by Russ Thomas
“Miss Bainbridge. You are enjoying yourself, I hope?”
“Oh, yes,” says Lily. “What a lovely day! Though I admit all the walking is taking its toll.”
“There you are, you see?” says Mrs. Thorogood. She turns to Lily. “I was just telling Sebastian the very same thing, but he’s determined to see the abbey.”
The reverend’s mouth curls a little in one corner, but it quickly turns back into a smile. “Well, it’s hardly a trip to Whitby without a visit to the abbey, now, is it?”
“Oh,” says Lily. “I didn’t mean to sound as though I were complaining.”
But the couple ignore her and resume a sort of gentle argument, of the kind Lily supposes comes so naturally to married couples. She wonders if this was indeed the conversation she had inadvertently interrupted. There’s a stiffness to them both that makes her wonder if it wasn’t something else entirely.
“I just think it’s a bit much to expect them all to yomp up that great hill, Sebastian. Some of these people are getting on a bit!” Mrs. Thorogood turns to Lily as though only just remembering she is there. “Oh, goodness, Lily, I meant no offense.”
“Nobody’s yomping anywhere, Jean. For goodness’ sake, you do exaggerate . . .” And so it goes on.
Finally it’s decided the vicar will accompany any of the group who wish to pay a pilgrimage to the abbey, while Mrs. Thorogood will remain in the town with those more advanced in years, or less inclined to Christian devotion. They will settle themselves on the benches by the quayside and watch the boats on the river until the rest of the group returns.
As tired as she is, Lily opts for the abbey, taking the opportunity to stay close to the reverend. But the going is far steeper than she anticipated, and she has long since lost sight of him—and lost count of the 199 steps—by the time she gives it up as a bad job and settles herself down on a bench to enjoy the view.
It seems only a matter of moments before he reappears, but given how she is with time these days it might well have been longer.
“Well now, here she is, the lovely lady. We were worried, Miss Bainbridge, thought perhaps you might have come to some harm.”
“Oh, no, I’m fine, Reverend. Just taking a breather. It’s a long way up.”
“That’s good,” he says, standing over her now and blocking the sun so that, for the first time today, she begins to feel a chill. “Jolly good. We wouldn’t want you to stumble. It would be all too easy to lose your footing on this path. It’s a long way down.”
He smiles down at her, or at least she thinks he does, his face obscured as it is by shadow. He stretches and works some kink out of his back with a hand. He has very large hands, she notices.
“Miss Burnside couldn’t join you today, then?”
“Edna? No. It’s her health. I think all this walking would have been a bit much.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he says, and she thinks he might even mean it. “You must let us know, Jean and I, if there’s anything we can do to help.”
“That’s very kind of you. Please, don’t let me keep you if you want to get on to the abbey.”
He frowns and then joins her on the bench. “I’ve just been up there. I thought I’d better get back before Jean leads a revolt.” He laughs. “Let me keep you company for a bit. I must say, these old legs of mine aren’t getting any younger either. Then we can walk back together.”
Now she can see his smile, but she almost wishes she couldn’t. There’s something about it that makes her think of the Big Bad Wolf in the fairy tale.
“I expect you’ve had your work cut out for you, organizing all this, haven’t you?”
“Oh, I don’t mind at all. It’s something different.” He glances out across the town. “So, Edna’s home alone, is she? I’m sure she’ll be all right without you for one day.”
Lily doesn’t answer. So it’s Edna now, not Miss Burnside?
“How long have you had that beautiful old cottage of yours?”
Lily is thrown for a moment by the sudden change in the direction of the conversation. “It belonged to my parents,” she says. “I’ve lived there all my life. Well, most of it anyway.”
“That’s right, of course; you were in London during the war, weren’t you? I’m sure I remember someone telling me that.”
Lily marvels at the idea someone might have been talking about her, but at the same time finds the thought more than a little alarming. “Only for a short while. I moved home when . . . after my father died. Then Edna was bombed out and she came to live with us, too.”
“That was kind of you, to take her in like that.”
She’s never thought about it that way before. If anything, it always felt like it was the other way round. “It’s just what people did.”
“And then you took in another stray.”
She frowns, not understanding.
“Oscar? . . . Oh, Oscar isn’t a stray. He’s a lovely boy. No bother at all.” Listen to her, talking about him as though he’s still a child.
The reverend smiles again, a lazy, crocodile smile. “Teenagers no bother? Not in my experience.”
“It was lovely having a little boy around the house. I think we both thought we’d missed our chance.”
“You never had any of your own, then?”
Lily feels the hair stand up on her neck. She says nothing.
“It must have been very hard for you, though, after what happened to his father. To Gerry.” He pauses for a moment before he goes on. “I regret . . . I didn’t do more to help you both back then.”
“Oh, there’s really no need. I mean, there wasn’t really anything you could have done.”
“Still. At least you had Michael to help. I understand he helped arrange Oscar’s schooling?”
