The vicar was more of a lost cause than the congregation
whose good shepherd he tried to be. He was always thankful for Tuesday nights.
His own spiritual strife dominated his life and Tuesday night spent on his
knees was his chance to build up enough strength to carry on.
The vicar would have been mortified if he’d known that Edith
had pleaded with the Bishop to send Frederick somewhere where he could actively
save souls that wanted to be saved. Edith had started to save out of the
housekeeping in order that one day Mr Parsnip could go to Africa and make
himself useful there since he did not seem able to rescue many lost souls in
Upper Grumpsfield, a village full of godless individuals not looking for the
God Frederick worshipped.
The Bishop had tried his best to advise Edith, realizing
that her need was actually more desperate than that of her husband. “Find
something to do that’s just for you personally,” he’d advised, patting her hand
and wishing he could take things further with her.
Edith was duty-bound to keep the vicarage organized and the
vicar up and running unless something drastic happened. Her fate was sealed and
Frederick never even noticed. The trouble was that Frederick Parsnip was a good
man. He saw only the good in others, too, and got stressed when he perceived
things were not going well somewhere.
The vicar settled into the third row pew he always used for
meditating. There was a red velvet cushion on it, which he could use for
kneeling on the little plank screwed onto the back of every pew in every C. of
E. church he had ever visited. The cushion he referred had belonged to old Mrs
Garner, who had run the local cake shop until her death. She had not taken the
cushion with her, of course, and no one had collected it. Mr Parsnip later learnt
that there was no one left to collect it.
Mrs Garner had run the cake shop on her own and the
customers were her family. Her baking was for them. Life outside baking and
serving her cakes consisted of hours watching TV and talking to herself. Her
only books were on baking and her waking hours often included pouring over
their pages looking for recipes that would bring gastronomic joy and sweetened happiness
to her customers.
Mrs Garner was sorely missed in Upper Grumpsfield. Or was it
the cakes that were missed? Had anyone thought of Mrs Garner when they weren’t
eating her excellent cakes? Or had they just gone away and thought of other
things? That would be normal, Mr Parsnip decided, but was it really normal? Did
people only exist for what they could do? These melancholy thoughts were
accompanied by guilt that he, too, had thought of Mrs Garner only as the baker
of good cakes and never asked himself what she did or thought when she wasn’t
administering to her sweet-toothed ‘flock’.
Kneeling on Mrs Garner’s red cushion now, and thanking the
Lord that his knees were comfortable, he did not hear anything except his own
prayer that Mrs Garner was now somewhere nice and would God make sure he looked
after everyone that he, the vicar and thus a close but overworked
representative, could not care for after death.
The church was poorly lit. At night, no light shone through
the ornate windows with their stained-glass versions of the miracles. Nothing
could have warned him of the tremendous blow to his head and neck, administered
from behind. The man of God fell forward, caught by the pew in front. He was
not conscious of anything now. The blow and tumble had knocked him out of this
life and it remained to be seen whether they had knocked him into the next one.
The deliverer of the heavy blow walked nonchalantly out of
the church. He, too, had a routine. His routine consisted of clearing away any
impediments, and since in this case it included any barrier to his access to
Anna, he had also been called upon to conduct a quick search of the unconscious
vicar’s pockets.
The vicarage door key was all he needed. He knew exactly
what would come next. He would get into the vicarage and obtain something
belonging to Anna. Armed with the DNA results he would claim her as his child.
What he would then do with her was not clear in his mind. Mrs Singleton was,
thanks to his instinct for self-preservation, no longer able to assist him, but
he was confident that he would find a use for the child.
***
Gary was still sitting in the vicarage kitchen with Sybil.
It was mutual desire at first sight. They did not hold hands. There was no
sentimentality at all. One of them would get up to replenish their coffee cups
now and again. Then they would go back to sitting and talking about themselves
in quiet voices. They would make their way to Gary’s car soon, where they would
have sex. Gary was not thinking of Cleo at that moment. Sylvia was bringing out
his sex-drive. She knew how to deal with men and she was genuinely attracted to
Gary and thought he must be a good lover. It would be nice just to be desired
and offer herself without thoughts of remuneration. She would enjoy that.
All the other house occupants had gone to bed.
The couple were too involved with one another to hear the
front door being unlatched. They did not hear the intruder creeping in and
making for the staircase. Akbari was nearly half way up them when the lights
went on and a slight, pyjamaed figure holding what looked like a genuine shot
gun shouted “Gotcha! Hold’em up!”
Akbari was startled by the sudden brightness and by the
kid’s shouting. From the kitchen Gary could hear Bertram squealing “Hands up or
I’ll push you down the stairs with this!”
Albert, at 11 the eldest of the Parsnip boys, called to
Bertram, at 10 years the plumper and somewhat less agile of the two, to go
ahead and poke Akbari with the fire tongs with which he had had the foresight
to arm himself before retiring to a game of war with the shadows in his room.
