by James Oswald
‘Why haven’t we spoken to them already? If they’re that close?’ Finally DS Latham says something that’s helpful, sort of.
‘It’s a good question. I’ve no idea what the answer is, but it gives us an excuse, wouldn’t you say?’
The screen freezes with an image of Latham’s sneering face on it. For a moment I think it’s something wrong with the system, but then it dawns on me we’ve been muted while the established team can discuss the case between themselves.
‘You reckon they’d notice if I scribbled a moustache and specs on that?’ I ask Karen. She’s still giggling when the screen unfreezes.
‘We’ll be back in town this evening.’ Bain’s face magically appears where Latham’s was a moment ago. An improvement, but disconcerting nonetheless. ‘Go speak to this Church, find out what you can. But tread carefully, OK? I don’t want this spiralling out of control.’
From the leaflet they pressed upon me at Euston station a week ago, I might be forgiven for thinking the Church of the Coming Light were based in some exclusive rural campus, surrounded by nature and where the weather was always childhood-holiday summer. The nondescript building on the corner of the high street and one of London’s busier arterial routes could hardly be further from that image.
From the front it looks old and dirty, rising three storeys and a fourth in the roof with dormer windows that might have a half-decent view of the nearby Danes Estate. The front entrance is ornate, pink granite steps climbing up from the pavement to a carved, arched doorway wide enough for two men to walk in abreast, and tall enough for them to keep their top hats on while doing so.
Our uniform escort is nowhere to be seen when Karen and I arrive, which gives us a chance to observe the place from across the road. If I was hoping to see a steady stream of down-and-outs filing in, I’m sorely disappointed. Nobody comes or goes in the five minutes before a squad car pulls up outside.
‘You know this place does a lot of our work for us?’ the friendly constable says by way of greeting after we’ve fought our way across the busy road.
‘Hopefully it can keep on doing so. I’m not here to cause trouble if I can help it.’
He says nothing to that, and neither does his colleague, but I can see by their expressions that I’m treading on sore toes here. I know exactly how stretched budgets are, and how big the interlinked problems of poverty, homelessness, and drug abuse. It hasn’t escaped me that I’ve been suspended from duties but still on full pay until very recently, which won’t have endeared me to the hard-pressed bobbies on the beat either. Time to be tactful, Con. If you can manage it.
At the top of the steps, only one half of the heavy wooden double doors is open. As we approach it, there’s little to suggest this is either a soup kitchen, a shelter for the homeless or a church of dubious provenance. The only clue it’s a place that welcomes all is a handmade sign on the closed door that reads ‘Food Bank. Hot Meals. Shelter.’ That and the little church logo I last saw on the leaflet, reproduced here on a small plaque.
Inside, it’s a different matter. We go through a narrow corridor into a much larger open hall, rising up through all four storeys to a glass cupola overhead. It reminds me curiously of Rose’s place in Edinburgh, which is built on much the same scale. Where that house is full of clutter and cats, however, this one is filled with rows of chairs, and people.
‘How the hell?’ Karen voices my own thought. Neither of us saw anyone come or go, and yet the place is a bustle of busyness.
‘Folk tend to use the back door.’ Friendly Constable points to the far side of the hall, where a serving hatch is doing steady business doling out meals. Alongside it, another more modern pair of double doors sees a stream of people coming and going.
‘Is there anything I can do to help?’
I turn at the question, see a young woman coming towards us, her eyes glancing nervously at the two uniform constables. She obviously recognises them when they face her, as her shoulders slump a little in relief. She’s still wringing her hands like she’s anxious to go off and pray somewhere though.
‘Detective Constable Eve.’ Karen has the patter down nicely now, showing her warrant card only briefly. ‘This is my colleague—’
‘Well, if it isn’t Lady Constance Fairchild.’
43
The voice is so deep, so loud, I almost jump in surprise. A split second later I know who it is; we’ve met before, after all. Coming from a door off to one side of the front entrance, the Reverend Doctor Edward Masters is trailed closely by two of his security acolytes.
‘Mr Masters. We meet again.’ I hold out my hand as he invades my personal space with all the subtlety of a Russian oligarch.
‘Reverend Doctor, actually.’ He takes my hand in one enormous paw, bringing the other one around to make sure I can’t escape. ‘I was disappointed not to see you at your brother’s wedding. Your mother tells me you chose not to go.’
His gaze is how I imagine a lion sizes up a gazelle. There’s something deeply unsettling about him, not helped by what Anna has told me. It’s all part of his act though, along with the too-long handshake.
‘I didn’t want to spoil his big day. Been getting a lot of attention from the press recently, and you know what they can be like.’
‘A most noble sacrifice. Although there were members of the press at the wedding after all.’ Masters finally releases me from his grip. I fight the urge to massage my hand or even wipe it on my trousers.
‘Well then, Detective Constables. I don’t suppose you’re looking for a hot meal or a bed for the night. What can I help you with?’
‘About a week ago, the body of a young man was found in a park not far from here. We’ve been having some trouble confirming his identity, which suggests he might have been homeless, maybe an immigrant. The sort of person who’d likely turn to a place like this if things got very bad.’
