by Anne Coates
Hannah looked over to the turf. “I’ve never been to an interment of ashes before. I didn’t know what to expect.”
“Nothing spectacular. But it’s where his last resting place should be, at home in the Cathedral’s Garden of Remembrance.” For a moment he looked desolate. “Although far too soon.”
“Yes.” Hannah smiled as Simon approached and shook the archdeacon’s hand.
“Thank you for spreading the word, Andrew.” He turned to Hannah and gave her a bear hug. “Thank you for coming. I’ve reserved some tables at The George Inn on Borough High Street, if you’d care to join us.”
“Thank you.”
He took her arm and the small party walked through Borough Market. It wasn’t a trading day but there were a few stalls dotted around. On regular market days the place was busy gathering a reputation as an excellent source of produce with both the locals and tourists. Being next to the cathedral – a magnet for tourists – did it no harm.
“How are you?” Simon managed to make the question sound like a caress. His grief had moved on a stage to quiet sadness. But here he was a man with a public role. The show must go on.
“I’m fine.” She paused. “Well, I’m getting there. I don’t look over my shoulder all the time now.” It was a weak attempt at a joke. It helped to reduce the trauma of what had happened. Those people were not going to win by intimidating her for the rest of her life.
“Good. There’s something I want you to have. But I’ll talk to you about that later.”
They had reached the pub, the last remaining galleried inn in London dating back to the seventeenth century. According to the blue plaque on the front of the building, Charles Dickens went there when it was a coffee shop and it was mentioned in Little Dorrit. Shakespeare too enjoyed its hospitality, apparently. It was now owned by the National Trust and leased to the tenants. All low oak beams and small windows.
Simon hadn’t just reserved a few tables for his guests, he’d booked the whole pub to ensure their privacy. Lots of people who hadn’t been to the interment were there ahead of them.
The manager came over to have a few words with Simon and Hannah took the opportunity to survey the guests. She was surprised to see some others were from Cardboard City. But then she shouldn’t have been as so much of Patrick’s mission had been with them. There were, of course, members of the clergy who joined them. And she recognised a face or two from St Thomas’s Hospital where Patrick had been a patient. She wondered if Lady Rayman and Mary had been invited. No doubt they would have declined. Their own loss too recent.
Hannah noticed the bar staff were taking drink orders and handing out menus. A proper meal was on offer, not sandwiches and nibbles, presumably in deference to the Cardboard City dwellers who would appreciate the gesture.
Hannah heard her name, looked over in the direction of the voice and saw Claudia Turner.
“Hello, I didn’t expect to see you here.”
Claudia smiled. “I like to tie up loose ends.” She saw Hannah’s questioning look. “I’m here in an official capacity.” She raised her glass of orange juice. “Just checking, you know. And there are others – less obvious.” She handed Hannah a glass of wine from a tray on the bar. “You look as though you could do with this.”
“Thanks – not sure how I should take that.”
Claudia scanned the room. “Well it can’t have been easy.”
“No, it wasn’t.” Hannah sipped the wine and smiled over at Simon. What a nice man, to make everyone feel so welcome regardless of rank or status.
She turned back to Claudia. “I don’t suppose you’ve had any leads on Amalia’s killers?”
“No, but we’ll find them. I see you’re pursuing young girls being forced into inappropriate arranged marriages now.”
Hannah smiled and wondered what the DI would think of the follow-up article on the women leaving abusive relationships. “It’s more complicated than you might think.”
“It always is, Hannah, it always is.” Claudia finished her drink. “Well I must be off. I hope this helps towards closure for you.” Neither of them had mentioned Tom. Yet he was in the thoughts of both women. Claudia went over and shook Simon’s hand then left.
Hannah joined Lucy and Beano.
“Just deciding what to have, luv. Anything you recommend?”
Hannah glanced at the menu. Simon had chosen four main courses which would cater for most tastes. A steak was included – a rare treat she assumed for many of the guests. “What’s your favourite? I think I’ll have the steak.”
“How would you like that?” asked the waitress who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. “Medium please.” Lucy and Beano followed her lead.
“So how are you both?”
“Same as ever luv, same as.” Lucy sipped her Guinness. “Always better in the warmer weather.”
“Do you ever see that man, Sherlock, these days?”
Hannah thought she caught an exchange of glances but maybe she was imagining it.
“Nah he buggered orf somewhere. Stuck up sod. Always thinking he was better than the rest of us.”
Hannah wondered if they realised he’d taken a bullet meant for her but there was so much confusion that evening and there seemed no point in raking over old wounds. Their steaks arrived and they all tucked in. Hannah was surprised at how hungry she was. She had just finished when Simon approached their table and sat down.
“You’ve done yer brother proud,” Beano said. “Thank you, Mr Ryan.”
“And thank you for coming. I appreciate it.”
“Father Patrick was one of the best.” After that tribute, Beano concentrated on his drink.
“’Ow’s yer mum and dad – must ’ave been really hard for them?” Hannah wondered how much Lucy knew of the Ryan parents’ situation.
“Dad doesn’t understand, and my mother has her work cut out caring for him as neither will accept any outside help.”
