64

18 December

‘HEY, YOU.’

Harry looked up. He’d heard footsteps approaching, had just assumed it was yet another police officer prowling around his church. And now, even before he’d opened his mouth to say hello, he was up, striding across the vestry, heading for the young woman who might be wearing the same violet colour as her eyes, only it was impossible to be sure because he’d already taken her in his arms, was far too close to focus on what she was wearing, and she was smiling up at him …

Dream on, Harry. He hadn’t moved from his desk, was still staring stupidly across the room, and yes, she was wearing violet, a large, loose sweater over tight black jeans tucked into long boots; and that was a very unclerical thought he was having about those boots on bare legs.

‘You didn’t come,’ she said, one hand on the doorframe, the other holding the door ajar.

Harry leaned back in his chair. Five seconds it would take him to cross the room, kick the door shut and put the fantasy into action. ‘The other love of my life turned up with a bottle of Irish,’ he said. ‘After an hour, driving really wasn’t an option for either of us; and I hope he’s been suffering all day as well.’

‘DCS Rushton?’ she asked, as her cheeks glowed a little pinker.

‘The very same.’ Would it be five seconds? He could probably do it in four, if he leaped over the desk.

‘How was he?’ She stepped forward, collecting her stick from where it had been leaning against the doorframe, and allowed the door to fall shut.

If he leaped over the desk, he’d be sick.

‘Terrified he’s going to be forced into early retirement before the case is solved,’ he said. ‘At a complete loss to know what to do next. I told him I knew just how he felt and the two of us poured each other another drink.’

Her smile faded as footsteps approached outside. Harry waited to see if they were heading for the vestry but they continued on down the path.

‘I need you to tell me what’s been going on here,’ she said. ‘It’s important.’

Harry sighed. He really, really didn’t want to get into all that now with Evi. All he wanted to do was step forward, pull her away from that door and …

She let her head fall on to one side, looked him directly in the eyes. ‘Please,’ she said.

‘OK, OK.’

In as few words as possible, he filled her in about every weird thing that had happened to him since his arrival in Heptonclough: the whispered, threatening voices; his constant sense that he wasn’t alone in the church; the smashed effigy that bore a remarkable resemblance to Millie; and his own personal favourite: drinking blood from a Communion chalice. When he’d finished, she was silent.

‘Can I sit down?’ she asked, after a moment.

He pulled a chair in front of the desk and she sank into it, a frown of pain creasing her forehead. Then she looked up at him. ‘Are you OK?’ she asked.

He shrugged. ‘Can’t answer that one in a hurry. Does any of it make any sense?’

She shook her head. ‘Not really. But I think I’m getting closer to finding out who Ebba is. That’s why I came up. My laptop’s in my bag. Could you get it, please?’

Harry retrieved Evi’s large, black leather bag from where she’d left it by the door and put it on the desk in front of her. While she pulled out and switched on the slim computer, he brought a chair round the desk so that they were sitting side by side. Evi opened up a window and turned the screen so that Harry could see it. It was a page from a medical reference site. His eyes went to the title at the top.

‘Congenital hypothyroidism,’ he read and turned to her for confirmation. She nodded.

‘Once Tom had Joe’s drawing to jog his memory, he was able to give me a very detailed description of the girl,’ she said. ‘The goitre is what really gives it away, though.’

‘What is it, exactly?’ asked Harry, who’d been scanning the text beneath the heading, unable to make much sense of the medical jargon.

‘Basically, a shortage in the body of the hormone thyroxin,’ said Evi. She was just inches away from him. He could smell her sweet, warm scent, too delicate to be perfume, maybe soap, body lotion. He had to concentrate.

‘Thyroxin is produced by the thyroid gland in the neck,’ she was saying. ‘If we don’t have enough of it we can’t grow properly and we can’t develop as we should. The condition is rare now, luckily, because it can be treated, but in the old days, it was quite common, especially in certain parts of the world.’

‘Can’t say I’ve ever heard of it,’ said Harry, shaking his head.

‘Oh, you will have,’ said Evi. ‘The less politically correct name for it is cretinism. I think Tom’s friend – shall we call her Ebba, it makes life a bit easier – is what we used to call a cretin.’

Harry rubbed both temples, thinking for a second. ‘So, she’s what?’ he asked. ‘A child?’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Evi, with a tiny cat-like smile on her face. ‘People with the condition rarely grow taller than about five foot so an adult could easily appear much younger. And they usually have the mental age of children, would act in a childlike way. Do you need some paracetamol?’

‘If I take any more I’ll rattle. How is it caused?’ asked Harry. ‘Is it genetic?’

