The Coming of the Lord E-Book

Elly Grant

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Breaking the Thomas Malone case was an achievement, but nothing can prepare DC Angela Murphy and her colleagues for the challenge ahead. Escaped psychopath John Baptiste is big, powerful and out of control.

Guided by his perverse religious interpretation of morality, he wreaks havoc. As an under-resourced police department struggles to cope with the pressure of the new case, they also have to deal with the ruthless antics of ganglord Jackie McGeachy.

Pressure mounts, along with the body count... and Glasgow has never felt more dangerous.

Leseprobe

The Coming of the Lord

Elly Grant

Copyright (C) 2014 Elly Grant

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2021 by Next Chapter

Published 2021 by Next Chapter

Cover art by http://www.thecovercollection.com/

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Chapter 1

Rachel Stone was singing along with a song on Radio 2 as she washed the breakfast dishes in the kitchen sink. It was a bright, Spring morning and she was enjoying watching the birds eating the scraps of food she'd put out on the bird table. She pushed back hair from her eyes with a soapy, Marigold-gloved hand, leaving a wet streak on her forehead. Drat, she thought, and reached for the dish towel to dry her face. Rachel was a short, plump woman with a round, rosy-cheeked face, framed by soft, golden curls and she was proud that she looked young for her age. Alan, her husband of thirty years, had left for work and she loved having this time of the day for herself.

“You've got a nice voice you should sing hymns in church. Jesus would like that.”

A startled Rachel turned towards the voice and saw a large, scruffy-looking, black man standing by the kitchen door. He looked unkempt, his coat was mud-stained and on his sockless feet were sandals. His face had a broad, flat nose and wiry whiskers sprouted from his chin. It took Rachel only a moment to realise that he was unfamiliar and she knew his rough, Glasgow accent with its African twang, typified a less affluent area.

“Who are you? How did you get in here?” She demanded.

“The front door was unlocked,” he replied, as if surprised by the question. “Surely you expected me, lady? You led me to your door.”

“I don't know who you are or what you're doing here, but I want you to leave my house, now.”

The man stood his ground and a slow smile crept over his face. “I am the voice of one crying out in the wilderness,” he said. “Repent your sins. The kingdom of heaven is close at hand.”

The hairs on the back of Rachel's neck prickled. This man is nuts, she thought. I've got to get him out of my house.

“Do you want some money?” she asked. “I could give you ten pounds. You could get a bus or a taxi. You can't stay here,” she added meeting the man's gaze.

“You are a sinner, lady, and sinners must be punished.”

“This is ridiculous,” Rachel replied, raw fear giving her voice strength. “You will leave my house now or I'll call the police. Is that what you want? Do you want me to call the police?”

“You're going to call the police, on this telephone?” The man's deep voice resonated. Then laughing, he wrenched the phone from the wall and smashed it on the floor. “I don't think so, lady, I don't think so.”

Rachel was terrified. She felt her knees go weak and she gripped the edge of the sink for support. She began to shake, her skin felt damp with perspiration, tears welled up in her eyes and her teeth chattered.

“Take whatever you want and leave me alone. My husband will be home any minute. He's just gone to the shops.”

“Oh dear, lady, a liar and a thief, do you think the Lord will forgive you? I know your man is at work. I saw him leave in the car.”

He's mixing me up with someone else Rachel thought. He must be. She said to him, “I'm not a thief. I've never stolen anything in my life.”

“You took the money,” he insisted. “I saw you. You are a thief. The money wasn't yours but you put it in your pocket. It's still there.”

“What are you talking about? What money? I don't have your money. You must be mistaking me for another person.”

“No,” the man answered vehemently. “You took the money. I saw you.”

Rachel was scared. She couldn't get past the man to escape from the kitchen. “What's your name?” She asked trying a different tactic. She wanted to distract him.

“You know me, lady,” he said. “I am John, John the Baptist. I put the coin on the step in front of your door. The coin you picked up and placed in your pocket.”

