Religio Medici, I, 37
If you wanted a model for the devil, you could find worse than David Byfield. Not one of the coarser manifestations: Uncle David would be a sophisticated devil, the sort who charms or terrifies according to his whim.
‘You’re being very foolish.’ The old priest’s voice was quiet but carrying; Uncle David had learned to fill the empty spaces of churches in the days before public-address systems.
Wide-eyed, Sally stared up at him. St Michael’s filled with a blessed silence. Her mind had cleared as if a fever had receded, leaving her weak but in control. She concentrated on David Byfield, glorying in his ordinariness; he was real, safe and sane. He was wearing a dark, threadbare overcoat with a navy-blue scarf wound loosely round his neck, and between the woollen folds Sally glimpsed the white of his dog collar and old, sagging skin. He was neatly shaved. In the years since she had met him he had developed a stoop: his bony face curved over her like a gargoyle on a church roof.
‘At times like this,’ he went on, ‘you need company. You do not sit alone in dank churches.’ With a speed that took her by surprise, he placed his right palm lightly but firmly over the fingers of her left hand. ‘You’re freezing. You’ve probably had next to no breakfast. Is it any wonder that you’re seeing devils waving toasting forks?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ The echo of her thoughts unnerved her. ‘I was just thinking. And in my situation it’s not surprising I’m a little depressed.’
‘You’re doing more than thinking. You’re leaving yourself defenceless.’ He sat down in the pew in front of her and turned slowly towards her. ‘Devils – I should have known that word would embarrass you.’
‘I’m not embarrassed.’
He ignored her. ‘It’s simply a metaphor. Why should that be so hard for your generation to grasp? All language is metaphor. When did you last talk to a priest?’
Sally stared at her lap. ‘Yesterday morning.’
‘Who?’
‘My vicar.’ She shied away from her reasons for not wanting to talk to Derek. ‘He’s being very supportive. So’s his wife – and so’s the whole parish.’
‘Derek Cutter.’
She looked up, surprised. ‘You know him?’
‘Only by reputation.’ David inserted a small, chilly pause. ‘Did you pray together?’
‘It’s none of your business.’ She paused but he said nothing, so after a while she muttered, ‘As it happens, no. There wasn’t the time. But I expect I’ll be seeing him later today.’ She knew she should at least phone Derek; she felt guilty about rejecting his offers of help, guilty about not liking him.
‘Do you talk to any other priest on a regular basis? Do you have a confessor?’
‘I’m sorry, but I really don’t see that this is any of your business.’
‘It’s not just a question of what you think.’
‘Where’s Michael?’ Sally was suddenly desperate to see him. ‘And what are you doing here?’
‘He’s talking to the policemen outside. They met us at King’s Cross and brought us straight here.’
‘You know what they’ve found?’
He hesitated. ‘They told us on the way. You’re sure the – the remains aren’t Lucy’s?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t understand how you can be so sure.’
‘That’s because you’re not Lucy’s mother.’
To her surprise he nodded. ‘You know your own flesh and blood.’
She turned her face away from him, appalled by the images his words conjured up. A door creaked. David looked up.
‘Here’s Michael,’ he went on. ‘We must get you home.’
‘I don’t want to go home. I want to do something useful.’
Michael’s quick footsteps clattered down the aisle. He was pale, but he had shaved and his hair was brushed. His jacket was open and Sally did not recognize the shirt and jersey underneath; he must have borrowed them from David. She gripped the back of the pew in front and pulled herself to her feet. David Byfield stepped away from her and tactfully feigned an interest in the list of the church’s incumbents.
‘Sally.’ Michael hugged her. ‘I’m sorry.’
She clung to him. ‘It’s all right. It’s all right.’ She found that she was patting his back. ‘It doesn’t matter, not now you’re here.’
Over Michael’s shoulder she watched David walking eastwards. He stopped at the step before the chancel and bowed towards the high altar. Bowed, not genuflected: which in a priest of his type meant that the sacrament was not reserved here. He straightened up and stood there, apparently absorbed in contemplating the east window.
