For Richer, For Poorer

by Kerry Wilkinson

  ‘Is there something to find?’

  He smiled slightly and Jessica could feel his searching eyes again. She had answered as if she was at work, not as someone who had come along to a church service to talk cordially. Jessica could sense him wondering what had made her so cynical and distrusting.

  ‘My dear, my faith is too important to me for that. Money comes and goes, buildings come and go, people come and go – but the love of Our Father is enduring. Why would I sacrifice that?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I—’

  He reached out and touched her on the arm. ‘You have no need to apologise to me.’

  ‘We can’t find either Pavel or Rosemary. We’re wondering if something’s happened to her.’

  ‘Do you have good reason to think that?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘All I can tell you is of my experience of them. To me, they seemed a couple who wanted to marry and who were willing to undergo what was required of them by the church. If there was anything else going on, that is something for them to reconcile with God.’

  ‘How did they come to you?’

  ‘Much like you have now – they attended on a Sunday and approached me at the end, asking if I would marry them. I talked to them about what God expects and what the rules of this church are but they were happy with everything. I saw no reason why we couldn’t go ahead.’

  ‘It was just . . . you were so . . . I thought you were being deliberately obstructive.’

  The priest continued to smile: fatherly in more ways than one. ‘Oh, my dear, the perils of age. It’ll come to you both at some point. When I was your age, I’d remember every face, every name – now it’s not quite so easy.’

  ‘You said last time that Pavel was the more committed of the two . . .’

  ‘Indeed – I believe he was a practising Catholic in his home country. Rosemary was somewhat lapsed. Not that God ever gives up on us, of course.’

  ‘Did he ever confess to you?’

  The smile cracked slightly. ‘You must know that anything said in such a holy circumstance is uttered with confidence.’

  ‘Even if it was something serious?’

  ‘We have procedures for if we are told something potentially damaging. Rest assured, if I felt I had something to tell you then I would do.’

  Bex returned the Bible to the pocket hanging from the chair in front. ‘What’s confession?’ she asked.

  Father James explained what it was but said that, as she was a non-Catholic, he was unable to hear anything Bex might want to say. That seemed fine by her.

  Jessica felt she was getting nowhere but continued anyway: ‘Is there anything else you can remember about Pavel or Rosemary. Did they tell you how long they’d been together? Or where they met?’

  He tapped his forehead. ‘If they did, then I’m afraid it’s lost to the annals of time.’

  ‘Is there anything else you can remember at all? Did they come here because they knew someone? Did Pavel ever talk about his home country? Or why he was here?’

  The priest shook his head sadly. ‘I’m sorry – I’m really not trying to be obstructive. I suppose . . .’

  Jessica could see in his eyes that he’d remembered something and couldn’t stop herself from interrupting. ‘Yes . . .’

  ‘There was a name he called her: something, I don’t know – flowery.’

  In a panic, Jessica said ‘Rose’, even though that was the woman’s name anyway. The priest shook his head when she mentioned ‘Primrose’ too.

  ‘It wasn’t her name, it was something else.’

  ‘Lily?’

  ‘No.’

  Jessica, uselessly, couldn’t think of any other flower names but Bex jumped in: ‘Holly?’ ‘Jasmine?’ ‘Daisy?’ ‘Iris?’ ‘Violet?’

  Each suggestion was met with a shake of the head but Father James had his mouth open as if the name was on the edge of his tongue.

  Jessica was struggling until a single word popped out: ‘Chrysanthemum?’

  Both the priest and Bex stared at her but it was the teenager who spoke: ‘“Chrysanthemum?” Have you ever known anyone named that?’

  ‘No . . . I thought it could be shortened down to . . .’

  ‘“Chris”?’

  Jessica went quiet, chastened by her own stupidity. The priest was still whirling his hand around. ‘No, you’re nearly there. I keep thinking of the colour red . . .’

  Jessica thought ‘Poppy’ but said nothing, just in case.

  ‘Poppy?’ Bex said.

