Another hour later and it was starting to look like it. Fran still hadn’t returned any of his calls. Had she even looked at the evidence on her father he’d given her? Would it change her mind about him?
Harry thought back to their evening at Revelations. Before Dex had turned up, all posh-boy charm and effortless good looks, Fran’s sister Lucy had hung on Harry’s every word. He’d sensed she liked him. Even if he’d misread her interest as sexual, at the very least he was sure she’d approved of him as a potential boyfriend for her sister. Which meant that maybe, if he chose his words carefully, there was a chance he could get her to intercede with Fran on his behalf.
He knew from his conversations with Fran that the rest of her family worshipped at St Cecilia’s church, just around the corner from their house in Kensington. Lucy was devout – her attitude to the ‘blasphemous’ icons at Revelations reinforced what Fran had already told him about the daily mass Lucy attended and the church work with which she filled her time. What had she said? Something about a Guild of something or other and another group with ‘Mary’ in the title on Sundays . . .
Harry quickly checked the St Cecilia website. The Legion of Mary meeting was due to finish in the next hour or so. Harry had just enough time to get there and, hopefully, speak to Lucy as she left.
People were milling in the church forecourt, ignoring the soft drizzle that had been falling all day, when Harry arrived. He saw Lucy, dressed in a long white dress and saggy cream cardigan, straight away. She was chatting outside the church with two older women. Harry loitered across the road, waiting for her to leave. The sun came out briefly from behind the cloud as Lucy crossed the road. She walked, as she stood, with a slight stoop. Harry guessed she was self-conscious about her height. She must be at least five foot eleven, far taller than her sister. She hadn’t noticed him. Harry walked up to her, his eye caught by the dark outline of her skinny legs through the front of her dress.
‘Oh, Harry.’ Lucy blushed, clearly thrown at his appearance. She glanced quickly up and down the road, shielding her eyes from the glare.
Harry held out his hands. ‘I am so, so sorry for everything I’ve put you and your family through.’
Lucy tilted her head to one side and appraised him.
‘Daddy and Jacqueline are livid,’ she said. ‘Francesca too.’
‘I’m sure.’ Harry hesitated. Was the fact that she’d left herself out of that last statement in any way a hint of her sympathy? Or did she just want to avoid a personal confrontation? ‘Look, I just came over to apologise and . . . that is, please tell Fran I’m really sorry.’
Lucy met his gaze. Back at Revelations she’d seemed nervy and shy but right now there was a distinctly confident directness in her eyes. And was that a smile curling around her lips?
‘You’re a bit of a mess, aren’t you?’ she said, sounding suddenly very like her sister.
Harry, taken aback, couldn’t help but grin.
‘Would you like to come back to ours?’ Lucy asked. Catching the wary look on his face, she gave a rueful smile. ‘Don’t worry, I’m the only one there, Dad and Jacqueline are out all afternoon. I’m meeting them later for an early supper at Canovanni’s then there’s a concert at the church this evening.’
‘Okay, er, thanks.’ Feeling slightly off balance, Harry followed her along the few short streets that led back to the Carr home.
The sun was setting by the time they arrived. Lucy led him across the hall then stopped at the foot of the stairs.
‘I guess you’d better come up,’ she said, a faint flush creeping over her cheeks.
Feeling a little bewildered, Harry followed her up to the first floor, where Lucy led him into a large bedroom that overlooked the back of the house. It was obviously hers. For a start the whole room was white: from the lacy coverlet on the bed to the thick embroidered curtains. There was even a white rug on the wooden floor. Harry frowned. Why had she brought him in here?
He glanced at the wall above the bed where a wooden figure, presumably supposed to be Christ, hung from a cross. A chain of rosary beads dangled from the foot. It was the only sign of decoration in the room. The rest of the house was neat and minimal in a designer kind of a way, but this was positively ascetic. A wooden wardrobe stood in the corner and a dressing table – empty apart from a leather-bound bible – under the window. The dim light that filtered through the glass cast a thick stripe over the black leather.
