Black December

  Black December

  Title Page

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Black December

  Scott Hunter was born in Romford, Essex in 1956. He was educated at Douai School in Woolhampton, Berkshire. His writing career was kick-started after he won first prize in the Sunday Express short story competition in 1996. Scott’s fantasy novel for children, ‘The Ley Lines of Lushbury’, was long-listed for the Times/Chicken House Children’s novel competition in 2010. His adult thriller, ‘The Trespass’, is a Kindle bestseller. Scott has recently retired from a long career in IT but he continues to work as a semi-professional drummer with the Steve Summers Band (UK) and Italian prog rockers Analogy. Where he finds the time to write is anyone’s guess. Scott lives in Berkshire with his wife and two youngest children.

  Scott can be contacted via his website at

  www.scott-hunter.net

  Black December

  Scott Hunter

  Myrtle Villa Publishing

  Black December

  A Myrtle Villa Book

  Originally published in Great Britain by Myrtle Villa Publishing

  All rights reserved

  Copyright © Scott Hunter, Anno Domini 2011

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher

  The moral right of Scott Hunter to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  This eBook is available in print at all good online bookstores and also at discerning retail outlets

  A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library

  In this work of fiction, the characters, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or they are used entirely fictitiously, particularly with regard to Charnford Abbey. There is absolutely no correlation between Charnford and Douai Abbey

  ASIN B006A993E4

  Discover other works by Scott Hunter at

  www.scott-hunter.net

  For Claire, Tom and Emily, and

  Peter Moore, a patient teacher of French

  Acknowledgements

  Cover Design:

  Andrew Brown

  hello@designforwriters.com

  ‘Indeed, history is nothing more than a tableau of crimes and misfortunes’

  (Voltaire, 1694–1778)

  Prologue

  Charnford Abbey Boarding School, Berkshire, UK November 1967, 11.28pm

  “Hurry up, will you?” Phillips called anxiously into the dark abyss of the monks’ refectory. “Someone’s going to catch us for sure–”

  A boy with dark, unruly hair appeared in the doorframe. “You’ve got the jitters, Phillips. You’re pathetic. Just keep a lookout and leave the rest to us, all right?” He pulled a face and disappeared into the shadows.

  Phillips stayed put, agitated. If Leo found them there’d be hell to pay. Bad enough being caught coming back from the pub after lights out, but stealing food from the monks’ ref . . . he bit his lip. Well, it would be a beatable offence, for sure. And Leo’s beatings were legendary. He’d seen the marks on Docherty’s bony arse – everyone had. They’d been visible for the rest of term; angry welts, stripes of pain. Docherty had paraded them in the showers like battle scars.

  Phillips shifted uneasily from foot to foot. Why had he listened to Vernon in the first place? He could be tucked up in his cubicle, safe and secure, but here he was in full view of anyone coming down the monks’ cloister. If he hadn’t had that second beer he’d never have agreed . . .

  Vernon reappeared with an armful of bread rolls. “Take these.” He dumped his booty into Phillips’ reluctant arms and called into the darkness. “Lowndes! Come on – that’ll do.”

  Vernon grinned and tore off a chunk of bread as Lowndes came out, furtively scanning the cloister. He was clutching a box of cornflakes and a bowl of sugar.

  “Look, you can’t nick the crockery as well–”

  “Calm down, Phillips,” Lowndes hissed. “No one’s going to notice one stupid sugar bowl.” He barged Phillips out of the way, leaving a beery wind in his wake.

  Phillips grabbed Lowndes’ arm as a flicker of movement passed across his peripheral vision. “Wait! Someone’s coming!” He pointed down the cloister to the swing doors.

  “No they’re not.” Lowndes tucked the cereal box under his arm. “They’re going into the chapel,” he observed through a mouthful of cornflakes. “And it’s not Leo either, so stop belly-aching.”

  Vernon’s eyes narrowed. “It’s that moron from the kitchens.”

  Phillips scanned the cloister. The moonlight filtering through the leaded windows was playing tricks with his eyesight. Taff Lowndes was right; it was only Fergus Dalton, the Irish kitchen porter. “So what? He’s harmless. Let’s just get back to the dorm–”

  “But what’s he doing in the chapel at this time of night?” Vernon’s eyes shone. Here was a little mystery that needed investigating.

  Phillips groaned. “Look–”

  “Come on. Chicken.” Lowndes grinned widely and flapped his arms, clucking.

  “Shut up!” Phillips whispered hoarsely. Then, in a more moderate voice, “I’m not chicken. It’s just that–”

  But the other two were already creeping along the cloister, moving with exaggerated stealth, mocking him. Phillips gritted his teeth and followed in a half-crouching shuffle. At the double doors Vernon held up a commanding hand and peered through the window to where the Court of Arches lay silent but for the low hum of the hot drinks machine, a haven of comfort in the winter months when the only way to keep warm was to stand with your back to one of the wheezing radiators and suck on a polystyrene cup of hot chocolate. Phillips fancied one now, but it was too risky; the Court could be observed from the stairway leading up to the prefect’s gallery and from the end of the senior wing. At either of these vantage points a housemaster or a prefect could be lurking, hoping to spot exactly the sort of illegal operation in which Phillips now found himself entangled.