A memory of finding a coin when she went to put out the bin earlier slowly came back to her. She'd put it in her apron pocket and thought no more about it. No normal person would leave a coin lying on the doorstep. Rachel stared at the man, his hands were clasped in front of him and he was praying.

“Accept this sinner, Oh Lord. She is ready to repent.” John turned to Rachel. “I am announcing the coming of Jesus. Accept him into your heart. Are you ready to meet him? Are you prepared to meet our Lord?”

Oh, God, she thought, I'm trapped in my house with a maniac. She wanted to shout for help, but the words were frozen in her throat and she could barely swallow.

As John stepped forward towards Rachel, he reached over to the worktop and lifted a knife from the block. His eyes gleamed with madness.

“No,” Rachel shrieked finding her voice as she scrambled about in the sink trying to grasp something, anything, to defend herself. “Keep away from me. Don't touch me.”

Unblinking, John strode over to her. The large man towered above her. Reaching out, he grabbed her by the hair. A sour stench engulfed her and she could taste his body odour. With his large, meaty hand, John forced her face into the sink of soapy water and held her down.

“I baptise you in the name of the Father,” he began.

Rachel spluttered and struggled against his grip.

“The Son.”

Hot urine ran down her legs as she desperately clawed at the air.

“And the Holy Spirit.”

Finally, John dragged the drowning woman's face out of the sink.

Rachel coughed and choked, mucus streamed from her nose.

Then, as John held her face inches from the radio, she heard a newsreader say, “Do not approach this man. John Baptiste escaped from a high security hospital…”

Rachel gazed into the protruding eyes of the madman and she realised there was no escape. A terrible sadness engulfed her. She knew she was going to die.

“Gather this lost sheep back into the fold, Father. Forgive her, Oh Lord. She knows not what she's done.”

Terror stricken and powerless to move only Rachel's eyes could follow the curve of his arm, as the knife plunged into her throat. As she gurgled her last breath the crackling voice of the news reader stressed, “I repeat, do not approach this man.”

John slowly lowered Rachel's body. He was exhausted, completely spent. He sat on the kitchen floor beside her, bent his knees and held his head in his hands. Gradually, the tight band that encircled his skull eased and he relaxed. It had been several days since he'd stopped taking his medication. Days of worry and stress, wondering how he would save this soul for the Lord. The coin on the step was a brainwave, a perfect test for a sinner, and he hadn't been disappointed. Now this woman was at peace and he could rest a while. He shut his eyes.

* * *

It had been over twenty-five years since John had been at this house. He'd been about eight or nine years old when his mother had said they were going to visit Granny. He remembered clearly walking down the avenue and looking into the pretty gardens. The street had been incredibly clean, not at all like the area he'd called home. The white painted stonework of the bungalows reflected the sunlight and it had dazzled him. In his mind, there was a vision of his mother smiling. It had been a rare occurrence. Her skinny frame had been wrapped in a threadbare cardigan and her poor battered face was full of hope. She had rung the doorbell and they'd waited, listening, as footsteps approached, but instead of the welcome they'd expected, they were faced with Granny's stern, unrelenting coldness. This impression had shocked John and it had stayed with him all his life.

“Take your black, bastard son and leave here,” the older woman had said. “You made your bed now you can lie in it. You've brought me nothing but shame and hurt.”

“My son is not a bastard,” John's mother had hissed. “I'm married. How dare you say that? He's your grandson and he's just a wee boy. Have you no compassion? Look at my face Mum. Look at me. He'll kill me if I go back to him. He'll kill me.”

The older woman stood perfectly still with her arms crossed obstinately over her chest. She blocked the doorway with her body.

“He's not my Grandson. I don't have any coloured people in my family. I warned you when you left that I wouldn't have you back. Now go away before I call the police. I don't want you here.”

“But Mum,” John's mother beseeched, “Look at me. I'm begging you. Help me Mum or he'll kill me.”

John's Grandmother retreated inside the house and slammed the door shut. His mother sank down onto the step and sobbed.

