The Devil Inside Read online

  The man let out a sharp laugh. ‘Geez, Father, clearly they didn’t put you in this position because of your intelligence. Do I really have to spell it out for you?’

  Joseph was silent, unsure how to proceed. He could hear his own breathing, shallow and rapid. His fingers rubbed back and forth on the pebbled cover of the Bible he clasped, like a clairvoyant trying to draw out answers.

  ‘My God, it’s a struggle for you isn’t it, chief? I know you’re innocent because I did it. I killed those bitches. There you go, it’s out there now, and let me tell you, I feel so much better. Now, will you absolve me of my sins, Father?’

  Joseph sat still, stunned. A million threads of thought unwound in his head at once, clarity impossible. The man had delivered the words so matter-of-factly, like a weatherman predicting tomorrow’s forecast. It will be a mild twenty-five degrees, sunny periods with the odd cloud or two, and I attacked and murdered three women in the last fortnight.

  He was in completely unchartered waters. Revelations like this certainly weren’t the norm at confession – sleeping with another man’s wife was about the most salacious he had heard. There were so many questions assaulting his mind, he could barely keep his eyes open.

  This man – seated just on the other side of this thin perforated wall – was claiming to be a cold-blooded murderer. How could he prove that? Did this mean Joseph would be free of trouble with the police now? Finally, he took a deep breath and said, ‘What you’re saying is, you are responsible for three murders.’ His tongue felt twice its normal size.

  ‘About time,’ the man said, his voice cold and grating. ‘And you know what I find so fascinating? You can’t do anything about it. You have to sit there and take it – to listen to everything I’ve got to say and then carry it with you everywhere you go. You’re a priest, which means you have to keep your trap shut. You have to keep my dirty secret. Can you see the humour in that, Father? I reckon it’s hilarious.’

  Joseph’s heart hammered. Could he tell the police and break the seal of confession? What would the ramifications be of such a move? Would he be excommunicated from the faith? Could he even live with himself? He knew the man was right. As much as he would love to run out into the street yelling that there was a murderer in the church, he knew he couldn’t. He took his vows too seriously, and could never breach the confidentiality confession provided.

  Still, that didn’t mean he couldn’t try to find another way.

  ‘My friend, I don’t for one moment intend to trivialise what you’re saying,’ Joseph said, choosing his words carefully, ‘but anyone could come in here and claim to have committed these murders.’

  ‘Oh, you think I’m making it up?’ the man said, not bothering to contain his disbelief. ‘It’s funny how you have faith in some things without any evidence, but you won’t believe me … But fair enough. Your sister’s on the case, isn’t she? How about you ask her about the little quotes I left with each body, which of course led straight to you. I slipped the last one behind the girl’s ear. That proof enough for you, Doubting Thomas?’ Joseph felt his stomach drop. ‘Well?’ the man said, and Joseph could sense his impatience simmering, like a pot of water moments from boiling point.

  ‘Okay, I believe you,’ he said shakily. He was terrified at the thought of this sick bastard sitting in the room right next to him, but he also needed to think about his own priorities – which hinged on him steering the investigation in the right direction and clearing his name. He sat on his hands to stop them from shaking. ‘I … I think you need to consider turning yourself in to the police. This has to stop, and I think even you know that, otherwise you wouldn’t be here. You wanted someone to know so you could clear your conscience and get the advice that you already know to be the right thing to do. Talking through issues is cathartic; it allows you to get them off your chest, to feel some relief from the constrictions of that burden. That’s why you’re here – that’s why you have chosen me. I’m happy to take on that load for you – to relieve you of it, if I can. You’re right, I can’t tell anyone what you say to me in here, but I can tell you what I believe you should do, and that’s come clean before anyone else gets killed.’

  Laughter reverberated around the claustrophobic rooms, and the killer began clapping slowly. ‘Great speech, Father, really, well done,’ he said, composing himself. ‘Excuse me for saying so, but you’re deluded. Maybe it’s a God complex, what do you think?’ He laughed again, his silhouette rocking back and forth in the half light. ‘But you’re right about one thing, Father: I chose you. It had to be you, not just any priest. Why? Well, maybe you need to have a bit of a think about your own character before you start condemning mine. But that’s a whole other story. The real reason I told you was to make you suffer. I want – no, I need – to see you agonise over this, to watch as it tears you up inside until it snatches the very breath from your lungs. To have it gnaw away at you every minute of every day, a black cloud hovering over you, darkening your existence. That’s what I want, and that’s what I’ll get. You’re responsible for the deaths of those girls, Father, and this isn’t over until I think you’ve suffered enough. Until then, know that these killings are your doing. Have a good think about that won’t you, during the lonely hours of your pitiful life. And don’t forget the most important thing – this is our little secret.’

  Joseph couldn’t believe what he was hearing. How the hell was this his doing? This guy was insane, and Joseph was starting to feel more and more anxious about his immediate safety. ‘I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,’ he managed to stammer. The metallic taste of fear was like a mouthful of coins.

