‘Er, tea, you said. Wait here. I’ll fetch some.’
Harry guessed that Wickham had no desire to leave him alone but equally the man needed time to collect his thoughts. The bishop disappeared through a doorway that was hidden behind a crimson crushed-velvet curtain and soon Harry could hear clattering from a nearby kitchen. He didn’t have long. He made a rapid inspection.
His eyes wandered to the bookshelves with the keenness of a man who had once collected first editions before he had been dragged to the brink of financial despair. He pulled one out at random, attracted by its intricately tooled spine, ran his finger slowly down the ancient leather. The Book of Common Prayer, a 1650s edition. On the shelf above were beautifully bound biographies of Pugin, several popes, Martin Luther, Cranmer, Ridley, and at the end, to his astonishment, an edition of Mein Kampf. Judging by the grubby state of its binding, it was prewar. An original.
Now his eyes raced around the room. On one wall was an oil showing several youths on a rock above a swimming hole, superbly executed, probably American, and above the fireplace in a simple gilded frame was a large charcoal sketch of another youth, limbs stretched, chin high, seated on a beach, soaking up sun. This youth, like all the others, was beautifully conceived. They were also all completely naked.
On the wall opposite the entrance to the kitchen hung another velvet curtain. Listening to make sure Wickham was still clattering around the kitchen, he pulled the curtain back to reveal a door, and on its other side he found a dining room so filled with objets d’avarice it took his breath away. Nothing was less than Victorian: the lustrous dining table was Georgian and the two classical busts on columns in the corners of the large window were battered enough to be at least two thousand years old. An entire corner was devoted to a display of Orthodox icons and a painted wooden altar triptych whose age was so great it was preserved behind glass. Yet even as he tried to understand what he was seeing, Harry stiffened. The kitchen noises had stopped. He rushed back to his chair, just in time to see the bishop brushing aside the curtain and bearing a tray with two mugs and a bowl of sugar. Mugs seemed entirely out of place in these surroundings; the bishop wasn’t extending himself for Harry’s benefit.
‘All this,’ Harry said, waving his unbroken arm around the room, ‘is stunning.’
Wickham was clearing a space for the tray among the paperwork that was spread across his desk, moving an old green glass gourd that still had soil from its excavation inside it and that Harry suspected was Roman.
‘A lifetime of careful collecting,’ Wickham acknowledged, ‘and with no children to support.’
‘I thought a bishop’s salary was disgracefully modest.’
‘Indeed it is, as it should be, which is why almost everything here is a copy. Well crafted, handsome, but not the real thing.’
‘Fake, you mean.’
‘If you will.’
Harry cast his eye across the bookcase. Bugger-all fake about that lot, but already the bishop was hastening on.
‘I’m so sorry not to have been in touch, Harry, but I’ve been having a little eye trouble. Age, you know. And my entire computer system crashed. I’ve only just picked up your messages.’
Two excuses. One too many, Harry thought.
‘Please forgive me,’ the bishop said, settling behind his desk and throwing Harry a timid smile.
‘I’m not sure I can.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ the bishop snapped, alarmed, spilling his tea across his paperwork.
‘You weren’t truthful with me.’
Wickham said nothing, stared in anger, then in a fluster began to rescue his damp papers.
‘You said you didn’t know Susannah Ranelagh,’ Harry continued, ‘yet you arranged dinners at Christ Church which she attended.’
‘I . . . I . . .’ Wickham stopped fussing over his paperwork and confronted his guest. ‘It’s possible. I was asked to make arrangements with the college for a few old friends. I didn’t attend them all. Perhaps she was there when I was not.’ The words were defiant but suddenly he broke into an avuncular chuckle. ‘Harry, please, I know you’re upset about your father but don’t badger me. You have to understand that I’m old, the grey cells sometimes slide by each other nowadays, don’t connect like they used to.’
‘But it wasn’t just Susannah, was it? The others were there, too. My father. Findlay Francis. Leclerc. Al-Masri.’
