A Dark and Sinful Death

by Alison Joseph

  ‘Yes. I went to see her. What’s happened?’

  ‘She’s been badly beaten up. A neighbour told us, we had to break in. She’s in hospital.’

  ‘How bad is it?’

  ‘Couple of broken ribs, massive bruising.’

  ‘Any idea who it was?’

  ‘We’ve tried to take a statement. All she’ll say is that it’s your fault.’

  ‘Me? But — ’

  ‘Could you pop into the station at some point today?’

  ‘Well, lunchtime, I suppose.’

  ‘See you then.’

  *

  Janet Cole showed Agnes to a seat and sat down opposite her.

  ‘Am I under arrest, then?’ Agnes said.

  Janet smiled. ‘Doesn’t take much observation to work out that you couldn’t possibly have inflicted those injuries.’

  ‘So what did Lianna say?’

  ‘I asked her who did it. She wouldn’t say. She said to ask you.’

  ‘Well, off the top of my head I’d say it’s either her pimp or her dealer. And they’re probably the same person anyway.’

  ‘So would I.’

  ‘So why’s it my fault?’

  Janet produced a hand-written statement. ‘She said you talked about something with her, and it reminded her of how things might have been.’

  Agnes took the paper and read it. ‘Did she say what we discussed?’

  ‘She wouldn’t.’

  Agnes sighed. ‘I caused her trouble. She was waiting for someone, her “man”, when I was there. She wasn’t supposed to let anyone in. And we talked about Mark Snaith.’

  ‘I thought it must be that.’

  ‘He was different, you see, he was nice to her, which made him unlike every other man she’s known.’

  ‘It’s a dead loss,’ Janet said. ‘She’ll never disclose who beat her up. It’s happened before, and it’ll happen again.’

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘Us? We’ll visit the estate, ask around, get dead silence from the neighbours, even though they’ll all know who he is. He’s probably local, from one of the neighbouring estates. And in the end Lianna will get stroppy and ask us to leave her alone.’ She closed the file.

  ‘She did say — she thinks there’s something odd about the sports centre.’

  ‘Oh, the rumours flying about that. And Mr Turnbull at the heart of most of them.’

  ‘Are you taking them seriously?’

  ‘The council is part-funding the scheme. Their auditors would know if there was a problem.’

  ‘Lianna said Billy Keenan was involved.’

  ‘They all say that. If there’s any trouble up Millhouse, it’s not long before the Keenan name comes up. Mind you, I had a word with Ed Longley.’

  ‘About the tribunal?’

  ‘Yes. He seemed to think it was water under the bridge. He’s had no trouble from anyone. Also, as he said, it doesn’t explain Reg. Mind you, he had his own ideas about that.’

  ‘About Reg?’

  ‘Yes, he was in the athletics team with him.’

  ‘He spoke very highly of him to me.’

  ‘Yes, me too. But then I asked if he thought anyone might have anything against Reg. And he said, yes, he could think of several. He said Reg ruled that team with terror, he said, everyone did so well because they were bloody scared of him.’

  ‘Was he violent?’

  ‘Ed said, only rarely. But yes, he was. Sudden rages. Couldn’t stick failure. Any boy not pulling his weight and Reg Naismith would see that he knew it all right. Ed said he did OK until he injured his ankle, but Reg couldn’t take weakness. He left after that.’

  ‘I suppose there’s always a cost to winning.’

  Janet flicked the file cover with her fingers. ‘Yes. I suppose there is.’

  *

  At two o’clock Agnes arrived in Nina’s office, panting from climbing the stairs. Nina looked up from her desk. ‘Didn’t expect to see you — have they allowed you out?’

  ‘I had to see Janet Cole. I was suspected of Grievous Bodily Harm.’

  ‘Doesn’t surprise me. D’you want a sandwich? Only cheese and tomato.’

  ‘I’m starving. Thanks.’ Agnes pulled up a chair and took the sandwich.

  ‘So, who’ve you done over?’

  ‘No one directly. Just that by meddling in other people’s lives I’ve made them worse.’

  ‘I’ll make you some coffee.’

  ‘If Turnbull finds me here again — ’

  ‘He’s out of the office today. Otherwise you’d get invited for more than just lunch.’

