Just in case anyone else might phone, I headed straight for the rectory the moment I’d breakfasted. I overcame the pain every footstep gave me by reminding myself I’d wanted a sniff round the place, hadn’t I?
Not literally.
Prisons had a very male smell, which percolated even the visiting area. The same musty smell hit us the moment Andy opened the rectory door. Poor Tim, he’d not had a great sense of housekeeping. The lounge where he had to hold parochial church council and other church business meetings was tidyish, but not even superficially clean. His study – I’d never seen a study before, not a real, live study, which Andy assured me this was – smelt variously of dank old books and sweaty feet. With more than a hint of pot.
Andy’s eyebrows disappeared towards his hairline. ‘Oh, dear.’
‘If we throw the windows open and get one of those powered air-fresheners it’ll be OK,’ I hazarded.
‘It’s getting rid of the cannabis, not the smell, I was worried about.’
‘First find it. He can’t have afforded a great stash, surely. If he did, you’ve got plenty of options – pop it on a bonfire or flush it down a loo or—’
‘I was thinking about handing it over to the police.’
‘Who will probably smoke it themselves,’ I overrode him. For God’s sake, what was he thinking of? ‘I didn’t know that clergymen were allowed to take drugs,’ I added more gently.
‘Who is? And I know of more clergymen who are full-blown alcoholics than I care to think of: I suppose it’s having to polish off the communion wine that pushes them down the slippery slope.’
‘Non-alcoholic wine? Or you could tip the spare into a flower arrangement? OK, OK – only joking. But people like me don’t understand the ins and outs of church lore. Or do I mean law?’ He was not amused, but seemed more anxious than angry. ‘Look,’ I continued, ‘leave any pot you find for me to deal with. Meanwhile I’ll nip round to the shop for an air-freshener.’ Nip? A slow waddle, more like. It was either that or get back into the car, which had been an ordeal.
It was only when he held the study door open for me – I do like old-fashioned courtesy – that he gasped, ‘Are you all right, Josie?’
‘Sure. Why not?’
His voice dropped into what I recognised as counselling hush. ‘If you and Nick – if there’s a problem…’
‘Nick? What’s he got to do with the price of coal?’
‘Your…injuries,’ he explained, delicately. In general I really liked his voice, deep and mellifluous, as you’d expect. But now he sounded more sickly than honeyed.
I threw my head back and roared with laughter. ‘Nick! You think Nick—! Good God, this wasn’t domestic violence! Some maniac in a 4x4 and I had a bit of a disagreement.’
‘You mean, road rage?’
Still laughing, I told him, ‘I mean rank bad driving. It’s only pedestrians who are supposed to be on the pavement. Cars – though I hate to dignify the ugly great things with the term – are supposed to be on the road. I got knocked over, right in front of my own pub,’ I said flatly. ‘That’s why I didn’t come to your special evensong.’
A flash of the hand dismissed that. ‘Are you sure you—? I mean, shouldn’t you be resting?’ Despite the professional sympathy, he really did sound quite concerned.
‘I’ve been perfectly all right for the past half hour, haven’t I?’ I probably sounded even more acidulated than I felt.
‘I’m so sorry. I really am. Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Because there was a job to be done, and someone had to do it. Besides which,’ I added soberly, ‘I was rather hoping the police might have spoken to you about the cause of death.’
He blinked. ‘The fire. No? Nick was talking about smoke inhalation and I assumed… Was I wrong?’
‘Why don’t we sit down?’ There was no point in standing half-in, half-out of the study. ‘Here, in this apology for a living room. Andy – surely the diocese could have come up with some money for emulsion and decent carpet and curtains? These were Sue’s taste, if such a word can honestly be used.’ I found an upright chair and lowered myself carefully.
‘We weren’t talking about interior decor,’ he said, forgetting he was trying to be gentle with an invalid.
‘So we weren’t. And I won’t any more, so long as you promise the place will be tarted up before the next incumbent moves in. Tang and Tim. They may well have died of smoke inhalation, but can you honestly tell me that two fit young men wouldn’t have tried to fight any fire and scarpered when they saw they couldn’t? The door was only locked on the inside. The lock was beautifully oiled. Work of seconds.’
