by Charles Owen
‘I hope he chucked you out,’ James grumbled.
‘No, he was trying so hard to be friendly. That was what was so awful. He's so ... so untogether ... all gangling arms and legs like a deckchair that's got in a muddle. He came up and shook hands and took the book from me and said he would deal with it. And then, instead of saying goodbye, he stood there blinking at us out of those dreadful bifocals and smiling like he always does. It makes him look so long-suffering…’
‘No doubt he was wondering what on earth he was going to say to two idiotic girls. I must admit, I feel for him.’
Claire hacked at James's ankle but otherwise ignored the interruption. ‘His hair is going grey and he's got that frowsty black suit which looks as if it came from the dead man's shop.’
‘The dead man's shop?’ Ben frowned.
‘You know,’ Louise replied, ‘it’s at the far end of Silver Street. They do house clearances and there are always those ghastly clothes hanging outside.’ She shivered. ‘The suits are almost threadbare. Shiny with age, darned and re-darned at the knees and elbows – always black or dark grey as if the owners had died and left their shadows behind.’
‘God, you are morbid today, Louise.’ James took a tendril of hair from behind her ear and gave it a gentle but reproving tug.
‘You've got to give the man credit for perseverance,’ said Ben. ‘He's been chipping away at Nicola for months, driving her to the shops on Saturday afternoons, going for walks with her and the child.’
Claire pursed her lips. ‘I think it is rather disgusting. He must be twice her age.’
‘He's almost forty,’ said Ben. ‘He can't help that.’
‘I'm sure he is very worthy. I know he’s on the committee of this and the committee of that but somehow I can't bear to think of them ... together.’ Claire turned around with a guilty start. Mr Channing was following at a discreet speed and distance in his venerable Morris Estate. ‘It's pathetic how proud he is of that car of his – always polishing it and varnishing the woodwork. It must be as old as he is.’
‘You can't help feeling rather sorry for him,’ said James. ‘Rattling around in a three-bedroomed house he saved up years to buy. I expect he's lonely.’
‘But he will be fine now,’ said Louise, her eyes flashing dangerously, ‘now that he has added Nicola to his list of good works.’
Ben took a hand from the steering wheel, took off his glasses and folded them away in his breast pocket. ‘I do think,’ he said, ‘that goodwill is sometimes rather undervalued. Mr Channing may be a little old-fashioned but that doesn't make him some sort of freak. The fact is that...’ Louise had drawn a long breath and Ben hesitated but she remained silent and he continued. ‘Nicola's father isn't very fit. It must be hard having to keep up that house and look after all of them just on a colonel’s pension. If Nicola married Mr Channing, it would take an enormous strain off her parents.’
The car turned into a narrow lane. In front of them the ground rose steeply and they found themselves cutting across the side of a hill. It was grazing land and poor at that: featureless save for clumps of tussocky grass and a flock of forlorn-looking sheep sheltering behind an outcrop of rock. Below them were the Levels, low-lying country intersected with a network of narrow dykes and dotted with herds of cattle.
The old Roman road was a mile or so away and ran almost straight for ten more between wooded hills to the north and south. It was lined by tall poplars widely spaced like sentinels along its length, their bare branches like spearheads and seemingly unmoved by the wind.
The top of a tower showed above a bulge in the side of the hill and then a few seconds later they saw the church on the crest.
‘Is that it?’ Claire exclaimed, screwing up her eyes. ‘It's tiny. It's more like a private chapel.’
‘I expect we will just manage to fit in,’ said James, adding for the benefit of Claire who was sometimes a little slow to catch on, ‘all ten of us.’
‘Early English,’ said Ben. ‘You see how it’s rough hewn. It’s built from local stone on the site of an old camp.’ He waved at the rings stepped into the hillside. ‘You can see where the entrenchments were.’
‘I thought the sheep made those,’ Claire giggled.
James snorted. ‘Plodding round and round the church, I suppose, like the siege of Jericho.’
‘Well, why not?’
The road ended with a five-bar gate and there were two cars already parked on the verge.
