“Thanks. And another favour. Can can you try and get authorisation for us to view the dead man from Catchwell Crossing?”
A pause. I was pushing it, but…
“Leave it with me.”
“Thanks again. Oh, and by the way.”
“What?”
“Nicholas Beecham keeps a red Fiesta in an old barn at the end of his garden. He can’t confirm if it’s still there. Someone should go and look, pronto.”
“Logged that, but forensics haven’t yet firmed up on the make. Could be a Metro, even a…” Here he stopped as if interrupted by something. “Wait. News coming in.”
Catherine leaned her damp head against mine, straining to listen.
“Ready?”
“Not my boy… Please, not my boy,” she murmured as Connor Morris resumed speaking. There was no way I’d reveal Piotr was her son. Not until we’d seen the body. Timing, I reminded myself, was everything.
“No number plates front or back, but the victim’s car was almost certainly a Ford Fiesta, no more than ten years old.”
*
“No number plates?” Catherine repeated numbly. Her pallor almost white. “How odd.”
I could have used a better word but didn’t. Things were changing too quickly, as they often did with crime scenes and other serious incidents. Besides, Connor Morris and an Armed Response Unit of three had just arrived in Wombwell Lane, and minutes later were relieving the protesting, red-faced Reverend of his ancient, loaded weapon before escorting him from his unholy quarters.
Suddenly, the large, dishevelled man twisted round to face us. “Ask her why she sent me those two letters from Dr Lovell and our grandfather. To ruin me, that’s what. She’s always been a jealous little vixen.”
“Bastard!” Catherine yelled, and I just about managed to hold her back while calling out to him.
“Where’s your Fiesta?” I shouted. “Is it still in the barn? Can someone take a look asap?”
But the Reverend was being encouraged into the back of an unmarked Mondeo.
“First things first,” said Connor Morris above the slamming of car doors. “I just got that go-ahead you wanted. We’ll keep in touch.”
*
However, by 8.45 p.m. I felt anything but cheerful. The sombre November evening had flared into a fire of guilt, grief and fear that accompanied me and Catherine east to Norwich.
Despite an after-hours arrival time, Morris had gleaned permission from his boss, DI Avril Lockley, for us to visit the Norfolk & General Hospital’s morgue. Not a task I was looking forward to, but very necessary.
“Piotr wears jeans as well, you know,” Catherine suddenly said while staring out of her window, using the present tense as if trying to raise her hopes. As if too, drained from telling me her own story of how he’d come into her life and so inexplicably moved out of it after the Aldeburgh episode. How she’d persuaded him to help her brother and swear never to reveal who he really was. “He so badly needed work,” she said. “There was nothing in Watford once his waiter’s job finished. And as for his father… If you’d had a child, you’d realise.”
That was below the belt, especially since she and Stephen knew about my doomed affair with Alison McConnell. However, I had to forgive her. This was a terrible time for any mother. However, some gratitude might have been in order. After all, not everyone in Middle England would give house room to an unqualified, unproven young man with Eastern European parentage. So, for her ambitious brother to have received those damning letters written by a desperate Doctor Lovell and the callous grandfather, was hardly charitable. If indeed, she’d done it.
Families…
*
“About that crash,” I said, steering round a sharp bend out of a place ironically called Brotherwell. “The Fiesta could be someone else’s entirely. We have to hope that, don’t we?” I covered her right hand with mine, leaving it there till I had to change gear. Her dread osmoting into my nervous system. The gaps I’d identified in her and the Reverend’s stories, were growing larger with every mile, and Stephen’s sudden, unjustified violence towards me, was another important question to be answered.
“When did you last see Piotr?” I ventured. “When he freed you from that lock-up in Aldeburgh?”
Her brief nod was lit up by lights from a premature Christmas tree as we passed through yet another village in the middle, it seemed, of nowhere.
“He was quite distressed, and awful to see. I just told him to do as he was told, keep his nose clean, that I’d be alright. But he wanted to tell the Bishop of Cavenham how his conscience was making him suffer.”
