The two children said a smiling “hello” in unison. I would have guessed that Rachael was about 11, and Ben perhaps 9. Ian’s eyes twinkled as he spoke again.
“I didn’t realise that the two of you were going out,” he said, looking delighted. “And I’m not sure I would have guessed that you were pantomime fans.”
“It’s actually my first visit,” said Katie. “And it’s only our second date, so I haven’t decided if I’m going to put up with him yet.” She squeezed my arm as she said this last part.
“In that case, I hope you enjoy it,” Ian answered. “Will you just excuse me for a moment? If I don’t go and get these two some sweets from the kiosk, they'll lynch me.”
He headed off across the room towards the sweet counter with Rachael and Ben in hot pursuit.
“You have a lovely family,” I observed to Lisa.
“Thank you,” she said. “But don’t be fooled by the children’s angelic appearance. They have their moments, but on the whole we are all very happy together.”
“Ian’s help has made such a big difference to the centre.” Katie told her. “Things were really starting to get a bit desperate, but thanks to him it’s completely turned around.”
“It’s done him a lot of good as well,” Lisa replied. “I was starting to get quite worried about him for a time; even though the business was going so well, he seemed more and more frustrated and on edge. But having something worthwhile to do like helping your work at the centre has made such a big difference. He’s so relaxed and contented at home now, it’s wonderful.”
The line of conversation was ended as Ian and the children returned, clutching several large bags of sweets.
“What have you bought all those for?” Lisa asked in mock despair.
“Well, they couldn’t agree on what to have so I just bought them a bag each,” Ian countered. “Anyway, they’re not all for us.” He turned and handed a large bag of dolly mixtures to Katie. “You can’t have the full pantomime experience if you haven’t got some sweets to munch through during the show. I’ll let you decide if you’re going to share any of them with Jack!”
“You’re obviously quite an expert,” Katie laughed, accepting the present. “Do you come here every year?”
“We have for the last six years,” Rachael answered.
“I like it because it’s funny,” Ben added. “But Rach likes it because she fancies the baddie!”
Rachael went slightly pink and, with a muttered “I do not”, punched her brother on the arm.
“You see what I mean,” Lisa commented. “We come every New Year’s Eve now. It’s become one of our family traditions.”
Just then, the staff opened the doors to the auditorium itself, and the crowd began to surge forwards.
“We’d better head upstairs,” Ian said.
“We’re in a box,” Ben said proudly.
“Very nice,” Katie commented. “Don’t forget to give us a wave if you spot us.”
With that, they went up the staircase, and Katie and I joined the queue for the stalls. Before too long, we had found our seats, which were indeed right at the back, just in front of the light and sound control desk.
The pantomime is an old British tradition. When it first started, it was at a time when almost all the productions performed at the theatre were aimed exclusively at adults. The pantomime was meant to give an opportunity for the whole family to go together to a show, and so introduce the children to the theatre. The stories used were from a fairly short list of well loved fairy tales; many of which have since been made even more well known by Disney – Snow White, Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, Aladdin and so on.
These days, though, it seems to me that the pantomime has more or less lost its way. The same stories are used, and the special effects are more dazzling, and lots of people still go. However, the humour seems to be struggling (after all, how many years can you be entertained by endlessly shouting “He’s behind you”). The cast lists too have become more and more a roll-call of celebrities whose fifteen minutes of fame ran out long ago, or people who used to star in some Australian soap opera. Most families, I suspect heave a huge sigh of relief when their children reach an age that they can be safely declared “too old for the pantomime”.
Everywhere that is, except in York (and perhaps a few other fortunate places which I’m not aware of). The cast that does the annual pantomime hardly changes from year to year. Most of them have appeared on television from time to time, but they’re not exactly household names. The lead player, the dame (a man dressed up as a woman for the uninitiated), writes the pantomime each year – he’s already clocked up his thirtieth, and cheerfully describes it each time as “the same old rubbish as last year”.
Despite that, it never is. Yes, some of the jokes are ones that would probably have made Noah groan, but each year the show subtly incorporates the current issues and trends. There is a genuine slapstick genius in much of what happens on the stage, especially in the elaborate set-piece which always ends in a large tank of water. By far the funniest part of the show though is the part that isn’t scripted. All the main actors are so comfortable with each other that they spend much of each performance improvising in an attempt to score points off, or throw completely, their fellow cast members.
