For Richer, For Poorer

by Kerry Wilkinson

  The final bedroom was completely empty, other than a roll of carpet pushed to the side and a hammer on the floorboards. Jessica went into the bathroom and flushed the toilet to at least create the illusion before washing her hands.

  Nine point eight million . . .

  23

  Jessica resisted the urge to go home because there was one thing she needed to deal with at the station first.

  Always one thing . . .

  There was marginally more chat on the journey back, with Jessica filling Rowlands in about the rooms upstairs in Teague’s house but there was no depth to anything either of them had to say. He didn’t even scold her or threaten to tell the rest of the station when she misjudged the speed of a cyclist and nearly gave him a friendly clip on the back wheel. The cyclist offered an angry, though justified, pair of fingers; all while Rowlands said nothing.

  Back at the station, Jessica headed through to the main floor, standing over Archie’s desk as he typed away. ‘Got a minute?’

  ‘I’m busy.’

  ‘Leave it – I need a word.’

  He nodded without looking up but his hair hadn’t been gelled into his usual tight curls and he hadn’t shaved. He didn’t even have a sports website open on his monitor. He slipped his jacket on and followed Jessica off the floor, through the corridors and into the interview room. Jessica closed the door behind him and took a seat.

  ‘Am I being interrogated?’ he asked, apparently serious.

  ‘Just sit down. No one’s going to bother us here and I don’t want any nosy bastards overhearing stuff as they go past my office to the canteen.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Why are you acting like a dick?’

  Archie peered up from the table to actually look at her: ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve heard you’ve been acting like a knobhead all morning – what’s wrong with you?’

  ‘Why are you asking?’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake. How old are we? What are you worried about?’

  ‘Things are different between us now, aren’t they?’

  ‘Do you want them to be?’

  Archie squirmed in his seat, not wanting to give the wrong answer.

  Jessica rolled her eyes – how hard was it? ‘Okay, I say this with the complete admission that last night was a lot more fun than I thought it was going to be – but we’re not going out, I’m not your girlfriend, you’re not my boyfriend, we’re not getting married and we’re definitely not in a relationship. I wanted one thing from you and you weren’t too bad at it. That’s all. All right?’

  The reply rolled slowly from Archie’s tongue: ‘Oh.’

  ‘Oh what?’

  ‘Oh . . . I thought it was going to be really awkward.’

  ‘Do you want to be going out?’

  ‘Er . . .’

  ‘You can say yes or no.’

  ‘No, then . . . sorry.’

  Jessica sighed. ‘Don’t be sorry – I’m not. It was what it was. I was satisfied, you seemed to enjoy your little self and now we’re back at work – yes?’

  Archie sat up straighter, his whole demeanour altered. ‘Oh . . . right.’

  ‘Good – then stop being a dick and come with me. I’ve just given myself an idea.’

  Jessica and Archie followed the path through the cemetery. The constable puffed his neck up past his upturned collar meerkat-style and sniffed the air. ‘This is Manchester.’

  ‘Are you sure it’s not decomposing bodies?’

  He laughed. ‘Aye, it’s a good job we’re not going out, else this would be our first date – in a graveyard.’

  ‘Is there any chance you could just not mention it again?’

  ‘Oh . . . sorry.’

  Grr.

  Jessica didn’t want to admit it to Archie but the air did feel crisp and refreshing and definitely didn’t smell of decomposing bodies. There was a steady hum of traffic on the breeze but otherwise the gentle walk up the slope towards the ancient church provided nothing but peace. The cemetery itself looked a little worse for wear: tall tufts of grass overgrown into the hedges around the edge and a general sense that no one was spending much time looking after it.

  The church itself would have been postcard-perfect in times gone by. The sandy-grey spire towered above them, a non-ticking clock in the centre with a rusting wind gauge unmoving on top, despite the obvious draught. A huge set of double wooden doors was at ground level with a grand stained-glass window above. Stretching the length of the church was a long line of coloured windows depicting various biblical scenes. Along the bottom, weeds grew from cracks in the concrete, with the brickwork covered in a thin layer of dark dust.

  For someone who wasn’t particularly religious, even Jessica found the slightly sorry state of the church a little depressing. She’d enjoyed going to church as a child, especially at Christmas, mainly because of the majesty of the building. This would have once been a community hub; now it was wasting away.

  The two officers eased through the creaking heavy doors into the church and onto a stone floor that smelled vaguely of incense and something burnt. Long rows of wooden pews stretched ahead of them with hard stone aisles running along the centre and down both sides. From the inside, the windows were even more impressive, scenes of Moses reading the Ten Commandments, Jacob being blessed by Abraham, Daniel in the lion’s den, David defeating Goliath, and many more that Jessica didn’t recognise. She took a moment to take it all in, remembering her father’s funeral that had been in a place just like this.

  ‘You all right?’

  Jessica didn’t know if Archie had taken the edge from his local twang just for her or if it was a coincidence but she didn’t like it anyway.

  ‘Fine.’ She cupped her hands to her mouth. ‘Hello?’