“That must be hard on you.” Lucy placed her weathered hand over his.
He didn’t flinch but placed his other hand over hers. “Thank you.”
Lucy and Beano had finished their drinks.
“Can I get you another?” Simon asked.
“Nah yer alright. Better be getting back now.” They stood up and Simon walked them to the door. They all stood there for a moment or two. Hannah studied their faces but couldn’t make out what they were saying. Lip reading would be a wonderful skill to possess. Handshakes all round and then they were gone.
Simon returned to the table where Hannah was still sitting, bringing her another glass of wine and one for himself.
He sat down and chinked her glass.
“To Patrick.” “To Patrick.” They both sipped their wine. Hannah was looking across to the table where the archdeacon was sitting with some other clergy. Why had they all sat together like that? She recognised Martyn Jones, the prison chaplain, in their midst. She caught his eye but his body language indicated that he didn’t want her to go over and speak to him and she wondered why.
Simon tapped her arm. “I hear you’ve had more bad news.”
She looked at him blankly.
“Paul Montague?”
Paul was more apparent in her life now he was dead than he ever was when alive. It irritated her. She felt haunted by him. “Yes, it was out of the blue – how do you know?”
Simon surveyed the room. “I make it my business. I won’t give up until every one of those concerned is exposed and brought to justice.”
For one awful moment Hannah thought Simon had been responsible for organising Paul’s death. Then she dismissed the idea as preposterous. However, it did mean that Simon knew that not every one of the perpetrators had been brought to book.
“Do you think I’m still in their sights?” She scratched her hand and tried to breathe normally.
Simon took her hand in his. “I can’t say categorically that you are not a target now but I do know that you have some powerful connections.” His
expression was reassuring. Hannah could feel her body relax – a little.
“I’d like you to have this.” He handed her a small leather case.
Hannah opened the catch. Inside amid maroon satin cushioning, lay a plain silver cross.
“It was Patrick’s. You don’t have to wear it, if you’d rather not. But I would like you to have it.”
“It’s beautiful.” Her finger traced its outline. “Thank you.” And without hesitation she took it out of the case and fastened it round her neck. The chain was quite long so that the cross was low on her chest. It felt oddly reassuring.
Simon smiled at her. “I realise you probably have to get away soon but I’d like to think we can still keep in touch?”
“I’d like that. You never know when I might need a barrister.”
“Always at your service ma’am.” They finished their drinks.
“There’s something I’d like you to hold on to for me.”
“Yes?” Simon’s face was the picture of reassurance. Another person she’d want fighting her corner if necessary.
She took an envelope out of her bag. “I’d rather you didn’t open this unless I ask you to, or …” she couldn’t finish the sentence.
Simon accepted the envelope and placed it in his briefcase, which he’d brought over with him. She noticed that he locked it afterwards.
He walked her to the door and kissed her cheek. “Take care, Hannah, and thank you for being there for Patrick.”
Hannah hugged him so he wouldn’t see her tears. Then she was out again in the bright sunshine, making for London Bridge and the train to take her home. She was totally unaware of the figure that emerged from the shadows and followed her at a discreet distance.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Hannah caught the train with just a minute or two to spare and sat down in the first empty seat. She touched Patrick’s cross, then took it off and put it away in its leather case. It was beautiful and, she surmised, expensive. Then the thought struck her: Did Simon mean God was her powerful connection? She rather hoped he was referring to an earthly power. God hadn’t done much to save Patrick.
She was glad to be going home to Elizabeth. She needed to hold her close and inhale her unique essence. Feel her soft skin against her own. The love she felt for her child was her reality. It made her think of her own parents. She should make the effort to visit them in France. They would love to see their granddaughter. Soon, she thought. Soon.
As the train pulled out of Peckham Rye station, she got ready to alight at the next stop. Two other people stood at the doors. Neither looked at her. The three got off then someone in the carriage appeared to notice the station and jumped off quickly, trailing after Hannah as she walked down the path to the unmanned station exit.
She decided to walk the rest of the way rather than hop on a bus for three stops. As she crossed into Lordship Lane at Goose Green she was hailed by a couple of men sitting at a table outside the East Dulwich Tavern enjoying the spring sunshine.
“Good lord,” she said to James, “I didn’t think they let you out in daylight hours.”
He stood up and hugged her. “Meet my new neighbour, Mark Weston. Mark, Hannah Weybridge – a journalist so be careful what you say.”
Mark smiled and shook her hand. His dark hair was cropped close to his head and he had a tanned and weathered look. There was an air about him that Hannah couldn’t define. He looked relaxed but she thought that wasn’t his usual demeanour. “My round, Hannah. Will you join us?”
Hannah looked at her watch, she still had time before Janet was due to finish. “I shouldn’t but I so rarely see James it would be a treat. A dry white wine, please.”
When they were on their own, Hannah smiled at James. “So what have you been up to? I haven’t seen you in an age.”
“Working mostly. I’d have been studying now if Mark hadn’t dragged me out for a drink.”
“But you still found time to see Paul’s solicitor…”
James stared at his hands. “Yes, and he told me you’d been to see him.” His face, so familiar to the woman in front of him, looked haunted. “I’m so sorry Hannah – about Paul dying I mean.”