“Well . . . yes . . .”
“And now here we are again, the village full of police and all those horrible journalists poking around and raking everything up.”
Lily can feel Edna screaming inside her head. But if she doesn’t talk about it, how will she ever find out anything? “When Gerry . . . disappeared, Edna and I, you see . . . we agreed we wouldn’t say anything . . . for Oscar’s sake.” She can hear Edna shouting, Be quiet, woman! Stupid, stupid woman!
“Very wise,” says the vicar. “I think that’s exactly the right course to steer. Even now. I don’t see what good will come of digging up the past all over again.” He grimaces slightly at his choice of words and then changes the subject. “And what about Edna, does she still think the same way?”
“Yes. Yes, of course.”
He seems to relax a little, and suddenly Lily is sure he’s not the blackmailer. He has his secrets, she realizes, but he doesn’t seem the least interested in hers.
“Good. Good. Well, you’re lucky to have her. You’re lucky to have each other.” Already he’s turning away, his attention wandering back up the path toward the abbey, searching for the others.
I am, she thinks. I am lucky to have her. “We worked for the same company. In London, during the war. I only did mornings, in the typing pool, so I could still dance in the theater later, but Edna was much more important. Personal secretary to the director.” Lily thinks about this. “Do you know, the first time we actually met we were on the roof.”
This brings back the reverend’s attention. “The roof?”
Lily laughs at his reaction. “We were firewatching. That’s what they used to call it. During the Blitz. We all took turns on the roof overnight, watching for fires. If we saw anything we ran downstairs to raise the alarm.”
“That sounds . . . a little dangerous.”
“Not really.” She remembers it being quite good fun actually. Edna would bring up the blankets and she would bring the tea. She supposes there must have been others present as well but, it’s funny, looking back on it, it’s only Edna she remembe
rs.
“And did you ever spot any?”
“What’s that?”
“Fires.”
“Oh, yes. But they usually knew about them anyway.”
They often watched right through the night, but if the raid was fierce or headed their way, they were supposed to . . . head for the shelter in the underground. Lily tries to pull Edna by the arm, but the woman shakes her off.
“You go,” she says. “I’m stopping here. They’re not driving me out.”
Lily can hardly leave her on her own, so she stays. The city explodes around them and Lily is petrified, her whole body trembling. But Edna holds her hand tightly, and soon Lily begins to forget her terror. Edna sticks two fingers high into the air. “That’s for you, Mr. Hitler!” she screams into the violent night, and they both laugh loudly.
Once the planes have passed over, they watch in silence as London burns. It’s terrible because Lily knows that each one of those fires means a home lost, a family destroyed, and yet she’s never felt so alive. All those dancing flames lighting up the sky, it’s just so beautiful!
When the all clear sounds they’re still holding each other tightly on the cold roof. Lily begins to cry, and Edna leans down so their faces are so, so close and . . .
Lily is falling, the ground rushing to meet her and then . . .
He has her by the arm. “Lily?” The reverend has hold of her, and suddenly she realizes they are not on the bench anymore at all but much further across the path, dangerously close to the edge of the cliff. There’s a small fence right behind her and then nothing else but a short plummet down the jagged rock to the streets below. She wants to step away from the edge, but he is standing so close, blocking her path.
“You need to be a bit more careful,” he says. “I thought you were going over then.”
“Yes,” she says quietly, “I will.”
“Much more careful. After all, I dread to think what might happen to Edna if anything were to happen to you.”
She can feel his fingers digging into her arm, and then they are back off the grassy verge and onto the path proper and the others are returning to meet them and the reverend is all smiles and full of hearty congratulations.
All around her the seagulls dive and screech.
* * *
—
Tyler manages Doggett’s prescribed couple of hours but not much more. Soon enough the alarm on his mobile is screeching at him, and he pulls himself out of bed. He decides to walk to the appointment with Denham, crossing the ring road and slipping up behind the cathedral onto Campo Lane, the road where the city’s solicitors and estate agents huddle together in a small enclave behind the cathedral, perhaps in the hope of some form of redemption. The offices of Denham, Carter & Carter are in a small cobblestoned courtyard just off the main road. When he arrives, Denham is waiting for him and unlocks the door, letting him into the sparsely furnished reception area, empty on a Saturday afternoon.
“Thank you for seeing me,” he says without really meaning it.
Denham eyes him through a pair of designer frames. “Your DCI didn’t give me a great deal of choice.” He crosses his arms and plants his feet firmly, a man who will not be moved. Tyler has no idea what Jordan said to get Denham here on a Saturday afternoon but whatever it was, he congratulates her. Something else he owes her.
“I only need ten minutes of your time.”
“You have my attention, but the clock’s ticking.”
“A few questions.” Tyler paces slowly around the room, examining the Peak District photographs that hang in frames on the walls. He’s damned if he’s going to hurry, no matter what Denham says about the clock.
“I can’t tell you anything that breaches client confidentiality.”