  Father James clicked his fingers. ‘Poppy, that’s it. He called her Poppy.’

  Jessica bristled but kept her cool. ‘Do you have any idea why?’

  He shook his head. ‘I can’t imagine how I forgot. I kept calling her Rosemary and she never corrected me. I suppose I thought it was a pet name – Poppy. It’s quite nice, really.’

  27

  Jessica called the station to leave the names ‘Poppy Dean’ and ‘Poppy Adamek’ but then took the rest of Sunday off – not that she was supposed to be working anyway. On the journey back to the house, Bex seemed fascinated by the idea of church, if not the beliefs themselves. She and Sam spent part of the afternoon discussing religion, then politics, and then getting angry. That was at least some relief to Jessica – they were teenagers after all. She could remember when she was idealistic before the crushing reality of having bills to pay eventually weighed her down.

  After a lazyish day, Jessica was up early on the Monday. Her apparently unfounded suspicions of Father James didn’t mean there weren’t other things of which she should be wary.

  At the station, there was the usual weekend fallout as the drunks and shouty abusive types arrested in the city centre over the course of Friday night and Saturday were carted off to court, largely feeling a bit silly after spending a night or two in the cells.

  The Sunday crew had at least been busy, even if they hadn’t come up with much.

  Poppy Dean: no trace of anyone with that name;

  Poppy Adamek: ditto;

  C&A: no idea. A few faint leads on potential Slavic words that could fit but nothing that could be related back to Manchester. No trace for the pre-paid mobile phone from which the message had been sent either.

  Surveillance of Ana: she’d watched a lot of television and only left the house to go to the local Spar for a microwave meal. No sign of Pavel.

  Jessica couldn’t help but feel that she knew the name ‘Poppy’ from somewhere, although she couldn’t place it. All in all, it had been utterly fruitless – although the early forensic results were back from the robbery at Edward and Frances Shearer’s house. Much of them seemed to be the same as in the previous robberies but, as Jessica had noticed at the time, the method of entry was different. For the first three, the door had been hammered open by something large. With this one the window had been broken and someone had reached through to unlock the door. Whatever had been used to break the glass was different to the implement in the first three robberies.

  ‘Everyone ballses stuff up.’

  Archie might have put his own Mancunian spin on the statement but he wasn’t wrong. Jessica had been incorrect about Father James but she’d got things wrong in the past. It was getting the big things right that counted.

  Wanting to be by herself, Jessica asked Izzy to oversee some background research into the Shearers while she went for a drive north of the city onto the country roads that linked Manchester to Bolton.

  Neil and Bea Wilkie lived in a cottage on the edge of a hamlet fifteen minutes but a world away from the motorway. They were both retired but still fit and active, faint traces of the dark hair they’d once had replaced by grey, eyes still alert. When Jessica arrived, Bea was in the front garden, on her knees with a trowel and bucket as her husband buzzed his way up and down with a lawnmower.

  The Greater Manchester spring was providing a summer-worthy morning, gentle sunshine beaming and warm. Bea asked if Jessica wanted to sit on the porch to chat, poppi
ng inside and returning a few minutes later with a pot of tea, three cups, three custard creams and a single cupcake with a strawberry on top. ‘I made them freshly yesterday,’ Bea said, insisting the cake was Jessica’s and that she and her husband had eaten quite enough.

  Neil came to join them, forehead dripping with sweat, shreds of grass clinging to the hairs of his arms. He leant against a wooden railing that separated the porch from the garden. ‘Nothing beats a cuppa after a morning of work.’

  His wife scolded him for dripping sweat on the decking and gave Jessica a wink. ‘When you phoned, you said it was because you wanted to check a few details about the robbery at our Fran and Edward’s – but I’m not sure there’s much we can add. It sounds so awful. Can you imagine? It’s a good job the children were here.’

  Jessica took a bite of the cake, figuring it was rude not to. Well, that and it looked amazing. ‘It was more for a little background. I was wondering how often you have your grandchildren over.’

