Rob bribed Tony into going to the vicarage with him by offering to buy him a beer. They were in the area. Two birds and all that.
“St John the Baptist,” Rob read, as he parked on a grassy verge outside the ancient stone building. It was fairly isolated, being removed from the more developed part of the village.
“Looks fifteenth century.” Tony admired the stonework and oak porch.
He didn’t know. Old buildings weren’t his thing.
“Let’s hope the vicar is around,” said Rob. “It’s gone six.” There was no sign of a vicarage or any cottages on the church property. The days when the church provided accommodation were long gone. In fact, in most cases vicars faced the dismal prospect of a homeless retirement. They earned a pittance and saving for the future was out of the question. Often, not even a true calling was enough.
They pushed open the massive oak door and went inside.
“It’s so modern,” said Rob, surprised. By the state of the exterior he’d expected dark wooden pews and dog-eared hymn books. Instead, it was light and airy. Warm pine floorboards and yellow lighting cast a welcoming glow, while modern seating filled the worship area. Up front, a tasteful wine-red carpet led to the altar, upon which stood several contemporary candlesticks and a divine flower arrangement.
“It’s cold in here.” Tony pulled his jacket closer around him.
“We’re closing up for the night,” a voice resonated from the wings.
They turned. A smiling middle-aged man in jeans and a leather jacket approached them. “How can I help you?”
“We’re looking for the vicar,” Rob said.
“You found him.” He grinned again. “Reverend Edward Purvis, but you can call me Father Ed, everybody else does.”
Rob blinked. “Sorry, you didn’t look like… Never mind. I’m DCI Miller and this is Tony Sanderson. We were wondering if we could ask you some questions.”
“Are you investigating the bodies found in the wood?” he asked.
Rob scowled. “How did you know about that?”
“Everybody is talking about it.”
Great.
“Is it true they found several gravesites?”
“Yes, it’s true,” Rob walked further into the church. “Do you mind if we sit down?”
“Of course. Come this way.”
He led them down the aisle. Rob hadn’t taken this route since his wedding. He shivered involuntarily.
Halfway down, the vicar branched into one of the rows and took a seat. The chairs were comfortable, just the right height with cushioned seats. If you were going to make people sit for hours, they might as well be comfortable.
“Now, what can I help you with?”
“We were wondering if the area in Bisley Common where the bodies were found had any religious significance?”
“The woods, you mean?”
Rob nodded.
The vicar thought for a moment, then said, “I don’t know about the land, but the well that the church was named after is supposed to have healing powers.”
“The well?” Rob didn’t recall seeing one. He glanced at Tony, who shrugged.
“Yes, the Holy Well of St John the Baptist. It’s little more than a trickle now, and bricked up, but it’s still there. It reportedly dates backs over a thousand years.”
“Where is it?” asked Rob.
“Along the footpath behind the church,” he said. “Rumour has it that it has never dried up or frozen over. People still come to sample the water, although I wouldn’t advise it.” He chuckled. “At one point, though, it was the water supply for the whole village.”
“Did you know a young girl called Arina Parvin?” Rob asked on a whim.
Father Ed thought for a moment. “I don’t think so, but then I don’t know all my parishioners. We get a good crowd in for Sunday service, but it’s not what it was. And the youngsters don’t come. Was she one of the people you found buried in the woods?”
Rob got to his feet. “Thank you so much, Father Ed. You’ve been very helpful.”
“Glad I could help. Do you want to see the well?”
He glanced at Tony.
“Why not?” the profiler said.
The vicar pointed them in the right direction. They followed the overgrown path until they came across a rectangular stone structure about a foot and a half high. It had a grate covering one side. A rusty pipe spat out a tiny trickle of water.
“So, this is the well of St John the Baptist,” said Tony. A giant green sign to the side proclaimed that it was. “I must say, there isn’t much to see.”
“Not anymore,” Rob agreed, his eyes were elsewhere. “Isn’t that the back of Bisley Wood?”
They peered into the deepening dusk. In the distance, they could see the hazy, purple treeline and if Rob’s bearings were correct, beyond the woods lay Bisley Common.
“Could be a factor,” Tone mused.
“I don’t know. Why bury them near a well? Even one with supposedly healing properties?”
Tony shook his head. “You’ll have to ask him that when you catch him.”
38
“I feel like we’ve been down this road before.”
Rob sat across from Tony in The Cricketer, a local pub in Richmond. They’d chosen a table by the window so they could look out over the village green. A footpath sliced it diagonally in two and around it, white terraced houses stood like cardboard cut-outs, their interiors burning softly. Families enjoying an evening meal. Watching television. Living their lives. It was comforting after the wild, windswept and quite frankly, creepy heath where the bodies had been buried.
Tony grinned. He’d assisted Rob with a profile of the Surrey Stalker that had turned the case on its head. Tony was good at what he did, which was why he consulted for London’s top law enforcement agencies.
“All killers have different signatures,” he commented. “Yet, there are definite parallels. You’re looking at someone who’s been doing this a long time. Five bodies, possibly more?”
Rob nodded. The K-9 unit hadn’t reported any more macabre finds – thank God – but that didn’t mean there weren’t others at different locations.
“It’s taken time to hone his craft. Years, even.