“Mum, Mum, what's wrong? Who's going to kill you?” Alarmed, John tugged at his mother's sleeve.

She raised her head, her face a picture of defeat and stared at her son with sad eyes.

“We're going home now, John. Don't worry, everything will be okay.”

John's mother took him by the hand and they walked down the path. She carefully shut the gate. Every so often, as they walked along the road, they glanced back at Granny's house. It was the last time his mother would ever see it.

John didn't know if the dead woman by his side was his Grandmother, he couldn't recollect what she looked like after all these years, but he did remember the street and the house. He could only hope and pray that it was her and she was finally reunited with his mother in heaven.

John's head began to nod with tiredness. He slapped his face hard with his open palms because he couldn't risk falling asleep and being discovered here. Holding onto the work top he hauled himself up and rocked slightly on his feet. There was blood everywhere. Great spatters of arterial blood had sprayed the walls and puddles of the sticky redness covered the floor. John distractedly dipped his fingers in a pool on the worktop and began to draw crosses on the wall behind him. He prayed.

After a while he stripped off his bloody garments, dropping them onto the floor, and went in search of a bathroom. Once showered, John took a razor from the medicine cabinet and shaved off his hair and his whiskers. Then he wrapped himself in a towelling robe, which was hanging from a hook on the door, and began searching the house for clothes and anything else he could use. In the smaller bedroom, he found a sweatshirt and sweatpants hanging in the wardrobe. They obviously belonged to a big man because they fit John like a glove. He liked the feel of the soft fabric against his skin. He also helped himself to a Regatta jacket, but the footwear, which would have completed the outfit, were a size too big and his feet slipped out of them when he tried to walk. Next, John searched the master bedroom and was delighted to find Adidas trainers discarded on the floor beside the window. They weren't the same quality as the Reeboks he'd rejected, but they did fit him, so the Reeboks would have to do. He pulled out the drawers from the chest and selected a few pairs of socks and some underpants. Lifting a holdall from the top of the wardrobe, John quickly filled it with his loot before returning downstairs.

He hadn't noticed Rachel's book, a romantic novel, which lay on the bedside cabinet or her reading glasses, or the pretty little knick-knacks which decorated the room, or Alan's dish where he threw his loose change when he undressed at night. None of the trappings of normal family life touched John's consciousness because he'd no experience of it.

The house was covered in blood. It had been trampled through the hall and up the stairs. John didn't want to spoil his new clothes, but he needed to find money because he'd almost used up what he had. Searching the living room, he discovered Rachel's handbag lying on the sofa. Tipping the contents onto the coffee table, John took Rachel's wallet and placed it in his jacket pocket. Then he found her mobile phone and quickly located her bank card PIN number. The nurse he'd killed when he'd escaped from the hospital had kept her PIN number on her phone. How careless, he thought.

John slung the holdall over his shoulder. He lifted a pair of Ray Ban sunglasses off the hall table and put them on, stopping only for a moment to admire his reflection in the mirror, before leaving the house the same way he'd entered three hours earlier. He carefully closed the door and whistled to himself as he made his way along the pretty avenue with its perfect gardens and white painted bungalows. John felt free, his step had a spring in it and he broke into song.

“Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord,” his deep voice resonated. “His truth is marching on.”

Chapter 2

After leaving Rachel's house John walked to the main road and headed south, away from the city. He strode along the pavement passing some very substantial, red-sandstone villas until he reached a roundabout with roads going off in several directions. John noticed that one of the roads had shops on either side and, as he was looking for a bank to withdraw money from Rachel's account, he chose that route.

There was the usual mix of estate agents, charity shops, coffee shops and bistros which could be found in most suburban shopping areas, with a baker, fruit shop and a Tesco Metro thrown in for good measure. John quickly located the bank and, using Rachel's card and PIN number, withdrew three hundred pounds. He didn't dare try to take out any more money in case he drew attention to himself. As it was, John felt rather uncomfortable being the only black face in this wealthy area. He was sure there must be other black people living in the district, but he didn't see any. His Granny's cruel words came flooding back to him and he realised then why she didn't want him in her family.