‘That may be so, but the dinners took place at the request of others. You can imagine what my life is like, my duties are heavy, my diary all but overwhelmed. Just because I did a favour and helped with the organization doesn’t mean I attended them all. Anyone could have been there without my knowing—’
Harry cut him off. He knew it was a lie, a whole series of lies. He wanted to keep the other man under pressure. ‘Strange, isn’t it? You remember so much about a student named Richards, even down to the tape on his little box of tricks, and yet you can’t even remember your close friends.’
‘Scarcely friends—’
‘Members of the Croquet Club. What were you all up to?’
‘I’m sorry, Harry, I simply don’t know what you’re talking about. You must understand, show a little pity. When you get to my age you, you . . .’ He trailed off, his eyes flooded with distress and anger.
‘Your memory becomes partial, convenient. Like your explanations, Bishop Randall. ‘
‘Enough!’ Wickham growled. ‘I will not be insulted in my own home.’
‘What happened to Findlay Francis?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘So you admit you knew him.’
‘I admit nothing.’ The bishop spat out every word. A crimson tide of outrage was spreading up from his collar of hair across his shining scalp.
‘That’s strange, since he was at all your reunion dinners. Even if you didn’t attend them all you would have met him frequently.’ This was no more than an assumption – the Christ Church files had given Harry no more than the name of the old member who had been responsible for making the arrangements – but the increasingly florid sheen that had taken hold on the bishop’s face told Harry it was true.
‘Why are you persecuting an old man?’
‘I’m not persecuting you, Bishop Randall, I’m just doing a little prodding.’ Harry’s eye rose to the sketch of the naked youth behind the bishop’s head. ‘That’s an Augustus John, isn’t it?’
‘I told you, a copy. By one of his followers.’
‘A very good copy. I see they’ve even copied his signature.’
‘Out!’ The bishop sprang to his feet with remarkable agility for an elderly man professing all types of infirmity. ‘Out now!’ His finger shook wildly as it pointed towards the door.
‘But I haven’t finished my tea.’
‘I only have to press a button on this phone and within seconds three men will be here to throw you out!’
‘A panic button? You should press it. You need to panic. I will find out, you know.’
‘Go!’ Spittle cascaded from the damp lips.
‘I thought you were a friend of my father.’
The bishop’s eyes flared. ‘Oh, and in every detestable detail I see you are his son.’ His hand was still shaking as it reached for the phone.
‘Don’t bother. I’m going.’ At last Harry rose to his feet, slowly, in contempt. ‘Five of them gone, Bishop Randall, and you’re the only one still left so far as I can see. You know what that means?’
‘What?’ the bishop all but screamed.
‘I’m coming back.’
Harry took one last look around the room, brimming with so much elegance and opulence, and left. As he closed the door he thought he could hear the sounds of sobbing.
When Jemma had woken that morning she had realized that the thrill of playing out of bounds with Steve had begun to fade. She had slept listlessly, lying awake, feeling the rise and fall of his body, and worrying what the hell she should do. She’d confided in a girlfriend whose advice had been
simple: ‘Make your mind up, silly.’ But, lying next to Steve, she knew it wasn’t a matter of mind, you couldn’t do this with a list of pros and cons scribbled down on the back of an envelope, although to her shame she’d tried that several times. In the end she’d realized it wasn’t about Harry or Steve, it was about herself.
Steve had begun making his feelings more obvious, and in public. The previous evening he’d tried to drag her into the showers of the gym once again but this time their friends had been outside, whispering, giggling. It was a display of ownership; it wasn’t helping. It was all very well Steve pounding her brains out but, when he’d finished and rolled over and fallen asleep, when the bells had stopped ringing and she could hear nothing but his gentle snoring, it was time for her to gather up her scrambled senses. She was young, full of passion and loved giving up her body, but she was also Scottish, a little stubborn, insisted it was on loan, and on getting possession back. For Steve that was no longer enough. He insisted she decide. Her time was running out.