‘Don't tell me. This is where we get out and walk,’ Louise moaned. She reached for her hat. ‘I've only got thin shoes.’
Ben parked the car and they assembled by the small swing gate. A steep path corkscrewed up the hill to the low, grey stone wall which bounded the churchyard. He shaded his eyes with his hand. ‘There's someone up there…’
James hitched up his trousers before lifting his eyes from the squelchy ground at his feet. ‘I think it's Nicola.’
Ben screwed up his eyes against the wind. ‘Yes, and she’s carrying Gino. You can tell by the way she is standing. What is she doing there by herself looking out across the Levels? She really is an extraordinary girl.’
‘Let's wave to her,’ Claire suggested.
‘Just leave her alone,’ said Louise quietly.
They started off up the path, the wind tugging at their clothes and mussing their hair. Claire lost her hat to a gust and chased after it as it cartwheeled down the hill the way they had come. It came to rest, its rim muddied, against a clump of gorse. She inspected it ruefully. The small party stopped to wait for her. ‘I know I'm going to get hysterics,’ she shouted back at them against the wind, ‘I simply know it. I can feel it coming on.’
3
It was just before eleven o'clock that morning when Alec Burgess, a reporter with the Western Gazette, called in at the county town’s police station. He pressed a bell in the small reception area and the ponderous figure of the duty sergeant appeared at the window. The sergeant rested his arms on the counter. ‘Oh, it's young Alec, is it? I suppose you want to see PC Appleyard and stop him getting on with his work too?’ He was a large, softly spoken man with heavy eyebrows which seemed permanently raised as if an engrained scepticism had fixed them halfway up his forehead.
‘Is he back yet, Sergeant?’
‘Yes. Five minutes ago.’
‘Has he got the pathologist's report?’
‘How should I know? I'm just the hall porter.’ The telephone rang. The sergeant sighed. "Push off, Alec, there's a good lad, Room B13, halfway down the corridor. Just a couple of minutes, mind, and don't–’
Burgess missed the rest as he hustled out of the room, stopping at the vending machine to buy one cup of coffee and invest in a second. He found the door and tapped lightly before making his way up the room. The offices, with their desks and wall charts and posters, always reminded him of school. Two officers engrossed in typing reports didn't even raise their heads as he passed them.
Brian Appleyard was seated at a desk at the far end of the room. With his black hair coming to a point on a high, white forehead, there was something of the badger about his appearance. A scar at the corner of his mouth was the result of a rugby injury but it gave him a slightly menacing air which was not without its uses in the more difficult aspects of his work.
‘White and two sugars, if I remember right,’ said the reporter, placing the steaming mug on the desk.
The scar hooked upwards in amusement. ‘Come to trade, have you?’ The policeman motioned to Burgess to take a chair, picked up a small transparent bag from a shelf behind him and emptied the contents between them. ‘A safety razor, a road map, a tobacco pouch.’ He reached into the pouch, retrieved a few grains and held his fingers to his nostrils. He sniffed disapprovingly, ‘Not my mixture. A wallet,’ he continued, ‘containing a photograph of a young woman, probably about eighteen years old, a girlfriend maybe.’ He pushed the photograph across the desk. Burgess picked up the print. The girl had long dark hair which fell t
o her shoulders. She would have been plain but for her dark eyes, which were somehow compelling and hinted at strong emotions.
‘No? Not my type either,’ said Appleyard taking back the photograph. ‘She looks as if she would pull the communication cord the moment you put down your newspaper. We have a passport.’ He flicked it open. ‘Issued in Naples four years ago to one Sergio Torre, born in Naples. Profession ... student ... but that could be out of date ... aged eighteen at the time of issue.’ He stared at the photograph. ‘A good-looking boy. He doesn't look like that now, poor bugger.’
‘Killed outright?’
Appleyard reached down to his feet and picked up a clear plastic water bottle. It was split from end to end. Crushed flat. ‘He was probably carrying it in the pocket of his jacket.’
‘Who found him?’