“And did he?”
She threw me a sharp little look.
“I hope so. Yes. But if you think I gave him Henry Beecham and Dr Lovell’s letters to pass on to my brother, I didn’t.”
“I know.”
Silence.
“It was payback time for all the hurt he’d caused when we were growing up. How he cheated me out of much of our late parents’ estate. Made me out to be incompetent in front of the solicitor… How would you feel?”
In answer, I switched both the heater and wipers up to max. The Citroën was freezing, and the drizzle outside, more like rain.
“But there’s Stephen too. I suspect he’s also under pressure, relating to his research perhaps?”
“I don’t understand. From whom? Why?”
Drop it or your dead. A warning…
“Did he ever mention the Vice-Chancellor George Chisholm?”
She gave a slight shudder.
“Not much. They seemed to get on well enough. He came over for dinner once, just after Stephen was appointed Dean of Faculty.” She looked at me. “What an odd question.”
“It’s just that Greg Lake, the department’s archive technician, swore he saw him hanging around outside Stephen’s office last Friday evening.”
She seemed to stiffen.
“Look, Greg’s a troublemaker. Stephen said he’d applied several times for a lectureship there, but apparently wasn’t well enough qualified.”
“He seemed to speak highly of him.”
“To you, maybe.”
“I liked Greg too.”
Her fingers locked together.
“Where did you meet him?”
“Does it matter?”
“He’s gay, did you know? Not fussy either, if you know what I mean.”
Another silence.
“Stephen also showed me two anonymous threats he’d received,” I said, undeterred. “Not nice, that’s for sure.”
“What did they say?”
*
Once I’d told her, she said nothing, instead stared out of her window as gradually the gloomy evening became studded with the glow of suburban sodium lights and those from an increasing number of houses on either side of the road. There were people too, out and about. Something normal, apart from what was burning in my mind. Who was lying? That helpful Melanie Cox or the woman sitting next to me? And why had she not once asked where her husband of thirty-three years might be?
“Has Piotr ever met this George Chisholm?” I ventured.
“No. Why? He’s not connected to the university at all.”
“Chisholm’s on the Snodbury Diocesan committee, I believe. Well in with the Bishop of Cavenham, so I’ve heard.”
Instead of asking how I’d known that, she shrugged. “My son’s a grown man, and when you have children, you have to respect their privacy.”
*
My phone suddenly trilled out in the strained silence. I pulled in outside a cosily lit pub where early drinkers of all ages were filing in without giving us a second glance.
Connor Morris didn’t need to re-introduce himself. I immediately recognised the voice. Again, a noisy background.
“What’s your location?”
“Just come through a place called Stokely.”
“Some news. Is Mrs.Vickers still with you?”
“She is.”
“
OK. DS Lockley will be at the morgue. Still no ID on the poor stiff, or who owns the red car he was in. But she knows her stuff.”
How I’d once been described, I thought ungratefully,
“Thanks. And your news?”
I heard him slurp on a drink.
“Well, the Reverend’s safe in our hands. Came sweet as a lamb in the end, especially once a certain Olive Thompson had regained consciousness to give a perfect description of him calling at his Aldeburgh lock-up before attacking her and chucking her into the Ringshall Quarry. She’s seventy bloody six, for God’s sake. As old as my Gran. Hadn’t you heard?”
“No. But then I’ve not exactly been idle.”
“Good news is, he’s beginning to sing.”
“Why do something so risky? So cruel?”
Catherine was listening hard, screwing up her eyes as if blocking out some bad dream.
“After Piotr rescued me from that lock-up,” she breathed, “I told him to get back to Watford and lie low. Try to rebuild his life. until… “You can see how desperately my brother wanted me out of the way. And it seems, this poor old woman as well.”
“You should never have sent him those two letters,” I hissed. “Pure dynamite, can’t you see? And where had you photocopied them? In Stephen’s office?”
