by Lis Howell
And a lot of people will be really hurt, Janice thought.
‘Perhaps you should talk to folk first?’ she suggested tentatively.
‘Like who? Robert know-it-all Clark? Or Lady Jane Simpson?’ Kevin jeered.
‘Well . . .’ Janice paused, but she wasn’t beaten. Kevin had never really appreciated her doggedness. Janice Jones might not be the most glamorous woman around, but she was her mother’s daughter underneath and she was tougher than most people thought. ‘Don’t you think you should at least talk to the other churchwarden — Tom Strickland?’ she said.
Kevin and Nick both stared at her, open-mouthed. Nick looked bemused, as if he had forgotten that Tom existed. Kevin chuckled, recovering himself.
‘Don’t be daft. Tom won’t kick up too much of a fuss. He used to act as if he was George Pattinson’s right-hand man, but when George disappeared from the parish Tom stayed, didn’t he? He’ll toe the line. I mean, he needs the church more than the church needs him. What else has he got in life? Watching telly with Vera?’ He chortled into his coffee mug, making slurping noises.
‘I think Janice might have a point, though, Kevin,’ Nick said, with a charmingly deferential nod in her direction. Janice blushed agonizingly, feeling annoyed with herself. In fact, Nick was thinking, she had a very good point, though perhaps she hadn’t realized it. The last thing he needed was for someone like Strickland to make a fuss and complain to the Bishop. His Lordship would ignore any pleas from mere members of the congregation, Nick was sure of that, because it was far more important to retain the loyalty of a gifted young priest than to appease the moans of the middle-aged. But a churchwarden — well, that would mean messy resignations and, worse still, it would look as if he, Nick Melling, couldn’t carry people with him. He sighed. This was going to be more complicated than he’d thought.
He had already calculated that he would lose more worshippers than he would gain, at least initially. That would mean fewer people giving money to the church. But he’d decided that one way of meeting any financial shortfall would be by pressurizing the Jones family to give more. After all, Janice came from a pretty wealthy local dynasty. They might not be very upmarket, but they did have money. And he himself had some rich and ageing relatives. A small legacy could possibly be made over to the parish to plug the gap. If he could get more bums on seats, the sort of young shapely bums he wanted, the takings would inevitably go up.
He went through a mental checklist.
Jane Simpson would stay. She liked being someone important in the church and had no intellectual pretensions. Neither had Monica Bell, but he thought she might be angry enough to leave on principle. Alan Robie would go, of course, making a big fuss about traditional values, but at least that would mean the grubby gay Nesbit was out of the way. Daisy would stay, and perhaps bring some of her lively young friends in, which would be rather nice. Suzy Spencer would have to go. She was the right demographic, but she had the wrong attitude. She had tried to talk to him a few times about her lack of real faith, but what could he say to that? If she had no faith, what was she doing in the church? She was an irritating know-all too, not as knowledgeable as Robert Clark, but she would dredge up her secondary school RE lessons and presume to quiz him. Of course she wasn’t Oxbridge, but she could still be rather challenging. And that was tiring. If his parishioners couldn’t be his educational equals, then it was best if they were dumb and devoted.
But Tom Strickland was dumb and difficult. Even in his enthusiasm Nick recognized that some people who would remain on his electoral roll were pretty needy types. Was Tom one of those? He wasn’t sure. But he had to agree with Janice — who wasn’t very bright either, but who had common sense — that it would be a good idea to keep Tom on board.
Either that or pray that he too could be removed like Phyllis and Yvonne.
During the pause, Kevin had been picking his nose, waiting for words of wisdom from Nick.
‘Kevin, could you come with me to see if Tom’s at home, as there’s no eight o’clock service?’
‘Yeah. Why not? I’ll leave you to clean up, love — you don’t mind, do you?’
Janice nodded. She followed Nick and her husband to the front door. As they were standing on the step, Sharon Strickland came running round the corner. She was wearing her usual denim miniskirt and shabby Ugg boots with an old parka jacket flung on top and a very grimy scarf, and was hurtling uncharacteristically through Tarn Acres.