  ‘Oh, but you do.’ The man came so close to the wall that his lips almost brushed the thin lattice. ‘If you only believe one thing I’ve said, Father, believe that – you do know. I’ll say three words that I’m sure will jog your memory: Father Alan Watson. Now that’s a blast from the past, isn’t it?’

  Joseph’s head was reeling. Not only was he sitting opposite a clearly deranged killer, but he was being accused of having something to do with crimes he knew nothing about. ‘Okay, I think I understand,’ he said, trying to buy time, conscious that he needed to keep this man talking. ‘I get it, I’ve offended you in some way – I don’t know how, but I’ll do my best to think about that. Tell me how I can help you end this before any more innocent lives are taken. Let me know what I can do – if it’s in my power to help, I will.’

  Joseph heard the man shuffling around before his voice rasped back. ‘Help? Well, that’s an interesting concept, Father. Isn’t that what you were put on this earth to do, being a man of the cloth and all – you and all your fellow ministers? To help people?’

  ‘Yes. And I think we do that – well, I know I do.’

  ‘Of course you do – at least in your own perverted version of the world. Well, here’s your chance to keep doing that good work by helping me out.’

  Wiping his face, Joseph took a sip from the glass of cool water on the side table, feeling the liquid run all the way down his dry throat before sending icy waves through his lungs. ‘I’ll do what I can.’

  ‘No, you’ll do what I say.’

  ‘Within reason,’ Joseph said, scared of where this was heading. ‘I’ll do what I can, but I won’t break the law.’

  ‘You needn’t worry about that, Father,’ the voice came back. ‘You don’t really have to do anything. Just talk – that’s something you’re good at, isn’t it? All that crap you go on and on about on a Sunday, trying to tell the good people of this community how to live their lives – how to maintain their deteriorating marriages. Funny when you think about it. What the hell would you know about that, you celibate fool? Still, that doesn’t stop you dribbling out all that rubbish – I’ve heard it myself, it’s hardly inspiring.’

  Joseph remained glued to his seat, riding the insults, waiting for his fate to be decided.

  ‘So, here’s what we’re going to do. You see this?’ The man pressed
a mobile phone up to the barrier between them, and Joseph squinted at the bright screen, harsh in the dim light of the confessional. ‘In a second, I’m going to push that big red record button, and then it’s showtime for you, Father. You said you wanted to help me, to make the killing stop. Well, this is the only way that’s going to happen. And I know you love the sound of your own voice, so I’m sure you’ll be more than happy to comply with my instructions, to the very last letter. You’re going to be my security blanket, Father; you’re going to keep me safe. It’s confession time.’

  Confession time? Joseph frowned with confusion. What the hell is he talking about? ‘I told you, I don’t know what I’m supposed to have done, and even if I did, I don’t know how that can help you.’

  ‘We’ll get to that another time. But for the moment, if you want the killing to stop, you’re going to confess to murdering those three lovely young women.’

  ‘What the fuck?’ Joseph shot back angrily. Fury rose inside him, hot sweat breaking out under his arms. ‘I will not—’

  ‘Now, now, that’s no way for a man of the cloth to speak to a member of his flock.’ The man’s tone was so condescending it only infuriated Joseph more. ‘Being a potty mouth is very unbecoming on you, Father. Your dilemma is simple – it’s your choice. Make it now, and deal with the consequences later. Of course, I won’t use your confession unless I have to. It’ll just give me a little bit more confidence in the fact that you’re going to keep my secret for me. If you spill my beans, I spill yours.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I refuse to be blackmailed by you into—’

  ‘Really? Well, I guess this is it then,’ the man said. ‘Just remember you had a chance to stop this when you see the news. And don’t forget to mention it when you counsel the grieving parents, too – that you had an opportunity to save their child’s life but were too selfish to take up the offer. Oh, and one more thing: you should really learn to lock your car. Catch ya later.’

  There was a flurry of movement as the man went to leave, his silhouette moving towards the door.

  ‘Wait!’ Joseph cried, fighting his conscience with each passing second. The silhouette paused.

  ‘Just wait, let me think for a second.’

  The figure stood unmoving at the door, his back still turned and his head tilted, waiting. Joseph went through his options as quickly as his cluttered mind would allow. But it was a simple equation: not do what this man asked and more innocent people would die – the blood of whom would be on his hands; or do what he was asked, make the confession, and hope that this sadistic killer would stick to his word and not use the recording.

  The choice was clear. Jesus had sacrificed himself for all mankind – now was the moment for Father Joseph to follow his lead.

  ‘Okay. I’ll do what you want. But you have to stop the killing.’

  The man turned and walked back to his seat. ‘It will go like this,’ he said. ‘I’ll press record and you’ll identify yourself, and then make full and frank admissions to the three murders – a decision you have come to on your own, out of pure guilt. You will mention where each body was found – the beach boxes, the rear of the homemaker centre, and the parkland around the Lovers Lane car park. Do not deviate from that script. There will be no second chance – mess this up or try anything stupid and I will be out the door. Whatever happens from there will be on your head. Are we clear?’