‘If they were asleep?’
‘Possibly. But why should they bother to slit the throats of Samson and Delilah? The geese,’ I prompted, when he looked blank. ‘Someone had sliced their heads off. Does that sound like Tim? I know Tang didn’t like chicken, but that’s carrying an avian phobia a bit far.’
He sat down heavily. ‘You don’t think—? Killing someone in a church? Josie – that must be the worst sacrilege!’
I said mildly, ‘Wasn’t that what Shakespeare thought? When he made Laertes swear his revenge against Hamlet?’
He blinked again. I never liked anything better than taking someone aback like that. I continued smoothly, ‘I shall be interested to hear what the post-mortems revealed. If anything. They were talking dental records to identify Tim,’ I said. ‘As for Tang…’
We shook sad heads in concert.
‘Somehow it would help to know who he was,’ Andy said at last, surprising me. I suppose I was expecting some platitude about God knowing who he was – but then, in general, Andy wasn’t into clichés.
Hands on knees, I pushed myself vertical. ‘This won’t get the air-freshener.’ And I set off before he could argue.
By the time I’d got back from my expedition to the shops, with no fewer than three plug-in fresheners, plus dusters, spray-polish and bleach and no gossip worth repeating, Andy had a load chugging in the washing machine, with another pile – bedclothes – waiting to go through.
‘Why not pick some daffodils and pop them in a jam jar or something? There are already some at the end of the garden that managed to avoid Sue’s depredations, but I can’t find anything like a vase. Andy, it’s wrong to catapult a young man or woman in here with no support. Kids these days don’t seem to learn housekeeping from their mothers. How are they going to cope living on their own, cooking for themselves and trying to juggle half a dozen churches? And being active in the local community? Can’t be done,’ I answered for him.
‘In the old days someone like Tim would have raised enough money from farming his glebelands to pay for a housekeeper and a gardener and whatever. Now I suppose we expect the parishioners to help a bit.’
‘In this village? Talk about a house divided… Half the folk are incomers using the place as a dormitory and forcing up prices beyond the range of locals. The other half are resentful natives. The trouble is, without people like Tim and me, the village has to do without its essentials – no church, no pub – and, without the commuting incomers, no kids for the village school either.’
‘But there ought to be enough people willing to rally round in case of need.’
‘I’m sure there are. Look how we responded to the crisis at St Jude’s. I bet the money-raising efforts to refurbish it will be breathtaking. But that catches the imagination far more than day-to-day support. And I’m as much to blame as anyone.’
‘But you have enough on your hands, running a business like yours. What about retired people?’
‘I think the consensus is that they’ve done their share. As for the younger women, either they too work or they devote any space in their lives left over from ferrying their kids around to their fingernails and the gym.’
‘You sound very bitter.’
‘Realistic. Plus my back is hurting, which always gives a jaundiced view of life. But, emotive language apart—’
&
nbsp; ‘You fascinate me, Josie,’ he said, laughter making those blue eyes dangerously attractive. ‘One minute you’re as down to earth as they come; next you’re flashing fancy vocabulary and talking about Shakespeare. I just can’t stick a label on you.’
‘Good. Why should I want to be labelled? Why should anyone for that matter? You must hate it yourself, everyone watching their p’s and q’s and creeping round in your presence as if they were at a funeral.’ I nodded home my point, and turned to the washing machine, now chuntering its way to a halt. ‘So here you have a perfect opportunity to go against stereotype: it can’t be everyday a dean gets a chance to hang washing on a line.’
Lest he argue, and I had to remind him that my knees and back were simply not up to such simple tasks, I bustled out into the hall, hoping to locate a vacuum cleaner in the cubby-hole under the stairs. Success! But it wouldn’t work because it was completely bunged up, and there was no sign of new bags anywhere. There was nothing for it but to empty the existing one into the bin, fistful by unlovely fistful. I was hard at work when Andy got back from the garden.