A flicker of something like annoyance tightens his eyes for a moment, and then he beams a smile that is all impossibly white teeth. ‘Of course. Of course. Terrible that a man should die in the cold, unnamed and unloved. If there is anything we can do to help the police with their enquiries, we will be happy to do so.’
‘Perhaps I might speak to some of the volunteers who help here? Show them a picture?’ I turn away from him and wave a hand across the crowd, aware that it’s smaller now than when two uniformed police officers entered a few minutes ago. ‘I wouldn’t want to upset the—’ I’m momentarily lost for what to call them. ‘People?’
‘They are most certainly people, Lady Constance. Not as fortunate as those born to the manner, perhaps. But we are all people. I do what I can to help, where others would simply turn a blind eye.’
I’ve heard sales pitches before, and his is certainly persuasive. Unless you know as much about the man as I do. ‘And where does God fit into all of this?’
‘God?’ Masters lets out a low rumbling sound that I realise after a moment is a laugh. ‘God opened my eyes. He came to me when I was weak and helpless, and He showed me a path to redemption. This is it, my ministry, my task on this earth. To give succour to the poor and the needy.’
‘It must cost a lot of money. Not that these people don’t need it spent on them.’
‘You would be surprised at how generous people can be, given the right encouragement. The Church of the Coming Light has many benefactors. Lady Angela herself has recently made a most generous donation.’
‘I’m sure she knows what she’s doing. My mother and I rarely speak, as I’m sure you know. She disapproves of my life choices.’
Masters shrugs. ‘It is a shame when families fall apart, but the calling you have chosen is noble. Given time, Lady Angela will come to see that.’
I’d say that ten years and counting was more than enough time to come to her senses, but I get the feeling it would be lost on Masters. I’ve also spent more time in
his presence than I would like, but at least our conversation has taken us across the hall to the serving hatch. Karen is busy talking to some of the faithful, and our uniformed escort are keeping out of the way as best they can. Even so, the clients of this place – the homeless and poor and just bloody unlucky people – are drifting away. So much for neighbourhood policing.
‘How many meals do you serve here? On a normal day.’ Looking through the serving hatch, I can see a well-laid-out kitchen beyond. It wouldn’t disgrace a top restaurant closer to the city centre.
‘I have no idea. As many as are needed, I suppose. We would never turn someone away.’
‘And you have accommodation here too? You take people off the streets?’
‘“Take” makes it sound like they don’t want to come with us. I can assure you, Lady Constance, we only offer assistance. We do not force it upon those not yet ready to accept it.’
Nothing he has said is in the least bit suspicious, nothing I’ve seen so far. And yet I know with a deep-rooted certainty that there is something very wrong going on here.
‘Perhaps you might answer a question of my own,’ Masters says, and put like that it’s very hard to refuse. Especially when Bain insisted we keep things friendly.
‘Of course.’
‘Why is it exactly you’re here? I mean, we always welcome the police. We work closely with them. But we don’t often see detectives here.’
Masters stares at me with the singular intensity of an unfed toddler as he awaits my answer. There’s something of the baby about his round, podgy face too, but his eyes are dark pits.
‘Like I already told you, a young man’s body was found in a park nearby. Our initial investigations suggest he might have been homeless, sleeping rough, possibly taking drugs. I had hoped to circulate his picture, see if anyone recognised him.’ I look around the now almost empty hall. ‘But your customers seem to have other ideas.’
Masters breaks into a smile that’s all shiny white teeth. ‘What can I say? They maybe do not like the sight of a police uniform quite so much.’
‘Well, I’ll leave the photograph here anyway. Maybe it’ll jog a memory, a name?’ I take out the picture and hand it to Masters, studying his face as he looks at it. There’s no sign of recognition, no sign of anything in the second it takes for him to scan it and hand it to one of his acolytes.
‘I will see that it is circulated, and if anyone recognises the poor fellow we will let you know.’
‘Thank you, Reverend Doctor.’ I put on my best St Humbert’s smile and don’t even grit my teeth as I say it.
‘Please, call me Edward. And for Lady Angela’s daughter? It is no trouble at all.’
None of us say anything as the squad car drives us back to the local station. I don’t think our visit has soured the relationship between the police and the Church of the Coming Light, but neither has it exactly achieved anything. I’ve no doubt whatsoever that the photograph we left behind is now in a bin, if it’s not passed through a shredder first.
‘They’re not so bad, really.’ The uniform constable who’s been our driver for the past couple of days chimes in with his helpful opinion. I wish I could remember his name.
‘How do you mean?’
‘It’s not easy round here. You know what the Danes is like, right? And that’s only the half of it. Austerity’s hit people hard. The Church picks people up when they’re down, and the way I hear it they don’t come on too preachy either. Not if you don’t want it.’
I stare out of the window as we drive slowly through the part of London I’ve come to know as home. It’s true the number of rough sleepers has increased steadily over the past few years, with small businesses closing down, shops boarded up, derelict buildings, drugs. Even the streets are more untidy, fewer sweepers and bin collections, more urban foxes spreading the rubbish around. It’s like somewhere along the line people just stopped caring.