Feeling awkward, Harry leaned against the dressing table. He peered up at the crucifix above the bed. Imagine sleeping with that hanging over you every night. He had never had any kind of religious faith himself. What was it like to believe as devoutly as Lucy did?
‘Why did you really come to see me?’ Lucy asked. ‘Are you still trying to write a story on Daddy? Because I should tell you there’s no way he’s done anything wrong.’
‘No, I’ve dropped that,’ Harry said. ‘I’m not doing anything further – not even talking about it unless Fran is okay with it.’
‘So you really like her?’ Lucy fixed him with a penetrating gaze. Her eyes, so like her sister’s in shape and colour, looked almost gold in the shadowy light. ‘That wasn’t an act? You’re in love with Francesca?’
An uneasy feeling crept over Harry. He fixed his gaze on the chipped black paint of Christ’s sandal.
‘She’s in love with you too,’ Lucy went on, just the tiniest shake in her voice. ‘I mean, she’s really angry at the moment so she won’t admit it, even to herself. But the fact that she’s so furious is a sign of how much she cares.’
Harry’s pulse pounded against his skull, partly from embarrassment – this bizarre encounter was absolutely not what he’d expected – but also from the hope that was now charging through him.
‘Right.’ His voice sounded foreign . . . hollow . . . to his ears.
‘I think you two would be great together,’ Lucy went on. ‘I know you did a stupid thing but it was hardly a mortal sin. Anyway St John Vianney says our sins are nothing but a grain of sand alongside the great mountain of the mercy of God. Francesca will see that in time.’ She paused, taking in Harry’s bewildered gaze. ‘You should tell her how you feel. Women can’t just switch off their feelings, you know. Don’t give up.’
Harry stood up. He was, for one of the few times in his life, completely speechless. ‘Er, thank you, I . . . I . . .’
‘. . . need to leave?’ Lucy smiled sadly. ‘Course you do. I’ll see you out.’ She hesitated. ‘Just one more thing, it’s not about Francesca. Just . . . please take care. Your digging around in the dark web and . . . and murder and extremism . . . it’s such a dangerous job . . .’
‘It’s hardly bomb disposal or lion taming,’ Harry said with a grin.
‘Just . . . be careful.’ Lucy crossed herself.
Ten minutes later Harry was sitting in a café on Kensington Church Street, trying to process the conversation that had just taken place. All thoughts of his story on Carr had flown out of his head. He couldn’t think of anything else but seeing Fran again.
The waitress set down his coffee and Harry settled back in his chair, a smile spreading across his face.
Maybe, after all, there really was a way back.
FRAN
I had deleted the actual text message, but its contents were seared across my mind’s eye:
REPENT AND DESIST. 1 Corinthians 3:17
Well, the first part was clear enough. Whoever sent it must be aware of my involvement in Harry’s investigation – and wanted me to stop looking.
Which meant what? That I was being watched? That they knew where I lived? That they’d seen Harry come round earlier and give me his laptop? They’d certainly been careful to block their caller ID.
A shiver snaked down my spine as I studied the Corinthians verse:
If anyone destroys God’s temple, God will destroy that person; for God’s temple is sacred and you are that temple.
Also clear. With such biblical references, I knew, PAAUL
justified ‘eye for an eye’ vengeance. And though it seemed to me contradictory to say simultaneously that it was okay to kill certain people and that all life was sacred, I knew that to anti-abortion extremists such thinking made perfect sense.
I let the new reality settle: Harry had been right about PAAUL.
He had been horribly wrong in the way he’d gone about getting proof, but there was no doubt in my mind now: PAAUL was behind Caspian’s murder. It hurt to imagine: my poor husband, his only crime a desire to serve the women who needed his help.
It was evil.
I put my head in my hands.
My thoughts turned to Dad. So many things pointed to his involvement: his name was all over the PAAUL supporter forums, his move away from the pro-life limelight coincided with the start of the abortion doctor assassination campaign – and he’d denied any knowledge of PAAUL when I first asked him about it. Knowing how open and honest he usually was, this last point weighed heavily on my mind.
Dad would never personally send – or sanction the sending of – such a menacing message to me, his daughter. But that didn’t mean someone else at PAAUL hadn’t done so. Or maybe someone close to Dad who knew of my suspicions and wanted to protect him?
