The Four Last Things

by Taylor, Andrew

  “Morning, Sarge.’ The policeman was young and very nervous; he stared at Sally and quickly looked away, as if he had done something naughty. ‘Mr Maxham is in the house. You’re to go right in. If you leave the key in the car, we’ll take care of it.’

  As Sally crossed the pavement, she was aware of twitching curtains and watching eyes in the neighbouring houses. Apart from the boys further down the street, nonchalantly smoking their cigarette, there were no bystanders; it was not that sort of area. In Paradise Gardens, as in Kensal Vale, the police brought trouble, not reassurance: they were not the protectors of society, but its agents of retribution.

  The ground-floor window of number 43 had been boarded up. One of the windows above was broken, and none of them had curtains. As they approached, the second constable tapped on the front door and it opened from within.

  Inside was a narrow hallway, its ceiling and walls covered with a yellow, flaking plaster and its floor carpeted with circulars and old newspapers; it smelled strongly of damp and excrement. The plain-clothes man who had let them in gestured towards the stairs. Maxham was coming down, talking to someone invisible on the landing above. ‘Get her to make a statement. Don’t take no for an answer. I want to see it in black and white by lunch time if not before.’ He turned to Sally and Michael and, without changing his tone, went on, ‘You took your time. Come and have a look at what we’ve got. I’d take you outside, where the smell isn’t so bad, but then there’s the problem of spectators. One of the bastards has got a pair of binoculars. And the next-door neighbour’s playing with his video camera.’

  He led them into a room at the back of the house. There were two mattresses on the floor and fading posters of footballers on the walls. The window was boarded up, but someone had rigged up a powerful lamp. Maxham looked ghostly by its light, his plump face bleached of colour. He had not shaved yet this morning and his face looked as tired as his tweed suit. It occurred to Sally that even Maxham might have feelings, that even he might find this case harrowing.

  The only person in the room was a uniformed policewoman. Beside her, a kitchen chair without a back did duty as a table. Its top had been covered with a sheet of paper, and on this rested a padded envelope which was almost as large as the seat of the chair.

  ‘You can buy them in any stationer’s or newsagent’s.’ Maxham hissed, sucking air between his teeth. ‘It’s brand new. No address, no nothing.’

  ‘Too big to get through the letterbox,’ Michael said.

  ‘It was folded. You can see the line.’ Maxham’s finger bisected the envelope. ‘It wasn’t even sealed.’

  He pulled on a pair of gloves and, holding the envelope near its opening, gingerly lifted it so that the closed end was resting on the seat of the chair.

  ‘Look. Not you, Sergeant. Mrs Appleyard.’

  The policewoman altered the angle of the light. Sally peered into the open mouth of the envelope. There was a mass of dark hair inside.

  ‘Don’t touch,’ Maxham ordered. ‘Strictly speaking, I shouldn’t be doing this. But I need to know if that hair’s Lucy’s. The sooner the better.’

  ‘How can I tell? Especially if you won’t let me touch.’

  ‘Smell it.’

  Sally bent down. The unwashed smell of the house fought with the plastic and paper of the envelope. Beyond those smells was another, a hint of the sort of perfume which is meant to remind you of Scandinavian forests.

  ‘Some sort of pine-scented bath essence? Shampoo?’

  ‘Do you use something like that? Could Lucy’s hair smell of it?’

  ‘No, we don’t.’ She looked more closely, longing to touch the dark cloud that might have been part of Lucy. ‘It could be hers.’

  ‘Then whoever’s got her has given her a bath, maybe washed her hair.’ Michael sounded very weary all of a sudden. ‘I suppose we should be thankful for that.’

  Sally turned to Maxham. ‘Could it be a good sign? That they’re looking after her?’

  The black-rimmed glasses flashed, catching the light. ‘Yes. It could be.’

  ‘We can’t tell,’ Michael said. ‘And nor can you.’

  Maxham ignored him. ‘We’ll know for certain in an hour or two, Mrs Appleyard. We picked up samples of Lucy’s hair from your flat. It’s a simple matter of comparison.’

  ‘And then what?’ Michael demanded.

  Maxham hissed but didn’t answer.

