‘Did you see those marks on her arms? If we don’t get him for the warehouse raid, we can get him for child abuse.’
‘Child?’
‘I reckon she’s about fifteen.’
‘Do you think she’s related to him?’ Mary accelerated onto the main road. The rain had begun again.
‘Why else is she there?’
‘I can think of many reasons, and none of them good.’
Berenice yawned. ‘Gavvers,’ she said.
‘Makes a change from Filth, I suppose. Or Scum.’
The radio crackled against the to and fro of the windscreen wipers.
Berenice’s phone rang, loudly. She answered, listened, then clicked it off.
‘Well, well. The drowned physicist. They’ve stopped the Post Mortem. Called in the Home Office. Bruising to the head. Fractured cheekbone. Suggests he was assaulted before he hit the water.’
‘Not suicide…’ Mary stared at her.
‘Unlawful killing. Maybe.’
‘Maybe Stuart’ll need us after all.’
Berenice looked at her. ‘He might need you…’
Mary sighed, shook her head. ‘Far be it from me to deny your radar where that kind of thing is concerned,’ she said.
‘Good.’ Berenice yawned, again, settled back in her seat. She watched the drizzle in the windscreen wipers. She thought about the physicist, his last moments, his fractured cheekbone. A fight of some kind, a scuffle on the tower. The wind, the tide high, the sea… Then falling.
Falling.
‘Maybe he was pushed,’ Mary said.
Chapter Two
The Reverend Chad Meyrick walked along the beach, his collar buttoned against the cold sea wind. He’d been telephoned by the police, that community constable, he’d met him a couple of times now, the last time was that business with the sign outside the village hall. At the time they’d found it amusing, he and Helen, how in his previous parish he’d been comforting the bereaved mothers of gang members and now here he was, having to describe a stolen parish notice board - but the policeman, PC Andrews, he was called, said, no, this time it’s quite serious, ‘You know they found a body on the beach?’
A body. Helen had told him that morning at breakfast that they’d identified the drowned man that they’d found further up the coast.
‘Yes,’ Chad had said to PC Andrews, ‘I had heard.’
‘Well, the widow has asked if you’d visit her, as she’s one of your flock, you know how it is, Sir…’
My flock…
A pebble caught his eye. A fine, smooth, pink quartz. He stooped to pick it up, held it in his hand.
I hardly know the woman. She’s probably set foot in church a handful of times. She did arrive with those flowers once, arranged them in a dingy vase by the porch, said it was a memorial. I should have pried, I suppose, I should have made it my business to find out more…’
Privacy, though. My flock should have their privacy from me, just as I should from them.
They’d not got on well, the policeman had said. But it’s still a shock for the widow, don’t you think, Sir…
He’d agreed, yes, of course, yes he’d visit her…
And now it felt like prying. Just as it felt like prying when he faced his congregation. All those questions in their eyes, why doesn’t his wife come to church, I’ve heard she’s a dancer, you know what they’re like, never was a respectable profession, and as for them not having children, it’s not as if they’re young enough to put it off…
Perhaps I’m imagining it. Perhaps they respect me. As the sheep respect their shepherd… no, that didn’t seem quite right.
He dropped the pebble, watched it bounce against the others. “To any action,” – the words came to his mind - “there is always an opposite and equal reaction. If anyone presses a stone with a finger, the finger is also pressed by the stone…”
He headed up the beach, away from the sea, wondering what had made him think of Newton, wondering how to include Newton in a sermon, imagining the faces of his congregation as he tried to explain the role of the Creator in Newton’s universe. There would be blank stares, shuffling feet, glances exchanged, the almost audible thoughts, what a shame dear old Robinson died, you knew where you were with Robinson…
He took the path away from the beach, towards the sandy track that led to the village. He noticed, once again, how the sound of the sea made an upward, rushing note, like a song.
The cottage was a low, two-storey building. Two old stone flowerpots stood either side of the door. From their damp earth projected some barren twigs and a few weeds. He knocked on the heavy wooden door, checked the directions on the scrap of paper that PC Andrews had given him, knocked again.
