She would die, either way, but I had to know.
Maybe not immediately. I might keep her for a while, use her. In what capacity, I had yet to determine.
But she would die, sooner or later, of that I was certain.
Chapter 26
Crow
The fine, gold chain poured into Crow’s hand, running through his fingers like liquid, the crucifix pooling after it. He plucked it out of his palm and let it flow again, and again, not looking at it, the rhythmic movements almost hypnotic. Instead, he was staring at the Bible.
Since when had his sister become religious? It was yet another thing which was so very unlike her. He was beginning to think he really didn’t know his sibling at all.
Did this have anything to do with Rochdale, he wondered. Was Rochdale parading himself around as a religious icon?
It didn’t fit, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t be true.
The two items, the crucifix and the Bible had been well hidden. Why? Especially since her bank and credit card statements had been lying in a drawer in her bedroom. They’d not been hidden; the drawer had simply been a place to store them.
He’d found the crucifix and the Bible in one of the kitchen cupboards, wrapped in a piece of cloth and hidden among a basket of onions and garlic cloves. Not the usual place one would expect to find religious items.
Earlier, with leads drying up and a sixth sense telling him he was missing something, Crow had decided to go through Meadow’s house with a fine-toothed comb.
Unfortunately, he’d found nothing of further interest, except for that Bible and the cross, and they were just mere curiosities.
He didn’t care if Meadow had found God. Each to his own, and if she took comfort in religion, then he was pleased for her. But why hide it? As far as he knew, she never even went to church, and the last time she’d taken part in a religious ceremony had been on her wedding day.
But again, why hide it?
And, more to the point, who was she hiding it from? Him?
He snorted. If she’d been worried that he would go through her things on one of his rare visits home, then surely she would have hidden the evidence of her growing financial difficulties better? And it wasn’t as if he had a firm opinion on religious matters either way. Ambivalent would be the best word. He simply didn’t care.
So, she hadn’t been hiding it from him then. Maybe she’d been hiding if from herself?
He shook his head. Had she been that deranged, that she felt she couldn’t acknowledge her beliefs, even to herself?
Had she – He meant “was she”. A shiver travelled down his back when he realised he’d begun to think of his sister in the past tense.
Anger gripped him, hard and painful, and he flung the crucifix away.
It hit the wall, falling to the floor; the tinkle as it landed on the kitchen tiles was loud in the silence. He had an urge to throw the Bible, too, just to hear the noise it made. This house was too quiet, the emptiness reverberating from room to room, like a death knell.
Taking a deep breath, irritated at his unfamiliar loss of control, he retrieved the crucifix and slipped the chain over his head. For some reason, it made him feel closer to Meadow. There was little else in the house that was truly personal to her and her alone. She’d kept their mother’s jewellery – although he couldn’t find it anywhere, and suspected she’d either pawned it or sold it – but even if those things had been in the house, none of them was truly Meadow’s. The rings, the bangles, the diamond necklace, all bore strong connotations of their mother, not his sister.
Only this crucifix was Meadow’s and Meadow’s alone. He’d return it when he found her and brought her home.
With a sigh, he placed it underneath his T-shirt, to lie next to his skin, where its dangling heaviness wouldn’t get in the way or distract him, then he picked up the Bible. He’d take it to his own house and have a good look through it. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting to find; a passage underlined, a note slipped between its pages?
Wait, maybe...
He upended the book and gave it a little shake, while ruffling the pages, but nothing fell out. However, there was a name, he noticed, as he went to close it, written on the inside cover.
Father Nuffield
The ink appeared fresh, not faded, but for all Crow knew, it could just as easily have been written ten years ago as yesterday. But the writing was definitely Meadow’s.
He had a hunch this was important, a breadcrumb left for him by his sister, like putting a house she didn’t own on the market. The question was, where was she trying to lead him...?
He could do an internet search for a Father Nuffield. Nuffield wasn’t a particularly common name, so he might get lucky.