‘A bloke driving a milk tanker at about five o'clock this morning. Phoned for the ambulance. Torre was taken to hospital. Pronounced dead on arrival. That's the standard phrase. Cheerful, isn't it?’ Appleyard sipped at his coffee. ‘But I think the report will show that it happened at about nine o'clock last night.’
‘Knocked down by a car?’
‘Something much bigger than that. Probably a lorry. I spent an hour at the site with the photographer. The road has no hard shoulder, just soggy piles of leaves blown up against the bank. There was no sign of heavy braking but there were tyre tracks six inches deep. If he was caught in that soft ground, he wouldn't have stood a chance.’
‘You'll have your work cut out to find the driver.’
‘I agree. That's where we may need some help from you.’
‘Can you get him for dangerous driving?’
The policeman shrugged. ‘Too early to say. It was a crazy place for anyone to be walking on a bloody awful night. He may have been trying to hitch a lift. I have a notion that he wasn't more than a few hours walk from his destination. He would probably have scrounged some food at a farm and dossed down in a barn for the night.’
‘Do you think the driver fell asleep?’
Appleyard shook his head. ‘I doubt it. Not on that bad stretch of road. He may have been dazzled by headlights coming at him. It's possible he didn't even know that he had hit anyone – and won't know till he gets out and checks the vehicle. Maybe not even then.’
‘What's this?’ Burgess reached across the desk and picked up a small white box. ‘May I?’ He took the policeman's little shrug for permission and lifted the lid. Inside there was a blue velvet bag with a drawstring.
‘It's a St Christopher medallion. We found it at the bottom of his rucksack.’
The reporter held up the medallion to the light. ‘Real gold by the look of it. You can see the hallmark.’
‘St Christopher must have nodded off.’
‘You can't blame St Christopher. You have to wear the medal around your neck.’ He pointed to a map on the desk. ‘Where do you think the chap was making for?’
Appleyard unfolded the map between them. It was badly stained and so torn at the folds that it was coming apart. ‘It's much easier to say where he came from. He started here, just south of Rome.’ With his finger he traced a line linking a series of circles that had been made in pencil. ‘And came through Milan, Frankfurt, Dijon, Paris ... then on to Rouen and Cherbourg. Judging by the condition of his boots, he did more than his share of walking.’ He tipped over a pair of boots by the table leg and pushed them towards his companion.
Burgess whistled tunelessly. The soles were worn down to the welts. ‘I call that doing it the hard way. Did he have any money on him?’
‘A few French and Italian coins. A pound or two in English money.’
Burgess pointed to a mark on the map. ‘It looks as if he crossed the Channel here – at Weymouth.’
Appleyard drained his coffee. ‘The pride of the force just about managed to work that out.’
Burgess flushed, his reddening cheeks pointing up the crinkly fair hair. ‘Sorry, Brian. I'm not trying to teach you your business.’
‘Tell me what he did after that – and I'll forgive you.’ The policeman folded his arms on the desk. He arched his eyebrows challengingly.
Burgess stared down at the map. ‘Now you'll get your own back. I suppose it's obvious. Staring me in the face?’
‘I think so – but you tell me.’
‘He carried no address on him? No telephone number?’
‘Nothing that I have found.’
Burgess pulled the map closer. ‘There's a line under this village. But it's a long way from the coast. It must be about sixty or seventy miles inland.’
‘Go on.’
‘There is only one other mark – a tiny circle close to the old Roman road. A church or maybe a chapel. It's in the middle of nowhere.’ He looked up, his eyes lit with suppressed excitement. ‘I think there's a story here, Brian.’
‘I had a feeling you might say that.’ He levelled a finger at the reporter. ‘Now, Alec, if you and I are to stay friends, you can't go to press with any of this. Not a single line until the next of kin has been informed. We have to telephone the details through to the Italian Consulate in London. Then the deceased has to be formally identified – that’s bound to take a few days. You ought to know that but I'm spelling it out to you.’
Burgess picked up the medallion, angling it at the light, running sun spots up and down the walls. ‘Give me a break, Brian. I can't go back to my editor without so much as a snippet. I might as well go straight to the Jobcentre and sign on. If the Consulate gets its skates on, they can have the information in Naples by lunchtime. While the local Carabinieri dry the family's eyes, I can belt round the countryside and fill in the gaps. I could have my story filed by late afternoon.’
