‘But who uses fax these days?’ asked Robert. ‘It’s not obsolete … but it’s way behind email and a scanner.’
‘Trace the number. I’m more interested in the message on the postcard. That sounds like an accusation.’
‘It does.’
‘So maybe Sierra Leone’s a part of some bigger picture.’ Crofty was thinking out loud. ‘You said he ran from the station when they asked about his past?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Okay, find out where he’d been before he moved to London. Hang on a sec.’ Crofty paused to take a call from Muriel and then he was back. ‘Did you get to question the monk detective?’
‘No. He was away.’
‘Too convenient.’
‘Exactly. Thing is, he didn’t know I was coming, did he?’
‘Maybe he wasn’t away. Maybe you were knocked back when you asked about Littlemore.’
‘I didn’t mention Littlemore when I asked to see the detective.’ The permutations didn’t matter: Littlemore was being protected by the community. The Archivist had lied while the Scout had been unable to hide the frightened flicker of recognition. And if they were prepared to lie or hedge, then one could safely presume that the monk who looked for a rarefied kind of justice was complicit: they were resolved to protect one of their own. Robert said so, knowing this could only add weight to any exclusive, but Muriel was back on line two. Crofty had to go: ‘There’s still no story because the kid hasn’t spoken and Littlemore hasn’t been arrested. But get to work. You’re onto something. How’s the trainee getting along?’
‘He’s good. What was the point of sending him to Bromley just when we got a break?’
‘Didn’t he tell you? I’m short-staffed. That’s why I gave him a job.’
‘Well, it’s a pity because he’s the one who found the stuff.’
‘You should have told me.’
‘Didn’t he?’
‘No. He just said you’d been proved right.’
Robert huffed at the exasperating reticence. ‘Where did you find him anyway?’
‘At the bottom of a ladder.’
‘You’ve lost me.’
‘He cleaned my windows for ten years. Then he got talking to Muriel.’
Robert cut the call and, almost immediately, he felt the gentle touch of intuition. If Father Anselm wasn’t involved – and he might not be – then whoever had written to Robert did so knowing that when he came to Larkwood looking for Littlemore, the monk-detective wouldn’t be there.
Now who might that have been, if not another monk? But how could that monk have known that Robert Sambourne had been in the station when Littlemore came running out? Or that Robert had tracked Littlemore for a week, demanding an interview? All that information was known only to Littlemore himself and potentially someone else, if he’d confided what happened. Could that be the link, then? Did the confidant get in touch with Larkwood Priory, setting in motion the events that had subsequently unfolded?
The phone rang. It was Crofty.
‘When I say get to work, I don’t mean tonight.’
‘Why not?’
‘Take a break. Put your feet up. Have one too many. Let yourself grieve.’
14
Anselm didn’t notice the heavy traffic. He didn’t notice the people walking before his eyes. Somehow he crossed a busy thoroughfare, walking aimlessly onto Clapham Common. On and on he went, heading towards the bandstand, to Anselm’s vision a pagoda or carousel without the magical rides that move up and down. He was crossing a still point, vehicles of all shapes and sizes going round and round and round. What was he to do? Edmund Littlemore had sexually abused a boy of eleven.
‘Are y’all right there, Father?’
Anselm’s eyes flickered. A man had come up quietly from behind. It was Fraser.
‘If ye don’t mind me sayin’ … ye dinna look too good.’
‘I’m not.’
From a distance Fraser had looked elderly, but close up Anselm judged this thin but strong-looking man to be much younger, perhaps in his fifties. It was difficult to tell because life had turned his skin into a kind of stained parchment. His cheeks were hollowed beneath dark sockets. His forehead was pitted with old scars, those distinctive wounds of life on the street. But the length of a day’s kindness was in his brown, boyish eyes. To look into them, you’d think this man had seen beyond all manner of suffering.
‘I followed ye, Father. I’ve been waitin’ for ye.’
‘Why?’
