Killing with Confetti

13

Jack Peace was a killer in the making. Murder had been on his mind for the past three years, the one treat in prospect that had kept him from topping himself. When you’re banged up, you can easily go under if you haven’t got a reason to carry on and his purpose was stronger than most: common justice. He’d promised himself he would act when the opportunity came, and now the time was approaching. He knew when it had to happen. He knew where. He knew how. All that remained was to execute it perfectly.

‘How much?’ he asked the woman in the abbey shop.

‘Eight pounds, sir.’

Some chance. He’d already evaded the people inside the door wanting a four-pound voluntary donation. ‘I’m on benefits.’ His shabby clothes suggested as much. Even his T-shirt was torn at the armpits.

‘I’m afraid there are no concessions.’

‘I don’t have eight pounds on me.’ His look of disappointment verging on desperation would have touched anyone’s heart. ‘Can I pay later? I can get it tomorrow.’

She shook her head. Evidently trading in promises wasn’t encouraged by the abbey treasurer.

‘How long are you open?’ he asked. ‘I might be able to get it this afternoon. People are generous in this town.’

‘The last tour starts at five.’

‘Five.’ He lifted his arm and looked at the space on his wrist where a watch should have been. His hand was chapped and dirty as if he was a rough sleeper. ‘That’s not long.’

He could read the question running through her do-good head. How long does it take to collect eight pounds in a paper cup?

‘You came here specially, didn’t you?’

Peace knew when to up the ante. He was a peerless liar. ‘I was baptised here. My mum, may she rest in peace, always said she wanted me to see the view from the top. She went up there once and she was talking about it for the rest of her life. Is it true there’s a space in the ceiling and you can look right down to the floor?’

She nodded. ‘There are several. For ventilation.’

‘My old mum was right, then.’

She looked right and left, definitely checking to make sure no one else was within earshot. ‘Here.’ She touched the button on the point-of-sale printer, handed the ticket across and made a fluttering gesture with her hand as if to show she wasn’t insisting on cash. ‘It starts on the hour and takes fifty minutes.’

‘You’re a Christian lady,’ he said.

‘I’m not sure of that.’ She’d just robbed the Lord of eight pounds and her cheeks were inflamed with guilt. ‘Can you manage stairs?’

‘I’m not a pensioner.’

‘I only mentioned it because there are two hundred and twelve, but there are stops on the way up.’

‘No problem.’

‘The people over there are waiting for the guide to appear.’ She reddened again.

Jack grinned at that. She’d made a routine situation sound like a miracle about to happen. He had that effect on certain women, unnerving them with eyes full of dark intent and as implacable as the flagstone floor.

Next, she’d think he was going up the tower to throw himself off.

If she’d known what was really on his mind she would have been even more disturbed.

‘Does everyone speak English?’ the guide asked when they were seated in front of him in a pew. He looked like a student. Ponytail, jeans, worn trainers.

Stupid question: does everyone speak English? If any of them didn’t, they wouldn’t answer. Eight were on the tour, including Jack Peace. Two looked Japanese and they seemed to understand what had been said.

‘I must check your tickets first.’

Jack had his complimentary one ready.

‘They should have explained when you bought your tickets that it’s a lot of steps. Access is up a spiral staircase and some of the steps are uneven.’

Another daft statement. You could quickly tire of this young guy. If you were doing the fucking tower tour you’d expect steps. Old churches didn’t have lifts.

‘The first climb is a hundred and twenty steps, but that’s the most you’ll be asked to do and there’s a chance to sit down at the top. We’ll go up now and our first stop will be the ringing chamber. Keep to the right where the steps are widest and hold the rope with your left hand. Take your time and watch your heads. We don’t want an accident.’

Definitely not, Jack thought. He believed in being deliberate. Before going up, he wanted a close look at the lock on the bell tower door, so he stood aside to let the others go first.

Next time he went up the tower he’d be alone and he needed to know how to break in.

The lock wouldn’t be a problem.

He mounted those stairs quickly to catch up. Above him, excited voices echoed off the stonework.

Having climbed all those steps, the tour group emerged heavy-legged but triumphant in the open air and found themselves behind a stone parapet at roof level above the nave. The guide informed them that they’d reached the Bishop’s Balcony. Between gaps in the stonework were glimpses of Orange Grove and the old Empire Hotel.