She had left Steve’s apartment early, made some excuse, hadn’t stayed for breakfast, needed space. She hadn’t bothered with the bus but had walked, making her way past the shopkeepers who were setting out their pavement stalls, avoiding the piles of accumulated night-time rubbish, dodging cyclists, her head down as she tried to drain it of confusion. Her head was still down some time later as she turned the corner into her own street. As a result she almost walked into the huddle of men and a few women that had gathered outside the communal door leading to her top-floor flat. They had cameras, microphones, notebooks. Jemma jumped in alarm. Journalists, packed so tight on the pavement that a young mother with a pushchair was forced into the busy road to pass them by. The media had arrived. She hadn’t a moment’s doubt what they were after. Harry.
Her first instinct was to turn and run, back to Steve, but suddenly a bolt of awareness shot through her. No, not Steve. That wasn’t what she wanted. And, even as that realization dawned, she remembered that her forefathers had fought at Culloden and had never had enough bloody sense to turn back. Almost before she realized what she was doing she was using her shoulder to push her way through to her front door. They turned, as one, as packs do, a TV light was shining in her eyes and questions were being thrown at her from all sides. They didn’t appear to know who she was; it was enough she lived in the same building as Harry Jones. Do you know him? How long has he lived here? Have you seen him recently? Did you know he’s been arrested in connection with a murder?
Jemma held her key out in front of her, forced her way to her front step, put her key in the lock, opened the door a couple of inches, had said not a word. Then she found a young woman at her side, tugging at her sleeve. ‘Are you having sex with him?’ The young woman was a ‘shouter’, a junior at some television company who was paid to hurl insinuations and accusations at those, mostly politicians, from whom her bosses wanted to capture some sort of reaction. ‘Are you going to resign, Minister?’ ‘How can you face your wife after those headlines?’ ‘Did you really employ your secretary for her filing skills?’ But it was summer, the politicians had all disappeared.
Jemma turned slowly to face her. The others crowded round.
‘Are you having sex with Harry Jones?’ the young woman demanded once again, though less forcefully now she was looking into Jemma’s eyes.
Jemma’s eyes dropped, inspected the young woman. The reporters grew silent, waiting.
‘Sex? You want to know about sex?’ Jemma said as the young woman pressed forward in expectation. ‘First thing is, I’d change that bra. It’s not doing a thing for you.’
As Jemma closed the door behind her she could hear the pack of journalists still mocking their colleague, but suddenly she was trembling so much she could scarcely move. The keys clattered from her hand; she leaned against the wall for support, slid by inches to the floor. Only when she heard the reporters drawing back from her doorstep did she allow herself tears.
Harry stepped out of the shower, still sweating. The heat was persistent, intrusive, even on the river with all the windows thrown open. As he towelled himself he heard his phone vibrating on the dining table. He didn’t catch it in time, even though he’d left a trail of dripping footprints across the wooden floor, and was surprised to see he had seventeen missed calls and almost as many messages. Not bad for a short soak in the shower.
Journalists. Hunting as a pack. Tasting blood. Someone had told them he’d been arrested in connection with a murder and Harry had no doubts who that had been. The police – or one policeman in particular. Edwards. As he flicked through the messages they became depressingly consistent. What was his relationship with the deceased? Would her murder affect any political comeback? Surely he would like to give his version of events? Even sell his story? Or comment on rumours that he first had sex with Delicious in a hospital bed?
One was a friend. ‘Sorry, Harry, old chum, I hate to do this but my editor’s insisted and, well, you know what a bottomless pit of venom she can be. Look, I’m so sorry you’re in the shit again, truly. You know my colleagues in the press will turn you slowly on a spit but – Harry, face it, you know they can’t ignore a murder rap. Look, any chance of meeting up? I’ll do the story as gently as I can. Over a drink, perhaps? Just name the place and I’ll be there for you, Harry.’ That was followed by a short pause. ‘And, er, any chance of a photo?’