  ‘Thank you for showing us,’ Sally said to Maxham. ‘And thank you for showing us here.’

  ‘I thought it would be better all round.’ Maxham’s voice was harsh, but for an instant there might have been a gleam of kindness in his face.

  ‘Any witnesses?’ Michael said. ‘Surely someone must have seen something?’

  ‘Nothing to speak of.’ Maxham moved into the hall. ‘A woman over the road thought she saw a light-coloured van pulling up outside around six-thirty. No idea of the make, or who was driving. We’re taking a statement but it’s the next best thing to worthless.’

  The Appleyards followed him into the hall.

  ‘You’ve not got someone watching us, have you?’ Michael asked.

  Maxham swung round. ‘No. Why?’

  ‘We had a purple Peugeot 205 behind us most of the way from Inkerman Street.’

  ‘You got the number?’

  ‘Here.’ Sally opened her handbag and produced the envelope.

  Maxham reached out a hand for it. ‘I’ll have it checked out and get back to you. You sure it was following you?’

  ‘Probable,’ Michael said. ‘Not absolutely certain.’

  The constable at the far end of the hall opened the door as they approached.

  ‘I’ll be in touch if there’s anything more,’ Maxham told them. ‘And I’ll let you know the results of the test as soon as I hear myself.’

  Michael stared at him and said nothing.

  Sally said, ‘Thank you. Goodbye.’

  The door closed behind them. The Rover was still where they had left it. The young constable gave them an embarrassed wave.

  Michael drove slowly down Paradise Gardens.

  ‘It’s aimed at me, isn’t it?’ Sally said.

  ‘Why do you think that?’

  ‘All the religion.’

  ‘You’re assuming the three incidents are connected.’

  ‘They must be.’ Sally paused, but Michael did not disagree. ‘First the hand in a cemetery,’ she went on. ‘Then the legs in Lucy’s tights in a church porch. And now the hair in Paradise Gardens.’ A bubble of laughter rose in her throat. She choked it back. ‘He’s playing with us, whoever he is. Don’t you think so?’

  ‘I don’t know what to think.’

  Michael joined the stream of traffic moving south-east down the Harrow Road. For a few moments neither of them spoke. Somewhere over to the left was the stumpy spire of St George’s, Kensal Vale.

  ‘There’s another kind of pattern,’ Michael said abruptly. ‘Geographical. Apart from Beauclerk Place, everywhere else is in north-west London. Within a few square miles.’

  ‘But there’s only two other places. Paradise Gardens and Kilburn Cemetery.’

  ‘And St George’s. It’s roughly equidistant between Harlesden and Kilburn. Like Carla’s house. And Hercules Road is just east of Kilburn.’

  Sally wriggled in her seat. ‘Would it make a shape on the map?’

  ‘A symbol or something? I doubt it. But maybe it means that the person we want is living or working between the two – somewhere between Beauclerk Place and the cluster of other locations. I wonder if –’

  ‘Where are we going?’ Sally interrupted, suddenly realizing that Michael was not taking them back to Inkerman Street but towards the centre of the city.

  ‘I want to see Uncle David.’ Michael glanced at her, his face half-angry, half-sheepish. ‘It won’t take long. In some ways it’s a faster route.’

  Sally stared at him. ‘But what about Oliver? And have you told Maxham where we’ll be? And what happens if
there’s some news?’

  ‘If you’d remembered your phone, there’d be no problem.’ His voice rose. ‘All right, I’ll call them.’

  Without warning, Michael swerved into the kerb and parked the car on a double yellow line; Michael, who was so meticulous about obeying the smaller rules and regulations in life. For a few seconds, Sally was too surprised to speak. There was a pair of phone boxes outside a parade of shops.

  She fumbled at the catch of her handbag. ‘Michael, there’s no need, I’ve –’

  Before she could finish he was out of the car. He slammed the door and strode to the phone box without looking back. To Sally’s relief, it was neither occupied nor out of order. She watched him through the glass, noting with a mixture of irritation and compassion that he chose to stand with his back to her. The knowledge that she had lied to him worked inside her like corrosive acid.