‘I overheard you talkin’ there to Mr Dominic and Mrs Emily, okay, and I know you want the best for the wee fella, but I think you might need some help. You’re not going to get much of that from his family, you follow?’
‘I don’t.’
‘They’re all lookin’ in the wrong direction. Do you get me now?’
They’d halted by a bench so Anselm sat down but Fraser remained standing. He didn’t want to be seen talking out in the open. Like Harry’s glances in the garden, he looked quickly towards the house in that quiet road.
‘I’ve got to know the wee lad, ye know. I see my own boy in his eyes. And I’m worried about him, okay?’
‘Of course.’
‘And I think you should know he’s scared.’
‘What about?’
‘Speakin’ up. Sayin’ the truth.’
This much Anselm knew already. But Fraser came close and went further:
‘He’s scared of someone in particular.’
‘Who?’
Fraser ignored the question and in that instant Anselm realised that this once broken man was more than Harry’s friend; that he was like a secret presence at the heart of the family; that he knew things he wasn’t meant to know. With a shudder, Anselm wondered if Harry had actually confided in him. And then he was sure: the boy had turned to the one person no one would remotely expect of commanding so much trust. As if tracking Anselm’s thoughts Fraser quietly said:
‘Harry talks to me.’
‘I understand.’
‘He says things to me he wouldna say to anyone else, okay?’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s been through a big shock, he has.’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s not well in his skin, al’right?’
‘Yes.’
‘His mammy has already taken him to the police.’
Anselm gave a nod.
‘But the wee fella said nothing.’
This Anselm did not know. And he showed it by a look of surprise.
‘That’s right; his mammy took him for an interview at a hospital and the boy didn’t open his mouth, okay?’
Anselm nodded again as Fraser leaned closer still. His brown eyes were aching with concern, emitting a sort of light from their dark sockets.
‘But before Harry went down there with his mammy, the granddaddy came to the house.’ Fraser waited, wanting to make sure that Anselm was registering what he was saying. ‘That’s right, his granddaddy had a wee word with him, on his own, just before his mammy took him to the hospital. And then, when he got there, the poor lad couldna speak. D’ye understand what I’ve just told you, Father? Do ye get ma drift?’
Anselm certainly did. He was effectively saying that Harry’s aggressor was his grandfather. The man who’d been to see Carrington after Littlemore disappeared. No wonder Martin Brandwell had spilled his wife’s name out as a casualty of any future trial.
‘Now I never told you that, al’right?’ said Fraser. ‘That’s for you to find out in your own way and by your own means.’
Anselm said he understood, but he had to ask at least one question. ‘Did you know that Harry had been to see Father Littlemore?’
‘Who?’
Anselm repeated the name but it was clear Fraser had never heard of him. And that meant that Edmund Littlemore was entirely innocent – assuming that Harry had, in fact, confided in Fraser. But in that case, why did Harry quiz Anselm about Father Littlemore’s whereabouts? Why, in the
same breath, was he troubled about whether he ought to tell the truth? Why had he come back distressed from that third, fateful interview? Harry’s behaviour suggested his relationship with Fraser might not be as simple as the old man liked to think; maybe he hadn’t told him everything.
‘I’ve got to go, Father,’ said Fraser, narrowing those pained eyes as he scanned the park. ‘It’s not been easy for me, okay? Justin Brandwell saved my life, he did. I’d had one swally too many and I was lying on the tracks beneath the bridge at Strath Terrace, al’right? A train was coming down the line but Justin got there in time, okay? More than tha’, when I’d sobered up, he listened to me … someone who’d ne’er been listened to, right? He put me back on my feet. Showed me I had a life worth living. No one else would have bothered. So I owe him. But I can’t keep quiet for his sake while that wee laddie suffers. I can’t ignore the danger.’
Fraser’s voice stopped as if someone had slammed a hand over his mouth. Without saying another word he began walking quickly towards the bandstand, presently disappearing among the nearby trees.