‘Sharon!’ Kevin called in a hearty way. ‘Hiya! We were just coming round to your house to see your dad!’
She stopped at his gate. ‘You were? Well, you’d ’ave a job. He’s in the Mid Cumbria. Half dead!’
26
Whit Sunday, continued
That it may please thee to preserve all that travel by land or by water.
From the Litany
Suzy Spencer had slept only sporadically. But she’d managed to get her head down at about six o’clock, only to be woken two hours later by Jake leaning over her and prodding her, saying someone was banging at the door. For a confused minute she thought it must be Alan again, back from searching for Stevie. She told Jake to get dressed, and pulled on her jeans and a jumper. She ran downstairs and struggled, still half asleep, to open the door. Sharon Strickland was on the step.
‘Hi, Suzy. I couldn’t use my key ’cos you had the chain on. I came to say I can’t help with the kids today. We’ve got to go the Mid Cumbria Hospital straight away.’
Sharon might be a churchwarden’s daughter but she rarely went near All Saints. It was nothing to do with belief, more that it interfered with her Saturday night routine of having five pints and at least as many ‘shots’ in Carlisle before crashing at her boyfriend’s. But even she had become caught up in the Whitsun preparations, and had offered to come and help.
‘Start again, Sharon,’ Suzy said. ‘I’m a bit befuddled. So what’s happened now?’ She moved blearily towards the stimulus of a cup of coffee. Sharon followed her into the kitchen area.
‘I know the service is off, ’cos of Yvonne. But I thought you might still need me. And I can’t come. ’Cos of me dad,’ Sharon said patiently. ‘He’s in intensive care. Some bugger ran him down last night. He’s got a fractured skull and broken ribs and a broken leg and he’s in concussion. So I can’t help out this morning.’
‘My God, that’s awful! Have you been over to see him?’
‘Nah, me mam tried last night in a taxi. But they took the back roads and there were so much standing water at Tarn Ford they turned back. Then it were so late she came home. So we’re going this morning.’
Suzy stopped with the kettle in her hand. ‘How awful for your dad! Poor Tom. It was a really wet night. Was he on foot?’
‘Yeah. He won’t drink and drive. Someone saw the dog barking by the side of the road and rang police. If he’d been left there all night in that rain, he’d ’ave bin dead by morning.’
‘Do the police know who did it?’
‘Nah. Anyhow, don’t bother wi’ coffee or owt for me. I’d best get back.’ She smiled, a beautiful smile that transformed her podgy face. Fleetingly, Suzy was reminded of someone else. ‘Me dad’ll be fine. He’s tough.’
‘Well, give him my regards,’ said Suzy. ‘And let me know if there’s anything I can do. I mean it, Sharon. If your mum needs a lift . . .’
Sharon’s smile turned to a cheeky grin. ‘Lady Jane is taking us to the hospital. She’s family. I’ll see meself out, Suzy. Ta-ra.’
‘Bye, Sharon. And thanks for letting me know.’
Sharon beamed back at her, and bounced up the hall to the door. Suzy went on drying the mug for her coffee. Like everyone in Tarnfield, she knew that Tom Strickland drank, and that he didn’t always go to the Plough. Sometimes he walked half a mile to the Scar Head, a drab stone-built alehouse that crouched down at the side of the road. It was reputed to hold lock-ins until midnight and beyond on Saturday nights. Tom must have been run over walking home, Suzy thought. And on
such a wretched night . . . a bad night for anyone to have been out driving a car.
Particularly someone without a licence.
She went over to the phone and looked at it. It was Sunday morning and it was early, but not that early. She knew the number for The Briars off by heart. She dialled and waited for a reply.
‘Hi, Rob,’ she said. ‘Did Stevie turn up last night?’ She closed her eyes when he said no, he hadn’t heard from Alan. ‘Then I should tell you that Tom Strickland’s in intensive care. He’s been knocked down by a hit-and-run driver.’
‘What? And you think that it might have been Stevie?’
‘Yes. Don’t you?’
‘Looks like it. I’ll call Alan now.’