  She was aware of a car drawing up behind theirs, and of a door closing, but paid no attention. Then there were footsteps on the pavement and she glanced over her shoulder. The purple Peugeot 205 was parked immediately behind them. Sally lunged for the door lock and pushed it down. Frank Howell’s face bobbed down until it was level with hers. Reluctantly, she lowered the window.

  ‘Mrs Appleyard? I don’t want to bother you –’

  ‘Then don’t.’

  ‘Look, I don’t mean to pester you, but maybe I can help.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I hear things.’ The little eyes were bloodshot. ‘I’ve got a contact who’s on Maxham’s team.’

  ‘Good for you.’

  ‘Maxham doesn’t tell you everything, you know. He plays his cards very close to his chest.’

  ‘Give me an example.’

  ‘And in return –’

  ‘That depends.’ Somewhere Sally found the strength to haggle. ‘Eventually, maybe a personal interview. But not yet. And not until you’ve shown what you can do.’

  ‘It’s not what you think,’ Howell said awkwardly. ‘All right, an interview would be nice but I really want to help. We all do. Derek was saying –’

  ‘I’ve not got much time.’ Sally wanted to trust him, but it was safer to take refuge in cynicism. ‘So what can you tell me?’

  ‘There’s some good news. You know the disciplinary proceedings against your husband, for hitting a suspect?’

  Sally nodded. That part of the story had not been released to the public so it supported Howell’s claim that he had a source within the police.

  ‘The solicitors are meeting today. The word is, it’s just for show. They’ve already met informally and done a deal. Your husband’s in the clear.’

  Sally concealed the relief she felt, which might in any case be premature. ‘Is that all?’

  Howell’s mouth tightened. ‘What about the first atrocity? Do you know where the hand was found?’

  ‘In Kilburn Cemetery. There’s no secret about that.’

  ‘Exactly where the hand was found? On which grave? The police haven’t released that detail. But I know. I’ve got a photograph.’

  He pulled out a print about six by four inches from an inner pocket of his waxed jacket. He slid it through the open window.

  ‘Keep it if you like. When can we talk? Maybe you’d like to make an appeal to the kidnapper.’

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ Michael loomed up outside the window.

  The journalist moved away. Sally rolled the window further down and put her head out. Howell was retreating towards his car and Michael was glaring down at him.

  ‘It’s all right, Michael. Come on – we’ve got to get going. Mr Howell won’t be following us.’

  ‘I’ll phone you later, then,’ Howell said, keeping an eye on Michael. ‘Good luck.’

  He scuttled round to the driver’s door of his car. By the time Michael had settled himself behind the wheel, the Peugeot was receding rapidly on the Harrow Road.

  Michael started the engine. ‘What does Howell think he’s up to?’

  ‘He says he’ll be our man in the media in return for an exclusive interview.’

  ‘If I see him again –’

  ‘It’s OK. I can handle him.’

  Michael took his eyes off the road and glared at her. ‘You can?’

  ‘Don’t be so bloody patronizing.’

  The line of traffic in front of them slowed and stopped for a red light.

  Michael turned to look at her. ‘So did Howell tell you anything interesting?’

  ‘It looks like the solicitors are going to sort out your little disciplinary problems.’

  The Rover stalled, jerking as if stung by a wasp. Michael restarted the engine. ‘What do you know about that?’

  ‘Oliver told me, yesterday. He assumed I’d already heard about it from you. And it’s just as well he did tell me, or else I wouldn’t have had the slightest idea what Howell was talking about.’

  The light changed to green. Sally wondered whether the hurt in her voice had been as obvious to Michael as it was to her.

  ‘I was going to tell you on Friday evening,’ he said, which was as near to an apology as he was likely to get.

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ Of course it mattered, as did whatever horrors he had shared as a child with David Byfield and now guarded so jealously. In both cases what mattered most was the fact that he had not told her.

  Michael cleared his throat. ‘How did Howell know?’

  ‘He’s got a source in the police. I don’t know who or where. He also gave me a photo of the gravestone in Kilburn Cemetery, the one where they found the hand. There’s a sort of medallion at the top of it, all rather cod Jacobean, a skull and so on.’

  ‘It was probably chosen at random. Or because it wasn’t overlooked – something like that.’

