Strangers at the Gate

by Catriona McPherson

  ‘Am I too late for elevenses?’ I said, backing into Dudgeon, Dudgeon and Lamb minutes later with a cardboard tray. Paddy was missing, as I’d expected, but the other two were there, Abby in her office with the door ajar and Julie behind the front desk at her screen.

  ‘Lifesaver, you are,’ Julie said. ‘The coffee machine here makes pigswill. I have to burst my diet every day with Irn Bru to take the taste away.’

  I put the tray down and let a small avalanche of sweeteners fall out of my sleeve onto the table.

  ‘Two lattes, one caff, one decaf,’ I said. ‘One Americano, one flat white. I’m not fussed so I’ll have whatever’s left.’

  ‘Paddy’s not here, you know,’ said Julie. She snatched up the Americano as I knew she would. She hadn’t got that figure chugging lattes.

  ‘What are you buttering us up for?’ said Abby, coming to the door of her office as I pulled the bag of muffins from my backpack and ripped it open to make a plate.

  ‘Not buttering,’ I said. ‘More like seeking comfort from familiar faces. I just did the school assembly. Feral, they were.’

  ‘Wee toerags,’ said Julie. ‘Mind you, we tormented the minister something chronic in my day too.’

  ‘And mine,’ I admitted. ‘So, Paddy told me you reckon the Dudgeons are a goner. Not just on holiday.’ I still wasn’t breaking my deal with him. I was just chatting. It would be weirder if I didn’t. If whoever it was – and I still couldn’t stop asking myself who’d put my bag on the hallstand – if they saw me being silent, like I was hiding something, they’d start to wonder what and why. ‘Has anyone told them along at the church?’ I went on, trying to sound casual. ‘Or will St Angela’s do that?’

  ‘I suppose it’ll get out soon enough,’ Abby said. She had tipped three sachets of brown sugar into one of the lattes and taken the chocolate-chip muffin. That explained her pasty complexion, I thought, then caught myself. I was too young to turn into my granny just yet.

  ‘That’s where Paddy’s gone right now,’ Abby said. ‘St Angie’s. To see if anyone up there can shed any light on it all.’

  ‘And you’re absolutely sure?’ I said. ‘Maybe Lovatt just switched to more favourable terms for Pad to give him a nice surprise. It seems weird to me but then I don’t know him. Is that what he’s like?’

  ‘It’s not just Paddy,’ Julie said. ‘Lovatt’s done a lot of clearing up and setting to rights on the quiet over the last few months. Things he’d definitely need to do if he was clearing out. Things he’d never do if he was staying put.’

  ‘Even getting Paddy in as a third partner, to be honest,’ Abby said. She caught my look. ‘No, it’s not sour grapes because he didn’t wait till I was ready, then hand the practice to me. Just that there’s not really enough work for two active partners and a trainee.’

  ‘We reckoned it was a first step to him retiring, didn’t we?’ Julie said.

  Abby, chewing a mouthful of muffin, nodded glumly. She took a swig of coffee to wash it down and said, ‘This is going to cause a stink. St Angela’s would be totally justified in deciding they want another firm looking after them.’

  I tried to look sympathetic, but I probably failed because, if St Angela’s decided they wanted to look elsewhere, I might lose my job too. I knew we couldn’t stay but you never want a decision like that to be mutual.

  ‘But is that what he’s like?’ I said. ‘Reckless? Incautious?’

  ‘He’s a lawyer,’ Julie said. ‘What do you think?’ She threw a cheeky look at Abby as she spoke.

  I tried a different approach to the same spot. ‘Has he ever done anything that explains why he would do this now? What’s he running away from?’

  ‘To Brazil?’ said Abby. ‘The long arm of the law. Must be. We’re toast once everyone knows.’

  ‘So,’ I said carefully, ‘are you going through everything trying to find out where the irregularity is? The mistake he might have made. It must be professional, right? Embezzled funds, kickbacks from the planning department.’

  ‘I’ve done nothing but snoop in his private papers and records all morning,’ said Julie. ‘I can’t see anything. Lovatt was the king of “reply to all”. If anything he was too open.’

  ‘Maybe Paddy’ll find something,’ I said.