  “All clear,” Vernon announced. “Let’s take a look, eh?”

  They broke cover, and keeping close to the wall they turned the corner by the locker room into the outer sanctum that led into the chapel.

  “Might even see the White Lady,” Lowndes grinned.

  “Don’t be stupid. That’s just a story.” Phillips shot a quick look behind all the same. “No such thing as ghosts.”

  “Woooooh!” Lowndes waved his arms above his head, spraying cornflakes in a ragged arc.

  “Idiot!” Vernon punched Lowndes hard on the arm. “Follow me, and keep it down, all right?”

  They crept into the chapel and Phillips immediately saw a pool of light spilling from one of the corner alcoves. Each alcove housed a mini-chapel: altar, candles, tabernacle, the lot. He remembered when he’d had to serve Mass at some ungodly hour of the morning, freezing his balls off while Father Augustine muttered incantations at the wall. Phillips had avoided further acolytic duties by bribing a willing fourt
h former to take his place – well worth the price of the odd chocolate bar or averted eye when he was on junior dorm supervision.

  The chapel was cold and the scent of stale incense hung in the air. Despite his fear, Phillips’ curiosity was aroused. What was Fergus Dalton doing in the chapel at this hour? The kitchen boy was harmless; a simple lad, recruited to help the Catholic Fathers in their work. It was employment – of a sort – although Phillips didn’t suppose the money was much good. Just a roof over his head, hours of toil in the busy kitchen, and daily fun poked at him by the likes of Vernon. When it came down to it Phillips felt sorry for Fergus, but right now he was intrigued. He peered over Lowndes’ shoulder.

  The altar had been moved obliquely aside to reveal an open space and a set of roughly-hewn stone steps. A furtive, shuffling sound could be heard from the depths. This was strange – a secret room under the altar. Who’d have thought it? Phillips felt a warm thrill of excitement.

  Vernon winked and disappeared into the gap. Lowndes followed with a grin of anticipation. As Phillips began his descent he heard Fergus give a yelp of alarm.

  At the bottom of the steps Phillips found himself in a rectangular, low-ceilinged chamber. Vernon had Fergus in an armlock and Lowndes was sprinkling cornflakes on the Irish boy’s head.

  “I baptise thee Dimbo Thick-As-Shit,” Lowndes chanted in a deep monotone.

  “Get off!” Fergus struggled but Vernon’s grip was firm.

  “In the name of the cow dung, the sheep’s bum–”

  Dalton’s eyes shone with hatred and panic. He shook the cereal from his hair, cheeks blazing, tendons in his neck straining as he tried to free himself from his tormentors.

  Phillips looked around the chamber. There was a small altar set into the brickwork, and on top of it a heavy glass case. Two candles had been lit and a censer, suspended on a thick gold chain, wafted incense into the small space.

  “Sure, begorrah, what’ll youse be doing down here at this toime of noight?” Vernon asked the struggling boy. “All secretive, loike, eh? Let’s be havin’ the answers, young Fergie.” Vernon twisted Dalton’s arm and Lowndes grabbed a lock of ginger hair.

  “Leave me alone!” Dalton tried again to pull away. “Father Leo will be here any minute!”

  “Now don’t be tellin’ any fibs, young Fergus,” Vernon said, tweaking Dalton’s nose, “or you’ll never go to heaven – hasn’t the good Father told you that?”

  Phillips was drawn to the altar and the glass case. He wondered what its significance could be. The case was buffed to a high sheen. By its side, a soft cloth and an open can of polish explained the nature of Dalton’s interrupted duty.

  Dalton yelped as Vernon probed his wiry body, searching for sensitive areas where pain could be invisibly inflicted. Phillips turned away, suddenly feeling nauseous. Dalton was paying the price for his carelessness, but that didn’t mean he had to watch.

  He turned his attention back to the case and its contents. Inside lay what looked like a strip of charcoaled wood, dark with age and discoloured, perhaps by some past exposure to fire. Closer inspection revealed faint markings, sweeping, curved letters that reminded him of something he’d seen before but which he couldn’t place.

  Phillips spun as he heard the sound of a fist connecting with flesh and a grunt of surprise and pain. Vernon was clutching his jaw. “You little bastard!”

  Vernon advanced on Dalton, who had assumed a defensive crouch, the Irish boy’s expression an odd mixture of triumph and fear.

  “What a beauty!” Lowndes nodded appreciatively, munching his contraband. “Caught you a right smacker.”

  Phillips froze. He couldn’t believe Dalton had retaliated. Vernon was a big shot, captain of the Under Sixteens and destined for the Firsts. Nobody got into a fight with John Vernon.

  Vernon was breathing heavily. Drops of perspiration had appeared on his forehead, glinting in the candlelight like a halo. He was clenching and unclenching his hands, circling Dalton like a boxer. Phillips felt a sudden rush of dread as the scene seemed to switch into slow motion. He knew he had to intervene to prevent some terrible tragedy, but before he could convert thought to action Vernon had launched himself at Dalton with renewed ferocity.

