Death's Silent Judgement: The thrilling sequel to Dancers in the Wind (Hannah Weybridge Book 2)

by Anne Coates

  “Oh Patrick – who did this to you? Why?” How pathetic, she thought, I’m trying to question an unconscious man!

  Instead she switched to telling him about her relationship with Liz. “I was really surprised when she said she was setting up a drop-in clinic in your church. Although I shouldn’t have been, given the way she went off and served with that health charity in Somalia. She was a good soul although I never knew she had any interest in the church. Perhaps she didn’t. But how did you persuade her?” By now Hannah was just thinking out loud. “I wonder what Claudia Turner thought I could achieve by coming here? I thought you’d be conscious. Well at least you didn’t die. Did you know that Liz was pregnant? I didn’t but I think she was going to tell me that evening, that evening when…”

  The tears were streaming down her face, and she was back in the room with one of her closest friends. Her dead friend. She sniffed loudly trying to control her sobs when a tissue found its way into her hand and she blew her nose loudly. Looking up she was stunned to see Claudia Turner immaculate as ever standing by her with a packet of tissues.

  “Sorry I…”

  “No need to apologise. It was a long shot…”

  “But you knew he wasn’t conscious… so why all this, this… this –” Hannah couldn’t think of an appropriate word.

  “As I said, a long shot…”

  “Is there anything I can do for him?”

  “Be a friend. I think he’ll need one.”

  “Well, surely he …”

  “Hannah all I can tell you is this – we’ve started digging up the garden at the back of the vicarage. It will be on the six o’clock news. The Bishop is apoplectic. They may now get in touch with you as you gave your card to that priest at St John’s. Try to say as little as possible about what you know.”

  “I don’t know anything …”

  “It may be more than you think. Just tread carefully. Be wary – with everyone.”

  “Even you?” Hannah tried a touch of humour that she was far from feeling.

  “Especially me.” But Claudia Turner was smiling. “I’ll get a squad car to take you home.”

  “Please don’t worry – I’ll take the bus. Give myself time to think and stop the neighbours’ tongues wagging.”

  “Yes I imagine you’ve had more than enough of that.”

  Their eyes met. Neither woman was giving much away. But one of them certainly knew more of the other and was not letting on.

  Hannah touched Patrick’s hand, then leaned over and kissed him lightly on the foreheard. “Be safe Patrick, be safe.”

  They left the hospital together. “Sure I can’t get you a lift?”

  “No, I’ll be fine, honestly.”

  “Well, take care.” Claudia shook her hand. “Ring me if you hear anything or need to talk.”

  Hannah nodded and made her way to Westminster Bridge. But she wasn’t going home. There were things she had to check out for herself.

  At the bus stop she made herself wait for a Number 12 to Dulwich. She had no idea if anyone was watching her but if they were she had to look as though she were going home. Ten minutes later she had boarded the Routemaster but stayed near the open exit. At the next stop she got off and made her way into Waterloo station, leaving at the Waterloo Road exit. She took off the bright red scarf and wooly hat hoping that would make her less obvious. She fingered the loose change she’d put ready in her pocket and taking a deep breath descended into the underpass known as both the Bull Ring and Cardboard City.

  The temperature seemed to have dropped a few degrees and the smell of urine, stale cigarette smoke, alcohol fumes, and vomit tested her resolve. The concrete walls and pavement underfoot reflected a sombre light from the few bulbs which were still working. What she initially took for piles of cardboard were actually makeshift homes. Some more elaborate than others. There seemed to be a pecking order in the constructions. Established “squatters” versus the incomers. Most were sitting beside their homes, many with eyes closed maybe willing themselves into another place. One rocked to and fro in jerky motion, another sat in still and silent meditation.

  Hannah could only get a few shots from the hidden camera Rory had lent her from The News stash. If she walked any slower she really would draw the attention she needed to avoid.

  “Oi luv, ain’t you the woman who found our Lizzie?