  ‘I can’t believe there’ll be “irregularities” up there,’ said Julie. She finished her coffee and dabbed her lips with a folded napkin. ‘I remember the beginning of St Angela’s. I remember Lovatt when his wife and children died. I worked for him up in Edinburgh, you know. He was broken. A broken man. And then this one adoption he just happened to be handling fell through and he couldn’t move on. He sat in his office with his hands spread on his empty desk and just stared into space. It was like … he couldn’t save his own kids but he couldn’t stand by and see another wee tot suffer. So then he looked at the record of the adoption agencies – the local authority and the privates – placing children like the one his client wanted to adopt, and at last he started to come back to life. It fired him up, you know. He was full of ideas, dashing off letters left, right and centre. He was himself again.’

  ‘But is it possible that – all fired up like that – he made a mistake and it’s come back to bite him?’

  ‘A mistake like what?’ Abby said.

  ‘I don’t know. Or maybe he cut corners, barged through red tape. What corners could a principled man cut – for the good of the children – that would get him into trouble if it came out?’

  The two of them shared a troubled look, then shrugged. I had to take a step back if I wanted not to spook them. ‘Or maybe it’s Tuft,’ I said. ‘Maybe the irregularity is with the fundraising. That makes just as much sense, doesn’t it? Maybe Lovatt’s gone to be with her because she had to run.’

  ‘I tell you one thing,’ said Julie. ‘They didn’t have money worries. I’ve just been looking at the tenancy agreements for the cottages this morning and they were only asking a pittance.’ She gave me a quick glance. ‘If that.’

  ‘Let’s go back to Lovatt,’ I said. ‘I’m just kicking ideas around. What sort of thing could go wrong in an adoption and then come to light? Because here’s what I’m thinking: say a parent gives a kid up on some condition or other but no one who wants to adopt meets that condition, so Lovatt fudged it. Everyone’s happy. Only when the kids get to eighteen and find their birth parents, it all hits the fan.’

  ‘Illegal adoptions?’ said Abby. ‘St Angela’s kids aren’t really the kids that illegal adopters go after. You know? It’s healthy white infants that get smuggled and sold to the highest bidders. Not … I know it sounds terrible but it’s true. Look.’

  She stood up and rummaged on the reception desk for a remote. She pointed it at the screen where the photos of houses for sale were fading in and out to the fake Twin Peaks soundtrack. She clicked the remote and the slideshow changed. Gone were the houses, and in their place were portraits of children. Some had breathing tubes taped to their cheeks, a few were strapped into full-support chairs, others were lying on mats, but all were grinning and some had been caught mid-guffaw, mouths wide and eyes dancing. The soundtrack was a cacophony of giggles and shrieks of delight.

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Oh, God, look at them! Okay, so not illegal adoptions, but like I was saying. Cut corners? Irregularities? Say there was a sibling group that was supposed to stay together and he split them. Or say a family got a kid and handed it back and that was kept from the birth family. Something like that. Is that possible?’

  ‘It’s possible,’ said Abby. ‘Anything’s possible. But if that had happened the injured parties wouldn’t be secretly blackmailing Lovatt. They’d be shouting it from the rooftops. For the compensation.’

  I nodded but I wasn’t really listening. I was trying to block out her voice because the germ of an idea was trying to take root in my head. Something someone had just said. Only all the words following on were washing it away.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Julie, ‘I still don’t think it’s
St Angela’s where something’s wrong, if something’s really wrong.’

  ‘Exactly,’ I said, taking the plunge. ‘If something’s really wrong. How can we be sure Lovatt didn’t just have a big clear-up for Paddy coming, then whisk Tuft off on a surprise trip? He might come back in three weeks’ time and laugh at all the fuss. How can we tell for sure?’ No one answered. ‘I don’t suppose this “extreme openness” extends to personal finances, does it?’ I said.

  ‘How d’you mean?’ said Abby.

  ‘Well, if you knew his passwords for his personal bank account or credit card, you’d be able to find out if he booked return tickets. Or how long he arranged accommodation for. Or something.’

  I knew I was shocking them but it was deliberate. I wanted to say outrageous things so that when I dialled back to my real idea it would seem mild in comparison.

  Because I couldn’t keep the pact with Paddy. Three weeks of this would kill me. And I thought he was wrong to assume we were safe, just because nothing had happened yet. The sooner the bodies were found and the investigation started, the sooner we could admit we were scared, lock our doors, buy extra bolts, stop pretending life was normal.