‘Actually, you do me less than justice,’ he complained, peering down the garden to admire the result of his efforts. ‘Since Marcia died, I’ve become pretty self-sufficient. And I find a line of washing flapping on a spring day like this quite inspiring. I suppose it reminds me of when I was a child, when there were rows and rows of brilliant white nappies on all our neighbours’ lines. People don’t seem to go in for them these days, do they?’
Marcia? I hadn’t skipped a beat in my polishing, but did now. ‘Don’t get me started on landfill and disposable nappies,’ I said. ‘Right, have you started the sheets yet? Because there’s even more washing than we thought: I found a heap of towels under the bed.’
‘I dread to think what the loo’ll be like.’
‘Full of bleach now,’ I said dryly.
‘I’ll load that machine.’
So he was a widower, was he? I found the information oddly reassuring, though why, since I’d no intention of ever making a pass at him, I couldn’t say. What did interest me was why he’d never mentioned his wife before. But I could hardly ask.
I was making our third cup of coffee, counting the minutes till I dared pop more pills, and Andy, at his insistence, was on his knees (‘I get a lot of practice, after all!’) attacking the bathroom floor, when his mobile rang. Grabbing it, I trotted – which was about the best I could manage – to the foot of the stairs, flourishing it. His descent was faster than I can manage on a good day. He showed no signs of wanting privacy, but I left him to it anyway: I had a kitchen to rescue. I had binned any perishable food I couldn’t give the birds. No wonder Tim had looked so skeletal – there wasn’t much of anything. Now I was attacking the work surfaces and cupboard doors: to my shame I abandoned elbow grease in favour of a virgin bottle of patent cleanser lurking at the back of a cupboard otherwise devoted to crockery.
‘If he had eaten in here, he’d have stood a good chance of getting e.coli, salmonella, campylobacter and any other food poisoning bug going,’ I told Andy, as he came in, looking particularly sober.
‘None of them as lethal as knife thrusts so hard they damaged the surface of the bone. Tang, too. You were right, Josie. Those kids were murdered.’ He sat down heavily on a filthy-looking chair. ‘And do you know what I said to the policewoman – that DI Lawton? I said, “Who by?” Stupidly, just like that. As if you hadn’t warned me, as if I hadn’t in my heart known, as if I don’t deal with the dying and the dead all the time.’ He stared at the coffee mug I’d pressed into his hand as if it were a book in Sanskrit.
Any other man I’d have simply gathered him to me. In similar crises, some of Tony’s mates cried their eyes out as if they were babies; one or two ended up in my bed. Is there something about death and bereavement, especially funerals, that brings out the testosterone? Even as I stepped forward to hold him, however, I heard Corbishley’s judgement on me. I didn’t want to confirm any suspicions Andy might have of its accuracy.
His knuckles were white against the mug, from which he sipped convulsively. An enormous clock over the fridge told me it was after twelve. Time to knock off. I wanted to be at the White Hart, where there was life and live kids.
Leaving him still immobile, I heaved myself upstairs and into the bathroom. He’d finished the floor apart from one corner. Try as I might, I couldn’t kneel, so I hoicked the bucket on to the closed loo and fished out the cloth – a pair of Tim’s underpants, it transpired – and wringing it out, dropped it. My footwork might not have got me into Manchester United but it did the trick. All I had to do then was scoop the cloth up again – for which the loo brush came in handy – and I was done.
The only indication that Andy had moved was that the coffee mug was empty. I took it from him and rinsed it.
‘How can you be so calm?’ he screamed, almost making me drop it. ‘Washing up as if nothing had happened?’
I stared.
‘Don’t you feel anything? You don’t react when the church burns down. You don’t react when Corbishley insults you. You don’t react when you’re run over. You don’t react when you hear murder’s been committed. What in God’s name does it take to crack that carapace of yours?’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
If there was a sensible reply to Andy’s question, I couldn’t think of it. Not without going into a long explanation I didn’t want to give – and he probably didn’t want to hear – about how I coped with Tony’s long jail terms. In my head I tried words to describe myself like stoic or phlegmatic, thinking a touch of quasi-academic vocabulary might appeal. In the end, I gave a stiff shrug: he could make of it and indeed of me what he liked. I said flatly, ‘I’m knackered. And the White Hart needs me.’ As an afterthought, I added, ‘Can I offer you some lunch?’ Perhaps it was an apology for my brusqueness.