I sat up. What about Auntie Sheila? She was certainly rigid in her pro-life beliefs, and look at the way she’d jumped down my throat when I’d asked her about Dad this morning.
I thought it through. Since the truth had come out about Harry, I’d expressed nothing but anger at his lies to everyone I met. Everyone, that is, except Sheila. She was the only person to whom I’d hinted my continuing suspicions about Dad and PAAUL. And she had been furious with me. The kind of defensive anger that someone might feel if a person they loved very much and knew to be guilty was being accused of a crime. Indeed, Sheila had gone so far as to order me to stop asking questions, not just about Dad, but to back off the whole idea of associating Caspian’s murder with PAAUL.
Could she have sent the threatening text to me in order to protect Dad?
My phone rang: Dex calling.
I snatched up the mobile.
‘Dex?’
‘Hey, Dumpy, you okay? Mum told me you’re in a bit of a state over Harry. I can’t believe it. What a wanker, seemed a nice guy too.’
‘He did,’ I said, barely taking in what he was saying. ‘Dex, listen. I’m fine, but I’m . . . I’m just wondering. I know this is going to sound mad but do you think your mum might be covering up for my dad?’
There was silence on the other end of the line.
‘Dex?’
‘What on earth . . .? Has this got something to do with Harry’s lies?’ Dex sounded concerned. ‘Has he fed you more bullshit?’
‘No.’ I closed my eyes. The living room seemed to spin around me. ‘I’m probably just going mad.’
‘Don’t sweat it.’ Dex gave a sympathetic sigh. ‘And to answer your question, I can’t believe Mum would ever go outside mainstream Catholic teaching and cover up murder, even to protect your dad. You know how authority-pleasing she is, always delighted when the priests take notice, looking up to my arsehole of a father even after he’d abandoned her. Even now, believing he’s changed, when he’s clearly still spending most of his day getting wasted in the Three Crowns.’
Dex was right. I sank back in my chair, defeated. I was getting completely paranoid. PAAUL was responsible for Caspian’s death – of that I was now sure – but there was no way any member of my family was involved. It was hysterical to think so.
‘Honestly, Franny.’ Dex’s voice sounded strained now. ‘If you’d seen the way Dad treated her when they were together you’d never think Mum capable of endorsing any kind of violence.’
Was that true? I’d done a paper on the cycle of violence at university. Statistically, victims of abuse often became desensitised to it, even accepting violence as normal behaviour.
My mind flitted back to a memory from childhood. Dex, though never beaten himself, had used to call my parents when his parents fought. He was a mess at the time: desperate to protect his mum but neither physically nor mentally strong enough to stand up to his dad. Once I remember hearing my own dad on the phone calming Dex then pleading with Sheila to ‘take responsibility, for your son’s sake as well as your own’. Of course I had no idea at the time what was going on, I just knew that Dex was sometimes moody and that my dad worried about him.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘It was thoughtless of me to ask.’
I rang off and fell back to thinking. Could Sheila be protecting Dad? It hurt me to imagine any scenario in which Dad was guilty of conspiracy to murder. But it was impossible, now, to shake myself out of the terrifying possibility, with PAAUL’s warning text running through my brain on repeat.
Who could I turn to in order to find out the truth? There was clearly no point trying to talk to either Dad or Sheila about it again, but maybe I should confront Uncle Graham. Even if he didn’t want to expose Sheila’s involvement . . . even if he didn’t know about it . . . he was obviously in close contact with her and might have inadvertently picked up information. Either way, it would be better than sitting here doing nothing.
A few minutes later I’d called Ayesha and discovered that Lori was, thankfully, free to come over and babysit. As soon as she arrived I set off for Graham’s first-floor flat in Ladbroke Grove. I hadn’t been there before, though Dad had given me the address so I could send a card at Christmas. Not that I’d bothered to do that – after all, Graham made absolutely no effort to send cards himself, even on the kids’ birthdays.