‘In some cases,’ said Evi. ‘But mainly the causes are environmental. For the body to produce thyroxin we need iodine, which we get primarily from food. In the days when people grew their own food and fed on local livestock they were much more vulnerable. Certain soil conditions, typically remote mountainous regions like the Alps, were deficient in iodine. So if you lived in an area where there was no iodine in the soil, your thyroid gland would swell up in size to suck up as much iodine as possible. That’s what causes the goitre on the neck.’

‘We’re a long way from the Alps,’ said Harry.

‘Parts of Derbyshire were very vulnerable not too long ago,’ replied Evi. ‘Derbyshire neck was quite a well-known medical condition. Look.’

She changed the screen and Harry was looking at a picture of a woman in late-nineteenth-century dress. A massive swelling on her neck pushed her head out of position, forcing her to look upwards.’

‘That’s a goitre,’ said Evi, indicating the lump. ‘And we’re really not so far from the Peak District here, are we?’

‘So the girl that’s been frightening Tom is a local woman suffering from this condition? I can’t believe no one’s mentioned her.’

‘It does seem odd,’ agreed Evi. ‘But the Fletchers are still very new. Maybe people were just being discreet.’

Harry thought for a moment. ‘I need coffee,’ he said, standing up and crossing to the sink. Kettle in hand, he turned back. ‘And you say the condition can be treated?’

‘Absolutely,’ said Evi, nodding her head. ‘That’s what’s puzzling me. Newborn babies are routinely screened these days. If they’re found to be deficient in thyroxin, it can be administered artificially. They have to take it all their lives, but their development will be normal.’

Harry switched the kettle on and found clean mugs.

‘The only explanation I can think of is that she was born to relatively uneducated parents who haven’t maintained her treatment,’ continued Evi. ‘Maybe they suffer from it themselves. I spoke to DCI Rushton this morning, suggested he start looking at outlying farms and farm-workers’ cottages. Whoever this family are, I’m guessing they don’t come into town too often.’

‘OK, big question now,’ said Harry, spooning instant coffee into the mugs. ‘Could this girl – woman, whoever – be responsible for the deaths of Lucy, Megan and Hayley? For the threat to Millie?’

Evi flicked the screen back again. ‘I’ve spent most of today finding out everything I can about the condition,’ she said. ‘There’s no evidence I can see of these people behaving in violent or aggressive ways. Even Tom doesn’t think it was she who tried to abduct Millie now. He claims it was a much bigger person.’

‘It was dark, he was scared,’ said Harry. ‘He could have got confused.’

‘Yes, but it doesn’t feel right somehow. These people are known for their gentleness, their harmlessness. Even their name suggests that. The word "cretin" is believed to come from the Anglo-French word “Chrétien”.’

‘Meaning what?’ asked Harry, as the kettle came to the boil and switched itself off.

‘Christian,’ said Evi. ‘Cretin means Christian. It’s supposed to indicate the sufferers’ Christ-like inability to commit sin.’

He really couldn’t concentrate this morning. ‘How so?’ he asked.

‘They don’t have the mental capacity to distinguish right from wrong, so nothing they do can be considered sinful in the true sense of the word. They remain innocent.’

Harry almost shook his head and stopped himself just in time. He was never drinking again. ‘That doesn’t mean they can’t do anything wrong, just that they don’t know they’re doing wrong,’ he said. ‘What if this Ebba person likes the look of little blonde girls, sees them as some sort of plaything, and it all … oh, hang on a minute, this is ringing bells.’

‘I’d say the last thing you need right now is bells ringing in your head.’ She was laughing at him.

‘What I need right now can’t be discussed in a house of God,’ he replied. She was right though, he could really do without a hangover today. ‘Innocent Christians,’ he said, as though trying out how the words sounded in his mouth. Then he had it. ‘Innocent Christian souls,’ he said. ‘We need the burial register.’

‘Sorry?’

Harry was already reaching into the cupboard where the register was kept.

‘Look,’ he said, when he’d found the right page. ‘Sophie Renshaw, died in 1908, aged eighteen, described as An Innocent Christian soul.’

‘There’s another one,’ said Evi. ‘Charles Perkins, died in 1932, aged fifteen. How many are there?’

He counted quickly. ‘Eight,’ he said. ‘Six girls, two boys, all under twenty-five at the time of death.’

‘The condition’s more common in females,’ said Evi. ‘You think all these people could have been like Ebba?’

‘I wouldn’t be in the least bit surprised. I even remember that old bugger boasting about it. “Ninety-five per cent of the food I’ve eaten my whole life comes from this moor,” that’s what he said to me. I’ll bet the soil up here’s – what did you call it?’

‘Iodine deficient. We really need to find her, Harry.’