  The couple looked at each other but Bea answered: ‘Usually the last weekend of the month. We’ll take them overnight to give Fran and Edward a night away from it all.’

  ‘And do you get on well with your grandchildren?’

  ‘As well as you can with a six- and eight-year-old. We’ll take them walking in the hills around here, or sometimes to the cinema or bowling. It depends what they want to do. You know what kids are like – most of the time they want to watch TV or play games.’

  ‘This wasn’t the last weekend of the month . . .’

  Bea took a sip of her tea and Neil answered while trying to pick the blades of grass from his arms. ‘No – it put us out a little to be honest. We were going to scoot up to Southport for the weekend but had to cancel the Friday night, in favour of the Saturday. You don’t want to say “no” because you don’t get to see them enough anyway. Do you have kids?’

  Jessica was now used to answering automatically, emotionlessly. ‘No.’ She took another bite of the cake to ensure she didn’t have to follow it up.

  ‘It’s hard to describe then – especially when it comes to grandchildren. You don’t want to go behind their parents’ backs discipline-wise but then sometimes it’s you they want to talk to about things. If you immediately went to their parents, you’d lose the trust. It’s a difficult relationship sometimes: not one you’d want to change, though.’

  ‘Are you saying they’ve confided something in you?’

  ‘No, sorry,’ Neil added. ‘I was speaking generally. Honestly, I’m not sure what you want . . .’

  He wasn’t speaking harshly, simply stating a fact. Jessica knew she’d come this way to ask a single question, one that could have been put to either of them over the phone. She knew she was constantly searching for reasons to be out of the station, feeling active. This was another such example – though it was good to stare into someone’s eyes when they told you the truth.

  ‘When did your daughter call you to ask if you could take the children?’

  Bea answered: ‘Friday evening. We were sitting down for tea.’

  ‘Has it ever happened before that you’ve only had a few hours’ notice?’

  The couple turned to each other again, shaking their heads, wondering why she was asking. Bea replied again: ‘There was once when Edward had a late trip to Germany and Fran wanted to go with him but we had a couple of days then. I suppose this is the only time with really short notice.’

  She shifted her attention back to her husband, but Neil was focused on Jessica. There was a slight change in the way he was standing. Rather than leaning, he’d pushed himself up straighter and was watching her carefully. His lips were pressed tightly together, eyebrows drawn downwards. Jessica could see in his face that he’d had the same thoughts as her. He spoke slowly, words chosen purposefully: ‘I just hope the children aren’t affected by all of this. They’re too young to be involved in everything.’

  Bea missed the meaning in her husband’s statement, even though Jessica heard it clearly.

  ‘I spoke to Fran last night and she said they’re perfectly fine,’ Bea said. ‘By the time we returned them, everything had been cleaned up. They don’t even know someone broke in.’

  Neil nodded towards Jessica as she took the final bite of the cake. He stretched his hand out for her to shake, not gripping too hard but making a point of looking into her eyes. ‘Thanks for coming, Inspector. It sounds like we’ll be hearing from you again soon.’

  Edward Shearer was at the desk in his study when Frances showed Jessica into the house. The safe was closed underneath him and everything looked the way it had likely been before Saturday.

  Edward seemed surprised to see her, spinning in his chair away from the computer. ‘Oh, you’re back . . . do you have news?’

  Jessica shook her head. ‘You seem to have cleaned everything up well enough.’

  ‘That fingerprint powder stuff was a nightmare to get rid of in here but Frances did a fine job.’

  ‘Can you come with me into the living room? There’s something I’d like to ask you about.’

  For a moment, Jessica didn’t think he was going to move but then Edward clambered to his feet and strode past her through the house. He took a seat on the sofa next to his wife, leaning forward irritably as Jessica perched on the armchair.

  ‘Where’s the kitchen from here?’ Jessica asked.

  ‘You already know – you were here on Saturday.’

  ‘I know but point me in the right direction anyway.’ Edward stretched out an arm but Jessica grabbed it, pointing to his watch. ‘Is this genuine?’