  The ‘O’ echoed its way into the distance, reverberating around the ancient walls. At the front, off to the left, there was a clunk and a short grey-haired man emerged from the side room wearing dark robes but no collar. He smiled slightly as Jessica and Archie made their way along the aisle.

  ‘Can I help you?’ he asked softly.

  Jessica showed him her ID. ‘We’d like to talk to you about a wedding.’

  He glanced between the two of them. ‘You want to get married?’

  Jessica couldn’t believe how badly she’d phrased things. ‘Sorry, no. We’re here on official business about a wedding you conducted around five months ago. I’ve got the date if that helps.’

  He pouted out his bottom lip. ‘I’ll do my best to help. All the records are in the back room. Can I check your identification again?’

  Almost nobody ever asked to check it properly but Jessica handed her card over, watching as the priest read every word, made sure she was the person in the photograph and then examined the back. He then did the same with Archie’s. She supposed she didn’t blame him – they were asking to talk about private details, after all. It would probably be better if more people actually checked these things.

  Satisfied, the priest told them to call him James and then led them into a back room which smelled of dust and was littered with books and papers. He hefted a bulky, wide hardback onto the largest desk, showing a strength that wasn’t initially apparent from his slightly hunched figure and greying hair combed across the top of his balding head.

  ‘Obviously the official certificates are taken away but we tend to keep our own records too,’ he said. ‘We have marriage archives dating back almost three hundred years.’

  Archie sniggered: ‘I feel sorry for the poor sod who’s been married for three hundred years. Imagine the nagging.’

  Neither Jessica nor the priest laughed.

  James turned to Jessica, realising she was the sensible one. ‘Which wedding are you interested in?’

  ‘I’m more interested in your recollections than in the specific times and details – Pavel Adamek and Rosemary Dean.’ She gave him the date and he found the page in his book.

  The crinkles around the prie
st’s eyes folded into each other as he nodded slightly. ‘That’s a fairly recent one.’

  ‘What do you remember about it?’

  He puffed out a large breath and pinched the top of his nose. ‘My memory’s not what it was. I think it was a small affair.’

  ‘How small?’

  ‘I really don’t remember. Perhaps a dozen people? Maybe fewer?’

  ‘Pavel is Serbian – does that help? Were there any other members of his family here?’

  The priest shook his head. ‘I really don’t remember. The bigger services happen on a Saturday but the date here is a Tuesday. I’ve perhaps only conducted half-a-dozen weddings on a Tuesday during the last twenty-eight years I’ve been doing this.’

  ‘So it stood out?’

  ‘I suppose – it’s all about the donations, of course. Obviously if people want to get married on a weekend then the amount would usually be higher.’

  ‘Do you have an attendance requirement?’

  ‘We would usually ask for people who want to marry here to attend for sixteen weeks. If they are asking for God’s blessing, then it’s important they understand what that means.’

  ‘Obviously – but if Pavel and Rosemary were attending here for four months then you must have come to know them reasonably well . . . ?’

  The priest stumbled over his words, seeming a little confused by everything. Given his age and the number of people he must have had through his doors over the years, it wasn’t necessarily a surprise. ‘Serbia . . . Serbia . . . yes, no, yes . . . sorry – I remember. Pavel seemed very committed, certainly. Rosemary was very nice but I suppose I always had the sense her heart wasn’t in it.’

  ‘The marriage?’

  ‘No, no . . . sorry, forgive me. The church. I’m not naive – I realise some people will come along for those months and then they won’t return.’

  ‘Have you seen either of them since the wedding?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Did they make friends with any of your other parishioners?’

  The priest sat and loosened the top part of his gown. ‘I can perhaps ask a few questions for you but I don’t really know. I don’t think I ever saw them talking to anyone.’

  ‘How many people do you have attending services each week?’

  He smiled sadly. ‘Far fewer than we used to. It’s not the done thing today, is it? Everyone’s more interested in their phones and gadgets.’

  ‘How many would that be?’

  Another deep breath: ‘Forty to fifty? When I began here, the church would be full for two services every Sunday.’

  ‘Do you have an address for Pavel and Rosemary?’

  The priest seemed flustered again, flicking through a Rolodex and then opening a drawer and removing a box filled with notecards. He sorted through them all and then gave Jessica one that listed the address they already knew about: the one around the corner from where she’d assaulted a nine-year-old.

  After thanking him for his time, Jessica and Archie left, meandering through the cemetery back towards the car.

  Archie didn’t waste any time in getting to the point: ‘He was bloody useless, wasn’t he? I’m surprised he knew his own name. Imagine being in one of his services – it’d go on for hours because he’d forget where he was up to.’

  ‘All right, give him a break. He’s old. I’ve got another idea anyway but—’

  Her phone interrupted her yet again. She listened, told the caller to send the details to the car and then hung up.

  Archie read it in her face: ‘Trouble?’

  ‘Another robbery – I’m going to drop you back at the station though. I’ve got an important job for you – and it’s not even sweeping dead cows out of the canal.’