  Hannah turned to face a woman of indeterminate age, thining hair was grey in parts and chestnut in others, pulled back into a pony tail. Her clothes, everything about her, were nondescript, grey, the dirt so ingrained in the lines of her face it looked like stage make-up for some awful tragedy.

  “I’m sorry?”

  Hannah managed a few more shots and dropped some coins in the hat of a youngish man playing a recorder. Click.

  “Leave ‘er alone, Eileen. If you are the one who found Liz – I’m very sorry for your loss – and ours,” he said as though an afterthought. Click. There was something about the man who had just spoken that was nudging a distant memory. Then she remembered he had been one of the tramps at St John’s when she’d gone to find Patrick Ryan.

  “Thank you.” Hannah swallowed hard. “It must be very hard for you too. She was a very special lady.

  “She was.” The man grabbed her hand and as he stared into her face he pushed something between her fingers. “But don’t let us keep you.” She felt a little push and was walking away more quickly than she’d anticipated.

  It was the time of day when light was transmuting into darkness. Winter afternoons. The sun’s fading rays mocked her as she emerged from the underpass. They held no warmth and little illumination. She shuddered as she slipped the ball of paper that had been pushed into her hand into her bag, determined not to look at it until she could be sure she wasn’t observed. This strategy had become second nature to her now. She should have been able to relax her guard. Tom had assured her she was safe. But was he just saying that to allay her fears? And why hadn’t he called her?

  By now she was outside St John’s, stopping abruptly at the police tape which cut off the entrance. There seemed to be a lot of activity going on inside. Why hadn’t Claudia mentioned this? She approached the constable who was standing to one side.

  “Excuse me, but what’s going on here?” she asked using the opportunity to take more photos.

  “Part of an ongoing enquiry, miss.”

  Hannah flashed her press card but it got her no further information. She moved away and bumped straight into a black clad figure standing at the edge of the tape on the other side of the gateway. Father Anthony.

  “Oh sorry – it’s Father Anthony, isn’t it?”

  For a moment his steely grey eyes registered no recognition. Then he seemed to mentally pull himself together. In his job it didn’t do to forget people.

  “Forgive me. I was distracted by all this terrible, terrible desecration…

  “Surely it’s not as bad as …”

  “Probably worse.” He let out a long breath which might have been a sigh. “What can I do for you, Miss…”

  “Weybridge, Hannah Weybridge. We met during a service when I’d come hoping to see Fr Patrick…” she reminded him.

  “Yes, so you did.” He paused staring into the dark interior of the church porchway which revealed nothing. “I am sorry for the loss of your friend. I fear I didn’t show enough compassion the last time we met.”

  Hannah wanted to hit him! Did he graduate and measure how much compassion he should show for each type of loss, tragedy, grief? So much for pastoral empathy. Was his faith so shallow?

  “We’re all human,” he said as though reading her thoughts, “even priests. Especially priests.”

  “Yes, well I wouldn’t know.” Hannah made an effort to calm her inner rage. “So do you know why they are in the church again? Is it anything to do with Liz Rayman’s murder?”

  “I shouldn’t think so. Unless they’ve had new information. I think this is more to do with your erstwhile friend, F
ather Patrick.”

  “Why? What on earth could he have done?”

  Father Anthony gave her a searching look. “What indeed. Excuse me I am needed.”

  Hannah had seen the taxi draw up. A rather short man in a heavy overcoat with a scarf left open to reveal a clerical collar above a purple shirt, had emerged and stood with his head bowed before making his way to the police tape. Hannah managed a few shots before Fr Anthony blocked him from her sight.

  There was nothing to be had from hanging around so she made her way down the side road to Roupell Street where the “vicarage” nestled between other houses. Indistinghuishable except it was now cordoned off.

  “Well, well, well if it isn’t Miss Weybridge.” It was the voice of the unpleasant detective sergeant who had questioned her when she had found Liz’s body. “And what may I ask are you doing here?”

  Hannah parried with a question. “What do you mean, what am I doing here?”

  “Seems a bit of a coincidenne, that’s all. You turning up just as we’re digging up the vicarage garden…” he licked his lips.