The woman who opened the door seemed very small, as if she’d been designed to fit the scale of the cottage. She had hair that he thought was a kind of silver colour, but it might have been blonde. Her grey eyes considered him with a blank look.
‘Mrs. Maguire?’
Her gaze scanned him, up and down. Her expression didn’t change. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘They sent you.’
‘They – they said you’d asked for me. Parish priest, you know…’
‘Their idea, not mine. Well, you’d better come in.’ She turned, abruptly, and led him into the house. Inside he was aware of warmth, the afternoon light filtering through the windows. There was a sofa, draped with a knitted patchwork blanket, a shabby leather armchair next to it, on which was curled a tabby cat.
He sat on the sofa. ‘He – he was your husband,’ he began.
She filled the kettle with water from the tap, placed it on the kitchen range. She turned to him, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘They’ve told you nothing, it’s clear,’ she said.
‘I can go if you like.’ He hadn’t meant to sound so sharp, but he felt like an intruder. He’d expected to be comforting a grief-stricken widow, and this calm, expressionless response was disconcerting.
She considered him. He felt suddenly self-conscious, as if his jacket was hanging badly, or his dog collar was dirty, or his brown brogues were muddy. He smoothed down his hair (dark brown, greying at the temples), checked his trousers, which still looked clean in spite of the walk along the sand. Something seemed to pass muster, because she softened.
‘It’s a relief, actually,’ she said, as if it had just occurred to her. ‘To have someone who doesn’t know the whole story.’
And what is the story, he was about to ask, but the whistling of the kettle drew her away from him. ‘Tea?’ she said. ‘Otherwise I’ve only got instant.’
‘Tea, then. Please.’ The cat stirred, stretched and looked at him. He reached out a hand towards it.
‘I’d be wary of her if I were you.’ She was setting out cups, a jug of milk. ‘As soon bite you as look at you, that one. Her sister was nicer-natured, but she’s long gone.’
He withdrew his hand, noticed on the table next to him a leather-bound volume. He picked it up. It showed signs of antiquity; the calf-skin cover, the thick creamy paper, the neat brown ink of the writing inside.
“We have the authority of those the oldest and most celebrated philosophers of Greece and Phoenicia, who made a vacuum, and atoms, and the gravity of atoms, the first principles – ”
‘That’s enough of that,’ she said. Her voice was loud. She turned back to the kitchen range.
Her tone had surprised him. ‘Newton,’ he said.
She didn’t reply, spooning sugar from a bag into a bowl.
‘It must be,’ he went on. ‘Greece and Phoenicia, the gravity of atoms…’
‘Nothing but trouble, that book,’ she said.
She brought the tray to the table, arranged cups and saucers.
‘Someone’s copied it out, by hand,’ he pursued, ‘some years ago, by the look of it.’
‘How do you know it’s Newton?’
He met her eyes. ‘Or someone imitating him, perhaps,’ he said. ‘But the language is familiar.’ He shrugged. ‘I s
tudied all that. A long time ago. I’m no expert.’ He turned to the first page. Two names were written there. The first, in curled archaic ink, said, ‘Johann van Mielen’; underneath, in neat pencil,‘Murdo Maguire’.
‘Milk?’
‘Just a splash.’
‘The sugar’s there.’
She settled opposite him, and the cat jumped down from the sofa and took up a position on the arm of her chair. She murmured at it, petted its neck.
He waited for a moment, then said, ‘They said – that your husband was based at the lab for some years.’
She nodded at him. ‘What else did they tell you?’
‘Nothing else. Only that I should visit you. Which was it seems, unnecessary.’
‘I wouldn’t say that.’ She reached forward to her teacup. ‘I call myself a Christian, at least.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ he said. It sounded forced, and he wished he hadn’t said it.
‘Well, it’s your job, isn’t it,’ she said. ‘Although, your God, claims to be a God of love, can’t say there’s any place for that in my life now.’
The cat yawned, then jumped down from the chair, sauntered out to the kitchen, and sat by the back door, peering out through the cat-flap.
‘He worked in physics,’ she said. ‘My husband. Worked at the East Kent Centre. Research, particle physics, neutrinos… might not mean anything to you - ’
‘Mass-less particles,’ he said. ‘Sub-atomic.’
