by Anne Coates
John gave Elizabeth a little wave goodbye then his expression became more serious. “Before anything else Hannah, I want to say how sorry I was to hear about Caroline. Her death and and the repercussions must have been profoundly disturbing for you. You have been in my prayers –” he waved a hand as if to dismiss whatever she was about to say – “prayers still work for the unbelievers or the unconvinced,” he said and poured their coffees.
“Thank you,” she said as much for the coffee as the spiritual intervention on her behalf.
“And of course I am praying for the soul of your dear friend. Such a terrible thing and to have witnessed…” he bit into a sandwich and left the sentence unfinished.
“I met the vicar from St John’s afterwards. He … well he told me he was being blackmailed and that it could be linked to Liz’s death.” John’s gaze did not leave her face and his expression didn’t change. To her surprise he didn’t seem shocked or disbelieving.
“I’m not sure about how all this fits together because when I tried to ring him I got the answerphone all the time. So I went to evening prayers and there was another priest there who said that Father Patrick had gone away and would be so for the foreseeable…”
“Hm sounds like some sort of disciplinary…”
“Yes perhaps, but on the way here I had a call from the police inspector investigating Liz’s murder saying that he’d been found wandering on Waterloo Bridge in extreme distress.”
John stirred two spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee. “Curiouser and curiouser. I assume he’s in hospital then?” Hannah nodded. “He should be safe there. Who was the priest you saw at St John’s?”
“A Father Andrew – he didn’t give me a surname but I gave him my card. I don’t really know anything about Father Patrick – he’d found out about me from Lady Rayman. He wanted to employ me, can you believe it?”
“Why not. If you hadn’t been stopped you’d have exposed a particularly sinister group in London last year.” He sipped his coffee.
“You read Caroline’s diaries.”
“I did.” He waited to see how Hannah reacted but she just shrugged.
“I’m glad. It means someone else knows…”
“Yes and I have the copy safely stored away in case we ever need to use it. Now, back to Patrick. He asked for your help.”
“Yes but what on earth can I do?”
“Well, to start with you must have more confidence in yourself, Hannah. Lady Rayman obviously rates you and I don’t suppose she knows one iota of what happened with that outfit last year.”
The country parish priest went on to give Hannah a lesson in how dioceses are run and who was who. By the time he took them back to the railway station, Hannah felt a little less in the dark and also buoyed by the reassurance that John Daniels would help her in any way he could when she needed him.
THIRTEEN
Claudia Turner arrived half an hour after Elizabeth had finally given up the struggle to stay awake. Hannah had just about managed to tidy a few things away and would have liked to have had the time to shower and change after all that travelling.
The DI looked immaculate which irritated Hannah even more. But she was completely thrown when Claudia waved a bottle of white wine in front of her. “Sorry to intrude on your evening –” she looked anything but sorry – “but this is chilled…”
“Thanks.” Hannah stood aside for her to enter and followed her into the sitting room.
Claudia sat on one of the sofas and relaxed back into the cushions. A totally different person from the first time they’d met. “God it’s been a long day.”
“Sorry I’ll get some glasses.” She felt wrong-footed and surprised especially when she returned and saw that Claudia had picked up one of Elizabeth’s books and was leafing through it.
She smiled as Hannah handed her a glass of wine. “I need this.” Correctly interpreting Hannah’s expression, she continued, “It’s ok, I’m not driving. My DC is waiting in the car. Thought it would be easier to talk on our own.” She took a deep slug of wine.
Hannah sat down opposite her. “You said on the phone that Fr Patrick Ryan had been found wandering on Waterloo Bridge?”
“Yes, well thereabouts. One of the tramps who inhabit Cardboard City saw him and managed to get him to St Thomas’s. No mean feat I would have thought. The priest was all over the place and had trouble walking in a straight line.” She drank some more wine. “What’s your connection with him?”
Hannah sipped her wine wondering how candid she should be. “I’m not sure I have one really. He asked me to visit the church after Liz… after I had found Liz there. He was the one who’d asked her to set up the drop-in …”
“And you gave him your card?”
“No, strangely I don’t remember giving him a card. When he rang me I assumed he’d got my number from Lady Rayman.”
“Well he had it in his pocket when he was admitted to hospital. Uniform made the connection and informed me. When did you last see him?”
“A few days ago. I tried ringing him but just got the answerphone so I went back to St John’s hoping to catch him there.” Hannah went quiet and sipped some wine.
“And?” Claudia had finished her wine and she got up, refilled her glass and topped up Hannah’s.
“Thank you. He wasn’t there. There was another priest who told me Fr Patrick had gone away and couldn’t be contacted. Or rather he said I could send a letter for him to the archdeacon and it might get passed on.”
“And did you?” Hannah looked up blankly. None of this made sense. If Patrick had been whisked away how was that he was found wandering on Waterloo Bridge? “Did you write to him?” Claudia prompted.
“No. I hadn’t really known what to say. I knew he was devastated by Liz’s murder but then so am I…” she blinked rapidly hoping to disperse the tears which threatened. “Is he still in hospital?”
“Yes he’s in intensive care – he was drugged up to the eyeballs?