  He pulled himself away. ‘What?’

  ‘It looks expensive – is this real or a fake?’

  For a moment, Edward hesitated. She knew that he wanted to lie but, if need be, the watch could easily be examined by their own people. ‘It’s real,’ he said.

  ‘Where was it during the robbery?’

  ‘I don’t know – I don’t see how this matters.’

  ‘It matters to me. Think about it. Clearly it wasn’t in your safe, else it would have been stolen – so where was it?’

  ‘Upstairs, I suppose.’

  ‘Where upstairs?’

  ‘I suppose on the nightstand.’

  Jessica nodded at Frances, who had shrunk into the sofa as if she wanted it to swallow her. ‘On Saturday, you were wearing a bracelet. Pardon me for talking out of turn but you don’t seem the type of couple to keep cheap jewellery, so what was it made from?’

  Edward tried to butt in – ‘I don’t see how—’ – but Jessica stretched a hand out towards him to stop him talking, still watching his wife.

  Frances glanced at her husband but was cowering under Jessica’s stare. ‘It was gold.’

  ‘And where was that when the robbers broke in? I saw you a couple of hours after they left and you were wearing it – so did you have it on while they were here, or did you put it on after they left?’

  ‘I’m not sure . . .’

  ‘You must know if you put it on afterwards – it would be a very deliberate thing to do.’

  ‘I didn’t—’

  ‘So you were wearing a gold bracelet but robbers – who took one hundred and fifty thousand in jewellery – didn’t take that?’

  Frances glanced at her husband again: ‘I suppose—’

  Edward finally took charge, leaning in and jabbing an accusing finger at Jessica. ‘Look, I’m not sure what you think this has to do with anything. We told you everything on Saturday.’

  ‘It’s your statements from Saturday that I’m following up. I was wondering how the media got here so quickly?’

  ‘I don’t know, I—’

  ‘You called them. While your wife was calling us, you were talking to the papers. I spoke to the receptionist at the Manchester Morning Herald and the one at the BBC. If you want to say you didn’t, we can check your phone records.’

  ‘No, I did. I thought they’d want to know. It’s not a crime, is it?’


  ‘Not at all but it’s not what most people would do. Most people wouldn’t want cameras at the end of their driveway – especially after a robbery. They’d want privacy. I suppose the only reason you’d call the media at the same time as the police was if you wanted to ensure the story was covered.’

  Edward had no reply because she was right. As his wife shuffled away from him to the far corner of the sofa, he turned to Jessica. ‘What exactly do you want?’

  ‘I think you know.’

  ‘Know what?’ He poked a thumb at his chest. ‘We’re the victims here. Is this how you work? I’ve read about how you fit people up – it was in that report. “Institutionally corrupt”, wasn’t it? Is that what’s going on here?’

  Jessica remembered the feeling in her stomach when Anton had walked up the stairs, disproving her theory about Father James. She’d been wrong then – but not this time. She reached into her pocket and unfolded a sheet of paper.

  ‘I printed this off from a news report on the Internet,’ Jessica said. ‘It’s about the third robbery, where Ian and Harriet Blackledge’s house was broken into. It says that the back door was broken open, that cash and jewellery was taken and that the robbers wore black.’ She unfolded a second sheet. ‘In this report of the second robbery, it says they wore bags over their feet. In two others, it mentions the gun. By reading all of the reports together, funnily enough, you’d have the exact details you gave us.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Nowhere in any information we’ve released, or in any of the news articles, does it say how the robbers broke in through the back. They got into your house differently to the others.’

  Edward was struggling to get his words out. ‘I suppose they altered their tactics.’

  ‘Also in the articles, it never mentions a time of day – but yours worked out relatively well for you because your children were at their grandparents’. If it had happened in the evening, like the other three, the kids would have been back in the house because you only had babysitters for Saturday daytime.’ She nodded at Frances. ‘Your parents were going away for the Saturday night.’

  Edward was still resistant. ‘If you’re saying that it’s lucky our children weren’t here, then of course it was.’