  ‘Or does anyone have a key for their house?’ I said, offhand, like it had just occurred to me. ‘Does anyone go in to feed the cat or water the plants? Surely you’d be able to tell if they’ve gone on a trip or for keeps.’

  ‘Popping in at the house is better than hacking into his credit card,’ Abby said. She turned to Julie. ‘What do you think?’

  Julie twisted her mouth to the side and screwed up her nose. ‘I know this is funny,’ she said, ‘because we’ve known each other for years and he’s brand-new. But technically he’s the boss, so I think we should ask Paddy. There’s a key in a fake pebble by the front door, but let’s ask Paddy. If he says okay, okay. Okay?’

  Abby nodded and shifted onto one buttock to fish out her phone. She had him on speed dial already.

  I couldn’t hear his side of the conversation but Abby was a good relayer. She gave us the thumbs-up and a grin, then an elaborate frown as she turned the thumb sideways.

  ‘Are you sure?’ she said. ‘Of course, of course. But … No, of course.’

  We were all silent by the time she hung up, even paler than her pasty usual and swallowing hard.

  ‘What, for God’s sake?’ Julie said.

  ‘St Angela’s is winding up,’ Abby said. ‘Winding down. The staff’s down to one and she’s been on notice for six weeks. There haven’t been any new files opened for over a year. Henry, a year past October was the last one. They thought we knew.’

  ‘Simmerton Kirk definitely doesn’t know,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t have a job if Simmerton Kirk knew. And I won’t have a job once they find out.’ I had thought Paddy was nuts, Tuesday morning, talking like we could stay on. But here I was, two days later, mourning it.

  ‘Join the club,’ said Abby. She put down a half-eaten second muffin, looking a bit sick. ‘Disruption halfway through training’s a big blot.’

  ‘What did he say about going to snoop round the house?’ I said.

  Abby blinked. ‘Oh! He said go for it. He said if we can prove Lovatt and Tuft have hooked it we can call the police and then – like you were saying, Finnie – if there is an irregularity somewhere, the cops’ll sniff it out. Something here stinks to high heaven, doesn’t it? I still can’t quite wrap my head round it but my nose is sold.’

  I tried to smile at her, thinking I couldn’t let her walk into that kitchen, also that I didn’t know how to stop what I had started. ‘What if they’re … there?’ I said.

  ‘What ‒ like faking a holiday to get a bit of peace, you mean?’ said Julie. ‘I’ve been tempted to do that. Much cheaper, but it hurts people’s feelings if they find out.’

  ‘I don’t know what I mean,’ I said. ‘It’s just that they’re elderly and they’re missing and if it was just one of them I’d be scared they’d taken a tumble and were lying there.’

  Abby stared at me.

  ‘Hazard of the job,’ I said. ‘I’ve gone into some bad flats once the neighbours got worried.’

  Abby grimaced but Julie sniffed. ‘No need to worry about me,’ she said. ‘I was on the volunteer fire brigade for ten years after they opened it up to women. The sights I’ve seen!’

  ‘Oh, Julie’s got a world-famous gag reflex,’ said Abby. ‘‘Member when that mouse drowned in the toilet over the Christmas break and wouldn’t flush?’

  ‘Anyway,’ Julie said, ‘it’s not just one of them. It’s an empty house. No gagging, guaranteed.’

  ‘So are you both going?’ I said.

  ‘Best had,’ Abby said. ‘We need to witness each other.’

  ‘Can I come?’ I found myself asking. ‘I know I’m not part of the firm but I’m sort of connected one way and another.’ I couldn’t let them walk into that house, into that room, into that hellhole. If I went with them I could maybe try to soften it for them somehow.

  ‘Paddy suggested it,’ Abby said, with a smile.

  That troubled me but I put it out of my head. Something lay ahead and it was going to take all my courage to get to the far side of it.

  ‘No time like the present,’ Julie said. ‘We could stop for a spot of lunch after. The church café does tomato and roasted garlic soup on a Thursday.’

  I gave Julie a tight smile and hoped my face wasn’t turning white. The gashes on her hands as if she was holding bundles of red twigs. The knife bisecting his back, like the body of a butterfly between those spreading black wings.