“A word with Mrs Vickers might be useful,” Connor Morris interrupted, quashing her protest.
“About his Fiesta…” I began.”
“Please.”
She frowned as I passed her the phone. Outside, a man was tying up his ribby greyhound outside the pub, before patting its head then disappearing into the glow inside.
Lucky bugger…
“Was this Piotr a friend of yours?”
She glanced at me. I nodded.
Get on with it.
“He’s my son. Mr. Lyon here knows the whole story.”
She held the phone away from her ear.
“Was your brother aware of this?”
“No. I told Piotr never to mention it. I just wanted him to have some kind of job and a decent roof over his head. You’d understand if you were a mother, and now,” she began to whimper. “What if… what if he’s…”
“To be honest, I’m not convinced by what you’ve just said. Remember, this is a police investigation, Mrs. Vickers, and there is such a thing as contempt. Do you perhaps have another reason why his identity had to be kept secret from the very man who was keeping a pleasant and lucrative roof over his head?”
She gave me a despairing look. Morris certainly knew how to hit the jugular. He wasn’t sitting next to her.
“Of course not! That’s ridiculous.”
“Come on, Mrs. Vickers. Time isn’t on our side.”
“Some big pieces of the puzzle are still missing,” I said, to her, taking her hand. Giving it a squeeze, feeling her small, cold bones beneath the skin. Still puzzling why there was no wedding ring. “Best be straight. Easier all round.”
She took a deep breath, suddenly looking nearer seventy years old than fifty-five.
“I’ve said already if it is Nicholas’s car smashed up, and if Piotr was driving, it’s my fault.” Her voice wavered. “Nicholas’ ambition had made him dangerous and who knows what he’d have done if he’d learnt he was my son. Look, can’t you just tell us if that Ford Fiesta was his or not?”
She looked stricken. I revved the engine and turned up the heating. My car suddenly too cold.
“We’re getting closer. All I can say at this stage.”
She nudged me. “Just get me to the hospital.”
“Do you own a cell phone?” Connor Morris suddenly asked her.
“No. Never.”
“Odd, that.”
“Why?”
I slipped into first gear. Checked all my mirrors. Too many bloody street lamps. The same as in Rowhedge Road. A modern, orange plague. I then kept a sly eye on her.
“Because… No, best tell you later.”
“Now, please.”
Shit.
I knew what was coming.
“The guy found dead in the Catchwell Crossing crash, had your name and cell phone number hidden in one of his his pockets.”
A small cry escaped her lips.
“Perhaps you can confirm if your Piotr ever wore black leather gear?” He went on.
“Why?” Was no more than a squeak.
“Because that’s what the poor, dead bugger was wearing.”
Silence, during which that same dog owner stepped out of the pub, beer in hand, this time staring at us with undisguised curiosity. Connor Morris then ended the call.
*
“I can’t believe I’ve just heard that.” Catherine said as I negotiated yet another clogged roundabout which thankfully showed a sign for the Norfolk & General Hospital in Colney Lane. “Him suggesting I was implicated. It’s disgusting.”
“He’s only doing his job.”
She snorted, then turned her gaze my way. “And what’ll happen to me if Stephen’s found guilty of attempted murder? Of you?”
“The more I think about it, the more I feel he was scared. Why I’ve not told anyone else so far.”
Was that a flicker of disappointment in her eyes? If so, things must have got pretty nasty in that secluded, half-timbered Wombwell Lodge. My sneaking affection for her tainted by a growing unease. She still had to fully explain why she’d sent those letters to her brother.
“And St. Nicholas?” She muttered.
“Trick-cyclists will be seeing him first.”
“But he’s not mad.”
“It’s procedure. I’m no expert, but what he allegedly did to that old woman smacks of panic. Of desperation. Perhaps even a form of schizophrenia.”
“Anyway,” she interjected. “I’m more concerned about your friend’s obsession about my not having a phone.”