With money in his pocket, he treated himself to a sausage roll from the baker's and wolfed it down, wiping the sticky crumbs from his mouth with his sleeve. Then he went to browse the charity shops, dropping Rachel's bank card in a post box as he passed by. He knew he couldn't risk using it again because the police could trace him by it. John reasoned, by posting it instead of throwing it in a bin, he was doing the right thing. It was the property of the bank after all and now it would be returned to them.

When he entered the first shop, which was run by OXFAM, he was aware of the staff staring at him. They spoke in whispers to each other, with hands held in front of their mouths, but John knew they were talking about him as they kept glancing his way. It made him feel very uncomfortable so he left the shop without having a proper look around. The next shop was a different story, it was empty, but for a large, pretty lady with a smiling face.

“Are you looking for anything in particular?” she asked. “If you need a hand with sizes, or if you want to try on anything, just let me know.”

“Thank you, lady,” John said returning her smile shyly.

“I haven't seen you before,” she continued. “Are you new to the area?”

“I am a minister of God. I'm visiting churches.”

“Evangelical or Church of Scotland? The one up the hill or the one round the corner? I'm a member of the Church of Scotland myself, but I'm sure the Evangelical Church is nice too. My name's Libby, short for Elizabeth. What's your name?”

“I'm John,” he replied nervously. He wasn't sure how much to say to this lady, although she seemed friendly.

Libby watched John fingering the hangers on the rail holding gent's suits and jackets.

“There's a Hugo Boss in your size on that rail, I think,” she said. “It's a lovely suit, very well cut, previously owned by a bank manager. Would you like to try it on?”

“No thank you,” John replied. “I have to go now. I'm due at the church in five minutes. The Evangelical Church,” he stressed.

“Oh well, nice to meet you John, perhaps I'll see you again soon,” Libby replied.

John nodded and made for the door. “I don't think so lady,” he muttered under his breath. “I don't think so.”

John headed for the Church of Scotland he needed to pray and he wanted to feel embraced by the sanctity of the church. It was a beautiful building, set in tranquil gardens filled with pink blossoming cherry trees. What a lovely way to honour the Lord, John thought approvingly. He went to the front door and tried the handle, it was locked. This can't be right. A church is for the people. It can't be locked. He banged on the door, but nobody came to let him in. He could feel his temper rising.

“I am announcing the coming of Jesus let me enter my father's house,” he shouted at the door. Bang, bang, bang he thumped on the wood with all his might. It vibrated under the force. “Let me enter the Lord's house. Open these doors for me,” he demanded. Sweat broke out on his brow and his head began to ache. He had to get inside.

John walked round to the side of the church, surely there was another way in, he thought. He reached a small annex which was attached to the building. A sign identified it as the church warden's house. This is the home of the sinner who locked the church, he thought angrily, the man who denied me entrance to my father's house. John hammered on the door.

“Hold your horses,” a voice from within called. “I'm coming, I'm coming.”

The wooden door opened with a creak to reveal a short, balding man wearing a black suit.

“What can I do for you?” he asked. His face was bland and unsmiling.

“I want to get into the church to pray, but it's locked,” John replied.

“The church is always locked unless a service is taking place. We can't leave it open for just anyone to come in. Haven't you heard about the burglaries and the vandalism? They're rife you know.”

“But I am not a thief or a vandal. I am a man who wants to pray.”

“I'm sure that's the case, but you still can't come in. You'll have to come back when the service is on. Now, I'm sorry, but you must be on your way. I've got work to do.”

Mr Gordon, the church warden, hit the floor with a thud. He hadn't seen the punch coming. It hit him full in the face, breaking his nose and immediately rendering him unconscious.

“Now you will know the wrath of God,” John spat. “How dare you lock our Father's house? How dare you choose who enters and who does not?”