Bertram dangled precariously over the balustrade jabbing and poking with the
‘weapon’. Watching the kid balancing on his tummy with much of his weight
hanging free, Akbari lost his balance and fell backwards onto Gary, who had
managed to tear himself away from Sybil and run into the hall.
“Good lads!” called Gary, wondering how and why Akbari had
got in and realizing that two small boys had got it right while he had been
turtling with his new dove.
“Take the belt of my dressing-gown,” Bertram shouted,
dropping it from the landing into Sybil’s hands.
Gary overpowered the astonished Akbari and Sybil tied his
hands tightly behind his back.
Sybil and Akbari looked at one another with nothing short of
astonishment. Akbari had not reckoned with Sybil, and Sybil had been reassured
that she had nothing to fear at the vicarage.
The doorbell rang and Sybil opened the door for her. Barbara
Fielding expected to keep watch over the sleeping family. She immediately
grasped the situation. Being in uniform, she also had handcuffs with her. They
were added to the dressing-gown cord. Akbari did not struggle.
“The game’s up,” shouted Albert. “I don’t let strangers get
up the stairs.”
He didn’t know what a coup he had made, mused Gary.
“No, we don’t,” said Bertram with strong emphasis on the
word ‘we’.
Akbari spat.
Sybil went to stand in front of him.
“You’ve never behaved decently before,” she told him. “Just
behave yourself now!”
Barbara rang for a patrol car and it was barely minutes
before one arrived. Greg, a keen and skilful combat enthusiast, would have no
trouble getting Akbari to a security cell. He would sit in the back and Nigel
would drive. Nigel was an unwilling patrol cop, but he would be safe in the
driver’s seat with Greg sitting in the back guarding the prisoner. It might be
a scratch team that had turned up, but it was an efficient one.
“You can’t take me
anywhere,” hissed Akbari. “You haven’t charged me with anything.”
“No problem,” said Gary. “I arrest you for the murder of
your wife, Banu Akbari.”
“Not guilty,” Akbari shouted.
“That’s not for me to decide, Mr Akbari. Take him away,
Greg.”
In the meantime, all the sleepers were on their feet,
hanging over the landing balustrade to witness Akbari being led away.
“Who was that man?” little
Anna wanted to know.
“A burglar, Anna, and I caught him,” said Albert.
“You mean we, don’t you?” said Bertram.
“Well, we then,” Albert added reluctantly.
“How did he get in?” Edith shouted.
“The key is still in the latch, Mrs Parsnip,” said Barbara.
“So where’s Mr Parsnip?” Edith cried. “It’s his key. He must
still be in the church. He might be dead.”
All the children looked horrified. Barbara realized that she
had to do something fast. Gary seemed too stunned to do anything constructive
and Sybil was just standing there aghast.
“Get the children back to bed, Mrs Parsnip. I’ll see to your
husband,” Barbara said, and hurried to the church not knowing what she would
find, but preparing herself for the worst.
The church was eerie in the dark, though a little light escaped
into the building through the side door Akbari had left open. Barbara could see
the vicar draped over the back of a pew and hurried to check for signs of life.
To her intense relief, Mr Parsnip was only stunned. She whipped out her mobile
and rang for an ambulance. Barbara was trained in first aid, but the task of
retrieving the vicar from between the pews was beyond her. The only way she
could help would be to lie Mr Parsnip down where he was and prop up his head on
the little red cushion. Blood from a gash on Mr Parsnip’s forehead dripped on
to the velvet. The gash at the back of his head was also bleeding profusely.
Poor lamb, thought Barbara. He must have hit his head on the
pew when he fell. A large bruise on the nape of his neck indicated where the
blows that caused his fall had been struck. At least it wasn’t murder and that
itself was a miracle seeing that it was presumably that guy the boys had
apprehended who had committed the attack. With any luck Mr Parsnip would
recover consciousness soon. Flashing lights outside accompanied the arrival of
the ambulance, closely followed by Edith, who had sent the children back to bed
and left Sybil and Gary to watch over them.
“Where is he?” cried Edith, rushing in through the main
entrance at the back of the church to where the vicar lay, followed by two paramedics
bearing a stretcher.
“Don’t panic, Mrs Parsnip,” commanded Barbara. “He’ll come
to in a minute. He was lucky. He is not mortally injured.”
“Oh, thank God,” wept Edith, falling to her knees in genuine
gratefulness. She thought she still loved him at a moment when he could
actually die. The feeling would soon be replaced by indifference. In truth, Edith
resented the fuss everyone was making of the vicar now. No one ever made a fuss
of her.
The paramedics lifted Mr Parsnip carefully over the pew from
behind and carried him to the stretcher. By now he was starting to regain
consciousness.
“Edith, Edith,” he moaned.
“I’m here,” Edith heard herself saying.
“What happened, Edith? My head hurts!”
“You were knocked out with a nasty blow, Frederick, but
you’ll be all right.”
“Famous last words,” muttered one of the paramedics to the
other as they carried the stretcher to the ambulance.