“Obsession’s a ridiculous word. He…”
“John, what are you both hiding from me?”
She was sterner, sitting more upright as we entered the tawdry world of municipal Christmas lights slung over the road. Some flickering, others too bright. Tilting reindeer galloping nowhere…
“Nothing. OK?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t believe you.”
My phone again. Thank God she was burrowing in her bag as if searching for something. Connor Morris again on a bad line.
“Forensics have found something which could change everything. Remember at Catchwell Crossing you mentioned the possibility of shunting?”
“Go on.” Aware Catherine had stopped rummaging and was once more, all ears.
“Shreds of black, metallic paint in the main dent on the Fiesta’s rear bumper. Recent too, by the looks of it.”
“Black? Not dark grey?”
Why had the Volvo come to mind? Stephen had been AWOL around the time of the crash. The car back at Wombwell Lodge afterwards with its bonnet facing the bushes by the house.
Catherine snapped her bag shut, and with it, and despite the heater, came that earlier chill.
“Definitely black. And something else,” Morris was barely audible. “Both those public phones at Tidswell were clean as whistles. Whoever called Arthur Stock this morning, either used another call box somewhere, or is an expert housewife.”
Damn.
“Will any others be checked?”
“Doubt it. This force has been cut by 30% since I joined up.”
“Sign of the times. You hang on in there.”
A pause.
“I’m trying to.”
I wondered what that meant. Was he too feeling the cold wind of change? If so, I’d not picked up on it earlier.
“By the way,” he added in a brisker tone. “We were at The Vicarage a few hours ago…”
At last.
“And?” Aware of Catherine staring at me.
“There was no red Fiesta in his barn at the back. No sign of it anywhere else either.”
“Jesus.” She lowered her head, covering both ears.
“We also found a strange message on his study desk. Quote - I’m relying on you, Nicky and time’s running out. Did you come across anything like that while you were there?”
“No. What’s the punctuation like?”
“Spot on.”
‘The three of them were together. Her, Black Leathers and Chisholm - I mean, - getting into that huge 4x4 of his…’
I couldn’t keep Melanie Cox’s snippet to myself any longer, so I whispered it before adding, “It’s a long shot, but I may just have a name.”
49. SARAH.
Wednesday 22nd August 1920. 2.30 p.m.
“You’ll never guess what?” Buck charged into the kitchen where I was
patting six bread rolls into shape ready for the oven. “On my forehead just now. Three drops of rain! I counted them! Outside! Look!”
My God.
I’d never seen a sky turn dark so suddenly, nor him so excited. Not even when we’d taken Silver to meet Will at Southampton at the end of the war. But beneath that excitement, he also looked ill. His nose was so blocked up he struggled to breathe. And when he did, it was a broken wheeze. I wiped the flour off my hands and tried to give him a hug, but he pushed me away. “I only came to tell you that.”
“Have you all finished out there now”
“Nearly.”
Then he was gone. Dusty all over from his eyebrows down to his boots, so he couldn’t hear me add that tomorrow morning, we’d both be calling on Dr. Lovell over at Myrtle Villa.
*
The rains came from that black sky on the stroke of two, like a vast, grey sheet over the land, obliterating everything as far as the eye could see.
We all stood together by the old dairy’s outer door, lunch uneaten, clothes smelling of damp earth. Silent beneath the battering on the tin roof from above.
“Our pit’s already filling,” Will smiled, as sunburnt as a Bedouin. “Mollie and Buck have worked like niggers. It’s a good job we got the lining in place this morning.”
“Tonight, we start on the channel,” announced Walter Bulling still panting from crossing Priest’s field too quickly. “Then that other thing.” He turned to Will whose hat rim dripped rain water on to the stone floor. “Some fancy name you used.”
“An overflow system. Just above the waterline.”
“That’s it.”
“I’ll help,” said Mollie, pushing Buck to one side for a better view of the drenching and the thick, white mist rising from the parched soil. “Then I can have a lovely, cool dip.”
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