He opened his mouth, flushed and dropped his eyes. Then he looked vaguely about, as if assessing whether we’d done enough. ‘The washing. On the line and in the machine.’
‘Not to mention the load I shoved into the hall.’ My bloody voice cracked. It must have been the pain and fatigue – so perhaps that was the answer to his question. But I didn’t share it with him. ‘Tell you what, I’ll bundle those dirty towels together and take them back to the White Hart. I’ll take the load in the machine to dry too. As for the stuff on the line, I suppose we could fold it loosely and put it on a clothes horse, if he’s got one.’
‘The airing cupboard,’ he said. ‘The tank’s so poorly insulated it’s like a little dryer. Even after we’ve switched off the immersion heater, it should do the job.’
‘Great.’
I felt his eyes on me. ‘Tell you what, I put it out so I’ll get it in. If you wouldn’t mind washing the mugs and finishing in here.’
I nodded – I was too weary to argue. And he’d tried to be tactful without sounding sorry for me. Unfortunately his plan backfired. Whereas gathering the clothes from the line would have meant just stretching, the job he’d given me, picking up the soiled towels, meant bending. I managed. And emptied the machine too.
‘I’ll set off now,’ I said. ‘I’ll see you in a few minutes.’
‘If you just hang on while I shut all the windows, we could drive in convoy.’
‘You won’t get lost,’ I said crisply. ‘See you back at the pub.’ No point in telling him it might be better if we weren’t seen arriving together. No, I wasn’t worried about his reputation, or mine, this time. Or even about Corbishley and Malins. Just about the person who’d run me down. There was no point in offering him another potential target.
As I fell through the back door, Pix greeted me with a yell from the kitchen. ‘Thank God you’re back. Robin’s got one of his migraines. He couldn’t see to slice an onion so I packed him off to bed.’
‘Well done.’
‘And we’ve got twelve heavy-duty walkers wanting mega-meals.’
‘Give me three minutes and I’ll be wi
th you.’
Shame about the tête-à-tête lunch with Andy – but maybe I wasn’t sorry at all. For a variety of reasons. Not least of which was that a long stint under pressure in the kitchen would force me to keep moving and forget I couldn’t.
‘I quite understand,’ Andy said, not even in the huffy tone of someone who didn’t. ‘I take it you’ll be tied up all evening, too?’
What else did he have in mind? ‘I’m afraid it looks like it. Poor Robin doesn’t often get migraines but when he does they blast him. Anyway, can I take your order? If you’re in a hurry I’ll slip you to the top of the pile.’
After the rush, while the day-time minion was scrubbing down the kitchen, I gave myself a couple of minutes to check my emails and incoming phone messages. Nothing on the chicken front from any of my contacts. No Nick and no Nick’s list, of course. I’d have to do a spot of investigating another way. But not today: I was too stiff and Pix needed me. But the next fine day. OK, if my body persisted in being a nuisance, the one after that.
And to my horror I found myself popping a couple of painkillers and lying down on my bed, just for five minutes. Or until a panicking Pix banged so hard on my door it sounded as if he was coming through it: it was after five, and it was time for the evening shift.
Friday had seen me tied to the day (and evening) job. Then the weekend was upon us. And weekends involved work.
However, there was just one thing – and I suppose it showed just how badly I’d been shaken – that someone else ought to do something about. I’d clean forgotten the wreath kindly left where I’d fallen (I was already revising the word accident). What was that police constable’s name? Hell, did I really need to find the card she’d given me to remember?
I did. Bernie Downs.
A man took the call, though it was to her direct line. ‘I phoned PC Downs the other day,’ I said, not wishing to suggest I thought she’d been lax in not getting back to me, but letting him think she might have been. ‘About a wreath. I was wondering if she’d found anything.’
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