  ‘Crystal.’ Joseph’s head hung in despair.

  ‘Okay. Lights, camera, action.’

  Looking up, Joseph saw the mobile phone held high, the red record button flashing like a time bomb, counting down his final seconds.

  ‘My name is Father Joseph Callaghan,’ he began, hearing the tremor in his voice, muted by the confines of the confessional. ‘I have made a decision today – albeit with a heavy, guilty heart – to confess to the recent murders of three young women. This admission has been made of my own volition. The first woman …’

  Three minutes later the recording was done, the confession complete.

  ‘Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?’ the man said, sliding the mobile phone back into his pocket and rising from his chair. ‘Thank you, Father – it really has been a pleasure. Will three Hail Marys suffice?’

  Before Joseph could reply, the silhouette disappeared from sight, the confessional door left ajar. Joseph reached for the door on his own side and threw it open. He dashed out into the main area of the church, desperate to catch at least a glimpse of the killer as he bolted – anything that he could pass on to the police. But there was nothing.

  That was when he felt the impact, the blinding pain before everything went black.

  CHAPTER 26

  ‘And there we go … Gee, you’re becoming a bit of an expert at this now.’ A beaming smile broke across the nurse’s face as she patted Charlotte’s shoulder.

  This was Charlotte’s eighth bout of chemotherapy, so she should be getting used to it. And for someone who hated needles, she had to admit she was better at it now than she had been at the beginning. The key was to look away, or try to at least.

  The crook of her arm was so battered and bruised, she looked like a druggy, but it was nothing a bit of make-up couldn’t hide. That and long-sleeved tops, even in the warmer weather. Being two hours from home, in the anonymity of Westvale at least allowed her to relax a little.

  ‘You okay?’ the nurse asked, after checking the drip-line and pushing a few buttons on the incessantly beeping machine.

  Charlotte nodded, lying her head back in the recliner. ‘As good as I can be.’

  Chemo was one of the few times in her life when she had a chance to just stop, and for everything that cartwheeled around in her day-to-day life to be put on hold. The hour or so of treatment – as horrendous as it was – gave her the opportunity to mull things over in her own time.

  ‘Okay, your turn Margaret …’ Charlotte heard the nurse turn her attention to the next poor soul in line. The chemo centre was like a sausage factory, churning out victims one after another. The waiting room was always busy, people from all walks of life waiting bald-headed for their treatment – young, old, man, woman, black, white, rich, poor. They were easy to spot; if the sunken eyes and jaundiced skin didn’t give them away, the array of bandanas and beanies certainly did. Charlotte was just one more disillusioned human being, wondering why it was they who had been selected, why their specific number had come up.

  She couldn’t help but wonder where the fuck the cancer had even come from – she hardly ever smoked, wasn’t a heavy drinker, had no family history of it. Part of her blamed the anxiety of the job, particularly her time at the Homicide Squad where her stress levels had been at their highest and severe emotional trauma was something she’d encountered on a daily basis. But she knew she was one of the lucky ones; while her body had betrayed her, her mind was still sharp. So, like most, she had no choice but to live in hope. The alternative wasn’t even worth contemplating while she was still alive and kicking.

  She stared down at the needle in her arm, transfixed against her better judgement as the fluid slid into her system. This particular course came out of a thick black bag, and the nurse had worn protective gear when she’d hooked it up. How could something like that possibly be doing her any good? Anything someone had to wear gloves and a mask when handling probably wasn’t ideal to have in her system. Medicine was amazing – frightening and terrible, but amazing all the same.

  She lay back, eyes closed. In her darker hours, she often thought of this moment and imagined herself as an animal at the vet, hooked up to the ‘green dream’, looking at the world for the last time. She’ll just go to sleep and won’t wake up again … Don’t worry, she won’t be in any pain.

  There were times, she had to admit, where that vision held an alarming appeal.

  The nursing staff all knew Charlotte’s occupation, and were aware of her need for absolute confidentiality. Apart from her regional boss, whom she had sworn to secrecy and whose office was in We
stvale, she still hadn’t told anyone at work – or any family members for that matter. And she sure as hell couldn’t tell Joseph now. As far as her colleagues knew, she had a friend going through it, and Charlotte was her support crew. Luckily, that explained all the days off. And it wasn’t actually the day of treatment that was the worst – it was the few days or the week after when the nausea really smacked her about the head, her skin burning like it was peeling off her face.

  Then of course, there was Jack. The guilt of not telling him was growing each day, a snowball, gathering in size, threatening to demolish everything that stood in its path – including the fragile town that was their relationship. It had only been one day, but she still hadn’t heard from him after the other night. It was like she was back in Year 10, her heartstrings straining as she waited for contact – a call, a message, anything.

  Her mobile buzzed on the arm of her chair, causing most of the other patients to look her way, thankful for the small distraction, and she tilted it up so she could see the screen. It was J.D.

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ she mumbled to herself, pressing the accept button and bringing the phone up to her ear. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘We’ve got a bit of a situation, Charlotte,’ J.D. said, getting right to the point. ‘Are you available?’