  ‘Oh, nonsense.’

  ‘Talking of Turnbull,’ Nina said, ‘I was going to phone you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Hang on.’ Nina brought two mugs to the desk, sat close to Agnes and lowered her voice. ‘I overheard Turnbull talking on the phone yesterday. Late in the evening, I think he thought I’d gone. He’s often doing that, it’s because he’s still running his other companies, property and stuff. And last night, he was talking to this feller called Mel. Mel is the sidekick in his main property company, a kind of deputy. And I was sure I heard Turnbull say something about selling the mill.’

  ‘What, Allbright’s?’

  ‘Shhh. I think so, yes, I’m not quite sure. He was going on about realising assets, and the textile industry going down the tubes. And then he said something about not breathing a word to Patricia, something about having not quite talked her round. I couldn’t think what else he could mean. It might be another property, he’s always going on about land values and things, but then why mention the yam industry?’

  Agnes sipped her coffee. ‘It can’t be what Baines intended.’

  ‘It’s unthinkable.’

  ‘Baines must have built safeguards into the deal, don’t you think, when he handed it over?’

  ‘You’d have thought so. But it is true that these days, a lot of these mills have such a low turnover that their land value is worth more than the company.’

  ‘Perhaps Turnbull was talking about redeveloping the old building, the derelict bit.’

  ‘But he was going on about a working mill.’ Nina sipped her coffee. ‘Maybe you’re right, he’s always thinking big. Eh, it would be great, wouldn’t it, that mill. You know, I’ve long had plans for that building. Every time I go past it, I think, arts centre, you know, with a café, and a cinema, and crèche, and — and — ’

  ‘An ice rink?’

  Nina laughed. ‘OK. And classes, aerobics, martial arts, I did karate for years, I could go back to it.’

  ‘And a swimming pool.’

  ‘You’re on.’

  ‘Japanese garden.’

  ‘If you insist.’

  ‘Go-Kart track.’

  ‘I thought Scuba-diving tank ... ’

  ‘Absolutely. And a rock-climbing wall ... ’ Agnes saw the door was opening. The swish of cashmere camel coat announced the arrival of Patricia.

  ‘Nina, I’m back a bit late, any messages ... Oh.’

  ‘Hello.’ Agnes smiled at her.

  Patricia continued to address Nina. ‘Did you get on to Warmans about the colour mix-up?’

  ‘Um, yes, they said they’d delivered what we asked for.’

  Patricia flung her coat over the back of a chair. ‘Our order didn’t say black.’

  ‘They said it did.’

  ‘Who filled it out?’

  ‘Alan must have done.’

  ‘He knew we didn’t need black.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Well, you can sort it out now, can’t you, Nina?

  I’m sure your lunch guest was just leaving.’ For the first time she looked at Agnes.

  Agnes stood up and put on her coat. ‘Yes, I was.’ She smiled at Patricia and held out her hand. ‘How nice to see you again.’ Patricia stood, unmoving. ‘I believe I’m having lunch with your husband tomorrow,’ Agnes went on.

  ‘I believe you are.’ Patricia’s gaze faltered.

  ‘I’m
not sure why.’

  Patricia tried her brightest smile. ‘Oh, he’s always asking women to lunch. Completely indiscriminately. Most of them have the sense to refuse.’ She gathered up her coat and swept out of the room.

  Silence settled on the room. Agnes could hear the hum from the factory floor. ‘Why did you mention it?’ Nina said at last.

  ‘It was the only thing to do. I thought I’d brazen it out. And anyway, it’s not as if — I mean, I’m hardly likely to — ’

  ‘He’s her husband. And he’s flirting with you. Don’t you know anything?’

  ‘Flirting?’

  ‘Of course. The way he looks at you ... ’

  ‘He looks at everyone like that.’

  ‘So?’

  Agnes sat down. ‘I thought it would help. To talk to him. To find out about Baines, and the family, and Mark Snaith, and this concern he seems to have about Jo, and the sports centre, and this gambling that David mentioned, and whether he’s worried about the serial killer, and — ’

  ‘And his plans for the mill.’

  ‘Yes.’ Agnes looked at Nina. ‘Oh dear. Perhaps you’re right. Should I cancel lunch, do you think?’