Thank the Almighty they didn’t know where he was, that Edwards still thought he was with Jemma. Oh, screw you, Hughie, I’ll rip your tongue out through your butt, for what you must be putting her through. He tried to call, warn her, hoping it wasn’t too late, but it went straight to her voicemail.
He sat, naked, bent, sweating, dripping onto the polished floor, ashamed for what he had inflicted on her. This was his fault.
Yet he might have known that Jemma was not simply a child of Culloden but also of Bannockburn, a proud woman who could meet both disaster and triumph with a straight eye. She hadn’t switched her phone off as Harry had surmised but was talking on it. To Steve. Trying to let him down gently, even as the door buzzer was hissing at her relentlessly.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Findlay Francis had taken the train to Weymouth, by his beloved sea. His postcards had been purchased at places along the stretch of coast road that ran like a lazy ribbon from the town to West Bay. So that was where they went, early the following morning, Friday, in Harry’s trusty Volvo, with Jemma sneaking out of a back door, trying to leave the baying of the pack behind them. It was precisely what Edwards had wanted, of course. Action. When the rabbit decides to make a run for it.
Harry, Jemma and Abby started early, sharing the driving, taking the road southwest until they ran out of motorway and were left with cluttered A-roads. It took them more than three hours and in some discomfort: the air-con wasn’t up to it.
‘What, precisely, is the plan?’ Jemma asked from the passenger seat, throwing aside the last of the newspapers. Harry had made them all, and, although they had been careful not to suggest he was guilty and get their libel lawyers in a froth, terms like ‘disgrace’, ‘humiliation’ and ‘shamed’ wound through the copy like a noose around his neck.
‘Nothing precise,’ Harry said in reply to Jemma’s question. ‘Nothing you’d call a plan, really. Just a day by the sea.’
‘I forgot to bring my bucket.’
They were all sleepless and more than a little apprehensive.
‘Abby, do you think your father might have stayed in Weymouth itself?’ Harry asked, throwing the question over his shoulder to Abby, who was sitting clad in a floppy straw hat in the back seat.
‘No, I don’t think so,’ she said eventually. ‘I’m pretty sure of that. He always wanted total peace for his writing, isolation, not crowds.’
So that was where they decided to start, on the coast road west out of Weymouth that wasn’t even up to being an A road. They passed through the small town of Chickerell without pausing until they hit the open
countryside beyond, and it didn’t take them long to become aware of the flaw in their nonexistent plan. It was all very well for Abby to suggest her father would have sought somewhere isolated, but so much of this part of the Jurassic coast stood up to that description. If Findlay had been looking for a place to hide away from prying eyes he would have been spoiled for choice. Between the gentle green folds of the hills and back from the stark cliffs that faced the sea there were kinks and crevasses in the countryside that could have hidden several armies. For centuries this coast had been the place of fishermen, pirates, smugglers, shepherds, those who valued their invisibility. Away from the coast road ran any number of lanes, farm tracks, bridleways, footpaths, walkways and meandering badger runs that had never been marked on any map, many of them too small for a vehicle and now overgrown with sum mer’s abundance. They tried each in turn yet found nothing. For a few minutes their hopes rose along one lane where the grass showed signs of ancient vehicle tracks, but at its end they found only a tumbledown cottage whose roof had disappeared decades earlier and whose empty windows stared blindly back at them. They pressed on. They had no choice.
It was well into the afternoon and Jemma was driving down a lane between steep banks, topped by thick hedgerow and overflowing with fronds of bracken and bramble, which began to narrow with every new yard. Soon the thorn bushes were attacking both sides of the car and the pavement had completely disappeared. Nothing had passed this way in many moons. Another dead end. There was no turning place and Jemma had no choice but to push the gearstick into reverse and thread her way backwards. She gained speed as the brambles retreated and the road widened. She was a good driver, confident. She twisted in her seat, and the engine whined while Abby ducked her head to give Jemma a clear view. Harry had his eyes closed, his shoulder weary from the day’s drive. Suddenly there was a chilling crack from the back of the Volvo and Jemma cried out as she slammed on the brakes. They’d hit something, hard.
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