Small Mercies

by Small Mercies (epub)

  ‘Another excellent question, Clive. I can see that Rowan’s judgement was as sound as ever. This isn’t perhaps the moment to get into the detail of our practices – we can proceed to that once you get down to serious work with us – but suffice to say that what we try to do is engage with reality, with what life really means, perhaps even with the darker side of existence. We try to challenge convention, question hackneyed ways of acting and thinking. Get people to put aside their prejudices and preconceptions, so that they can see life as it truly is. We help people to draw back the veil, so to speak.’

  ‘To see through the Matrix,’ Greg offered from behind his laptop.

  Kennedy stared at him for a moment. ‘If you say so, Greg. I’m afraid that analogy means nothing to me.’

  Clive was saved from immediate further discussion by the arrival of Eric Nolan bearing a tray containing an expensive-looking bottle of single malt whisky, two coffees, two glasses, milk, sugar and a small jug of water. Rowan Wiseman and Charlie followed behind him, and took seats on a second sofa on the opposite side of the room.

  Nolan placed the tray on the table in front of Kennedy with the delicacy of an old-school butler. It wasn’t the first time he’d played this role, Clive thought. He realised now that Nolan made him feel uneasy. It was as if his urbane manner concealed something darker, more threatening.

  ‘Please do help yourselves,’ Kennedy said.

  When they were finally all settled with their respective drinks, Kennedy said, ‘I was just explaining to Clive the core principles behind our movement.’

  ‘It’s all very interesting,’ Clive said. ‘I’m looking forward to hearing more about the detail. How many followers do you currently have?’

  Kennedy laughed. ‘I have no followers. I’m not a leader in any conventional sense.’

  Clive rather doubted that, but realised he’d expressed his question clumsily. ‘Of course. I meant the movement, rather than you personally.’

  ‘I have a little discomfort with the term “followers” even in that context,’ Kennedy said. ‘Again, we’ll have to get your advice on how we might describe ourselves more appropriately. In a sense, the whole point of the movement is that people don’t follow. We work collectively, as a network, if you like. We encourage people to seek their own paths, to challenge and test the established ways of doing things. By definition, this isn’t for everyone. And, to be honest, we don’t want just anyone joining us. People come to us through recommendations from existing members, and even then we have to ensure they’re suited to the demands of the movement.’

  ‘Demands?’

  ‘We’re looking for people who can buy into our principles, but also who will grow and develop both their own and our thinking. At the same time, we want people who will do this responsibly. We’re not seeking sheep, but we’re not seeking anarchists either.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Clive was still unclear what Kennedy was talking about. ‘So what does that mean in practice? That you put people through some kind of selection process?’

  ‘I suppose you might describe it like that,’ Kennedy said. ‘Nothing quite so explicit, of course. In most cases, to continue your analogy, people select themselves out. We help people to understand what will be expected of them, what personal challenges they will face if they choose to join us. We try to give people a taste of what we do. At that point, some simply decide that it’s not for them, particularly if they’ve been looking for something more passive or if they are looking for someone else to give them the answers. If that’s what they’re seeking, then there are many conventional faiths that are more likely to suit their needs.’

  ‘And if they still want to proceed but you don’t think they’re suited…?’ Clive prompted.

  ‘We give them a chance to progress, of course. Sometimes an individual who initially seems unsuited to us will ultimately prove that they can grow and develop in the ways we want. If not, then at some point – and usually sooner rather than later, so we don’t waste their or our time – we make it clear to them that it’s not working and that they’d be better off looking elsewhere.’

  ‘This is absolutely fascinating, Robin,’ Clive said. ‘In terms of my involvement, how would you like to proceed? I suppose one of the key questions there is whether you’re happy for me to publish the fruits of my research in due course.’

  ‘In principle, we’d be delighted. As I say, one of our objectives in this is to try to present ourselves more effectively to the world out there.’

  ‘Why do you want to do that, though?’ Greg interjected. ‘I mean, if you’re so picky as to who you let join.’

