The lack of any resistance, the man’s total submission, told Henry what he needed to know. This was confirmed as the three of them clattered through into the lounge of the flat — empty — through the kitchen and into the bedroom to find Liversage dressed only in a grubby grey string vest, sitting on the edge of an equally disgusting grey bed, one hand masturbating his own flaccid cock, his other hand doing the same to a young boy who was tied, spreadeagled to the bed with leather straps, a look of abject terror on his face.
As good an arrest as it was — one of those lucky chances that often come along as a by-product of a large investigation — Liversage was soon discounted as a suspect in the double murder. But he was charged with kidnapping and a multitude of sexual offences, all of which would ensure that his prison licence would be revoked and he would be sent back where he belonged. Both Liversage and his accomplice, the hostel manager, were handed over to detectives at Accrington when it became clear they might be responsible for a series of undetected sexual assaults in the area over the last two months.
‘Ah well, it was a good try,’ Tope sighed.
‘Are you getting to like operational duties again?’ Henry teased him as they set off back to HQ.
‘No chance. . when my arse twitches it’s because I’ve found a way into a website I shouldn’t even be on in the first place. I’m not really cut out to be knocking on doors any more.’
Henry laughed. He knew that Tope definitely did his best work for the Constabulary by looking at a computer, although he also knew that the clock was ticking for such people. It was cheaper to employ civilians to do the work and some were already trained, which Henry found sad. Cops brought an indefinable instinct to jobs like Tope’s and Henry was firmly of the school of belief, no matter how outdated his stance, that civilians would never have that same intuition. But the world was constantly changing, and not always for the better. For the ‘dollar’, maybe. And in that respect, Henry also believed that TJF: The Job’s Fucked.
Tope showed his value again as they headed towards the motorway.
‘Ooh, got something.’ He pulled a few neatly folded pieces of paper from his inner jacket pocket and opened them out. ‘A vicar and a teacher. . you asked me to see if I could find them. . re the school?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘The vicar who was attached to Belthorn School is called Bateson — but he’s retired now. . But his son is also a vicar and the school is still linked with the same church — and Bateson junior is the vicar. The church is in Oswaldtwistle. Looks like a family business.’
‘The son’s taken over from the father, dog collar and everything?’
‘Yep.’
‘What about the teacher?’
‘No luck so far. . but we’re not far off Oswaldtwistle now. If you fancied, we could call in on spec and maybe the son could direct us to the dad — if he’s still alive, that is.’
‘I fancy,’ Henry said, and at the next set of lights he turned towards Oswaldtwistle instead of heading for the motorway.
They drove through the main street of the little town and soon found the vicarage and church — St Catherine’s. Henry knew where it was, having lived in the area many years before. It was early evening when they pulled up on the long gravelled driveway outside a magnificent, but crumbling vicarage, and knocked on the door. It was already dark and cold, and snow was a probability.
‘I wonder if the Addams Family is at home?’ Tope whispered as a bat flitted above their heads.
From inside they heard the approach of ominous sounding footsteps. The heavy metal-panelled door creaked open, but it wasn’t Lurch who answered, but a boyish-looking man in his late forties, with an open dog collar hanging around his neck.
‘Mr Bateson?’ Henry asked.
‘Reverend Bateson,’ the man corrected him with a smile.
Henry showed him his warrant card and introduced himself and Tope.
‘May we come in?’
Puzzled but welcoming, the vicar stepped politely aside and gestured for them to enter. The entrance hall was huge and ancient, with a tiled floor and a dark wood-panelled wall. ‘What can I do for you two gentlemen of the law?’
‘Are you still the vicar responsible for Belthorn School?’
‘Responsible is too big a word. We’re paternalistic, maybe,’ he said. ‘These days, the phrase “church school” doesn’t really mean very much.’ He clearly wanted to launch into something more about modern times, and the way that religion was viewed in society and the church’s lack of influence in education. Instead he said, ‘I try my best.’
‘I believe your father held the same position?’
‘I took over the parish when he retired, which includes Belthorn School, of course. . and others.’
As delicately as he could, Henry said, ‘Is he still with us?’
Bateson laughed. ‘Very much so. Eighty-five and still as strong as an ox, though his mind is. . you know.’ He made an ‘eek-eek’ sound.
‘Oh, great. . we’re investigating the deaths — murders, actually — of some of the pupils who attended the school in the late seventies and I’m speaking to people who might have known them back then, just to see if they remember anything that might give us a hint as to why they were murdered.’
‘You mean murdered recently?’
‘Yes, over the last three years. It’s just too much of a coincidence they all went to the same school, so I need background on them, even though it’s so long ago. Someone like your father might know something.’
Bateson looked doubtful. ‘You may certainly speak to him. Whether he’ll know anything, or be able to recall anything, is a different matter.’
‘Alzheimer’s?’ Tope asked.
‘Old age, bad temper and awkwardness and general disagreeability.’
‘Could you give us his address?’ Henry asked. ‘We don’t have to disturb him tonight, but maybe we could arrange to see him tomorrow. And if you wanted to be present, that would be fine,’ he explained.
‘No need for that — he lives here.’
The vicar led the detectives through the house, via what Henry would guess was called a drawing room, to a huge Victorian-style conservatory jutting out into an overgrown garden at the back, though now the trees and shrubs were bare. It was cool, but not chilly, and an old man sat on an armchair, his feet up on a stool, a blanket draped over his legs, reading a large print hardback book. He laid this down and looked at his visitors through thick-framed spectacles.
‘Dad, these gents are from the police. They’d like to have a chat with you, if you don’t mind.’
‘Ahh. . my years of rape and pillaging have caught up with me then?’ He laughed croakily, adding, ‘I wish.’
Bateson junior shot Henry a short, warning glance and laughed nervously. ‘They want to talk about Belthorn School. . when you were there.’
‘What is Belthorn School?’
Henry thought, Oh-oh, not a good start, but then the old man said, ‘Just kidding.’
He gave his son a look of scorn. ‘He thinks I’ve lost my marbles, so I just humour him. My mind is as sharp as it’s always been, it’s the body that’s letting me down, particularly my liver. Take a pew,’ he said to Henry and Tope, smiling wickedly, and Henry warmed to him. He made an expansive gesture towards a cane sofa for two opposite him. To his son he said, ‘Brews all round — and make mine a double.’
The vicar smiled good-naturedly. ‘Can I offer you two gents a drink? Tea, coffee, something stronger?’
‘Tea for me,’ Henry said. Tope said he would have the same.
‘I thought you said you were cops?’ the old man said.
‘On duty cops,’ Henry said.
‘Bollocks.’ To his son he said, ‘You know what I want.’
‘Oh yeah.’ He turned away muttering, ‘Burying in your own graveyard.’
‘My hearing’s good,’ his father said, tapping the discreet hearing aid curled behind his right ear. ‘And this thing’s turned right up.’
Bateson junior walked away, still muttering, his head rocking from side to side as though he was having an animated conversation with his father.