Father, not Reverend, he mused, as he drove to his own house. Was that of any significance? He didn’t know, but to his layman’s mind, “Father” had connotations of the Catholic Church not the Church of England. He’d start with that.
As soon as he opened the front door of his rented house, he flung his jacket on the bannister and headed for his computer, grabbing a chilled can of Pepsi from out of the fridge along the way. Although he really could have done with something stronger, it was too early, so he left the whisky bottle unmolested. For now.
After half an hour of scrolling and peering at the screen, he sat back and stretched, rolling his shoulders. It hadn’t been easy to find the man (God clearly didn’t feel the need to keep church websites updated) but Crow eventually tracked a Father Nuffield down via Facebook, of all places. And once he’d discovered which church the man was the Father of, finding a phone number had been a piece of piss.
‘Father Nuffield speaking.’ The voice was cheery, sing-song.
‘Hello, Father, you don’t know me, but I believe you might know my sister.’
‘Oh, yes?’ Some of the cheeriness had given way to caution.
‘Meadow Robinson?’ Meadow had reverted back to her maiden name after her divorce. He hoped she was still using it.
Silence.
‘Hello? Father?’
‘I’m still here.’
‘Oh, good.’ For a second there, Crow had thought they’d been cut off. ‘Meadow Robinson?’ he prompted.
‘I know her.’ There was no mistaking it, Father Nuffield’s voice had gone from cheery to suspicious. ‘You’re her brother, you say?’
‘Yes. Look, I’m not sure if you’re bound by any confidentiality rules, but I need to know if there’s anything you can tell me about her.’
‘Is she all right? I mean, nothing’s happened to her, has it?’
‘I don’t know. Look, I’d prefer not to talk about this over the phone.’
‘Oh. I see. Well... you’d better come and see me. I’ve got a Grannies for God meeting at seven o’clock tonight but I should be free after that. Can you come to the church at nine? Will you?’
‘I’ll go wherever you need me to go, Father.’
‘Good. I take it you know where the Church of the Sacred Heart is?’
Crow would find it. ‘Yes.’
‘Wait by the chancel. I’ll come for you.’
Crow wasn’t sure what a chancel was, but that’s what Google was for – he’d find that, too.
‘Thank you, Father, I appreciate it.’
‘Oh, one more thing? Are you a Catholic?’
‘Sorry, no.’
‘Are you religious at all?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘You will be.’
Crow, however much he wanted to discover what Father Nuffield knew about Meadow, wasn’t prepared to enter into any kind of faith. ‘A Catholic or religious?’ he asked.
‘Frightened.’
Chapter 27
Olivia
I woke with a start. It was 5.45 pm, and I’d slept for the biggest part of the day. I did feel slightly better for it, though, and I thought I could probably manage some food. First of all though, I needed a drink because my tongue was stuck to the roof of
my mouth. I peeled it away with a grimace. Nasty.
My progress from bed, to bathroom, to kitchen was still wobbly, but my head was less woolly than it had been this morning, and I thought I was a little more in control. I suspected, I hoped, that whatever virus I’d picked up was on its way out.
As I heated up some soup, I stuffed the disgusting remains of last night’s meal into the overflowing bin, remembering I wanted to call the takeaway place. The whole thing seemed a little silly now, but I phoned them anyway, in between spoonfuls of Campbell’s finest chicken broth, just to put my mind at rest.
‘Ah, Mrs Parr. The usual?’ a man with a Chinese accent asked. No matter who answered the phone, they always insisted on calling me “missus”.
‘No thanks, not today. Your food is delicious, but I can’t manage it two days in a row. The reason I called is—’ I hesitated, realising how daft this was going to sound. ‘Did the delivery driver hand my meal directly to me, or did someone else take it from him to give to me?’
A barrage of Chinese blasted down the phone, rapid and angry, then in English, ‘Why? Was there something wrong with it?’
‘No, not at all,’ I hurried to reassure him. ‘The meal was lovely.’ In actual fact, I couldn’t remember taking a single mouthful of it; although I must have done, considering it was half-eaten.