“Drugged?”
Claudia Turner was watching her carefully. A glass or two of wine didn’t dull her antennae. She was intrigued by this woman and her connections with this case. She had considered contacting Tom Jordan then thought better of it.
“I don’t for one minute think he was a user. Someone had adminsitered a large quantity of heroin; he was raving.” What the DI omitted to tell the journalist was that he bore all the signs of having been systematically beaten as well. It looked as though he had been interrogated. “Presumably the person or persons responsible wanted him out of the way for some reason. Any thoughts on that, Hannah?”
“Good lord, no. Do you think it might have been self-administered? He seemed very upset when I met him. Maybe he was too distraught to think clearly – or wanted to stop thinking?”
“Interesting theory. Anyway we’ll know more when he’s detoxed, I suppose.”
“Can I visit him?”
“I’d hoped you’d say that,” Claudia smiled. Hannah found this friendly side to the inspector more disconcerting that the former haughty, hostile one. “He’s in a private room and has police protection. We’re not taking any chances after Jacob Gurnstein’s death …”
“So you don’t think he killed Liz and committed suicide then?”
“Let’s just say I don’t think he killed himself. And the priest turning up like that just adds more complications.” Claudia finished her wine and place the glass on the table. “The bishop’s jumping up and down about access as well but until Fr Patrick is able to tell us what’s happened they’ll be kept away.”
“Is that legal?”
Claudia’s arched eyebrow was more eloquent that her “Probably not but for the time being that’s the line we’re sticking to.”
“Right. So when can I visit?”
“Two tomorrow afternoon? Whoever’s on duty will be told to expect you.” She smiled again. “We’ll see what a friendly face can achieve.” She stood up to leave. “Have you heard from Tom recently?
”
Hannah was surprised by the question but steeled herself not to show any reaction which might betray her. “He phoned a few days ago. Why?”
“No reason. Just thought you could do with some moral support, that’s all. Give him my love.”
At the door, she paused. “Take care, Hannah,” she said quietly and touched her lightly on the arm.
“Is this an official conversation?” Tom Jordan’s voice was calm and Claudia Turner could almost hear his smile. She had revised her decision not to call him.
“Yes and no. I just wanted to check what you know about Hannah Weybridge’s involvement with St John’s apart from the obvious fact that her best friend was killed there.”
“As far as I know there isn’t any. I don’t think she attends church at all …”
“I don’t mean that. She seems to have struck up some sort of relationship with the vicar.”
“Has she?” Tom sounded surprised.
“Well he had her card on him when he was admitted to hospital after a massive heroin overdose.”
“What?” Tom sounded genuinely astonished.
Good. Maybe that would prompt him to contact Hannah. “It’s complicated Tom. But I’m worried that Hannah know more than she’s telling. That could be dangerous.”
Tom muttered something she couldn’t make out. Clearly he wasn’t giving anything away either.
“How’s it going on your side of the pond?”
Tom was vague and managed to terminate the conversation on his terms.
Well, well, Claudia Turner thought. Maybe he wasn’t as impervious as he seemed. She was concerned for Hannah although she couldn’t pinpoint why. She wasn’t the stereotypical door-steppping hack. She liked her. In other circumstances they might have been friends.
Hannah had made herself a sandwich – she seemed to live off them these days – and poured the rest of the wine into her glass. She felt empty and alone. Nothing made sense. Liz murdered, Jacob Gurnstein fished out of the Thames and now Fr Patrick given a massive heroin overdose. She presumed he was supposed to have died as well and wondered who had had the wherewithal to get him to hospital and save his life.
It was all senseless and as if that wasn’t enough Paul had steamed back into her life as well. What was his game? And how did he know about Caroline? She felt scared. And to top it all she had an editorial meeting at The News in the morning. That was something she could definitely do without.
FOURTEEN
“So Hannah, any progress on the Liz Rayman murder story?”
The editorial meeting had dragged on for an hour. Georgina Henderson, the editor, loved the sound of her own voice. She seemed to delight in overturning any decisions her deputy, Terry Cornhill, had made in her absence. Hannah squirmed in her chair as she caught the gleam of pure malice directed at her from Judy Burton.
“No not really – I had to hand over anything I’ve found to the police. Jacob Gurnstein, one of her Cardboard City patients, was found drowned in the Thames. Police think he may have been the perpetrator …” Some instinct made Hannah hold back on what DI Turner had told her and about Fr Patrick. Self preservation?
“Right we’ll just let the crime desk take over the story.” Hannah was about to protest then held her tongue as she continued, “Hannah I liked the piece you wrote on what it was like to discover a close friend brutally murdered –” she paused as if for dramatic effect, taking in Judy’s furious expression – “so I’d like you to continue liaising with Rory. Work with him on any leads that come your way. You could also write a short piece on the funeral. We’ll send along a photographer as will most of the other nationals but with you we’ll have the march on them.”
“Let’s hope you can manage that,” Judy murmured just loud enough for everyone to hear.
“I don’t think so.” Hannah, face aflame picked up her notebook and bag and stood to leave.