  Besides, Abby was shaking her head. ‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a meeting to go over a power of attorney. Poor old Mrs—’ She flicked a glance at me and swallowed the indiscretion. ‘And I think I’d rather do it after work. On our own time? So it’s not so…’

  ‘After dark!’ said Julie, flashing her eyes. ‘Full-face balaclavas. Synchronised watches.’

  ‘I’ll come back at five,’ I said. ‘Take it from there, eh?’ Julie gave me a sharp look, hearing the break in my voice, but she said nothing.

  Chapter 18

  I wanted some time for myself anyway, to do what Jed in that first parish called a ‘wide-mesh trawl’. The more I thought about whoever it was, possibly still right here, hiding in plain sight, noticing who was acting normal and who was troubled, the more I wanted to do exactly what I would be doing if we hadn’t gone to Widdershins on Monday night. Or hadn’t gone back, anyway. It would keep me safe. And it was a cover story too. My cloak of innocence for after tonight, when the bodies were found and the questions started.

  Jed was the kind of minister who downloaded sermons off the internet, changed enough words so he wouldn’t get sued and never thought twice about it. Sunday was his day off. The other six days, he was out on the streets of his beat – lifts and walkways mostly – offering an ear, a shoulder, a fag, a bit of cash or a quiet pint to anyone who looked like they needed it and didn’t tell him to eff off when they saw the collar. He picked up good stuff at charity shops and kept it all in his car with the back seat flat, in case someone he dropped in on said the kids were missing school because of shoes or trousers. He trained me and I was a good disciple, a true convert to his methods, including the wide-mesh trawl. I’d spent four years sitting at bus stops, going into spit-and-sawdust beer shops at opening time, dropping in at corner shops for a chat. It wouldn’t work in Simmerton, though. There were no spit-and-sawdust pubs in this kind of town. They all had blackboards outside with the daily menu specials. And the bus stops were empty.

  Still, starting at Dudgeon, Dudgeon and Lamb, I worked my way up one side of the high street and down the other. I introduced myself to the girls on the till at the independent grocer and deli. Students, I reckoned, with long blonde ponytails and coloured braces. The folk in the post office, a pair of Adam and Sonsie lookalikes. The family butcher, three red-faced brothers in blue hats. A cobbler, for the love of God! An actual living, breathing shoe-mender, standing
there in his brown apron, busy extending the lives of hand-stitched Simmerton brogues by another five years. They were polite and uninterested. Soul-crushing, really. What was I doing there?

  It was the atheist candle-maker who broke me. I knew as soon as the shop door dinged and she raised her head. The wide-eyed look couldn’t hide the burst of panic, then the disdain settling in at its back.

  ‘Hiya,’ I said, weaving between the stands of hand-made greetings cards and little books of proverbs to where she stood behind the counter, her handiwork ranged behind her. ‘I’m Finnie Lamb. I’m new down at Simmerton Kirk. I’m a deacon. I’m just saying hello to everyone.’

  ‘Oh, well, I’m not one of your flock,’ the woman said.

  ‘Right. Well, like I said, I’m just saying hello. I’m not taking a register or anything. Are you the Mo? Of Mo’s Handmade Candles?’

  ‘Yes, but I’m not interested.’

  ‘In candles?’ I said. ‘That must make life a bit of a drag.’

  Her eyes flashed. ‘In organised religion.’

  ‘Ah,’ I said. ‘Well – again – I was just saying hello but I’ll let you get on with making these beautiful candles and I’ll get on with helping people who haven’t paid their lecky and might actually need one when their power’s cut off.’

  She opened her mouth but nothing came out.

  ‘No offence,’ I said. ‘And I hope there’s none taken.’

  ‘What did you say your name was?’ she said. She was struggling with a feather-topped pen, trying to click out the nib so she could make a note of what had just pissed her off so mightily.

  ‘Finnie Lamb,’ I said. ‘Tell me, though, before I leave you to it, would you be willing to donate any of your merchandise to St Angela’s? For our next silent auction maybe?’

  ‘What’s St Angela’s?’ she said. ‘Why should I support a wealthy girls’ school shored up by Vatican gold?’

  ‘Vatican gold?’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss it if I was you. Say what you like about the papes, they do buy a lot of candles. I’ll keep you in mind, eh?’