Michael pulled away from Sally. ‘They’re talking to someone, the landlord of the pub round the corner. He thinks he saw someone turning into Beauclerk Place last night when he was locking up.’
David turned round. ‘Any description?’
‘No – he wasn’t paying much attention. Someone wearing a longish coat, he thought. Medium height, whatever that means.’
‘Man or woman?’
‘He couldn’t tell.’ Michael turned his back on his godfather and touched Sally’s cheek. ‘Shall we go?’
Sally allowed him to lead her into the little vestry, where there were mousetraps on the floor and dust on the table, and out by the side door into the alley beyond. Michael was saying something, but she neither knew nor cared what. In her mind she was concentrating on the shapeless figure in the long coat: sexless, of medium height, and possibly completely unconnected with the package in the vestry. But even a possibility was better than nothing: it was something to focus on, something to hate. May God damn you and yours. The words set up echoes in her memory. Audrey Oliphant had used them when she cursed her, Sally, in St George’s: only three months ago, and already so remote that it might have happened to someone else.
May God damn you and yours.
‘Steady,’ David said behind her.
Michael slipped his hand under her elbow. ‘Are you all right?’
She stared blankly at him. Why did people keep asking if she was all right? She was all wrong.
Maxham was waiting for them at the end of the alley, leaning against the tall spiked gate that separated it from Beauclerk Place. ‘There’s a car here for you. You’re going back to Hercules Road?’
‘Yes.’ When Michael was level with Maxham, he stopped. ‘This person the landlord saw. Which way down the street was he coming?’
Maxham hesitated long enough to show that he was seriously considering refusing to answer. ‘From the north.’
‘Fitzroy Square? Euston Road?’
‘Maybe.’
‘When?’
‘Between eleven-forty-five and midnight. That’s all we know, Sergeant. OK? And there may not even be a connection.’
The two men stared at each other. Antagonism flickered between them. Sally tugged at Michael’s arm. He allowed her to pull him away.
They were to travel back to the flat in the car which had brought Sally. Sergeant Carlow was leaning against the wing, smoking. Yvonne Saunders raised her hand a few inches, a token wave, and opened one of the back doors.
‘You go on without me,’ David said.
Michael glanced back. ‘You’re very welcome. We’d like you to come.’
‘I know.’ The old man stopped and folded his arms. ‘And I shall, later, if Sally doesn’t mind.’
‘But where will you go?’ In other circumstances Michael’s surprise would have been comical.
‘Oh, don’t worry about me. I shall go to church.’
As soon as the car turned into Hercules Road, it was obvious that news of the discovery at St Michael’s had gone before them. There were more cars, more reporters and men with cameras. A uniformed policeman stood at the entrance to the Appleyards’ block of flats.
‘Drive on,’ Michael said to Carlow. ‘Drive past the house and out the other end of the road.’
Carlow accelerated. ‘Where do you want to
go? A hotel?’
Sally touched Michael’s sleeve. ‘But what happens if Lucy tries to –’
‘Maxham has someone in the flat round the clock, hasn’t he?’
Carlow nodded. As they passed the house, a reporter recognized someone in the car, probably Sally. She saw him pointing, his mouth opening in a soundless shout. The group on the pavement fragmented into scurrying individuals. Two men started to run after the car but gave up after a few yards.
Sally said, ‘But we’d need clothes and things.’
Yvonne glanced back from the front passenger seat. ‘If you give me a list I can fetch what you need and bring it to the hotel.’
‘Don’t forget your mobile,’ Michael said. ‘Which hotel?’
Sally folded her arms. ‘I don’t want to go to a hotel.’
‘As you like.’ Michael twisted his lips. ‘Well, where then?’
‘I don’t know.’
The car turned out of Hercules Road and nosed into a stream of traffic. A horn sounded behind them. For a moment no one spoke.
Michael looked at Sally. ‘What about David? We’ll need to find somewhere for him.’