“Concussion, I should think,” pronounced the doctor, who had
just driven up in his two-seater. “Hospital, brain-scan, bandage, bed rest,” he
commanded.
“Aren’t you coming to the hospital?” one of the paramedics
asked.
“Hmm, well, I’ve got company,” the A & E doctor muttered,
pointing to a long-legged, scantily clad model draped over his passenger seat. “I’ll
be along later.”
“I suppose he means next week,” sniggered a paramedic.
Edith got into the ambulance to accompany her husband to the
hospital. Her panic had shrunk to intermittent sobs and sniffs. She wiped the
last of her tears away with an antiseptic cloth provided by a paramedic.
Looking at the red cushion on which Mr Parsnip’s head still lay, the paramedic
remarked that there was probably still blood in the injured man because the red
cushion was not actually soaked in it. Edith let out a loud wail at those
words. How often had she wished he would go off to Africa and never return?
Edith was now going through a serious bout of guilt and would never be the same
again. If Mr Parsnip recovered she would do penance. She wasn’t sure how, but
she’d think of something.
***
At the vicarage, Barbara Fielding reported on what she had
experienced in the church and assured everyone that Mr Parsnip had been lucky.
She assumed, rightly as it turned out, that the savage blow from behind had
caused the vicar to fall forward. As he was on his knees, he caught his head on
the pew in front and that had knocked him out. Barbara thought the assailant
must have assumed he was dead and just left him there.
“That was Akbari on an errand of mercy again,” said Gary. “The
vicar is lucky that Akbari was more interested in the vicarage door key than
his victim.”
“Akbari is cruel and sadistic,” said Sybil. “The Parsnip
boys deserve a medal!”
Gary would rather she had said that about him. It’s ironic
that you can work for weeks on a case then have two kids steal your thunder.
But he would be generous about it. The main thing was that Akbari would not
murder anyone else. Would his next victim have been Sybil? Perish the thought.
”I’ll phone Cleo now and tell her what has happened,” said
Gary. “She wouldn’t forgive me for holding the news back.”
***
Cleo was justifiably relieved that Akbari had been caught,
but from the reluctant innuendoes Gary offered her she deduced that it was in
fact the Parsnip boys who had achieved the feat of catching Akbari where Detective
Inspector Gary Hurley had failed. Cleo wondered what he had been doing instead
of being on the alert. Despite the seriousness of the event she was amused that
the little boys had been so resourceful, and quite sorry for Gary, whose timing
had never been brilliant and who had presumably been too busy wooing Sybil to
actually watch out for Akbari. Robert was gleeful that the capture of Akbari
had taken that form.
“Gary’s an arrogant bastard,” Robert concluded. “Serves him
right for not getting on with the job.”
“That’s not fair, Robert, and any criticism must include me.
I don’t think we had really looked for the guy. We were just waiting to see
what he’d do next and hoping he’d drop into the handcuffs.”
“You’re not to blame, Cleo. Gary should have had the area
searched properly, immediately after the first murder.”
“How could he? No one knew who Banu was or where she’d come
from. A kid had turned up who could not be identified. Social services had at
least two corrupt social workers. Then there was the contact to that infamous nursery
and all that business with Devonport and Smith, not to mention those trips to
the prison to see Alice Crane.”
“Akbari was on the rampage, killing everyone he thought
could betray him. Gary did not even follow up your baby hatch theory for ages.”
“He found out who Ruby was.”
“Yes Ruby. She probably sheltered Akbari and no one
noticed.”
How near Robert was to the truth did not escape Cleo’s
notice.
“Wow, Robert. What if Akbari was hiding upstairs in
Singleton’s house?”
“While Mr Singleton was lying buried in a polythene sack. It
doesn’t bear thinking about,” Robert said.
“Whatever Singleton did, she did under pressure from Akbari,”
said Cleo, who was bound to defend Gary now Robert had decided the affair,
whatever from it had taken, was now over. “You can’t blame Gary for that.”
“I can. Singleton was a criminal in her own right. You said
that yourself, Cleo. Gary’s patrol officers were totally useless. What sort of
authority does that man have? None, as far as I can see.”
“I should have done more about what Hilda Bone said, Robert.
I thought she was just a gossip who occasionally observed something she decided
was relevant. I didn’t tell her what was really happening.”
“She’d have told the whole world if she’d known anything,
and you wanted to avoid that. Remember?”
“Well, we’ll have to wait for our own melt-down. Gary has
ordered us to a meeting in the afternoon, so you’ll be able to come, too,
Robert. Then you can give him a piece of your mind.”
“You can bet on that. We’d better get some sleep. Wednesday
will be a hard day and look at the time! It started two hours ago.”
“it’ll start with me putting Dorothy Price in the picture.
She’ll want to go all over again through Akbari’s motive for killing all those
women. And she’ll remind me that when you have the motive, you have the killer,
if you can catch him.”
“It’s 2 a.m. Cleo. Won’t she be asleep?”
“She needs to be told, Robert.”
“Well I’m going to bed. I need my sleep even if you women
don’t.”
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