“May I remind you Hannah, you are on a retainer. You do have a contract with us.” Ms Henderson looked like a bored headmistress remonstrating with a stroppy student. “Minimum one thousand words in time for the late edition. And a few personal pixs showing the two of you together would help the piece as well.”
“I’m sure you can manage that, at least.” Judy Burton was enjoying Hannah’s predicament. “I’d be happy to help with any rewrites.”
I bet you would, thought Hannah.
The meeting was winding up when Richard, the sports editor and one-time lover of Judy Burton, said in a stage whisper, “So how’s it going with Paul. Is he Mr Right in the long line of possible Mr Rights?”
Judy flushed. “Shut up Richard. What would you know about being Mr Right? Or even Mr Might Have Been Right if he’d made an effort?”
There were a few smirks and mumbles among the others. “Okay boys and girls off you go.” The editor’s dismissal brooked no argument.
Outside the office door, Rory touched her arm. “Don’t take all this so personally. Just write a really good piece for me – and make sure I get it in time to read through and offer any suggestions before the rabble.”
“Thanks Rory.” Hannah really did appreciate his help and support. “So who’s the new love interest then? Anyone we know?”
“No someone who works in the city. Has his own company or something. Paul … Monty-something or other…”
“Paul Montague?” Hannah could feel her grasp on reality slipping. Her arms felt leaden. Her pulse was throbbing in her neck and she wondered if her legs could support her any longer.
“Yeah something like that – Hannah are you ok? You look like you’ve seen the proverbial… Sit down. Now.”
Rory pushed her on to a nearby chair. For a moment the whole world was black. She could feel Rory pressing a cup of water to her lips. “Drink,” he commanded. She sipped until the colours returned.
“Christ you gave me quite a turn then. What happened?”
They were sitting in the pub across the road from the offices. It was too early for the lunchtime crowd so they’d found a table in the corner and Rory had bought her a brandy and a sandwich.
“Thank you.” She was touched by his kindness. And very grateful. If she’d actually fainted to the floor in the office she could imagine the ensuing scene. Rory had saved her and preserved what little dignity she had.
“Well? Can’t you tell Uncle Rory?” He smiled and the crinkles at the corner of his eyes made him look so kind so… so easy to confide in … but Hannah held back. She never knew who she could trust these days. And this wasn’t the right moment for confidences.
“Oh I didn’t have time to eat anything for breakfast this morning…”
“And the name… Paul Montague?” Rory wasn’t stupid and he certainly wouldn’t appreciate being played for a fool.
“I once knew a Paul Montague that’s all. Probably not the same guy.”
“No probably not – eat your sandwich.” Rory, she could see, was not convinced.
FIFTEEN
As she walked along its corridors, Hannah wondered how often Fr Patrick had had to visit St Thomas’s Hospital to comfort his sick or bereaved parishioners. The hospital was large and seemed impersonal but Patrick was probably well known – and, it would seem well loved – here among the staff. So far there had been no leaks to the press and Hannah imagined the powers that be at the diocese would be working like mad at damage limitation. But there was always someone who was after a quick buck.
It made her wonder about the homeless person who had brought him in. He could have made some money with his story. Unless someone had paid him off. Silenced him with cash.
Hannah took the lift to the 12th floor and having checked in at the nurses’ station followed their directions to the private rooms. She knew which one was Patrick’s by the police constable stationed at the door.
“Do you have some ID, Ms Weybridge?” he asked when she told him who she was.
She was prepared for this and as a non-driver had remembered to tuck her passport into her
bag just before leaving home. She felt reassured that they were obviously taking this latest incident seriously but wondered why Claudia Turner had included her in the people who know, when she knew she was under contract to The News. Maybe Tom had had a word with her? That possibility seemed unlikely given his obvious antipathy to her getting involved in any way.
“Thanks.” The police officer handed back her passport and opened the door for her.
The room was silent but for intermittent bleeps from a machine by the side of the bed. It felt utterly peaceful as though God’s own angels had descended to protect one of their own. What a fanciful thought! Hannah was surprised by it. Then she looked at the bed where lay the priest.
From what she could see above the sheet that covered most of him, he was wearing a hospital gown. There was stubble on his face and his hair looked dirty. Drips were attached to his body, presumably part of the detoxing process, his eyes were firmly closed and his breathing sounded laboured from under the oxygen mask.
A nurse entered the room. “Sorry, just have to do a few obs.”
“Shall I wait outside?”
“No, you’re okay.” She lifted Patrick’s limp wrist and checked her watch as she look his pulse and made a note of it. “Are you a relative? The police are being very careful about who comes in here.”
“No, I’m –” what was she? “I’m a friend.” Even friend seemed to overstate her relationship.
“Well sit yourself down and talk to him. He’s still very poorly but he will hear you.”
After taking and recording his temperature and checking the drips, she bustled out closing the door gently behind her.
Hannah did as she was told and sat beside the bed. Gingerly she placed her hand over Patrick’s. It felt cool and unresponsive.
“Patrick, I don’t know whether you can hear me. It’s Hannah. Hannah Weybridge. Liz Rayman’s friend. We met last week.” She thought there was a slight movement in his hand when she mentioned Liz’s name but had probably imagined it.