John stepped over his comatose victim and entered the house. Once inside, he dragged the man clear of the door and shut it. He searched the front room, tipping out drawers, ransacking it, until he found a set of keys. Then he left Mr Gordon lying on the cold, stone floor and made his way back round the pathway to the church entrance.

It took John only seconds to identify the correct key, unlock the large, timber door and step inside. Once there, he stared at his surroundings then looked up, open-mouthed, at the magnificent vaulted ceiling. The stained glass windows depicted biblical scenes, the wooden pews were highly polished and everything smelled very clean. John climbed the stairs and stood at the lectern. He became calmer. He liked the way his voice resonated, echoing around the building as he preached to his invisible congregation. When he'd finished his sermon, he walked down the aisle towards the front door, occasionally stopping to talk to the imaginary people who filled his church. Thanking them for attending his service, praying for their mortal souls and blessing their children.

When he left the building and stepped into the sunshine, he felt reborn and uplifted. My work is done here, he thought. It's time to leave this place and move on, time to spread the Lord's words somewhere else. John made his way back to the main road and stood at a bus stop. He decided he would get on the first bus heading towards the city and see where it led him. The Lord would guide him, he reasoned, he always had.

Chapter 3

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, I've been here all day and now it looks like I'll be at the job half the fucking night,” Detective Inspector Frank Martin's voice boomed out from his room at the end of the main office. DC Angela Murphy and her recently promoted colleague, DS Paul Costello, exchanged glances.

“Please let something, anything, take us out of the office. I've been pushing paper all day and I'm getting stir crazy,” Paul said sitting up.

“The Boss has been working for nine hours. He should have been away home by now. It must be serious if he thinks it'll take half the night,” Angela commented.

“I don't know what the old bastard's been doing for nine hours,” Paul said. “I've been here half that time and I'm bored out of my tiny mind.”

“Murphy, Costello, my office, now.”

“Oh well, here we go,” Paul said as he and Angela rose from their chairs and made for the big man's room.

Considering Frank's fastidiousness about his appearance, his office in contrast, was a complete shambles. Angela and Paul negotiated their way around boxes and piles of debris, climbing over heaps of files which were precariously stacked against the walls.

“Sit,” Frank commanded. “Sorry about the mess. I'm waiting for a new filing cabinet,” he added by way of explanation.

Angela stared at the discarded open pizza box with a half-chewed, single, greasy slice, sitting inside and the three crushed cola cans, one of which had drizzled sugary liquid onto the desk. The files were the least of his worries, she thought.

“We've got a murder,” Frank began.

“Yes,” Paul exclaimed slapping his knee with his hand.

Frank drew him a dark look. Chastised, Paul help up his hands.

”Sorry, boss, I'm just a bit crazy from handling hours of paperwork. Of course I'm not happy about a murder.”

Angela felt a shudder of excitement. Although any death was upsetting, particularly murder, she knew this was the sort of job that could fast track her career. She'd already made a name for herself, by being part of the team responsible for catching a dangerous serial killer. It had been her first ever case as a detective. Now, only eighteen months on, another juicy morsel was landing in her lap.

“The victim is named Rachel Stone, murdered in her own home, no sign of forced entry. Husband came home from work and found her dead. Forensics is at the scene and we're going there now. Victim lived in Clarkston,” Frank added looking at Angela for a reaction. She didn't let him down.

“Clarkston, that's next door to where I live.”

“What's the matter Murphy? Do you think people don't get murdered in posh areas?”

“There was a boy called Harvey Stone at my school,” Angela continued. “Big, handsome lad, good at sport and super smart, all the girls fancied him. He won the National Maths Challenge.”

“Yadda, yadda, yadda, can we stick to Rachel Stone please? Can you stop being such a girl, Murphy?”

Paul chuckled.

“Sorry, boss,” Angela said.

“I've been informed that the family's rabbi is at the scene and he's making a nuisance of himself. Complaining about this and that, he doesn't want a post mortem carried out or the body to be washed, that sort of thing. We'll have to handle the situation with kid gloves or we'll be accused of racism.”