  Hannah forced herself to smile. “Don’t tell me you don’t believe in coincidences, Sergeant.” She glanced over at the open door and managed to take a few shots before she turned back. “If you must know I’m walking along this street making my way to the Stamford Arms where I’m meeting some friends for a drink. If that’s any business of yours?”

  “Convenient that your route takes you past Patrick Ryan’s house...”

  “I know all the back streets. Worked here for years.”

  “Really.” The DS licked his upper lip and leered at her.

  Hannah flushed. “I was employed at IPC.” And the Stamford Arms was where they all drank so with a little luck on her side, someone would be in there who she knew well enough to greet to authenticate this fiction.

  “Oh yes, I’d forgotten. Journalist, aren’t you? Don’t let us keep you then.” The supercilious smile sickened her.

  She walked on, but not before she had taken more photos of the police tape and open door.

  What had they unearthed against Patrick?

  It was too early for any of her ex-colleagues to be in the pub. Hannah bought herself a gin and tonic and sat at table with her back to the wall, where she could see anyone coming in. After taking a sip from her drink, she summoned up her courage to retrieve the piece of paper given to her in the Bull Ring. She smoothed out the crumpled paper. Scrawled in pencil were just four words:

  You are being watched.

  In a reflex action Hannah scanned the bar to see if anyone was looking her way. No one appeared to be even slightly interested in her. She thought back to her encounter in the Bull Ring. Was she being watched there? And if so by whom?

  Hannah finished her drink and left, making for Blackfriars Road and the 63 bus home.

  SIXTEEN

  Hannah worked through the prints Rory had had developed from her hidden camera. Most of them taken during her trip through the Bull Ring after visiting Patrick, were too dark to properly make out the features of those she had been trying to capture but some were surprisingly clear. She placed those on the floor in a semi-circle in front of her.

  Six faces. What did she hope to gain from them?

  Apart from the man who had given her the note, another tramp had been at the church when she’d discovered Fr Anthony was leading the service instead of Fr Patrick. She opened the envelope where she’d placed the polaroids Liz had taken of her clients. There he was again. Code-named Jonah. Jonah. Was the name randomly picked or did it have any significance? Did he choose the name or was it the one his parents had given him? Jonah. And according to the piece of paper given to her that afternoon, someone was watching her. Was it Jonah?

  Hannah whose knowledge of biblical characters was sketchy at best, phoned Reverend John Daniels. He was out so she left a message and carried on organising the photos.

  The phone rang. It was Reverend Daniels.

  “Sorry Hannah I had a distraught parishioner with me when you rang. What can I do for you?”

  “Tell me about Jonah.”

  “Jonah?”

  “Yes what significance does he have? What does he symbolise?”

  Revd Daniels chuckled. “Well you could easily read about him in the Bible, you know. It’s only four short chapters.”

  Hannah remained silent.

  “Ok. Jonah was the prophet who had disobeyed God by not following his command. God wanted him to go to the great city of Nineveh but Jonah did not want to go and set off in the opposite direction. He thought he could escape by sea but God created a terrible storm. Jonah knew that to save all the crew he would have to be sacrificed and so allowed himself to be cast overboard. The storm immediately calmed and Jonah was swallowed by a fish and held for three days before being released to do God’s errand… Does that help?”

  “I’m not sure really. You see all Liz’s ‘missionaries’ as she liked to call her patients at St John’s had code names. Jacob was found drowned in the Thames – I saw him outside the church that night and…”

  “And you’re clutching at straws.”

  “I suppose I am. I haven’t a clue really. There’s another man called Jonah. He was at the service when I’d gone to see Father Patrick. And I saw him when I walked through the Bull Ring.”

  “So?”

  “So he doesn’t seem to be one of them somehow. He’s different.”

  “I think you’ll find they are all different, Hannah. Each has his or her own story but they were all children once. And they are still God’s children now.”

  “Hmmm I was just wondering if there was any significance in the biblical connection. Maybe I’m just trying to find meaning where there is none.”