‘I don’t see why.’
‘Because he asked if I’d like him to stay and I said yes. I thought we’d be at the flat –’
‘At the flat? So where was he going to sleep?’
‘He could have –’ Michael stopped.
‘No,’ Sally said. ‘We couldn’t have put him in Lucy’s room, could we?’
‘Maybe not.’
‘No.’
They were back in West End Lane now. Sergeant Carlow pulled over to the kerb.
‘Where to, then? Have you decided?’
Michael glanced at Sally. ‘Christ knows.’
In the end they went to stay with Oliver Rickford. It was Sally’s idea. She thought it would be better for Michael and better for her. Besides, Oliver had invited them. Michael was not enthusiastic, but on this occasion she was prepared to be more obstinate than he was.
‘If that’s what you want,’ he said a mild voice, ‘that’s what we’ll do.’
Michael’s habits were cracking and dissolving like ice in a thaw. Sally knew that he hated asking favours; he preferred to keep his family separate from his friendships; he hated betraying signs of personal weakness, and since Lucy had gone his behaviour had been one long confession of inadequacy.
Oliver lived in Hornsey, about half a mile south of Alexandra Park. There was little traffic and Sergeant Carlow drove fast, a man anxious to be rid of his awkward passengers. He took them south round the Heath and then north on Junction Road.
At first no one talked. Carlow and Yvonne, models of discretion, stared through the windscreen. Sally rested her hand on the back seat between her and Michael, but he appeared not to notice.
At last, as they were approaching Archway, she put her hand back on her knee and said: ‘There’s no real need for David to come to Oliver’s too.’
‘Why shouldn’t he?’ Michael turned and stared at her. ‘He’s expecting to stay with us.’
‘Couldn’t we find him a hotel or a bed-and-breakfast? I’m sure he’d be far more comfortable.’
Michael shook his head. ‘Oliver says he’s got two spare rooms, and it’s no problem having David as well as us.’
Sally lowered her voice. ‘But it’s not as if David can do any good here. I’m not quite sure why he’s come.’
‘I told you: he came because he offered and I asked him to. All right?’
She glared at the necks of the two police officers in front of them. ‘At present we’ve got enough to worry about. David’s just one more problem.’
‘David is not a problem.’
‘He bloody well isn’t a solution, either.’
Michael stared out of his window. Sally squeezed her fingers together on her lap and fought back tears. After Archway, they drove along Hornsey Lane, Crouch End Hill and Tottenham Lane.
Inkerman Street was a short road with a church at the far end. Two Victorian terraces, built of grey London brick, faced each other across a double file of parked cars. Most of the houses had been cut up into flats. Oliver’s was one of the exceptions.
A FOR SALE sign stood in the little yard in front of the house. Oliver must have been watching for their arrival because his front door opened almost as soon as their car pulled up outside the gate.
Michael’s fingers closed around Sally’s hand. ‘You go in. I’m going back into town.’
‘Why?’ Sally was conscious of the listening ears in the front of the car. ‘There’s nothing you can do.’
‘At least I can try and make sure that Maxham does what he should be doing.’
‘If you think it will help.’
‘God knows if it will help. But I have to do something.’
Frowning with concentration, Oliver pushed down the plunger of the cafetière. ‘Milk? Sugar?’
‘No, thank you.’ Then Sally changed her mind. ‘I’d like some sugar.’
He nodded and went to fetch it. Sally huddled in the armchair, hugging herself. Sugar was good for shock, for the wounded, for invalids. The gas fire was on full but she felt freezing. They were in a room at the front of the house, narrow and high-ceilinged, with a bay window to the street. The three-piece suite was upholstered in synthetic green velvet, faded and much stained. The Anaglypta wallpaper was dingy, and, near the window, strips of it were beginning to peel away. You could see where a previous inhabitant had put pictures and furniture against the wall, including a large rectangular object which had probably been a piano. Only the television, the stereo and the video looked new. Even they were covered with a layer of dust. Stacked along one wall were a number of cardboard boxes fastened with parcel tape and neatly labelled. She wondered how long ago they had been packed.
