Discarded M. Hunter (the snowy day read aloud TXT) 📖

He frowns. ‘A pretty twisted joke if it is.’

‘But I just keep thinking back to Tina Neville, and how we were all so willing to buy her story that Jo-Jo had been snatched, when all along she was just pretending. What if this is all someone else’s elaborate ruse to have me trekking across the country looking for false clues?’

‘There’s only really one way to know for certain.’

I’m grateful when the vicar returns and her nervous energy is gone. The smell of burnt incense hangs like a cloud above our heads, and reminds me of the vigils held in honour of Anna for those first few months after she left. I can’t even remember the last time I stepped inside a church. Maybe prayer is the one remaining avenue I’ve yet to explore.

The vicarage isn’t as I would have expected. Where I would have imagined seeing rickety old furniture and a home in desperate need of modernisation, instead I recognise several pieces from the IKEA catalogue. The walls have been recently painted, and are covered in framed artistic impressions of flowers and beaches.

‘I’m Victoria,’ she says after a moment, ‘and am known as Vicar Victoria locally.’ The grey streaks in her short bob glisten in the light flooding in through the large bay window in the main room. ‘So, back to your problem then: you believe that this young man you’re looking for could be buried in our cemetery here?’

‘Maybe,’ I reply. ‘He went missing from Gosport in 1996 having withdrawn all his savings, and was never seen nor heard of thereafter. Today I received the picture I showed you of him, but in that image he’s older than eleven – his age when he disappeared – which suggests he wasn’t killed back in 1996. On the back of the photo, whoever sent it wrote the date 19th January 2000. Looking through the cemetery, we came across a grave with that date of death, where someone has left a bunch of flowers with a card reading “RIP Chez”.’

‘I see,’ she says. ‘Well, I can tell you nobody has been buried in our cemetery since 2010, as it’s now full, but give me a moment and I will go and dig out the grave records, no pun intended.’

By the time Vicar Victoria returns, carrying a cardboard box on top of which sits a large leather-bound book, I’m convinced we’ve made a mistake in coming here, and that someone is using my obsession with Anna’s loss to lead me on a wild goose chase. And the most irritating part is that I allowed myself to succumb.

‘I’ve found the register of plots and graves,’ she says, lifting the large green leather-bound book and flicking it open. ‘It’s ordered by plot, by date of burial, and by name,’ she explains. ‘When they say we have to fill it in in triplicate, they really mean it.’ She chuckles to herself, and adjusts her glasses, beginning to flick through. ‘You said the date of death was January 2000?’

‘Yes, the 19th.’

She flicks through several pages. ‘Okay, I have a Jean-Claude Ribery who was interred the week after on Tuesday 25th January, which would probably tie in with the date of death. The next burial after that wasn’t until May of the same year.’

‘Does it say who oversaw the service?’ I ask.

‘Yes, hold on… Looks like it was my predecessor, the Reverend Peter Saltzing.’

‘Is there any further information about who attended, or who paid for the burial?’

‘No, I’m sorry. It was dealt with by one of the three funeral directors on the island. Grady’s is a family-run business. If you contact them they may be able to confirm more details for you. I have a business card of theirs around here somewhere that I can let you have.’

‘Thank you. Is your predecessor still around? You said he retired when you took over?’

Her face drops. ‘He passed away not long after he retired, I’m afraid. Left under a bit of a cloud, by all accounts.’

My spidey-senses are tingling again.

‘In what way?’ I ask as casually as my growing excitement will allow.

‘Well, rumour had it that he had been involved with that boys’ home in the Midlands; you know, the one where there was all that business about abuse? There was a court case about it a couple of years ago.’

My blood runs cold, and I struggle to get the words out of my mouth. ‘You mean the St Francis Home for Wayward Boys?’

‘Yes, that’s the one. He was working there briefly as a pastor, providing spiritual guidance to the boys. I don’t think he was ever accused of being involved in what went on, but the fact that he was there at all and didn’t pick up on what was happening… Mud sticks, doesn’t it?’

Why does everything keep looping back to that place? Freddie’s comments about Pendark also echo in my head: I’d put money on there being more victims undiscovered there too.

‘After he died and I was having a proper clear-out, I found this box in the small loft above the kitchen. Some of Peter’s old things, I believe. It didn’t feel right to just throw them away, but I didn’t know what else to do with them.’

Part of me doesn’t want to look through the box, but I can’t stop myself reaching for it and sliding it across the carpet. When I lift the lid a musty bubble of damp seems to escape, and as I sift through, I see they are mainly framed pictures and newspaper articles. I pull one out when I read the name St Francis in the headline. I recognise Arthur Turgood standing beside a man in a dog collar and a younger man, the three of them beaming. I’m not sure how much longer I can keep my nausea at bay.

‘Would you mind if I borrowed these?’ I ask, determined to ask Freddie if he recognises Saltzing or the man laughing beside him.

‘You’re welcome to them,’ Victoria says, standing. ‘I’ll