There was no reply from the buzzer by the wooden front door. I looked up at Graham’s flat. It was late afternoon and the streetlamps had already come on, though the light still clung to the gloomy day. A pair of grubby curtains with a distinctive criss-cross pattern were drawn across the windows. No lights were on inside.
My heart sank. Graham wasn’t here.
Spending most of his day getting wasted in the Three Crowns.
Dex’s words about his father sounded in my head. I glanced across the street. The Three Crowns was a few doors down, its windows smudged with dirt. I scurried over the road and inside. It smelled – the sour smell of stale beer engrained in the grungy brown carpet.
Uncle Graham was sitting alone in the far corner. Unlike the smiling, chatting people around him, he cut a morose figure, hunched over a newspaper with what looked like two fingers of Scotch set in front of him. He didn’t see me until I was standing right in front of him.
‘Hi,’ I said awkwardly.
Graham looked up, bleary-eyed. Jesus, was he already pissed? It was barely 5 p.m. He took a moment to focus, then scowled.
‘What the fuck are you doing here?’
I swallowed, wondering how to make him open up.
‘Can I get you another drink?’ I offered.
‘Fuck off,’ Graham snorted. I frowned. If the man didn’t want alcohol the situation was, surely, hopeless. ‘Wait.’ He scowled at me. ‘I guess I could handle another. Better make it a large one, okay?’
I bought a double whisky for him and a lemonade for me and headed back to Graham’s table. He indicated the chair opposite. I sat and the chair rocked unevenly.
‘What do you want?’ he asked.
‘I wondered what you know about an organisation called PAAUL. It’s pro-life, extreme, violent.’
A nasty smile curled around Graham’s mouth. He fixed me with a glazed stare. ‘My bonkers ex-wife told me you’d got it into your head this group killed hubby dearest,’ he sneered.
‘That’s right,’ I said.
Graham blinked rapidly, presumably with surprise at my openness. ‘Sheila also said that some hack told you St Jayson himself was responsible.’
I focused on his face, trying to read every twitch of muscle. ‘What do you think?’
‘Me?’ Graham gave a sardonic laugh. ‘Jesus wept, Francesca. I’ve been a confirmed atheist for years, I don’t make a habit of following the group activ
ities of religious nutters.’
‘That’s not what I asked.’
There was a pause. Loud chatter rose up at the bar across the room. Graham kept his glazed eyes fixed on my face.
‘This is killing you, isn’t it?’ he said, sounding suddenly sober.
I looked down at my lap. ‘I just want to know the truth,’ I said.
Graham laid his hand on the rough wooden table next to my lemonade glass. His fingernails were stained and chipped. Condensation ran down the outside of the glass. I was seized with the desire to hold it against my forehead. I felt hot and dirty. I shouldn’t have come. Graham tapped his hand twice, slowly, on the table.
I looked up.
‘The truth that you’re looking for is that my brothers are hypocrites,’ Graham said slowly. ‘Jayson and Perry are both up to their necks in evil.’
My breath caught in my throat. ‘What do you mean?’
‘This group PAAUL,’ Graham went on, lowering his voice. ‘You’re on to something . . . the murders. Sheila knows it too, but she’ll never admit it. Too loyal to St Jayson.’
‘Really?’ I drew back, sceptical. Was he sincere or just trying to wind me up?
‘I know things . . . serious things . . .’ Graham went on, lowering his voice and leaning closer. ‘Jayson and Perry use Lanagh as an HQ. They pretend all they’ve ever done is investigate PAAUL but they never wanted to stop the extremism. Quite the bloody opposite. All that moderate tolerance is a smokescreen. They’ve had a secret plan for years to get a load of abortion doctors bumped off, especially ones that do late abortions.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I reckon they even had your husband topped.’
I gasped. ‘Why . . .? How do you know all this?’
Graham shrugged. ‘I’m still in touch with a lot of people from when we were all younger. It’s common knowledge among certain circles. Nobody has any proof of course . . .’ He finished his whisky and took a gulp of the fresh glass I’d just bought him. ‘But there must be evidence about it somewhere. Has to be. Jayson’s such a neat freak, he’ll have some file on it all.’
The Black Sheep Page 14