The Norwich Murders

It was rare to find a church unlocked these days. He had been fortunate. Pushing open the oak door, he stepped into the cool interior.

The nave lay in shadow, unlit, the semi-darkness enveloping the limestone columns. He sat down in one of the pews at the back and began soaking in the silence.

How tranquil it was here, well off the beaten track, yet only three miles from the centre of Norwich.

It was clear from the dust which covered the pews and the lack of electricity that long ago the church had fallen into disuse. It would serve him well, since the risk of discovery would be minimal.

After a short while, he stood up and walked slowly down the centre of the aisle to the altar. Left of it stood a tall statue of the crucified Christ, carved in oak, painted in sombre colours. At the foot of the cross knelt the weeping figure of the Virgin.

He knelt and touched the forehead, cold and lifeless though it was, then crossed himself. Though he had long ago ceased to be a practising Christian, the vestiges of ritual still clung to him.

He stood up. In the silent interior, there was still a faint smell of incense. The beloved frankincense. He breathed deeply, absorbing its subtle fragrance.

From the inside pocket of his jacket he drew out a candle, lit it, then placed it beside the statue. Then he sat down, unfolded a newscutting and perused its contents.

’Eastern Daily Press, January 3rd 2005. Human hand Found In Kings Lynn.′ His eyes scanned the article.

‘A hand thought to belong to a woman was found early on Saturday morning in a litter bin on Green Quay. It was discovered by a cyclist whilst on his way to work. Police do not yet know the identity of the victim.’

Finding this in the newspaper had brought back memories for him of the girl in Dumfries. He recalled her skin: pale, smooth as alabaster.

He remembered how she had looked as he had laid her body out on the sofa. The perfect icon. His own madonna. He had drawn the curtains, lit candles and placed them round her, then sat for hours in the gathering darkness, watching the way the candlelight fell on her white flesh.

Then, after two days, he had begun the ritual.

Reading that article again reminded him of the Great Work. Three years had passed and he had done nothing. But now it was time.

He folded the news cutting, put it back in his jacket, then made his way back up the nave. As he reached the lych gate, there was a sound of alarm as a small bird fell victim to a jay.

He passed on, whistling to himself and took the footpath back to the main road where he’d left his car. It was the beginning of a new day.

And he had much work to do.