Hannah remained silent.
“Shit, I thought I was doing the right thing by you, by Elizabeth. And, you know, I did like the guy. Well before…”
“I know, James. I shouldn’t have jumped down your throat like that. We can talk about it another time.” She decided it wasn’t the time or place to mention the letters Paul had left in Neville Rogers’ safekeeping. “Your neighbour seems nice. What does he do?”
“I’m in the army. Just returned from Bosnia, serving with the UN Protection Force there,” Mark said returning with the drinks. “And now having some well-earned home leave.” He smiled and raised his glass to her. “Actually the flat belongs to my cousin who’s away at the moment so I’m cat-sitting.”
Simon Ryan sat back in his seat in first class, opened his briefcase and removed a sheet of paper. It was a list of names of the people he’d invited to his brother’s interment of ashes. Most of these had received an emailed invitation. The dwellers of cardboard city he’d had to alert by other means.
He smiled at the memory of having asked the stuck up archdeacon if he’d mind passing on his invitation.
“And how do you propose I do that, Mr Ryan?” His telephone manner was no better than his face-to-face conversations.
“You could visit them.” He was prepared for the stony silence this suggestion was met with and continued, “Although I believe a few go to services at St John’s so maybe you could pass on the message from there?”
“Yes, that would be preferable. Are there any in particular you’d like to invite?”
“Yes, but I’m not sure how successful that would be. There were some names in Patrick’s diary but just put out a general invitation– all welcome including any of the congregation. Perhaps you would ask someone to give me an idea of numbers?”
“Mmm I’ll do my best. And thank you for the very generous bequest from your brother’s estate, Mr Ryan.”
“I wanted to make sure my brother’s ministry was honoured and, with the proviso attached, it will.”
“Quite. You may not realise this, Mr Ryan, but I had a great respect for your brother. His death has affected us all. I am glad we shall be able to honour him with the interment at the cathedral.”
Now Simon looked down the list and ticked those who had attended. He came to Hannah Weybridge and underlined her name. He liked her. There was something about her assurance on the one hand and naivety on the other. Today she looked sad and he didn’t think it was only to do with his brother. More likely everything that had happened. Including the death of Paul Montague. Something else he would make it his business to look into. Nothing that had any link to his brother’s death would be overlooked or ignored. Nothing.
The refreshment trolley came along and he requested a whiskey with lots of ice and a bottle of water. He decided against a sandwich but accepted the packet of peanuts which came with the drink. He had a brief to read but that could wait. He wanted to recall the images of the day. Go through them minutely – just in case.
He hadn’t been surprised to see DI Claudia Turner. The police often put in an appearance, he knew. He hadn’t noticed her at the cathedral but maybe she hadn’t been there. She looked quite friendly with Hannah. Or maybe she was keeping a weathered eye on her. He liked to think that was the case. The DI was impressive; he had confidence in her.
Out of the window, he noticed the scenery had changed from the urban mélange of backs of houses and gardens in various degrees of cultivation: some that could have competed with rubbish tips, others cluttered with toys and washing, a few that were mowed and trimmed, sporting a riot of spring colour. Now the landscape of hills and meadows had a calming effect as the sun’s last rays blushed in the sky.
The scotch was having a soporific effect along with the movement of the train but he kept himsel
f awake. By going back to those images. Something was not quite right and it was defeating him. He concentrated as he did when he needed to assess a jury in court, focusing on each face which went with the names on his list. Someone was missing. But there was the correct number of faces. A gate-crasher? The uninvited guest.
He sat bold upright. The man in the shadows. He hadn’t made the connection. He hadn’t sat down to eat and had nursed his drink. But he wasn’t police, of that he was certain. Ex-police maybe? In his mind Simon replayed scenes at The George. When did the man leave? The man had departed just after Hannah. In fact, to all intents and purposes he followed her out.
Simon reached for his mobile phone and swore silently. No reception. He left it on the table in front of him checking every few minutes.
Mark was laughing at something James had said. Then he leaned forward and said quietly. “Don’t look round immediately, Hannah, but do you know the man standing at the bus stop by the bookshop over there?”
Hannah took a sip of wine, then searched for something in her handbag. She took out a compact, opened it and angled the mirror to view the bus stop. There was nothing even vaguely familiar about the man.
“No, why?” She returned the compact to her bag and touched her lapel, aware that she’d forgotten to take off the hidden camera she’d worn to take photos at the Cathedral service. In the end she hadn’t bothered.
“He’s been standing there since you arrived and he’s let every bus pass by without getting on.”
“Maybe his bus hasn’t turned up yet,” James commented.
Mark shook his head. “No each bus that stops there has done so.”
Hannah was surprised that he had paid the man so much attention. “Perhaps he’s waiting for someone.”
“Could be.” Mark didn’t look convinced.
James looked concerned. “Anyway who’d like another drink?”
“Not for me thanks. Got to get home in time for the nanny to leave.” Hannah stood up. “Really nice to meet you Mark. You should drag this worker bee out more often. Bye James, see you soon, I hope.” She kissed him lightly on the cheek and made her way down Lordship Lane.