‘Then why do you want to know? Did the driver do something wrong?’
‘No, honestly, the driver was fine. I think. I mean, I can’t remember him coming to my house. But he must have, because I ate my meal.’ I paused, then added, ‘I think I had a bit of a memory loss. I’ve not been well, you see, and—’
‘The driver says he gave it to you. You paid him and he gave you your crispy chicken. Did he forget something?’
No, it was me who had forgotten something. I thanked the man and ended the call.
His confirmation had reassured me about one thing, but raised further questions about my state of mind yesterday. What kind of illness makes you lose whole chunks of time? I could name one or two, but I was as certain as I could be that I wasn’t in the early stages of dementia, and there were no indications that I’d suffered a stroke, or had passed out.
I resisted the urge to consult Doctor Google and decided to keep a close eye on myself instead; if it happened again, I’d make an appointment to see a real live doctor.
A high temperature could also be responsible for hallucinations, and although I was pretty sure I’d been dreaming about Rochdale and not really hallucinating, it might go some way to explaining things. The problem with that theory was, I didn’t believe I’d had a temperature at all. In fact, I remember feeling quite cool. Chilled, in fact. I still was.
I turned the heating on, pulled a fleece on over my head, and decided to do some work, considering I was wide awake and probably would be for some hours yet. I wasn’t sure how effective I’d be, but it was pointless wasting the time by watching crap on TV. I might as well make myself useful. After all, I had to make a living.
I settled down and got to work. My brain was still a little woozy, but not enough to prevent me from picking the best photos of the bunch and filing the rest. Every so often I glanced out of the window, resting my eyes by taking a break from the screen.
The light was fading slowly. No sunset this evening, just a flat, silver sky, gradually darkening. I shivered. Despite the heating, I was still cold and a little out-of-sorts. I was restless, too. Work had suddenly lost its appeal, so I logged out of the computer and stood up, leaning back to ease the kinks out of my spine and rolling my neck to alleviate the tension.
The sky had grown darker, the room gloomy, but for some reason I was unwilling to switch the lamp on. The darkness appealed; it complimented my growing restlessness. The tiredness of earlier had vanished, and I put it down to having slept for a good twenty hours out of the last twenty-four. It had clearly done me some good but now I was at a loose end, my body clock out of kilter. It left me with a sense of unease, as if I should be doing something, but had no idea what.
Unable to settle, I wandered from room to room, peering out of the windows.
There was nothing to see, only the encroaching night.
Rochdale, damn him, broke into my thoughts once more. I’d hoped he’d gone for good, but I was wrong; the essence of him lingered in my mind like an unpleasant odour on a breeze, catching me unawares and stirring unwelcome emotions. I really didn’t need to have my libido awakened right now. Or ever.
The irony of my situation made me laugh.
I avoided people, men included. Relationships didn’t appeal to me in the slightest, and the thought of having a sexual one left me cold. The one or two encounters I’d forced myself to have in the past (because I was curious; because I wanted to see what if anything, I was missing; because I wanted to be normal) hadn’t been particularly satisfactory. I’d focused so much on the kaleidoscope surrounding my partner, that I’d not felt at all moved to actively participate. Being called frigid after one of the encounters hadn’t helped either.
Maybe that was why Rochdale featured in my erotic dream last night – because I’d felt normal. His lack of aura had allowed me to be. It also helped that he was devastatingly attractive; although I had no idea why I found him so striking, because when I thought about him logically – though logic was becoming increasingly difficult with regards to this particular man – his chin was on the weak side, his lips were too full for my liking and the habitual sneer he wore wasn’t particularly pleasant either. I also preferred taller, more masculine men, men with subtle muscles and confidence in their own skin. I’d thought it before and I still thought it – Rochdale was a dandy, in the Austen and Bronte sense of the word.
Crow. Now he was more my kind of man. Physically at least. If I ignored the red, which was impossible to do.
I looked out of the window again. All was dark and quiet, just as it should be. No aura. No one hoping the night will conceal them from me. ‘Crow,’ I said into the darkness. ‘I’m referring to you here.’ There was nothing unusual.