‘That’s the point though, isn’t it? We shouldn’t need that kind of charity. And what happens when we’re so dependent on it we can’t even investigate them when something goes wrong?’
There’s a long silence after that, which I hope means they’re thinking about it, but probably means they think I’m a weirdo. Soon enough we arrive back at the local police station.
‘You needing anything else from us?’ our driver asks once we’ve all climbed out of the car. I can see his appointment with the canteen written large across his face. It’s getting past lunchtime so I can hardly blame him.
‘No. We’re good, thanks.’ I shoulder my small rucksack and slam shut the car door before remembering my manners. ‘And thanks for driving us around, too. Can’t be much fun having to babysit a couple of junior detectives for a couple of days.’
‘Beats patrolling the Danes,’ the driver says with a smile. ‘See you around, eh, Posh Cop.’
He and his colleague walk off towards the back door to the station, leaving Karen and me to stare at each other and try not to laugh.
‘I think he fancies you,’ she says after a while.
‘Maybe. Not sure he’s my type though. And in-work relationships are the worst.’
‘Well, you can have him if you want him. Not my type at all.’ Karen sets off towards the main street and the Tube station that will take us back across town.
‘No?’ I ask as I catch up and fall into step with her long strides.
‘Yeah. Too eager for one thing. Too male for another.’
I can be slow on the uptake sometimes, so it takes me at least three seconds to work out what she’s just said and what it means. Not so much the fact of her sexuality as that she’s prepared to share that with me. The police might be a big happy family according to all the publicity, but it’s still full of people who’d make your life a misery for something like that. Bad enough her having to put up with all the usual racist crap black officers endure. No wonder she’s so keen to move to plain clothes.
‘So, what’s next?’ Karen asks, changing the subject as swiftly as she brought it up.
‘Well, the Church of the Golden Shower was a bust. Still reckon they’re dodgy, but it’s going to be a tricky one to prove.’
‘I guess it’s back to the CCTV footage then.’
The viewing room with its unpleasant, stagnant air. Endless hours of staring at screens that will show us nothing we want to see. Such is the life of a detective. Nothing at all like the cops on the telly.
‘CCTV it is.’
44
I walk from Charlotte’s back to my flat this time. The evening’s dry, the air beginning to warm with the coming spring. It’s good to get out on my own for a change. Working with Karen’s fine, up to a point, but I’ve grown used to my own company. I’m not so good at being part of a team. Sharing a house with a teenager is a struggle too. Even one who’s as skilled a cook as Izzy.
Jennifer Golightly’s hair bobs against my shoulders, a reminder of a time when I was younger. I was never mousy brown, always dark, angry red, but I once wore my hair even longer than this. That was before I grew tired of my father’s constant, unwitting misogyny and my mother’s utter indifference to it. There are so many reasons why I left home, but her coldness is high up on the list of them.
It shouldn’t bother me what she does any more, least of all with her money. I’ve convinced myself I was done with caring about that sort of thing. But as I walk the dark streets towards my apartment block I find myself thinking I’d rather she left it all to the local cat sanctuary than give a single penny to Edward Masters.
There has to be a reason for it, beyond his obvious ability to sniff out a fundraising opportunity and maximise its potential. How they even crossed paths is beyond me. Theirs are surely two completely different worlds. And yet something has brought them together.
As if on cue, my phone buzzes in my pocket. Incoming text. I take it out and peer at
the screen, confused by the message and who it’s from. How did she know my number? How did she know I was thinking about her?
Will be in London this evening. Understand you are staying at Charlotte’s. Will meet you there at 8.00 p.m. Something important we need to discuss. Mother.
No ‘love’, no indecisive number of Xs, just ‘Mother’. I’m surprised she has a mobile phone, let alone knows how to text. A quick glance at the time tells me I’ve an hour yet, and Izzy will be there to let her in if I’m a bit late. I can’t deny the message has grabbed my attention though. Something so important my mother needs to talk to me in person? And yet it can’t involve any other member of the family, or Aunt Flick would have called.
I’m still pondering the puzzle, staring at the screen and wondering if I should respond, when a voice interrupts my train of thought.
‘Excuse me, miss? You live here?’ I glance up to see people hanging around outside Mrs Feltham’s front door. They’re dressed for the cold, and at least one of them has a camera slung around his neck. Overweight, bobble hat to stop his bald head getting chilled.
Chet Wentworth.
He’s the one who’s spoken, and he takes a step closer, his camera coming up in what must be a reflex action. Get a shot, doesn’t matter who it is. You can always delete it if they’re nobody. That’s the joy of digital photography. I click off my phone, slip it into my pocket while at the same time shaking my head. No words. I don’t owe these ghouls anything. A shame they feel they’re entitled to a response anyway.
‘Come on, love. You must know the posh cop who lives upstairs, right?’ This from one of the reporters. I don’t recognise his voice, and make the mistake of looking up at him to see who he might be. At the same time, Wentworth’s flash explodes in my face. Way too close for comfort. Blinded and angry, I lash out on instinct.