Even before Hobbs Hill, Matt had been to a few investigation scenes before. Mostly suicides, and on one incredibly depressing occasion a domestic-violence case in which a woman from his congregation had been so comprehensively beaten she literally looked like she’d been sprayed with circles of blue and purple paint. That was a hideous moment which haunted him more than most, since his wife Wren had experienced the same thing years back, from her ex. Seeing that lady – the Sunday School teacher – curled up under a lamp in a patch of blood and teeth was one of the many little steps on his journey away from theism.
Jo Finch’s place wasn’t exactly crime scene central, with swathes of policemen brushing banisters and dropping things into little plastic bags. But there were officers making notes and squinting their eyes while they searched under tables. Looking for Jo or her boyfriend’s phone, perhaps.
Or their heads.
Somewhere he could hear the snap of a person taking pictures. The sound that denotes happiness in every context except this one. Larry had Matt by the elbow and guided him into the lounge. So far, he could see no blood, bodies nor smashed-up stuff.
‘Is she okay?’ Matt said, slapping a hand through his wet hair.
‘Thanks for coming,’ Larry said.
‘Please tell me she’s not dead.’
‘Well …’
‘Is she?’
‘She’s missing, basically.’
‘Oh,’ Matt said. ‘And where’s the boyfriend?’
‘He’s missing too. He’s called Lee Bradshaw. A mechanic. Well … Kwik Fit. Neither of them turned up for work this morning.’
Matt noticed the sofa had about a hundred cushions on it. ‘And when were they seen last?’
‘Last night, at The Cod Father chip shop, just down the road. That was about 8 p.m. Then this afternoon, a neighbour popped over for something and noticed the front door was hanging open a touch. She popped her head in and called out. She realised the house was empty.’
‘Might they have just left the door open by accident?’
‘I kind of doubt that … follow me.’
‘Wait a sec,’ Matt said. ‘At the park yesterday. I’m sure Jo said she had a little girl.’
‘She does. Seren. A pre-schooler. She’s been staying with Jo’s dad since the dog thing at the school. We checked up and she’s fine. Now … come and look at this.’ Larry headed off into the hall and they both dropped to their haunches, looking at a Day-Glo Post-it note stuck to the hall skirting board. On it was a hand-drawn vine in a crucifix shape, with delicate green leaves and flowers. And in the centre, the clearly crucified stickman figure of Jesus Christ. ‘We’ve found seventeen so far,’ Larry said.
Matt stared at the vine and the figure hanging in the centre. He shook his head in surprise. ‘This is a Lily Cross. It’s used for funerals and Easter services.’
‘Yeah, I’ve seen them. Just tell me what they mean.’
‘Well, in Christian art the lily’s a sign of purity and chastity.’ He looked up at Larry. ‘Sometimes in paintings you see the angel Gabriel holding a lily branch when he announces the virgin birth. It’s like the opposite of crude. Like it’s making sure the sexual element of Jesus birth isn’t seen as … dirty.’
Larry nodded and jotted something down.
‘It’s used for the resurrection of Christ too. At funerals, it’s supposed to show the dead person’s soul’s being restored. Made innocent again … though to be fair in folklore the meaning is a bit different.’
‘Go on.’
‘I’m pretty sure people used to plant lilies in the garden to scare off ghosts and evil spirits.’
‘Ghosts … right.’ Larry made another note.
Matt tilted his head a little, looking at the stick figure of Jesus hanging there. Then he nodded. ‘Where are the rest?’
‘Everywhere. There’s one on the patio doors, a few up the stairs. We even found one stuck underneath the closed lid of the toilet.’
‘Show me, please.’
They wandered through the house in silence. The sort of quietness you slip into, when you feel dread in the pit of your gut, even though it might be unfounded. The crosses were in most rooms and up the stairs. Matt mentally logged each one, looking for variations. There were none to speak of. All of them were just the same simple sketch of a symbol of purity and protection.
He saw the last one in the toilet, stuck beneath the lid. He pushed himself upright with a creak of his knees.
‘We found something else too. A picture, stuck on her bedroom door.’ Larry led him along the hallway, where a small photocopy was stuck to the white door with a piece of black gaffer tape.
Matt gazed at it. ‘This is getting weird.’
It was a woodcut, in the style of early modern European art. Sixteenth, seventeenth century maybe. It showed a furious river, rushing through a forest. Sad-looking villagers walked on the banks, carrying knapsacks and firewood, but they stared over their shoulders in fear of the water. He leant in closer to see the tips of heads, and a hand sticking out, almost swallowed in the waves, with what looked like wooden debris crashing into their backs.
‘I’ve seen this picture before,’ Larry said. ‘It’s in local history books. People think it might be the depiction of a flood that swept through the town, in the 1600s. Though they can’t be sure.’
He looked at the image again, frowning at it for a while. ‘And what about the pelican?’ Matt said. ‘Did that show up again?’
Larry nodded. ‘You could say that.’
He guided Matt along the landing, the floorboards creaking under their feet. Then he pushed his palm against the bedroom door at the end and it swung open. A man in a suit stopped clicking his camera and turned. ‘Oh, I’m almost done, sir.’
Larry waved his hand. ‘Don’t mind us. Keep clicking.’
The photographer fired off a few more then stepped aside, though he didn’t really