  Kennedy switched his gaze to Greg, his expression suggesting he had almost forgotten Greg’s presence. ‘As you say, Greg, we’re not exactly proselytising for new members. On the contrary. We have too many people who approach us for the wrong reasons, who think we’re something that we’re not.’

  ‘People who think you’re satanists, for example?’ Greg said.

  ‘In the most extreme cases, we have had people harbouring those kinds of misconceptions, yes. But mostly it’s more straightforward than that. It’s people who think we offer the comforts of conventional religions. If we were better understood out there, then perhaps we’d find it easier to identify the people who really would benefit from what we can offer.’

  ‘I explained to Rowan,’ Clive said, ‘and it probably goes without saying anyway, that I’m not a PR person. If you’re looking for someone simply to present you effectively to the external world, then I’m not that person. I see myself as a researcher and a journalist. I’d be looking to represent you fairly but objectively.’

  ‘I fully understand that, Clive. We’re not looking for any kind of slick PR presentation. Indeed, that approach would seem more likely to attract precisely the wrong kind of person. We want someone who can present us accurately – warts and all, if you like. That’s why we were so interested when Rowan showed us samples of your work.’ He leaned forward and carefully poured himself another finger of the whisky, then waved the bottle towards Greg and then towards Charlie. Greg shook his head. Charlie rose and helped himself to a large measure. Kennedy watched him with apparent amusement.

  Once Charlie had resettled himself, Kennedy went on, ‘To return to your original question about how we’d like you to proceed, to a large extent that’s up to you. I see tonight just as an opportunity for us to get to know each other. We can confirm that you really are the man for us – though I think that decision’s already largely been made from our side – and you can decide if you want to take this on. Feel free to ask any questions you like. I can also give you some reading material to take away this evening, so you can absorb that also before making your decision. It’s important we all go into this with our eyes open.’

  Clive was still unclear quite what he was being asked to decide. His understanding from Rowan had been that Kennedy would be able to provide access to individuals and material pertinent to Clive’s proposed research. But it felt as if Kennedy was seeking some more exclusive relationship. ‘I suppose what I need to think about, on the basis of what information you provide tonight,’ Clive said hesitantly, ‘is what the nature and format of my research might be. I’d originally envisaged some form of comparative study looking at a range of so-called “left-hand path” religions as a basis for highlighting the common themes and principles, but also the differences in thinking and approach. It sounds as if you’re envisaging something more focused on your specific movement?’

  ‘Again, I think that’s up to you, Clive. It’s not my job to tell you how to structure or conduct your research. But I think you might also find that a more detailed study of our approach would pay dividends. But these are presumably decisions you can make at a later stage once you see how the work is progressing?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Clive said. The truth was he didn’t really have much choice. He was keen to pursue this particular topic because he thought it might help him establish his
name, both among the rather esoteric audience who were interested in this kind of material and perhaps, through his tabloid contacts, to a wider public. Kennedy, like Rowan Wiseman, had been flattering about his work, but he knew he hadn’t yet succeeded in achieving the profile he was aiming for. What he really needed was a themed series of articles that would really establish his credentials.

  At the same time, he’d so far had little success in penetrating this world. Tonight was the first time that, with Rowan’s help, he’d even managed to get through one of the right doors. Kennedy seemed to be promising him virtually unfettered access to their ideas and practices. He knew he’d be a fool to reject the chance.

  ‘I’m very grateful to you for being so open, Robin. Obviously, I’ll need to think carefully after this evening and I’ll read whatever material you provide with great interest. As you say, we can perhaps decide later on the most appropriate ways of presenting my findings. But I’m certainly very attracted to taking this on. Very attracted indeed.’

  ‘Good man,’ Kennedy said. Clive fancied that Kennedy had exchanged a look with Rowan, but couldn’t begin to interpret its meaning.