An hour later, Robert, Suzy and Alan were back in her living room. Alan was white-faced, and wearing a thick grey fleece over a black corduroy shirt and trousers. He still couldn’t stop himself shivering. Suzy handed him some tea.
‘So there’s been no sign of Stevie?’ she said. Alan shook his head. For a moment she thought he was going to cry, but he pulled himself together.
‘There’s no answer on his mobile, and nothing on the voicemail at the house.’ Even as he said this, he brightened. The thought of the answering machine seemed to cheer him up. Who knows, at this very moment Stevie might be calling Church Cottage, or even coming home? Alan made to rise out of his seat as if there was good news. Then he remembered there wasn’t, and crumpled back on the sofa.
‘Alan,’ Robert said softly, ‘Stevie’s disappearance is going to make him look guilty as hell. If the police find out that he was in the church and now he’s gone . . .’
‘Don’t you think I haven’t thought of that?’ Alan exploded angrily. ‘And now that Tom Strickland’s been injured, you’ve landed poor Stevie with the blame for that too!’
Suzy caught Robert’s eye. Alan saw the glance and slumped.
‘Oh God, I don’t know.’ He rolled his large head around as if there was a monster weight on his shoulders. ‘Look, it could have been anyone. The hit-and-run driver probably didn’t even see Tom till it was too late. You know what he was like, skulking along those back roads full of drink. It was usually a wonder he got to eight o’clock communion on a Sunday morning, and sometimes he smelt the worse for wear then!’
Robert nodded. ‘But it looks bad for Stevie. He went to the church yesterday, and now he’s done a runner.’
‘It wasn’t Stevie who pulled Yvonne off that ladder! I’ve been thinking about it all night and I’m sure it wasn’t him. Anyway, he told me there was someone else in the church, in the flower vestry.’
Suddenly he leapt to his feet.
‘I’m going home now. Stevie’s probably back there as we speak, with his tail between his legs. And I appreciate your concern about Tom Strickland’s accident. But I’m sure that’s nothing to do with us either. When Stevie gets back, we’ll go to the police like you said, and tell them everything we know about Yvonne. Don’t worry. It will be OK.’
He smiled, a false dawn stretching across his face.
‘You’ll let us know as soon as you hear from him?’
‘Of course.’ Alan looked awful, white and taut, but with a crazed pink wet-lipped grin. He left them with an exaggerated wave, and slammed the front door behind him before walking jauntily up the path. Suzy wondered how long his grotesque optimism would last.
‘What do you think?’ she said quietly to Robert.
‘I think it’s highly likely that Stevie Nesbit hit Tom in the dark. This is a quiet part of the county. There aren’t that many cars about on the back roads and we know Stevie was in a state.’
‘I wonder where he went. Sharon said that the Tarn flooded at the ford. Her mother tried to get through that way by taxi last night, but had to turn back.’
‘He could have gone down to the motorway but my guess is that he stayed round here, and maybe slept in the car. He’ll come back today. There isn’t much potential for a drama if he stays away, is there?’
‘What about the police?’
‘I suppose they’ll be making inquiries. They must be treating it as suspicious.’
Suzy shivered. She was finding it impossible to keep warm. The heating was on full. She went and stood with her bottom on the radiator and her arms folded across her chest.
‘I need something reassuring to do. What’s Nick suggesting about the church services today?’
‘There’s a sign up saying they’re cancelled but that there’s a service of prayers for Pentecost at twelve o’clock. Do you want to go?’
‘I suppose I ought to face it. Oh, I really don’t know.’
‘Can’t Jake mind Molly? Why don’t I take you down in my car? We have to go back into All Saints sometime. I don’t have that much confidence in Nick Melling, but at least he’s opened the church.’
Suzy was reluctant, but she didn’t want All Saints to become a no-go area. It would look different now Yvonne’s body had gone, and she had to admit that Nick Melling had shown some guts in going ahead with a service.
‘I’ll get my jacket,’ she said.