Jack didn’t bother with the view. Another lock wanted checking. Same type. Easy.

‘Something interesting about the door?’ the guide asked him.

‘No, mate.’

‘Watch your head as you go in.’

‘Can’t be done.’

‘What?’

‘Watching your head. Can’t be done without a mirror.’

‘Ha-ha. Got you.’

Stupid prick.

Inside was a large room with a wood floor. Bell ropes with fluffy striped hand grips hanging from spaces in the ceiling. The group were expected to sit on benches around the sides for a lecture on bell-ringing that didn’t interest Jack one bit.

While the guide was chuntering on about the ropes, a youth across the room was taking pictures with his mobile. The pesky teenager pointed the thing directly at Jack.

Out of order, kiddo. Nobody takes pictures of Jack Peace, and least of all when he’s on a job.

‘Feeling strong, everybody?’ the guide said. ‘We’re about to move again.’

‘Thank Christ for that,’ Jack muttered.

‘Did you have a question, sir?’

‘No, mate.’

They were led along a narrow wooden walkway to sit in a cramped space behind some enormous clock that Jack knew with a sinking heart was sure to be discussed at length. You could make out the Roman numerals in reverse against the daylight through the glass segments.

‘We’re now above the north transept,’ their guide told them. ‘This is the abbey clock you see from outside when you’re standing in the High Street, where they had an open market formerly, so everyone could look up and check the time. It replaced an earlier clock originally fixed to the north face of the tower. This one dates from 1888 and has a six-foot diameter and was designed by Lord Grimthorpe.’

As if anyone cared, least of all Jack.

The minute hand moved seven minutes before everything that needed to be said about the clock was gone through. And then — would you believe it? — the guide started up about something else.

But this time he had Jack’s total attention.

‘When you first came into the abbey this afternoon, you can’t have failed to notice, seventy-eight feet above you, the famous fan vaulting extending across the entire building and thought by many to be the finest architectural feature of the abbey. Although it looks as if it was constructed all at one time in history, it wasn’t. The work was started in the reign of Elizabeth I and only completed in 1873. Right now, we’re above the oldest section. You’ll get an opportunity presently to see something people below us are totally unaware of.’

‘Gaps in the ceiling?’ Jack couldn’t stop himself saying. He was like a kid on Christmas Day. He’d come here specially for this. Been thinking about it ever since he’d nicked the abbey guidebook from a bookshop over a week ago.

‘Hey — someone’s done his homework. Yes, the holes are meant to be for ventilation, but many of our visitors find them fascinating for another reason. You’ll each have a chance to look through and see people moving about below — and they’ve no idea we’re watching them. Sneaky, but there’s a bit of the Peeping Tom in all of us and this is always a highlight of the tour. So let’s retrace our steps and you will see for yourselves.’

Jack didn’t reach the spyhole first. One of the Japanese girls pushed ahead of him and her companion wasn’t far behind.

‘Fucking hell.’ He was incensed.

‘Be patient and you’ll all get a turn,’ the guide said. ‘In the meantime, I’ll tell you how a fan-vaulted ceiling is constructed.’

When Jack’s turn came, he was devastated. The vent wasn’t a decent-sized gap in the stonework, as he’d expected. It was a hole no bigger than a beermat. You might get a gun barrel through, but that was all. You couldn’t shoot with any accuracy because you wouldn’t be able to see. You could end up shooting the bishop by mistake.

Mission aborted.

Jack decided to quit the tour. He was about to make some excuse when he remembered the sonofabitch who had taken the pictures.

Lecture over, everyone got up to start the next ascent of the spiral staircase, to the bell chamber itself. Jack made sure he was right behind the teenage photographer and waited until they were some way up before reaching forward and lifting the phone from the kid’s back pocket.

‘Sorry, mate. Lost balance for a moment.’

The teenager checked his pocket. ‘My phone’s gone,’ he said in a panic.

Jack spread his hands to show they were empty. The mobile was already clattering down the steps. ‘I thought I heard something fall. I’ll fetch it for you.’ Made sense. He was the lowest on the stairs.

He found the phone about ten steps down. Just to be sure it was damaged beyond use he crunched the screen with his heel. Then he moved on down the stairs.