Appleyard cast his eyes over the figures of his colleagues. The chatter of the typewriters had slowed to a desultory tapping. Burgess followed his hopes down the long white scar. The officer leaned forward, splaying his fingers on the top of the desk to support his weight. ‘You listen to me, Alec. I don't want to come on heavy, but if you push me, I'll see you never get past the front desk again. The family has to be told in the right way. That takes time. Sometimes I think you newspapermen are no better than vultures. Supposing it was your–’
‘Alright, Brian,’ Burgess raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, ‘I'll hold on. I promise.’ Rising to his feet, he put a tentative finger on a corner of the passport photograph. ‘If I could run a copy of this –’
Appleyard dropped his fist like a mallet head. ‘Cool it! Wait till I give you the word, Alec – or you will be the next casualty.’
‘I'll call in tomorrow – just to see how things stand.’
The policeman grinned. ‘Let me know what time – I'll make sure I'm out.’
Alec Burgess made a quick calculation. That church. It wasn’t really in the middle of nowhere. There was a network of muddy lanes to get through, but if he put his foot down, he could be there in a little over half an hour.
4
‘Well, here we are,’ said Barbara Ashton cheerfully, ‘I will pull in behind the others.’ She looked in the rear mirror as she switched off the engine. ‘I don't see Mr Channing's car but of course we are a little early.’
Nicola's mother pushed up the cuff of her coat and checked her watch. ‘I promised Nicola that I wouldn't be early. What can I be thinking about this morning!’ She put a hand on her companion's arm. ‘You don't mind if we sit in the car for a few minutes?’
‘Of course not, Marion.’ She unfastened the buttons of her overcoat and settled back in her seat. ‘What an adventure this is! I never knew there was a church in this wilderness.’
‘Nor I,’ Marion replied with a short, humourless laugh, ‘but one can usually trust Nicola to do things rather differently.’ She started to open her spectacle case but changed her mind and snapped it shut.
Barbara wondered if Marion had seen Nicola. At that distance it was impossible to be sure. The church and the small figure high up on the should
er of the hill stood out in black against the sky like an old-fashioned silhouette. It was as if the wind had leeched all colour from the day.
‘It was good of you to come to my rescue, Barbara. Not the easiest of occasions.’
‘My dear, what with Nicola taking the car and Ted being laid up, I couldn't stand by and see you marooned.’
‘I could have gone with Nicola but I knew that she wanted to drive here with Gino – have him to herself.’ She angled the mirror and checked her make-up. ‘Just as I knew that Ted would wake up with a bad attack of sciatica – and keep to his bed for the day.’
‘Oh, come now, Marion, aren't you being a little hard on him?’
Marion shook her head. ‘I don't blame him. I know what he's going through. In some ways it's easier without him.’ Her shoulders drooped and she folded her hands in her lap.
‘Perhaps things would have been different if we had had more children, but we were stationed overseas for so many years – Cyprus, Borneo, Hong Kong, difficult postings, some of them – there was always this feeling of, “We'll sort our lives out when we get back home.” And then, suddenly, you find it's too late and the years have run away from you.’
‘But you probably had more time for each other, Marion, more fun together than the rest of us. There's always a balance in life. Children are so selfish. One can't blame them – it's the survival instinct. But give them an opening and they will take you over.’ She laughed. ‘And then they grow up and tell you that you are stifling them.’
‘I don't think Nicola would accuse us of fencing her in. If anything, we gave her too much freedom.’ Nicola's mother straightened the regimental brooch on the lapel of her grey flannel coat. ‘Do you know, Barbara, I don't understand Nicola. I thought that the generation gap was something that happened to other families but I have discovered how exhausting it is and how painful, trying to relate to someone, communicate with someone who one feels does not trust one, who as fast as one builds bridges, knocks them down again. I have tried and I have failed. I don't think I have ever felt so inadequate.’