  Nina’s eyes widened. ‘Me? I never said you should cancel. Of course you’re going to have lunch with him.’

  *

  ‘I need to talk to you about Joanna,’ Agnes said to Elias on Wednesday morning after chapel.

  Elias looked grey and weary. He’d conducted the service in a monotone, staring fixedly at the texts, never once raising his eyes. Now he looked at her.

  ‘What about Joanna?’

  ‘David says she’s mad.’

  ‘She was never stable at the best of times.’

  ‘He thinks she might be staying with Marcus.’

  Elias ran his finger along the edge of the wood panelling. ‘That’s up to her,’ he said.

  ‘But — ’

  ‘But what? There’s nothing we can do.’

  ‘David said — ’

  ‘David fancies himself as a tortured artist, and it suits him to have a crazy lover as part of the pose.’

  ‘That’s not fair.’

  Elias stared at the floor. ‘Maybe not.’

  ‘Philomena’s accepted Jo’s resignation.’

  ‘That’s Jo’s choice, then, isn’t it?’ He was looking beyond her, to the bustle of the corridor as morning lessons started.

  ‘Elias — ’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Did you think it was a dream? The next day?’

  He met her eyes. ‘No. It was real. It still is.’ He set off along the corridor, not looking back.

  *

  Anthony Turnbull pushed at the swish swing doors and ushered Agnes into the restaurant. ‘Very special place, this,’ he said. ‘Mind you, I reserve it only for people whom I can trust to share my appreciation of it.’

  That’s not what your wife said, Agnes wanted to say. Instead she allowed him to help her with her coat.

  ‘An aperitif?’

  ‘Thank you, yes.’

  Turnbull led her to the bar, which was all cream and chrome and glass, nodding affably at the waiters on the way. ‘A Scotch, please,’ he said. ‘And a — ’

  ‘A dry sherry with ice.’

  They took their drinks and went to sit down while their table was prepared. Agnes swirled the ice around in her glass. ‘Don’t they drink it like this in Yorkshire?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, I can’t say I’ve ever had to ask for one before. Still, with your exotic background ... ’

  ‘Exotic?’

  ‘You have a hint of an accent.’

  ‘I grew up in France.’

  ‘Ah, that will be it then. I love France.’

  Agnes sipped her drink and wondered why people said that, why people felt able to express affection for a whole country. Did they mean its landmass, its total population? Its roads, rivers, building sites, industrial estates, sewage systems, waste disposal ... ?

  ‘What are you thinking?’ Turnbull asked her.

  ‘I was thinking about French municipal refuse collection,’ Agnes said.

  ‘Ah. Right.’ Turnbull scanned her face.

  They were shown to a table by the window, looking out on a garden filled with rhododendrons, their new leaves warmed by the sun. They ordered whitebait, followed by poussin, and a bottle of Meursault. Agnes noticed as he lifted his glass that his hands were shaking, but he smiled at her and said, ‘To the religious life.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To our redemption.’

  Agnes allowed their glasses to chink, then said, ‘I don’t think you’ll find redemption in a glass of wine.’

  ‘No. Probably not.’ Again he seemed troubled.

  ‘And how’s the mill?’

  ‘Oh, OK. Hard work.’

  ‘It must be difficult to see any real profit these days.’ He sighed, as if reluctant to embark on this conversation. ‘It’s very competitive. Foreign competition, we’re working in narrow margins.’

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘Well, keep going, of course.’

  Agnes squeezed some lemon juice on to her whitebait. ‘I would have thought you could rationalise that operation — ’ She glanced at him.

  ‘Well, up to a point, of course ... yes, I mean, there are some measures I’m thinking of taking to make us more competitive.’

  ‘I mean, surely in a community like this, people must be prepared for change. If everyone carried on as they were before, no business would survive at all.’

  ‘No, of course, you’re absolutely right. And I am thinking — ’

  ‘What?’

  Turnbull topped up their glasses. ‘The thing is, Agnes — I may call you that, may I?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘The thing is, I’m coming to this business as a newcomer. A fresh eye. And these old families, they have great strengths, wonderful sense of history and all that — but it weakens them, the way they hold on to tradition. Baines has let things slide at Allbright’s, just for the sake of tradition. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a Yorkshireman myself, but our family was small, unimportant — and adaptable. My father worked on the railways, to start with, then went into management. I started out in catering, ended up in property.’

