particularly savage and brutal crime,” said a police spokesman last night. “The person who did this is clearly very disturbed and extremely dangerous. We are appealing for anyone who noticed anything unusual or suspicious on Friday night or early Saturday morning to come forwards.”
Police refused to comment on the rumour that the body had been mutilated. Jennifer Carter specialised in treating patients with severe childhood traumas and suspicion will inevitably be focussed first upon her list of patients.
I put down the newspaper. Was it really possible that one of Jennifer’s clients had killed her so horrifically? I couldn’t see any way that she could have aroused the sort of hatred and fury that would cause someone to kill and disfigure her.
I decided that I needed to go to church, to try and make some kind of sense of things. The church that I go to is St. Thomas’s, about a mile and a half outside the city centre. The only disadvantage was that the route took me past the end of Jennifer’s road.
Once I got into the church, I settled myself into one of the pews at the very back. Since Christopher took over as vicar, the normal attendance on Sundays has grown from around fifty to nearly a hundred. Today, though, it was fairly quiet.
I wasn’t sure how I’d cope with having to sing a lot of joyful sounding hymns, so it was a relief to discover that it was Advent Sunday. The more sombre nature of the songs, and the familiar ritual of the communion service were just right for the mood I was in, and, to my surprise, I did feel rather better by the time the service had drawn to a close. Christopher had preached about the meaning of Advent, and the need to be constantly ready to meet with God; but he seemed to be short of his usual energy and humour. When I shook hands with him afterwards at the church doorway, I noticed how pale he looked, and the deep black shadows under his eyes.
“Are you alright, Christopher?” I asked in concern. “You look absolutely shattered.”
His eyes seemed slightly out of focus as he looked back at me. “Oh yes, I’m fine.” He replied unconvincingly, “Just didn’t sleep very well last night, that’s all.”
“Well, make sure you look after yourself.” I said, “things are only going to get busier over the next month. Try and find some time for yourself to rest.”
Christopher managed a half smile. “Thanks for your concern, Jack. But I’ll be fine, don’t worry.”
I left him, and began my journey home. It was lunchtime so, on a whim, I called into a pub and ordered myself roast beef and a pint of Guinness. When it arrived, it was surprisingly good; lots of tender beef with roast potatoes, Yorkshire pudding and vegetables. I was surprised by how hungry I actually was, until I remembered that I hadn’t eaten much the previous day. The Guinness was cold and creamy, and I couldn’t resist having a second pint. I left the pub, feeling as mellow as I had in the last two days.
There was a silver Mercedes parked right outside the entrance door to my apartment block. As I approached, the driver’s door opened, and a Michael Palmer got out of the car.
“Mr. Bailey at last,” he said in a voice rich with false bonhomie. “Not been out discovering any more bodies for us, I trust?”
I didn’t think the question merited an answer, so countered with “What can I do for you, Detective Inspector Palmer?”
“There’s a few questions I’d like to ask you. Perhaps we could go up to your flat to discuss things?”
I typed the code number into the keypad, with him standing right behind me and, as the door opened, motioned for him to go ahead of me into the building.
Up in the flat, DI Palmer ignored my offer of a seat, and prowled around the living room, examining the pictures and bookshelves. Finally he sat down, and spoke.
“Perhaps we could start by going over your statement from yesterday. Tell me again how you came to be in the home of Jennifer Carter to
Police refused to comment on the rumour that the body had been mutilated. Jennifer Carter specialised in treating patients with severe childhood traumas and suspicion will inevitably be focussed first upon her list of patients.
I put down the newspaper. Was it really possible that one of Jennifer’s clients had killed her so horrifically? I couldn’t see any way that she could have aroused the sort of hatred and fury that would cause someone to kill and disfigure her.
I decided that I needed to go to church, to try and make some kind of sense of things. The church that I go to is St. Thomas’s, about a mile and a half outside the city centre. The only disadvantage was that the route took me past the end of Jennifer’s road.
Once I got into the church, I settled myself into one of the pews at the very back. Since Christopher took over as vicar, the normal attendance on Sundays has grown from around fifty to nearly a hundred. Today, though, it was fairly quiet.
I wasn’t sure how I’d cope with having to sing a lot of joyful sounding hymns, so it was a relief to discover that it was Advent Sunday. The more sombre nature of the songs, and the familiar ritual of the communion service were just right for the mood I was in, and, to my surprise, I did feel rather better by the time the service had drawn to a close. Christopher had preached about the meaning of Advent, and the need to be constantly ready to meet with God; but he seemed to be short of his usual energy and humour. When I shook hands with him afterwards at the church doorway, I noticed how pale he looked, and the deep black shadows under his eyes.
“Are you alright, Christopher?” I asked in concern. “You look absolutely shattered.”
His eyes seemed slightly out of focus as he looked back at me. “Oh yes, I’m fine.” He replied unconvincingly, “Just didn’t sleep very well last night, that’s all.”
“Well, make sure you look after yourself.” I said, “things are only going to get busier over the next month. Try and find some time for yourself to rest.”
Christopher managed a half smile. “Thanks for your concern, Jack. But I’ll be fine, don’t worry.”
I left him, and began my journey home. It was lunchtime so, on a whim, I called into a pub and ordered myself roast beef and a pint of Guinness. When it arrived, it was surprisingly good; lots of tender beef with roast potatoes, Yorkshire pudding and vegetables. I was surprised by how hungry I actually was, until I remembered that I hadn’t eaten much the previous day. The Guinness was cold and creamy, and I couldn’t resist having a second pint. I left the pub, feeling as mellow as I had in the last two days.
There was a silver Mercedes parked right outside the entrance door to my apartment block. As I approached, the driver’s door opened, and a Michael Palmer got out of the car.
“Mr. Bailey at last,” he said in a voice rich with false bonhomie. “Not been out discovering any more bodies for us, I trust?”
I didn’t think the question merited an answer, so countered with “What can I do for you, Detective Inspector Palmer?”
“There’s a few questions I’d like to ask you. Perhaps we could go up to your flat to discuss things?”
I typed the code number into the keypad, with him standing right behind me and, as the door opened, motioned for him to go ahead of me into the building.
Up in the flat, DI Palmer ignored my offer of a seat, and prowled around the living room, examining the pictures and bookshelves. Finally he sat down, and spoke.
“Perhaps we could start by going over your statement from yesterday. Tell me again how you came to be in the home of Jennifer Carter to
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