  ‘Now,’ Kennedy went on, ‘can I finally tempt you to that single malt, Clive? Perhaps we should raise a toast to what I hope will be a fruitful and mutually beneficial collaboration. To us.’

  ‘To us,’ Clive echoed, feeling as if he’d just unwittingly signed up to something he still didn’t fully understand.

  Chapter Nineteen

  ‘I don’t reckon your hope’s going to be fulfilled,’ Zoe Everett said.

  ‘What hope?’ Annie Delamere glanced again at her watch, wondering how long they ought to give this. It was already gone six thirty and she didn’t want to be too late getting back to Sheena. They’d arrived here just before six, but there’d been no response to her insistent ringing of Jonny Garfield’s doorbell. She’d suggested sitting tight for a while on the basis that Garfield might still be out at work. She was keen to get this case moving, and Garfield was the only real lead they had.

  ‘That Garfield Junior’s place might be more pleasant than his dad’s. Not judging from the neighbourhood.’

  It was a fairly dismal inner city backstreet just outside Derby city centre, lined with narrow Edwardian terraces. Annie suspected that most of the houses were occupied by students. The tiny front gardens were mostly filled with overflowing wheelie bins, and few of the houses looked in decent repair. Garfield’s had clearly been converted into flats, and his was one of four bells by the front door. Annie had tried all of them in the hope that someone inside might be able to give them some information on the likelihood of Garfield’s return, but there had been no answer.

  ‘Do you want to call it a night?’ Zoe said. ‘You ought to be getting back.’

  ‘I checked with Sheena. She told me she’d be annoyed if I didn’t carry on as usual.’

  ‘But she didn’t mean it, obviously,’ Zoe said. ‘Gary says stuff like that, and what he means is: if you’re not back in the next fifteen minutes, I’m filing for divorce.’

  ‘You don’t know Sheena,’ Annie said. ‘She meant it. And she’d expect me to say the same to her. Although at the moment I’m not being very obliging. I’m telling her the last thing she should be doing is carrying on as normal.’

  ‘Quite right. It’s one thing accepting that your job carries risks. It’s another to play silly buggers when those risks start becoming real.’

  ‘That’s exactly what— Wait, is that him?’

  A tall, slightly gangling young man was approaching Garfield’s house. He was probably in his early twenties, with an unkempt mop of black hair. There was no immediate resemblance to his father, but something about the awkwardness of his gait echoed his father’s physicality. Sure enough, he turned in to Garfield’s garden and began climbing the steps to the front door.

  Annie and Zoe climbed out of the car and crossed the road towards him. ‘Mr Garfield?’

  Garfield had turned at the sound of the car doors slamming, visibly nervous. He had seemed to relax at the sight of the two women, but then tensed again as Annie called to him.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Jonny Garfield.’

  ‘Don’t know him.’

  ‘That’s odd,’ Annie said. ‘We’ve just been talking to your dad, and he reckons you live here.’

  ‘My dad…’

  ‘You take after him, Jonny. Anybody ever tell you that?’

  Garfield looked almost physically deflated. ‘Not for a while, no. What do you want?’

  ‘DI Delamere and DS Everett. We just want a little chat.’

  Garfield had noticeably relaxed at the sight of Annie’s ID. Whoever he was afraid of, it clearly wasn’t the police. Or perhaps more accurately, Annie added to herself, he was afraid of someone else more. Some of his initial bravado seemed to have returned. ‘You got a warrant?’

  Annie sighed. ‘We want a chat, Jonny. Not to ransack your house. We can do it out here in the street if you like, but that might attract interest from some of your neighbours. We could head back to police HQ and make it a lot more formal, but that’d be a waste of your evening. Or you could just invite us in and give us a cup of tea. What do you reckon?’

  ‘This going to take long? I’ve got things to do.’

  ‘That rather depends on how cooperative you are. Wouldn’t want to interrupt your social life.’

  ‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ Garfield said. He pulled a set of keys from his trouser pocket. ‘Come on, then. Let’s get this over with.’