  “Well sorry I couldn’t be of more help. Ring me again if you need to talk.”

  There were few women among Liz’s clients. Hannah wondered why. She had seen plenty in Cardboard City. One who had spoken to her – Eileen if she remembered correctly – looked beyond Liz’s ministrations – just a few teeth remained and they were yellowed from cigarette smoke.

  Hannah shuddered. The thought of losing teeth was the stuff of nightmares. Literally. She still remembered dreams in which she she spat out teeth as she rinsed her mouth. Anxiety. That’s what those teeth dreams were supposed to represent. Unconsciously she ran her tongue over her upper front teeth.

  Her attention was was brought back to the photo prints by a face staring back at her. There was something about him. He looked rough but the more she thought about it the more Hannah inspected the photo, the more it seemed to be “acquired”. His demeanour seemed wrong. The clothes were dirty and tatty but somehow they didn’t ring true. He looked like an actor playing a part but that was stupid. Even so she couldn’t get rid of the thought. Her mind went back to a conversation she’d had with Liz soon after she’d started her “clinic”.

  “You wouldn’t believe the stories of some of these people, Hannah. Sometimes just a freak set of circumstances and they are homeless and on the streets.”

  “I thought most of them chose to live that way without restrictions, out of society’s grasp and all that.”

  Liz gave her an arch look. “I thought you of all people would be more understanding.”

  “Why ‘of all people’?”

  Liz busied herself by pouring them both more wine. They were each sitting on a sofa, legs stretched out before them, in Hannah’s sitting room. Elizabeth had been tucked up in bed after being entertained by her namesake.

  “Well after everything that happened last year. You took in that girl. Let her stay in your home, knowing little about her. Putting yourself and Elizabeth at risk…”

  “Hey stop right there! I didn’t deliberately put us at risk. It wasn’t like that…”

  Liz got up and hugged Hannah. She only knew part of the story. If she’d known all of it… “That came out all wrong. Sorry. It’s just that that girl’s story is so similar to some of those I he
ar.”

  “Don’t keep calling her ‘that girl’. Call her Caroline. That was her name.”

  “Yes but she had a working name too. Just like my clients using different names to cover up their pasts… And if you could see the people I worked with in Somalia.” Liz stopped abruptly.

  “You still haven’t told me much about your time there. Why?”

  “It all seems so unreal now.” Liz concentrated on her wine for a few moments. “Going back to my homeless clients. They’re not always what they seem, you know.”

  Hannah was aware that she’d been neatly diverted from Liz’s time in the Somalian outpost where WelcAf worked from. Never mind she’d talk about it in her own time.

  “Go on…”

  “One guy had been a company director. Maybe that sounds too grand. But it was his own company that he’d built up over the years until he decided to sell up. He’d discovered his wife was having an affair with one of his employees and he was heartbroken. Anyway he sold up and, of course, paid a lot of money to his wife, ex-wife, and decided to emigrate to Spain. He bought a villa here, paid upfront, and then discovered, when he arrived, it was going to be repossessed by the government as the land had been leased only. He ended up with little money and what he did have he spent in bars… When he developed diabetes he didn’t have the money for his treatment and eventually came back to the UK. He slept on friends’ sofas and the quality of his life deteriorated until he found himself on the streets with nowhere else to go…”

  “And how did he find his way to you?”

  “Father Patrick encouraged him. He does a lot of outreach work in Cardboard City. He works really hard to get them help …”

  “So how did you meet Father Patrick – not in Cardboard City?”

  Hannah smiled at her friend and just nodded when Liz replied, “At some fundraising event.”

  Hannah brushed the tears from her cheeks. No more late night conversations over a bottle of wine with Liz. No more anything with Liz. She forced her attention back to the man in the photograph. She hadn’t found him among Liz’s clients’ polaroids, so why did he seem so familiar? She couldn’t put her finger on why exactly but he just didn’t ring true. He looked as though he had assumed a part. And if that was the case, why?