“Harvey Stone was Jewish,” Angela said. “I wonder if he's related. He must be related. There can't be many Jewish families called Stone living in Clarkston.”

“Old boyfriend, was he?” Paul asked teasingly.

“I wish. He was gorgeous and very sweet too. I wasn't in his league.”

“Enough about Harvey Stone please. Gather up your stuff, we need to get moving or we'll be there all night. Take your own cars because we won't be coming back to the office. I want you two in here, bright eyed and bushy tailed in the morning. This is our case now. Somebody else will cover the shifts.”

They all rose to leave. “Oh, and Murphy,” Frank began. “You're not going to go all soft on me if the corpse turns out to be Harvey's Mum, are you?”

“Of course not, boss. Don't be ridiculous. I hardly knew the guy.”

“But you wanted to,” Paul muttered under his breath.

Angela prodded him hard in the ribs, “Don't start, Costello. At least I was choosey. You went after anything in a skirt.”

“I'll have you know I'm a happily married man,” Paul protested.

“With five kids,” Angela replied, “Five that you know about.”

“Stop bickering children. You're driving me to the scene Murphy, and you'll be taking me home Costello. I don't have my car with me today.”

Paul and Angela exchanged glances. The boss never had a car with him these days because he had a problem with alcohol. Although most of the time he managed to keep it under control. Nobody spoke about it, but Angela hadn't missed the bottle of whisky and empty glass on the floor beside his desk.

When they arrived at the scene Frank walked over to a uniformed officer who was standing at the garden gate.

“Well, hello there, Jim. How's it going?” he asked.

“Hi Frank, yeah, yeah, going good. Denny's due to begin his shift so I'll be leaving in about five minutes,” he replied. “Corpse is in the kitchen. Husband's bro lives next door. He's a rabbi and a right royal pain in the arse. The family solicitor is Donatello and he's already here. The brother called him immediately after he called us. They're all in the brother's house.”

“Donatello, eh? I can't stand that wee ninja turtle. He's a pernickety wee bastard. You can keep him busy Costello while Murphy and I talk to the husband and the rabbi.”

“But won't he insist on being present when we interview Mr Stone?” Angela asked.

“Probably, but we're not formally interviewing the husband yet. We're just going to give our condolences, right?”

“Yes, boss. I get it. Do you want me to take the husband or the brother?”

“Play it by ear. We'll see how the land lies when we get inside. First we'll have a quick look at the scene before the corpse is moved.”

As they headed through the gate Jim, the uniformed officer, said to Frank, “Kitchen's a blood bath. Corpse is nearly decapitated. The rabbi chucked up in the hallway. I see Denny's arrived now, so I'm going home for my dinner. Good luck, Mate. I think you're in for a long night.”

Frank and Angela were handed sterile suits at the front door which they quickly pulled on before entering the house.

“I can't stand vomit,” Frank observed as they walked through the hall. “Whenever I see sick, it makes me want to throw up. Blood, guts, maggots, no problem, but I really hate sick.”

They entered the kitchen. It was a gruesome sight with blood everywhere. Rachel Stone's body was grey from loss of blood. Her head, which was almost separated from her body, rested on her shoulder. Her eyes staring lifelessly at the floor. Frank talked to the forensics girl while Angela made some notes.

“If the person who did this has got any kind of a record, we should find out who he is quite quickly because his prints and DNA are everywhere,” the girl said. “He even had a shave in the bathroom. He must be a real psycho to do this,” she added, with a sweep of her arm towards the corpse. “Then afterwards, to calmly have a shower and a shave.”

Frank and Angela took their time observing the kitchen, both shocked by the savagery they faced, before walking around the rest of the house. When they entered the lounge Angela pointed to a photograph of a tall, athletic looking young man.

”That's Harvey Stone. The body must be his Mum right enough,” she said sadly. “What did you make of all the crosses on the kitchen wall, boss?” she asked. “Do you think this is a race crime?”