  ‘Not necessarily.’ The longer the nightmare continued, the more certain Sally became that everything was potentially significant.

  After a while, Michael said, ‘I phoned David while I was in the call box. They’re expecting us.’

  ‘I lied to you,’ Sally blurted out. ‘I have got the mobile. It’s in my bag.’

  ‘Why? I don’t understand.’

  ‘I thought you’d just shout at Maxham.’

  ‘You were probably right.’

  She shook her head and said flatly, ‘I was wrong.’

  For the rest of the journey, she closed her eyes and tried to pray. In the darkness of her mind she recited the Lord’s Prayer. The words fell like stones into the cool, green silence. The silence was still there but God was absent, his attention elsewhere. Oh my God, why do you leave me when I need you most?

  Time slowed and stopped. It was very quiet. Miss Oliphant was dead, dead, dead: among the angels. Sally reached out her hands in the darkness, trying to find Lucy. Her fingers closed on emptiness and she sank down and down into the dark. Is this what hell means, she wondered, this slow drowning in the black waters of your own mind? But if you are drowning, you seize anything which may help you float and breathe. So then, as before, Sally made herself say over and over again the words that no longer meant anything.

  ‘Your will be done,’ she said, or thought she said. ‘Not mine.’

  ‘It’s the next left, I think,’ Michael said. ‘Or the one after that.’

  Sally opened her eyes. They were in the northern half of Ladbroke Grove, travelling south towards the raised section of Westway. Michael had driven his godfather here yesterday evening; to Sally’s relief, the old man had declined the offer of a bed at Oliver’s.

  ‘Who’s David staying with?’ Sally asked.

  ‘Someone called Peter Hudson. He’s a retired bishop. An old friend.’

  ‘There was a Hudson who was Bishop of Rosington in the seventies.’ Once a senior diocesan bishop, he had been one of the more articulate opponents of the ordination of women, just the sort of friend for David Byfield.

  ‘Could be him. David was there for a while himself. But that was much earlier.’

  Sally remembered the Ros
ington postcard she had found in Miss Oliphant’s books. Our mutual friend still remembered. Small world! Not so small you couldn’t have secrets.

  She said, ‘So David had a family? A wife? Children?’

  ‘A wife and child.’

  ‘What happened to them?’

  ‘They died.’ Michael pulled over to the side of the road. ‘I’ll tell you about it later, Sal, OK?’

  Neither Hudson nor his home were quite as Sally expected. The bishop lived in a small flat at the top of a nondescript modern block set back from the road. There was nothing overtly episcopal, or even clerical, about him: he wore slippers, baggy corduroy trousers and a tweed jacket with frayed cuffs; he had a pipe in his mouth when he opened the door to the Appleyards, and the pipe was never far away from him until they left. He was pink, plump and small – in appearance the opposite of his guest; Uncle David looked far more like a bishop than his host.

  Hudson showed them into the living room, with its view of the bleak little garden at the back of the flats and the endless muddle of the city beyond. The walls and the ceiling were painted white. There was little furniture, few books and no pictures. The only ornament was a large wooden crucifix on the shelf over the gas fire. A pile of blankets and pillows on the floor suggested that the small sofa had spent the night as Uncle David’s bed.

  Within a couple of moments of their arrival, Hudson produced a tray of weak, instant coffee with the milk already added, and a plate of sweet, slightly stale biscuits. He handed round the mugs and then sat down beside Sally.

  ‘This is very terrible, my dear,’ he said conversationally, a gambit which took her entirely by surprise. ‘How on earth are you managing?’

  ‘I’m not,’ Sally muttered, and started to cry quietly. Hudson produced a large, freshly ironed white handkerchief from his trouser pocket. Sally mentally gave him full marks for preparation. ‘Carry on,’ he said. ‘I doubt if you’ve found much time to cry. And sometimes one can’t, of course.’

  Michael and David were talking by the window with their backs to the room. Neither of them appeared to have noticed that Sally was crying. The tears flowed in near silence for over a minute. Hudson sat with half-closed eyes; he did not attempt to touch her or to say anything else. Gradually Sally’s tears subsided. She blew her nose and wiped her eyes.