For a very long while Anselm just sat on the bench listening to the traffic going round and round the common: buses, cars, trucks and motorbikes seemingly on the way to nowhere. He didn’t want to go back to Larkwood. He didn’t want to see John Joe Collins. He didn’t want to face Dunstan. He just wanted to remain here while the world went its busy way. But of course, remaining off the carousel was not an option. He had to leave this still point and go home, even if it meant going in the opposite direction to everyone else.
Much later, and looking back, Anselm would think there was a certain irony in what happened next because he stepped off the kerb into the path of a bike courier. The rider was fine, but Anselm was knocked unconscious. Someone called a priest.
15
It was late when Robert got back to London, but not so late he couldn’t take the car back to his mother’s, rather than have the faff of going round there the next morning. And so he went to Raynes Park directly. As he drove along Coombe Lane his eye latched onto a bulky figure coming out of the Hanabi Japanese restaurant with his arm around a woman. Robert could have sworn it was Crofty and Muriel, but he’d passed them before he could confirm the sighting. Pretty sure it couldn’t be, he went to his mother’s but couldn’t park near the house. He found a slot just big enough some distance away, spending his last atom of patience trying to reverse close enough to the kerb. He then walked back down the street and knocked on his mother’s door. There was no reply. After waiting a while and knocking some more he turned to leave, pausing at the gate. Crofty’s Audi with the dinted passenger door was parked twenty yards or so further down the road. Robert crossed over. Just as he passed behind a white van, he saw them turning into the street from a short cut by the railway line. Sure enough it was Crofty and Muriel. But they weren’t alone. Robert’s mother was walking just behind them … arm in arm with a man who looked vaguely familiar. They stopped as a group so Robert moved close to the van: he looked through the grimy windows but he couldn’t get a clean line of vision onto this other man. Muriel hugged his mother while Crofty put his arm around the man and then Muriel stepped into the road, heading towards the Audi; and at that point Robert could see that she was crying, dabbing her cheeks with a tissue. A moment later, Crofty waddled after her shaking the keys like a bell.
‘Your turn, darling.’
‘It’s always my turn,’ she replied.
They were only three vehicles away, so Robert retreated to the rear of the van, peering around the side: the Audi’s brake lights flashed and Muriel took the wheel, putting the wipers on full swing, prompting Crofty to lean over and calm things down. The engine barked into life. The headlights came on. With a returning wave, Muriel pulled away. The horn beeped twice.
Robert waited. Then he crept back onto the pavement, walked the length of the van, and looked across the street. His mother was in the arms of the man. They wouldn’t let go of each other. Robert screwed his eyes shut and then opened them again. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The couple stepped apart, holding hands to make a bridge.
‘Call me,’ said Robert’s mother.
‘As soon as I get home.’
She stroked his cheek with the back of her hand. ‘The future is ours.’
Robert didn’t hear the rest because his brain couldn’t process the words alongside the visual data. The man who crossed the bridge of linked arms to kiss his mother one more time was the magician’s apprentice: Andrew Taylor, the late starter who couldn’t come to Larkwood because Crofty had sent him to Bromley. The only further information that registered in Robert’s consciousness was as obvious as it was distressing: they, along with Crofty and Muriel, had just celebrated a newfound freedom; a boon, arising from the sudden death by heart failure of Lenny Sambourne, the quiet man who’d loved spending hours pottering about on his allotment.
Part Three
Harry’s parents approved of Gutsy. They thought he was a good influence. They thought he might keep Harry on the straight and narrow, especially after they’d found a lighter in Harry’s pocket.
‘You’re not smoking, are you?’ his mother had asked, standing close to his father, and Harry hadn’t bothered to reply: he’d simply weighed them up as if they were the last two with a chance of being picked for the team. They’d backed off, afraid of the look in his eye; afraid of losing their place in goal. If there was a good side to being abused, it was the power it gave you over your parents.
After the monk had gone, Gutsy came round for a sleepover. He brought some Camel Lights for later.
‘Did you tell him what happened with Littlemore?’ asked Gutsy.
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Why would I? He’s got the same job.’