“I hope not, Murphy. I hope it's just some religious nutter. If it's anything else the press will have a field day and we'll have all the shit-stirrers doing what they do best and panicking people. It would be much better if the murderer was sociopath or a psychopath.” Frank rubbed his eyes with his chubby fingers. “I can't believe I just said that,” he said. “Imagine preferring to have a dangerous maniac wandering the streets, than some racist supporter of the BNP.”

They spent another thirty minutes looking around, taking in everything, searching for anything that could give them a lead. Then Frank spoke to the forensics people once again.

“We're going next door now. We'll come back tomorrow when you're done here. Try to put a name to the fingerprints as soon as you can please. I have an awful feeling in my gut, that if we don't find this fucker quickly, more bodies will start to turn up. Somebody very dangerous did this and we need to stop him.”

Angela felt unnerved. This murder had happened right on her doorstep. Houses cost a fortune in this district. It was considered a great place to live. If it hadn't been for an inheritance, Angela and her husband Bobby could never have afforded to buy in such a prestigious area. She'd always felt safe here, but after what she'd just witnessed, she wondered if she would ever feel the same way about it again. Maybe it was naivety, but even doing the job she did and coming into contact with all manner of bad boys and girls, she'd never felt frightened. Would she be able to walk these leafy avenues without looking over her shoulder now?

The three detectives made their way to the adjoining bungalow. The porch door was lying open and, as they walked up the stone-chipped path, their feet crunched beneath them. They were stopped at the front door by a tall skinny boy of about fifteen who introduced himself as Gary Stone, the rabbi's son.

“Please wash your hands,” the young man said indicating to a large jug of water and a bowl which had been placed on a side table just inside the porch. “You cannot enter this house after being with the corpse without washing your hands,” he explained.

Not wishing to cause offence the detectives did as they were asked then they entered the house. Rabbi Stone stood in the hallway.

“I am very sorry for the intrusion, Sir,” Frank said. He didn't extend his hand for the rabbi to shake because he didn't know what the protocol was. The rabbi was dressed in a black formal suit and wore a large, black yarmulke on his head. Like his son, he was tall and skinny. His pale complexion looked as if it had never seen the sun and his face had a tired, gaunt look. His eyes were sunken and his cheeks hollow.

“It's a terrible business, terrible,” he said. “Who would do such a thing? Rachel was such a gentle person. In all the years I've known her, I've never heard her raise her voice in anger. She was a good wife and mother and a pious woman. Did you see the crosses on the kitchen wall? Was it a racist who did this terrible thing, perhaps to terrorise us?”

“I'm sorry Rabbi, but I don't have the answers yet. I can tell you that the forensic people are working tirelessly to gather clues. They have lifted a number of fingerprints, so with a bit of luck the killer will be in the system and we'll be able to identify him. But for the moment, we are just as in the dark as you are.”

The rabbi hung his head. “I know you'll do everything you can. I can tell you're a caring person. Please help us detective, my brother is devastated by his loss. Doctor Jacobson is with him now, but you can go through and talk to him.” Rabbi Stone indicated to a door on the left.

“Where is Mr Donatello?” Frank asked. “My colleague, DS Costello would like a word with him, if you don't mind.” Frank winked at Paul who nodded back.

“He's in my study,” the Rabbi replied. “Follow me and I'll show you where it is. His partner Saul Greenberg is actually our lawyer, but we were told that Mr Donatello has more experience of dealing with the police, so that's why he's here instead of Saul.”

Paul walked after Rabbi Stone. They headed off to the left, round a corner beyond the door leading to the front room. Frank and Angela entered the lounge, the curtains were closed over and the room was very dim. A single small lamp in the corner gave out the only light. Alan Stone sat on a low chair and held his head in his hands. Doctor Jacobson knelt beside him, resting his hand on the other man's shoulder and talking softly to him. He stood up when the detectives approached. The doctor drew Frank to one side.