“Your client is dead.”
Denham pushes his glasses up his nose and swallows.
Tyler steps forward. “I want to know what happened at that party.”
Denham readjusts his glasses. “Gerald held lots of parties—do you have a particular one in mind?”
The reaction had been slight, and if Tyler hadn’t been watching for it he might have missed it. But he was watching. A small twitch, the slightest tic in the man’s left cheek.
“Why don’t we start with the one at his house the night he disappeared?”
Denham folds his arms across his chest. “I wasn’t there, but I would imagine it was one of Gerry’s poker nights.” The emphasis is unmistakable. “I wasn’t invited to those.”
“But you knew about them?”
Denham’s lips part in a humorless smile. “In my profession it pays sometimes to limit what you know.”
Any concern Tyler might have about badgering this upstanding member of the community evaporates. “You mean you turn a blind eye to anything that compromises you or your client.”
Denham holds out a hand, open-palmed—just so.
“How morally upstanding of you.”
“I don’t particularly like your tone, Detective.”
“Is that right? Well, I don’t particularly like your selective blindness. How far are you involved with your clients’ affairs, Michael? Maybe I should make it my business to look a bit more closely. I wonder what other skeletons I might dig up.”
The choice of words is effective, but Denham is not a man easily intimidated. “You’re skating dangerously close to charges of harassment here, Detective Sergeant.” He’s rattled about something. “Look,” he goes on, somehow managing to convey in that one word a sense that they’re all on the same side. “Gerry wasn’t a saint. Yes, I knew about the parties and the drugs and the whores, but I didn’t have anything to do with that. That was for him and his public-school mates. Our relationship was strictly business. Always.”
“What confuses me, though, Mr. Denham, is why you would allow your daughter to be involved in it? Knowing what Cartwright got up to, didn’t it concern you when Sophie started spending time there?”
The glasses have slipped down again. He pushes them back up. “My daughter makes her own friends. I’m not her keeper.”
Tyler doubts that but he can see Denham frowning, putting together his meaning.
“What’s this about?” Even as he says it, his face drains of color. “Do you have . . . some kind of evidence that he . . . that Sophie was . . .”
Tyler lets a beat go by before putting the man out of his misery. “No, nothing like that.”
Denham breathes out heavily.
“And you can rest assured, Mr. Denham, in my profession we don’t turn a blind eye to things like that.”
He leaves Denham collapsed in one of the reception chairs, unsure if the meeting has revealed anything substantial. The poker parties are hardly a revelation, but the fact Denham knew about them is interesting. What else did he know about? There’s something he isn’t saying. Tyler glances back through the window to see the man sitting alone, looking ashen and weary. If nothing else, perhaps he’s given him something to think about.
* * *
—
Tyler spends the rest of the afternoon at his desk going over the notes from the original investigation. It isn’t that he doesn’t trust Doggett. Not exactly. But he can’t shake the feeling the man has his own agenda. Why did he request Tyler on this case? He can’t bring himself to believe it was simply because Doggett knew his father, because he felt sorry for him in some way because of what happened with Bridger. And why is he so keen to keep him on the case now he knows he’s compromised? It doesn’t make sense. Tyler likes things to make sense.
He intends to spend the evening on the Internet, doing research into arsonists, but when he gets home Sally-Ann is waiting for him outside the main gate. She’s dressed for a night out—another long velvet dress, dark purple this time rather than black, although it still has long sleeves. At her neck she wears a thick choker with a repeate
d skull motif, and her hair is sculpted with some sort of product so that it sticks up wildly in short yellow peaks that make her look like Lisa Simpson all grown up.
“Now, I know you won’t have forgotten,” she tells him, “so I’m just going to assume you got held up at work. Am I right?”
“Largely,” he says.
“You were supposed to meet me an hour ago.”
“I thought that was Saturday?”
“It is Saturday!”
“Shit! Sorry. Look, maybe we could rearrange—”
“Nope. You’re taking me out, whether you’re up for it or not. You owe me at least six drinks for leaving me in that pub on my own for the last forty-five minutes. Besides, I feel like dancing.”
“Sal, this really isn’t a good time.”
“You’re not going to win this one, Adam, so save yourself the hassle and go and put your glad rags on.”
Tyler sighs heavily. “Fine, one drink.”
Despite her words, when they reach the Red Deer it’s Sally-Ann who insists on buying the drinks. Tyler finds them a table and tries to think of an opening for the conversation, but he realizes he knows very little about her. When she gets back he takes a sip of ale and starts with the one thing he can remember her telling him. “So what made you study art?”
She laughs, a deep, throaty chuckle that reminds him what a great voice she has. “God knows!” she says. Then the laughter dies and she is suddenly serious. “I guess I thought it would piss my mother off. But the joke was on me. I don’t think she even noticed.”
“You don’t talk much about your past. Your family.”
Sally-Ann smiles. “You really don’t want to hear about that particular shitshow.”