  Lowndes was knocked aside by Vernon’s charge and fell, sprawling. The sugar bowl shattered, cornflakes flying across the flagstones like yellow confetti. Dalton raised his hands to defend himself but Vernon was heavy and muscular. The Irish boy was driven back by the impetus of Vernon’s charge, twisting awkwardly to one side as he struggled to stay upright. For a moment he teetered and then fell heavily, striking his head on the altar’s edge with an audible crack that made Phillips’ bowels turn to water.

  Vernon bent over the crumpled body, breathing hard. “Little bastard. Get up and fight.”

  Phillips’ hands were shaking. A pool of blood had formed beneath the fallen boy’s head. It was dark crimson, almost black. There was a lot of it.

  Lowndes had stumbled to his feet. “Oh my God! You’ve killed him!”

  Vernon took a step back, his face ashen in the candlelight. He jabbed a finger in Lowndes’ chest. “Well don’t just stand there. Clear it up.”

  Lowndes stared at Vernon, horrified. “Clear it–?”

  “Use your shirt.”

  Lowndes pulled his rugby vest over his head, got down on his haunches and dabbed it gingerly in the spreading puddle. As he did so there was a light footfall on the steps and a shadow fell across the chamber. The voice, when it came, was measured and even, each word carefully articulated so that there could be no misinterpretation.

  “What in the name of the Almighty are you boys doing in this place?”

  Father Leo Horgan filled the chamber with his presence. Phillips cowered against the cold stonework. His bladder was in rebellion and it was only with a supreme effort that he was able to bring himself under control.

  Horgan’s eyes fell on Dalton’s prone form and his face blanched. He quickly bent and held the boy’s wrist. When he looked up his expression was neutral. The eyes beneath the thick, horn-rimmed glasses were steady and dry.

  “You – Lowndes. Go to the trunk room. In the corner cupboard you will see a shovel. Bring it to me.” Lowndes took the steps two at a time. Horgan turned his attention to Vernon. “And you. This is the key to my room. Above the wardrobe you will find a folded tent and a canvas sleeping bag. Bring the sleeping bag to me.”

  Phillips’ heart was still imitating the school orchestra drum corps. He tried to make sense of Horgan’s words. Surely he wasn’t going to–

  “And now you.” Horgan’s basilisk stare could not be avoided. Phillips emerged from the shadows, legs shaking.

  “Mop, bucket. Janitor’s closet by the kitchen door. Go.” He presented his back and stooped over the body. Phillips was rooted to the spot, paralysed by the enormity of Horgan’s rapid and unexpected solution to their problem. The monk hiked up his black cassock to prevent it trailing in the stream of blood pouring from Dalton’s matted scalp.

  “I said go!”

  Phillips went. When he returned ten minutes later work was already underway. Two flagstones had been shifted and Vernon was labouring under Horgan’s supervision. Lowndes was fumbling with the sleeping bag zipper, pulling it clumsily past a lock of ginger hair.

  Two hours later Phillips lay numb in his cubicle, eyes fixed on the dormitory ceiling. He wished the partitions separating him from the other sleeping boys would melt away. He felt very alone.

  Forty years later

  DCI Brendan Moran wasn’t expecting to die. Life expectancy obviously weighed a little heavier on his mind now he’d hit fifty, but then most folk gave mortality some consideration at the half-century milestone. Moran liked to work with averages. His father had lived to seventy-five, and his grandfather a more generous eighty-four. Aiming down the middle, that was a small improvement on the Biblical three score years and ten. Small, perhaps, but worth having – if he was compos mentis, of course.

&nb
sp; Moran had spent a joyless and fruitless afternoon at the Thames Valley Police Strategy Seminar. The fact that it had been held in Basingstoke only compounded Moran’s irritation. People thought Reading was a dump until they visited Basingstoke.

  Moran steered the jeep round a gentle bend in the snaking country road. Bad reputation, these bends. What were they called? The eight bends of death. Nice. He relaxed his right foot. No point in taking chances, even if he was in a hurry. A lorry hurtled past, lashing spray. Moran tickled the brakes, rechecked his mirror. No chance of getting to the allotment tonight, not in this weather. He’d have to brave the elements for Archie’s sake, but gardening was a non-starter. He dipped his headlights and squinted as a motorbike fizzed past, water rebounding from the rider’s helmet like machine gun fire. Another madman for the ICU . . .

  He flicked to main beam. Focus, Brendan. Time for the daily review . . . Moran’s ordered mind began its routine perusal of the day’s events, relayed via voicemail in Phelps’ unmistakeable East End rasp: two robberies, one stabbing. No witnesses, of course. One missing child, one suspicious death in Coley – Phelps was handling that one – and a partridge in a pear tree . . . no, wrong season. No partridges … just a hell of a lot of paperwork. Tomorrow. Mañana.

  He eased off the accelerator and shifted in his seat, wincing – the old back injury was on form tonight, probing his spine like a knitting needle. Moran chuckled grimly. You sure aren’t getting any younger, Brendan. Two score years and ten . . .