She almost smiled. ‘Sort of, yes.’ She took a sip of tea. ‘I have called myself his wife for seventeen years, and for twelve of those we were happy.’ She looked up at him. ‘Are you married?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
She looked surprised. ‘Children?’ she said.
He shook his head.
‘But you’d like them?’
He breathed in, then out. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, I would.’
‘Your wife – ’
‘My wife used to be a dancer. Well, she still is…’
‘Don’t leave it too late,’ she said. ‘For children, I mean.’
He opened his mouth to speak, closed it again. He had a sudden urge to confide in her, this odd, blank, tightly-sealed person. To tell her all about it, the miscarriage, two years ago, the silences, the sense of loss, of being culpable, of being the one to blame for their continued infertility. There – that word. To say it out loud –
But she was speaking. ‘Drowned,’ he heard.
‘Who?’
‘Such an odd balance,’ she said. ‘First our boy, and now here he is. Choosing water.’ She looked up at him. ‘A watery grave.’ She almost smiled, but he could see, for the first time, the hint of tears in her eyes. ‘Oh, heavens, see, I’m so used to people knowing, and there you are, uncomprehending…’ She slapped her hands on her aproned lap. ‘Though I’m surprised no one’s gossiped to you about it. How many months have you been living up there now?’
‘Five,’ he said. ‘Nearly six.’
‘Hmmm,’ she said. ‘Well, it was like this. Five years ago, our son, who was eight, they went fishing, you see, out on a boat, not here, not the sea, no, a lake, further up the coast, inland, Daneswater, it’s called. And…’ Her voice cracked. ‘And he didn’t come back. Our boy. An accident, of course, capsizing, the water very cold, not a strong swimmer, you see…’ She put one hand across her eyes. She sat silent, unmoving.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘Never forgave himself.’ She straightened up, met his gaze. ‘Or perhaps it was me.’
‘What do you mean?’
She shrugged. ‘He’d say to me, you will never forgive me, never. What could I say to him? How could I help him? I’d say to him, it’s not a matter of forgiveness. It’s about how we live our lives now, how we carry on at all, given that what I wanted to do was join my son where he was, wherever that was, and I think perhaps Murdo wanted to too, and perhaps now…’ Her words faltered. ‘Perhaps now he has,’ she said.
She looked different. No longer that closed-in, empty look, her eyes now bright with tears, her face open, younger, even. He reached across and laid his hand on hers. The gesture took him by surprise, and perhaps her too, but she didn’t move, sitting still with his hand on hers, while the sea sang louder outside the window.
‘Blame,’ he said. ‘Culpability.’
She nodded, not looking at him. ‘He talked of leaving, going to Geneva. But there’s no escape. Not until you do what he’s done. I envy him, perhaps. Or perhaps not.’
The sea was a roar in the silence now, but there was another sound too, the phut-phut of an engine, a motorbike, growing louder and louder, then stuttering to a stop.
She took her hand away, as if waking from a dream, smoothed her apron, rubbed her eyes. ‘That’ll be Tom,’ she said, getting to her feet.
The door of the cottage swung open. A tall young man stood framed by the dark wood, the sunlight a glare behind him. He blinked in the dim interior. ‘Auntie.’ He nodded towards her, then turned to Chad, screwing up his eyes. ‘Who’s he?’ He pointed, his arm outstretched.
‘Tobias, dear, this is Reverend Meyrick.’
‘Ah.’ He nodded, as if with great wisdom. ‘The vicar. I’ve heard all about you,’ he said to him. He fixed Chad with a clear blue gaze.
‘Tobias,’ she said, ‘but we call him Tom. Don’t we dear? Back from work already?’ She cleared the cups onto the tray, carried them out to the sink.
He flopped onto the sofa, his eyes still fixed on Chad, combing his fingers through his thick blond hair. ‘Why is he here? Is it about Uncle Murdo?’
‘Sort of.’ She came and stood next to him, smoothed his hair with thin pale fingers. He brushed her touch away. ‘God, is it?’ He still stared at him. ‘What good can that do?’
‘Well, that’s a good question,’ Chad began, but she interrupted him. ‘He’s always like this,’ she said, as if in apology.