“Mr Stone is very shocked, I've had to sedate him and I may yet have to send him to the hospital. You can, of course, talk to him, but tread gently. He might be a bit confused because of the drug I've administered. If I see him becoming agitated, I'll have to stop you.”

Frank exhaled deeply and nodded to the doctor, “I understand, Sir,” he said. “I'll be careful not to distress him. But we are trying to catch his wife's killer. I'm not here to cause him any more grief. Anything he can tell us might help us to apprehend the murderer.”

Damn, Frank thought to himself this could be a complete waste of time. He pulled over a couple of chairs so he and Angela could sit beside Alan Stone. He thought they would seem less intimidating if they were all facing each other at the same level. Doctor Jacobson sat on a chair discreetly placed in the corner of the room.

Angela spoke first. “Mr Stone, Mr Stone,” she said gently. “I'm Detective Murphy, Angela. I went to school with your son Harvey.”

“Is Harvey here?” Alan Stone asked lifting his head from his hands.

“He's on his way,” the doctor called over. “A friend is driving him up from Manchester. He should be here in a few hours.”

Alan Stone stared at Angela, “You're not Jewish, are you?” he asked.

“No Sir,” she replied. “But I live locally. Just down the road, in Netherlee.”

“You've been to my house? You've seen what he did to my Rachel?” Alan began to sob. Angela pulled a clean tissue from her pocket and handed it to him. He swept at his eyes and loudly blew his nose. “Thank you, you are very kind.”

“Did anything unusual happen today?” she probed. “Did you see anyone hanging around in the street? Or have you received any unexpected mail or telephone calls?”

“Nothing was different. Rachel was in the kitchen, as usual. I kissed her when I left for work at eight-forty-five, as usual. I drove to work, as usual. But when I came home… when I came home,” his voice trailed off and he began to sob loudly.

Doctor Jacobson rushed forward, “I think that's enough now. Please leave, he can't take any more.”

Frank and Angela stood up from their chairs. They shook hands with the doctor, made apologies to Mr Stone and headed back into the hallway.

“Poor sod knows nothing,” Frank said. “Normal home, normal day, then bang, he's part of a nightmare and he can't wake up.”

“It's awful, really awful, poor Harvey coming home to this.”

“Never mind poor Harvey. What about poor Rachel? We have to catch this bastard before the psycho fucker does someone else.”

Angela shuddered, the same thought had occurred to her. She lived only a few minutes away from the crime scene and she was scared. After a moment or two they were met in the hall by the rabbi, Mr Donatello and Paul.

“When did you get here?” Donatello asked, staring at Frank. His face was like thunder. “I hope you haven't been talking to my client. You know he's been sedated and you can't use anything he's said. I thought DS Costello was going to question Mr Stone, that's why I'm here to accompany him. What's going on? I demand you tell me what you're up to.”

The expression on Frank's face was grim. He leaned in close to Donatello's face until their noses were practically touching.

“I do not need your permission to speak to the victim's husband. I do not need your permission to be in this house. There's a fucking psychopath out there and I need to get information so I can catch him. Do I make myself clear, Mr Donatello?” Frank hissed.

Nobody moved an inch. It was as if time stood still. “Crystal,” Donatello replied barely able to control his anger.

“I'd like to speak to you, now, Rabbi, if I may,” Frank said. “Is there another room we can use? I don't want to disturb your brother any more than I have to.”

Rabbi Stone led the group into the other front room which was laid out as a formal dining room.

“Please take a seat. I'll ask my wife to bring in some tea,” he said, and within a few minutes, they were all seated at the table enjoying strong tea and biscuits. Even the normally twitchy Donatello began to relax.

“I'd like to establish a time line, if I may, Sir,” Frank began. “You said that you went to your brother's house at about five forty-five because you heard him screaming. Is that correct?”

“Yes, that's right. It was a terrible sound. He was screaming over and over again. I could hear it through the walls of the house, so I immediately ran next door. That's when I found him and Rachel.”

“Did you hear or see anything unusual during the day?”