The children seemed fine, unaffected by the crisis around them. Molly had been disappointed about the Whitsun service, but she seemed to understand that something sad and grown-up had happened which didn’t really concern her, and now she was happily working on her book of stickers. Jake was doing homework. He’d grumbled about it before Alan came, and had made a plea to go out in Matthew Bell’s old banger again, but Suzy had vetoed that. Then he’d sulked, but now he seemed to have recovered. Even so, for the first time Suzy wished Nigel was nearer than Newcastle. She was a little bit shaky this morning and some parental solidarity would have been nice.
But the kids would be fine on their own for half an hour. She followed Robert to his car.
27
Whitsun Eve into Whit Sunday, continued
It was ordained for the mutual society, help, and comfort that the one ought to have of the other, both in prosperity and in adversity.
From the Solemnization of Matrimony
On Saturday night, for the first time in thirty years of marriage, Frank Bell had slept in the guest room. It made him uncomfortable in more ways than one. Bloody Yvonne Wait, he thought. She was almost as much trouble dead as alive.
Monica had refused to speak to him, and he had been able to hear her snuffling through the bedroom door. At about eight o’clock, when he finally realized she wasn’t coming downstairs, he’d defrosted a luxury fish pie, eaten it and left the dirty plate in the sink. He’d just been deliberating about whether or not to go down to the Plough when the phone rang. It was Jeff Simpson, and he was pissed.
‘Frank!’ He sounded conspiratorial. ‘Sounds like we’re off the hook, old man. Any idea how it happened?’ There was something in the wet, slightly slurping, and prurient tone to his voice that made Frank stop before he replied.
‘You mean Yvonne?’
‘What else, sonny? Bit of amazing luck!’ The word lingered fatly in the air.
‘I wouldn’t say that . . .’ Frank thought that in all decency a woman’s death shouldn’t be called lucky. Even if it was.
‘Not luck, eh? More good management, Frankie? I say, and I know I shouldn’t, well done you!’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Don’t be coy, old chap. I always thought you had the steel to get things done. And no silly scruples.’
What’s he on about? Frank thought. Then he understood. He’s accusing me of pulling the stupid bitch off the ladder! This could be bloody dangerous! But his worry at Jeff’s allegation evaporated almost immediately at the warmth of the flattery in the older man’s voice.
Jeff was saying: ‘So we can breathe a sigh of relief, can’t we? How about popping over for a snifter with me and Janey?’
‘No, Jeff, much as I’d love to, Monica and I are having an early night.’
‘Yes, well . . .’ Jeff laughed heartily. ‘I suspect you’re rather done in. Want to rest o
n your laurels, eh?’
‘Something like that,’ Frank said, and echoed the hearty laughter. If snobby old Jeff Simpson wanted to treat him like a local hero, then why not? He put the phone down and pounded upstairs.
‘Monica, love,’ he said through the bedroom door, ‘can’t you come down now? Jeff Simpson has just been on the phone. You’ll never guess what he said.’
But Monica didn’t have to guess. She had picked up the extension in the bedroom and heard the whole conversation. She lay on the bed, her knuckles rammed in her eye sockets to try and blank out the pictures behind the lids. Eventually she heaved herself up and took two of the over-the-counter sleeping tablets she rarely needed, from the drawer in the bedside table. Then she scrubbed herself clean in the en-suite bathroom, got into bed and pulled the duvet over her head. For an hour, she listened to the rain pounding on the windows, waiting to sleep.
Before the relative relief of drifting restlessly, she decided that in the morning she would get up at daybreak and drive to her daughter’s in Carlisle. She needed to distance herself from Frank. She wouldn’t rouse Matthew, who’d either be comatose or still out with his mates. She’d leave a message for him on his mobile, and then she would wait for Frank to phone and talk to her. She was angry as well as frightened.
She had her son and daughter to think of. Frank was just the sort of idiot to say something stupid. And if that happened, she’d be implicated if she tried to help him. If she were to be prosecuted for being an accessory, what would happen to Matthew? Or to her daughter Joanne, who was married to a builder whose attachment to her wasn’t entirely based on deep romantic love? If she tried to quiz Frank now, it would be all bluster and defensiveness, and he would immediately look to her to bail him out. But this was far, far worse than the things she’d sorted out for him in the past. She wasn’t going to do it again.