‘Exactly. He’s the bloke to tell. He’d understand.’
‘Nah.’
‘You could’ve asked his advice. They can’t repeat anything you tell them, priests. They’d go to prison before they’d reveal a source.’
‘That’s journalists.’
They were lying in a bunk bed, Harry on top, Gutsy underneath, voices adrift in the darkness. Gutsy turned over:
‘You can’t let him get away with it just because he’s a vicar.’
‘So you keep saying.’
They were quiet.
‘Sarah Lawton thinks you get pregnant through your belly-button …’ said Gutsy, drifting off.
* * *
Uncle Justin had told his brother Dominic that it was important to get Harry onto a rock face. Forget the box of tissues and the special questions. There’s nothing like controlled fear and fresh air to clear the mind. And so a weekend away was organised for the family. This was early November, a month after Uncle Justin had shown Harry how to tie a bowline. While motoring out of London, Harry’s father spoke about Fraser: how he’d come back from the dead; how, with the help of people like Justin, he’d found his feet; how he was now helping others find theirs. Harry had heard it all before on television. The only difference was that Uncle Justin had kept himself out of the picture, but he was the one who’d pulled Fraser to safety; he was the one who’d taught him the bowline; he was the one who’d found the job and drummed up the clients.
‘Anyone can survive anything,’ said Uncle Justin, uncoiling a rope. He looked up. He was trying to sound comforting, but he couldn’t hide his own fear. ‘You’re no exception. All it takes is courage.’
He’d chosen North Wales for Harry’s initiation. A light wind funnelled up the valley and across the brown scree to where they were standing at the foot of an outcrop like a protruding bone. In the distance there was a long grey lake, dull as a blind eye. Wisps of cloud played upon its surface. Harry’s parents stood back, letting the master do his work.
‘Keep your hands low down. Only take one limb off the rock at a time. And remember: there’s a rope around your waist: you can’t fall.’
After a nod at his brother, Justin
turned and began moving up the shin of stone with a name that Harry had been unable to pronounce. They’d all laughed as he got tongue-tied around the fs and ys, and then he’d tired of the family show, as he’d once tired of learning the bowline. When Uncle Justin reached a ledge – a kind of lip sulking on the side of the rock face – he anchored the rope and moments later the slack was taken up and Harry felt a light tug around his waist.
‘Climbing,’ he called in reply, as he’d been taught.
It wasn’t that difficult, actually. Uncle Justin had picked the spot because there were lots of handholds to choose from, lots of fine ridges on which to place the edge of your feet. Up Harry went, thinking this was nothing, until – after a very short distance indeed – his throat tightened and his chest began to thump against his windbreaker. A new kind of panic entered his life, right there on the cliff face. It expelled the memory of every emotion he’d ever felt before. It was as though he’d been emptied, or perhaps recreated. With each careful upward movement, Harry saw the rope advance ahead of him, but there was always a little slack, leaving him responsible for his next decision. Very gradually the panic subsided.
The ledge was quite wide. When he reached it, Uncle Justin pulled him to safety, and the two of them sat back, gazing down the valley. There were colourful boats moored in a line on the lake. A winding stream flickered in the sunlight. The clouds stretched across the sky like strips of torn bandage. Down below, Dominic and Emily were hand in hand, their joint gaze sharing awe and terror. And, of course, hope. Hope that Uncle Justin would work a miracle. They were just out of earshot.
‘I call this ledge “Speakers’ Corner” because it’s a good place to talk about everything you’ve left behind,’ said Uncle Justin. ‘But you know … sometimes I think it’s best to let things go … act as if they’d never happened. You don’t always have to talk about everything; the trick is to know when to be quiet. A priest told me that once. At first, I thought he was wrong, but in the end, he was proved right. It’s a beginning, at least.’ Uncle Justin filled his lungs with pure mountain air, his eyes dropping onto his anxious brother. ‘I’ve seen it countless times. People don’t move forward until they stop looking back. Think about it, Harry.’
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