do so again over the weeks. They had interviewed her, naturally, but she had not had to go to the Police Station. Two very young detectives, one of each sex, had questioned her in the kitchen. They had been very understanding in a clumsy, official, form-filling way, and had ruffled the kids' hair in an awkward attempt at compassion. Then they had left her to clear up the mess. Ken wouldn't have phoned even if he'd been allowed. No news from Ron or Daphne. Not a sausage from mad Paul. Not even a ring from Dr. Flynch, which was odd. Back to Mum's, again.
So when Ron and Paul did eventually get in touch, they realised that their initial self-centred attitude would be taken down and used against them. To make amends they came bearing gifts. From Ron and Daphne a calling card and an appointment with one of the best solicitors on their books, Dennis Quigley of Quigley and Woo Associates. An expensive gesture on their part, but according to them 'the least we could do'. They were well on the road to forgiveness. Nothing much was expected from Paul, perhaps some commiseration, a show of belief in his brother's innocence, a prayer. But once again he managed to surprise everyone: he had a job offer. Yes, for Jill. He understood she must be in Skint Street now her wage earning husband, estranged husband, was being held for questioning indefinitely. Well Paul had lost not only a founding member, a guiding light, but also a treasurer. Someone had to take control of finances, someone he could trust, someone in need of a job, someone spiritual at heart? Flattered, she accepted.