  ‘And now textiles.’

  ‘Yes. You can never tell.’

  ‘How did you and Patricia meet?’

  ‘When I was doing outside catering events. Silver service stuff. She was working for a classic car company over in Harrogate, I catered a few of their receptions, we got to know each other. Some years ago now.’

  ‘And are you happy?’

  He looked up. ‘Well — um — I’m not sure — it’s not a question one generally asks of a marriage, is it? Yes, I suppose we are. I’m not the most — I’m a difficult bloke to live with, Agnes. Patricia is very understanding. My work is my life, property is a knife-edge business these days, but there’s a buzz about it, I love it. One minute you’re facing bankruptcy, you take a huge risk and it pays off and you’re sitting on several million quid.’

  ‘So you’re a gambler?’

  He laughed. ‘I certainly am.’

  ‘I imagine textiles is a bit different.’

  ‘Well, let’s say, I’m having to learn a new approach.’ ‘Which do you prefer?’

  ‘Put it this way, Agnes, if it wasn’t for my property companies, the sports project would never have happened. I unlocked that money, I put up the venture capital myself, and I have to say, I’m proud of that, a lot of good will came of it.’

  ‘Whereas the mill?’

  ‘The mill? It’ll be OK.’ Their plates were cleared away. ‘It’s just, sometimes, when I walk through the spinning sheds ... ’ He turned the stem of his glass between his fingers. ‘Sometimes, I feel weighed down by it all. If you build up a business yourself, you can grow with it — but Allbright’s, it’s huge. It’s like a giant — ’ he smiled at the simile — ‘like some ancient giant I’ve woken out of sle
ep. And now I have to carry it on my shoulders.’ He refilled their glasses. Again, his hand was unsteady.

  ‘And are you?’ he asked suddenly.

  ‘Am I what?’

  ‘A gambler?’

  ‘Not as much as I used to be.’

  ‘And do you miss it, like you miss the Paris dustbin lorries?’

  Agnes laughed. ‘My gambling was too dangerous. I don’t miss it, no.’

  ‘All gambling’s dangerous,’ Turnbull said. For an instant his face lost its affability. Agnes saw the worry behind his eyes, the tension around his mouth.

  Their poussin arrived. Turnbull was fiddling with the two knives by his place so that they made a ringing sound against each other. He looked up and met Agnes’s gaze.

  ‘Why did you invite me to lunch?’ she heard herself ask.

  ‘Because I liked you — because I felt you were someone — Agnes,’ he said, his voice oddly loud, ‘what do you think about forgiveness?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean — if someone’s done something really wrong, and it’s leading them into — oh God, it’s so difficult, I was awake all night imagining this conversation, working it out, and now — I was taught by monks, you see, I — I’ve never lost my faith, even though I’ve been lazy, not gone to church for years, but deep down ... and now I find that I’m living in ways that aren’t — that I can’t ... ’ He passed his hand across his eyes, which Agnes saw were reddened with tears.

  ‘Anthony ... ’ she said, softly.

  He raised his eyes to her, shook his head.

  ‘We’re never lost,’ she said.

  He shook his head again, reached for his glass with trembling hands.

  ‘What is it?’ she tried.

  She saw his expression harden, locking away his feelings.

  ‘Do you really think you’re beyond redemption?’ She felt she was reaching across a chasm.

  ‘I should never have mentioned it, I’m sorry.’ He drained his glass, then refilled it.

  ‘The church won’t turn you away,’ she said.

  He gestured to the waiter for more wine, then turned back to her. ‘I won’t set foot in a church again.’

  ‘But — ’

  ‘Please, no more. I thought you’d be able to — last night it all made sense. But now — I’m sorry ... ’

  There was a chirping of a mobile phone. He snatched it from his pocket.

  ‘Turnbull,’ he said. His hands were shaking. ‘What? Right. Yes. No, I don’t care any more. Just do it. Do it, for God’s sake, what else can we — right. OK.’ He rang off. He was ashen, and his breath came in short gasps.