  He led them inside, then up the stairs to the first floor. He unlocked the door of the flat and gestured for them to step inside.

  Despite Zoe’s earlier misgivings, the flat was a relatively pleasant surprise. It comprised essentially just three rooms, a decent-sized sitting room with a kitchen space and two adjacent doors that presumably led to a bedroom and a bathroom, though it was difficult to imagine how both had been fitted into the space apparently available. The sitting room, though, was immaculately tidy, the polar opposite of the equivalent room in the father’s house.

  There wasn’t much to the room, except for a small sofa, a single armchair, a low coffee table and a large flat-screen television. Even so, Garfield had clearly made some efforts to personalise the place. There were pot plants scattered about, some pictures on the walls alongside a large Derby County banner, and even a small bookshelf containing a handful of books.

  ‘Nice place,’ Annie said.

  Garfield looked genuinely pleased by the compliment. ‘Not been here long,’ he said. ‘Now I’ve got it, I want to look after it properly.’

  ‘You look to be doing a good job,’ Zoe said.

  ‘Thanks.’ Garfield’s initial frostiness towards them had thawed somewhat. ‘Do you really want a cup of tea?’

  ‘Just a figure of speech, Jonny,’ Annie said. ‘Okay if we sit down?’

  ‘Yeah, of course.’ He gestured towards the sofa. ‘Make yourselves at home. What’s this all about?’

  Garfield wasn’t what Annie had been expecting. From the descriptions given by his father and the others, she’d thought he would be some kind of truculent delinquent. In person Garfield came across as quiet, polite and relatively articulate, although Annie had been a police officer long enough to know that appearances could be deceptive. ‘We’re trying to gather information on someone called Darren Parkin. That name mean anything to you?’

  The initial suspicion seemed suddenly to return. ‘I’m not sure. Why?’

  ‘We’ve heard you go way back.’

  She could see Garfield hesitating, wondering whether to try to bluff his way out of this. ‘Yeah, you’re right. I knew Darren from school.’

  ‘When did you last see him?’ Zoe asked.

  ‘Dunno exactly. A few weeks ago, I guess.’

  ‘You’re still in touch with him, then?’

  ‘I suppose. We’re not so close these days. We’ve both got our own circles, you know. But we m
eet up every month or two for a few beers.’

  ‘You still get on?’ Annie asked.

  ‘Pretty well. You know how it is when you’ve known someone for a long time. What’s this all about, anyway?’

  Ideally, Annie would have liked to have kept Garfield in the dark for longer, expecting he might clam up once he knew the circumstances of their visit. But he really had been a friend of Parkin’s, and she had no justification for withholding the information. ‘I’m afraid it’s bad news. Darren’s been found dead.’

  Garfield was clearly taken by surprise. ‘Really?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. We’ve got solid DNA and fingerprint matches, so there’s not really any doubt.’

  ‘Shit. How did it happen?’

  ‘We’re still really only at the beginning of the investigation. But we’ve reason to believe it was an unlawful killing.’

  Garfield had dropped his head into his hands. Annie said nothing more, allowing his evident anxiety to build. Finally, he looked up at her. ‘Can you at least tell me when it happened, then?’

  ‘We’re still waiting on the full post-mortem details. But we think within the last few days.’

  ‘Christ.’ He was staring past her, his eyes fixed on nothing in particular.

  ‘I’m sorry we’ve had to break it to you like this,’ Annie said.

  He flicked his gaze back to her. His expression indicated that he’d given away more than he’d intended by his response. ‘Well, you know. He was a mate. Like you said, we go way back. It’s a shock.’

  ‘Of course. It’s always a shock when we lose someone who’s been close to us, even if we don’t see them very often.’

  ‘Yeah, well, exactly.’

  ‘And you said you last saw Darren – what, a few weeks back?’ Zoe asked.

  Garfield took a deep breath. ‘Maybe more recent than that, now I think about it. Couple of weeks ago? Something like that.’