  24

  The site of the fourth burglary was worryingly similar to the first three: a house that was large but not too big, just outside the M60 ring road, an expansive back garden, two cars on the drive and neighbours who were just beyond shouting distance away. Jessica didn’t need to bother checking the address because there were already three media vans and two cars outside. She walked the gauntlet of radio microphones and suited tall men doing pieces to camera as a slightly constipated-looking officer leant to one side, trying to enforce a police line that didn’t need enforcing.

  ‘You all right?’ Jessica asked him as she passed.

  He glanced nervously towards the cameras and then covered his mouth: ‘I’ve been out here for over an hour.’

  Jessica pointed a thumb over her shoulder towards the vans. ‘How long ago did this lot turn up?’

  ‘They were here when I got here.’

  ‘Were you first on scene?’

  ‘Second.’

  Jessica took a couple of steps towards the house and then changed her mind, heading for the journalists. On the end, a man in a heavy green coat was leaning against a white van unwrapping a KitKat. She vaguely recognised his face from various media briefings and open days: youngish, designer stubble, earring, no hair in his nose or ears – which was more than could be said for half the people they had turning up.

  ‘Busy?’ she asked.

  He bit into the first chocolate finger. ‘We’re going live on Radio Manchester in ten minutes.’ He nodded towards a hedge behind her. ‘That clown’s busy rehearsing what he’s going to say. They bring in all these new guys because none of the proper reporters want to do weekends, but they’re all straight out of college and can barely get a sentence out without chucking a “y’know” at the end of it.’ He gave her a wink. ‘Y’know.’

  ‘How long have you been here?’

  He checked his watch. ‘Half-hour? Perhaps longer. I’ve got to set up the technical stuff – he’s just got to talk but he’s acting like he’s about to give the Sermon on the Mount.’ He paused for a second and then shouted over Jessica’s shoulder while tapping his watch: ‘Oi, Gibbo – sort it out, mate. We’re on air in a few minutes.’

  Jessica nodded towards the line. ‘Who are this lot?’

  Finger two of the KitKat was devoured in one go: ‘Everyone’s in – BBC TV, ITV, the Herald, Evening News, that local TV channel. Have you ever watched that shite? They’ve got this woman who can barely say her own name.’

  ‘How did you get here so quickly? We only found out a little over an hour ago – so you must have got your skates on.’

  He shrugged. ‘No idea, love – I just go where I’m told.’ He stopped to shout over her shoulder again. ‘Oi, Gibbo – stop fannying about, they’re coming to us early now. Pull your finger out your arse and get over here.’ He uttered a final ‘amateurs’ in Jessica’s direction as she headed past the constipated officer towards the house where another man in uniform stood next to the front door.

  ‘Sodding freezing out here,’ he muttered, opening the door for her.

  Jessica muttered something about thermal underwear as she went inside. What did they tell people in training nowadays? Wasn’t that day two? Forget anything fancy; get a vest and tights – something that didn’t chafe.

  Edward and Frances Shearer were exactly who Jessica would have expected: well-dressed, well-manicured, well-spoken and bit annoying. Edward was wearing something that Jessica assumed he thought was ‘dressed down’ – suit trousers and a shirt without a tie or jacket. He was in his fifties with big hair swept away from his face and clipped salt and pepper eyebrows that looked as if they were glued on. He took Jessica on a tour of the house, beginning in the kitchen where the back door was.

  For her, it was like walking into a science-fiction movie: everything was white and the thin shards of afternoon sunlight eking through the back window made her squint as if she needed sunglasses. Getting everything to look like this must have taken some scrubbing.

  Edward pointed towards the back door, where a Scene of Crime officer was carefully picking pieces of glass up from the floor. ‘We were both upstairs but I heard what I thought was a crash and by the time I got downstairs, they were already in.’


  Jessica narrowed her eyes against the light to take in the scene. Her question seemed obvious but she wondered if she had missed something. ‘How did they get in?’

  Edward blew a raspberry with his bottom lip. ‘I suppose they smashed the glass of the door and reached in to unlock it and turn the handle. By the time I got down they were inside. We always leave the key in the lock on the inside because Frances – bless her – is always losing keys.’

  ‘How would they know the key was in the lock?’

  ‘I don’t know – don’t most people do that? Perhaps they looked in and saw it?’

  Jessica glanced around the kitchen, where the window over the spotless sink would have offered a clear view of the back door. Anyone who had come through the gate and around the side of the house would have been able to see it. Now she had adjusted to the light, Jessica took a few moments to look at the rest of the area. Aside from a pair of muddy boots sitting on newspaper close to the back door, everything else was flawlessly sparkling.

  Edward led Jessica through the ground floor to a study, where there were more Scene of Crime officers working. Jessica poked her head around the door – lots of cream, antique wood computer desk, bookshelves, wide-open safe under a table – and then returned to the living room. Edward’s wife Frances was already being interviewed by another officer, so Jessica took a seat at the dining table in an adjacent room with Edward slotting in next to her.

  Jessica made sure Edward was comfortable and then asked him to talk her through what had happened. He made a point of making eye contact as he spoke. ‘As I said, we were upstairs putting a few clothes away when we heard the bang. At first I thought something had fallen over but then it felt like the house was shaking.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘It’s difficult to describe. There was this pounding sound – I suppose from their feet.’