But for some reason, I had the feeling I was being watched.
Needing to do something with my hands, I resorted to cleaning. It had to be done, and now was as good a time as any, so I started with the kitchen. As I worked, my thoughts kept returning to Rochdale and Crow. The two were inextricably linked in my mind. They seemed to come as a pair; I couldn’t think of one without the other, although Crow didn’t invoke the same lust in me as Rochdale did.
I wished Rochdale didn’t, either.
Every time I blinked, I saw red. It hid behind my eyelids, flashing intermittently in my mind, and I had no idea as to the cause of it. Why red? Because of Crow? Or because of the way Rochdale’s mouth and teeth had been stained red in my dream?
I cleaned the inside of the fridge, my mind not on my task, but on why Rochdale had been so concerned about photos of himself that he’d sent Meadow to my house. There must be photos of him all over the place, from people taking selfies and catching him in the background, to images of him on CCTV cameras. You couldn’t walk three feet down many of the roads in Britain without being captured on at least one camera. And I knew from some recently released footage of that fateful night in Oxford, that the theatre had its own security cameras. Rochdale must have been on them.
So why had my photos caused such a stir?
Tell me.
I froze, the memory of his voice reverberating in my mind. He’d asked me that very same thing in my dream, and he’d asked me the same thing at the hotel the other night. I’d told him “nothing” and I’d meant it.
In my dream, though, I’d told him what “nothing” meant.
Was that what was bugging me? Was that what my subconscious was getting at? Not so much my animal reaction to him, but that he’d wanted to know why I’d been so interested in him. What had he seen in my face that night in the theatre, to have warranted him tracking me down?
I emptied the kitchen bin and gave it a wipe over,
then took the plastic bag outside to the wheelie bin. I was just dragging the large green bin through the gate and onto the pavement, when a blueish glow caught my attention. Great. Mrs Saunders was walking her dog.
‘Olivia, how lovely to see you,’ she gushed.
‘How are you, Mrs Saunders?’ I heaved the bin over the small lip of a step by my garden gate and shoved it hard up against the bushes.
‘My arthritis is playing up, but what can you expect at my age? I see you’ve got yourself a nice man,’ she added with a simper. ‘About time, too. A pretty girl like you shouldn’t be all on your own.’
It wasn’t only her aura which made me reluctant to chat. There were other reasons. She was nosey and annoying.
‘Sorry to disappoint you, but I haven’t got a man, nice or otherwise,’ I said, giving her what I hoped was a charming smile while trying to avoid looking at her at all. I focused my attention on the dog, who had cocked his leg against my bin.
‘That’s a shame. I like a snappy dresser.’ She followed the direction of my gaze. ‘By the way, don’t put garden waste in the wheelie bin, because the bin men will refuse to take it away.’
I glanced towards my garden. Did it look like I cut lawns or trimmed hedges? She was probably being sarcastic or hoping to spur me into action on the gardening front.
Then her words registered.
‘What nice man are you referring to?’ I asked, realising I sounded as though I had a glut of them at my door on a regular basis.
‘The one who was here last night,’ Mrs Saunders said.
‘That was a delivery driver,’ I told her, trying to stifle a sigh. What was it with my neighbours? Whenever I accidentally bumped into one of them, they always wanted to chat.
‘Not him. I meant the man who paid for your supper,’ she explained, in a patient voice, as if I was a small child.
I dragged my gaze away from the dog and stared at her.
The hairs on the back of my neck began to tingle.
‘Not the man who brought it in his car,’ she said. ‘The other one. Isn’t it marvellous the way you can just pick up the telephone and someone will bring your supper to your door? It’s a bit lazy and I wouldn't do it every day...’ She lowered her voice as if she was imparting a deep secret. ‘I like to cook proper food you know,’ she whispered, then carried on in a more normal tone, ‘but I’m partial to a meat feast pizza or two, and—’
The Colour of Death Page 13