Oliver returned with the sugar. He made a performance out of pouring the coffee, reminding Sally incongruously of an elderly housewife, a regular at St George’s, who had invited Sally to tea. His neat, finicky movements contrasted with the chaos in what she’d seen of his home.
‘Have you had the house on the market long?’ she said brightly.
‘Since Sharon left.’ His voice was unemotional. ‘We’re dividing the spoils.’
Sally lost interest in Oliver’s problems. She warmed her cold fingers on the steaming cup of coffee and stared into its black, gleaming surface. She wished she could see Lucy’s image there, as in a crystal ball. The reality of her loss swamped her. It was all she could do not to howl.
‘It’s much too big for me,’ Oliver was saying. ‘We bought it when we thought we might have kids.’ He paused, perhaps aware that children were not the best subject to mention. ‘I suppose I could take lodgers, but I don’t much fancy having strangers in the house.’
‘I wouldn’t, either.’ Sally made an enormous effort to concentrate on what he was saying. ‘So you’ll look for a flat or something?’
‘Got to sell this place first. It means there’s lots of room for you and Michael, anyway. And for his uncle, or whoever he is.’
‘Godfather.’ She registered in passing another of Michael’s failures in communication. ‘His name’s David Byfield.’
‘As long as he doesn’t mind roughing it. I can manage a bed and a sleeping bag for him, but sheets and curtains are a bit awkward.’
‘I’m sure it will be fine. It’s very kind of you.’
Oliver stirred his coffee, the spoon scraping and tapping against the inside of the mug. The lull in the conversation rapidly became awkward. Oliver said all the right things, but his house was unwelcoming and she hardly knew him; and no doubt the Appleyards’ invasion had ruined his plans for Christmas. She regretted their decision to come here. The old irrational doubt – that Lucy might not be able to find them if they weren’t at home – resurfaced. She would look a fool if she changed her mind, but she no longer cared about that.
‘I’m sorry,’ she burst out, ‘I think I’d better go back to Hercules Ro
ad.’
‘I’ll drive you, if you like. But would you rather wait until Michael comes back? He may be on his way already. And so may David.’
‘I don’t know what to do for the best.’
‘It’s not easy. But don’t worry about Lucy coming back to Hercules Road and finding no one there. Maxham will make sure that won’t happen. Why don’t you have some more coffee before you decide?’
Automatically she passed her mug to him.
As he handed it back to her, he said, ‘What exactly did they find at that church?’
She stared at him. ‘No one told you?’
‘Not in any detail. There wasn’t time.’ His lips twitched. ‘Maybe everyone assumed that someone would do it. But perhaps it’s too painful for you? I’m sorry – I shouldn’t have asked.’
‘It’s all right.’ In a brisk, unemotional voice she told him about the package in the porch of St Michael’s. ‘They’re keeping the details to themselves at present. And there was something else: there’s a pub round the corner, and the landlord thought he saw someone turning into Beauclerk Place just before midnight. Wearing a long coat – could have been a man or a woman.’
‘Is he trustworthy?’
‘How can you tell?’
‘You can’t. Or not easily. You get all sorts in an investigation like this: people so desperate to help that they invent things; people who want to feel important; even people who think it’s all a bit of a joke to waste police time.’ He smiled anxiously at her. ‘You must think me very insensitive. But in the long run it’s wise to be realistic, not pin your hopes on that sort of evidence.’
‘What hopes?’
He ignored the question. ‘There’s also the point that even if there was someone there, he might have had nothing to do with the case.’
‘Then who was it? Besides the church, I think there’s only offices in Beauclerk Place. No one should have been there on a Saturday night.’
‘As far as we know. People do work odd hours. Anyway, it could have been someone looking for somewhere to doss down. A drunk, a drug addict. One of the homeless, and God knows there are plenty of those. Or just someone who took a wrong turning.’
The Four Last Things Page 20