Tobias stood up, and paced out to the kitchen with an awkward gait, then paced back. He stood, towering over them. ‘Auntie Ginny, if you drown, is it like breathing water in the end? Roger at work said it was like breathing water.’
‘That’s what people say,’ she said.
‘He said it wasn’t horrible at all in the end. But how can he know? He hasn’t drowned, has he? And what if it wasn’t like that for Uncle Murdo?’ He began to pace again, circling the room. ‘Can I have chips?’ He stopped again. ‘Can I have money to buy chips out on the corner? I wanted chips with Lisa but she had no money.’
‘Lisa?’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘I didn’t know you’d seen her.’
‘And she had no ketchup,’ he went on. ‘Nothing. Nothing in that caravan fridge. That’s why she’s thin, I think.’ He stood next to Virginia, his arm held out, palm upwards. She bent to her handbag, fished out some coins, placed them in his hand. ‘Not too much, now, Tom, remember?’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘But ketchup too. I’m allowed ketchup.’ He was gone, lurching out of the door, striding down the path.
The room seemed smaller without him.
‘He’s not quite…’ she began. ‘Twenty-four, he is. He came to live with us when…’ She bent to plump the cushions on the sofa. ‘I say he’s my nephew, actually he’s my cousin’s son, but it’s easier. She died, poor Jenny, breast cancer. There was no one else to look after him.’ She glanced up. ‘Best thing that ever happened to us, it turned out. We all adored him. And it was company for me, for us, after…’ She lowered herself onto the sofa, as if suddenly exhausted. ‘He works at the lab, where my husband worked. Just a jobbing assistant sort of thing, nothing technical. They found it for him at the Job Centre, but it’s wrong for him, he’s usually such a calm boy, but these days he comes back full of worries, you saw him just then. Odd friends too, eating chips with the Voake girl, probably the only meal she ever gets…’ She stopped, breathed, continued. ‘Of course, this news makes it harder, not related to my husband at all, but close, they were, close, on top of all his ot
her losses. He’s taken to…’ She paused, breathed, continued, ‘…things about the work there, they worry him, atoms and things, the idea of smashing them. And the machines are huge, they frighten him. He’s always asking questions, and of course, I can’t answer him.’ She reached absently for the diary, put it back down. ‘I’m trying to get him something else. He had some work experience at the DIY shop in town for a few weeks, he loved it there, but they couldn’t afford to keep him. Something like that, though, he’s happier with simple things.’
She glanced across at him. He met her gaze, then looked away. His eye fell on the book on the table, and he repressed the urge to pick it up again. Instead, he reached for his coat which was draped over the sofa behind him. ‘Well, Mrs. Maguire,’ he began.
‘Virginia,’ she said.
He felt that a concession had been made. ‘Virginia,’ he repeated, getting to his feet. Again their eyes met. He struggled into his coat, tied his scarf around his neck. He hesitated, trying to find the right words. ‘I won’t pretend I can offer you any help at all,’ he said. ‘But please don’t hesitate to ask. I’m in the office in the church, or at the vicarage, you can always find me there…’ He stopped, disconcerted by her unflinching gaze.
She nodded. ‘Thank you,’ she said.
They heard the scrunch of heavy footsteps, and the door swung open.
‘Mayonnaise too, is that all right Auntie?’ Tobias was smiling at them from the doorway.
She smiled back at him. ‘Yes, love. That’s all right.’
‘You’re wearing your coat.’ Tobias spoke through a mouthful, waving a chip at him. His fingers were smeared with ketchup.
‘Reverend Meyrick is just going,’ she said.
‘Do call me Chad,’ he said.
‘Chad,’ Tobias repeated. ‘Charlie Chad.’ He waved another chip in his direction. ‘Do you speak to God, then?’ His tone was conversational.
‘Well,’ Chad began. ‘Yes. I suppose I do.’
‘And does he say anything back?’ Tobias placed his paper bundle of chips on the table. ‘When I’ve tried, I’ve listened and listened but I’ve never heard anything at all.’
Dying to Know (A Detective Inspector Berenice Killick Mystery) Page 2