Somehow, for two hours, you feel as if you are part of the family as well. It’s a phenomenon that means people return year after year, even after the children they originally came to bring have grown up and left home. Judging by the dedications read out at the end, it’s also a popular place for family reunions.
I glanced often at Katie during the performance. She was clearly as entranced as I’d hoped. She laughed out loud often and sang at the top of her voice in the final boys verses girls singing contest. She was almost jumping out of her seat at the end in an attempt to attract one of the Wagon Wheels or bottle of Newcastle Brown Ale which are given out to selected people.
“That was fantastic,” she said as we emerged arm in arm into the cold early evening air. “I never dreamed that I’d enjoy it so much.”
“Next time, we’ll sit a bit nearer the front,” I promised. “That way you might have a better chance of getting your hands on the beer.”
Katie had parked her car at the far end of town, so we set off on a leisurely stroll to get to it. Her party was a few hours off, so we decided to go the long way, through some of the more picturesque parts of the city.
As we began to walk, Katie reached across and took hold of my hand. Despite the chill of the evening, her hand was warm and soft. As we gazed in through the windows of some of the shops in the Shambles, a cobbled street where the buildings on either side are so close that you could easily hold hands from opposite upstairs windows, it began to snow.
Katie gasped. “It’s just like being in a fairy tale ourselves,” she said in wonder.
We both turned to each other in a moment of silent telepathy, and began to kiss. For some minutes we stood in the middle of the street lost in each other’s lips, oblivious to the amused passers-by and to the thick flakes of snow that were collecting on our coats and hair. Finally, we managed to pull apart and stood in silence for a time, Katie’s head resting softly on my shoulder. She looked up at me, her eyes shining.
“Come with me this evening,” she invited. “I don’t want to be apart from you.”
I was so tempted, but was still wary of rushing things. “I can’t tonight,” I said eventually. “But I’ll come with you next year.”
Katie’s face was questioning. “I’m going to hold you to that,” she replied.
“I hope so,” I said, and leant forwards to kiss her again.
The snow continued falling heavily as we continued our walk through the city. Already it was starting to settle on the pavements. There were very few people around now. People sometimes talk about time seeming to stand still, but this was the first time I had ever experienced the sensation. Maybe it was the after effects of the pantomime but it did feel as
if the two of us had been transported in to a magical place.
Turning into the street where Katie had parked, and standing beside the car broke the spell, and we hugged each other goodbye. Katie made one last attempt to get me to change my mind, but I used the excuse of Samuel and Ruth’s party to say no again, and waved her off as she drove around the corner.
In fact, I’d already made my mind up that I wasn’t going out to Samuel and Ruth’s. Today had just been such a perfect day I wanted the chance to relax on my own and remember it.
Not many lights were on in the windows of my apartment block – it’s not exactly the sort of place to host a big party so I guessed that most of my fellow residents had gone out for the night. I switched on the television and poured myself a drink.
There was no doubt that my feelings for Katie were already very strong. I might have many doubts about the wisdom of starting on a relationship but when we were together, my only thought was how captivating I found her.
There’s something very sad about television on New Year’s Eve. I’ve never quite seen the appeal in watching other people partying. It feels a bit like being the guest at the party who’s stuck in the doorway to the kitchen, watching everyone else having a really good time. If you’re doomed to watch it at home, it has got to be the best way imaginable of bringing to the fore all your feelings of loneliness and sadness. The last two years I’d made myself sit through it, because irrationally there feels something profoundly wrong in the idea of going to bed before midnight.
This year the programmes were just as dismal as usual. Nonetheless, I had a strong feeling of contentment as the images flickered before my eyes. As Big Ben began to chime in the New Year, and the world inside my television became a place of cheering and ticker tape, I had the most unfamiliar sensation. I think it’s called hope.
Chapter Twenty
My plan for New Years Day was to have a long lie in and then treat myself to a cooked breakfast, which would serve as my lunch as well. My first clue that this wasn’t going to be the way the day worked out came from an insistent buzzing which brought to an end to a dream about a pacific island.
Now I was half awake, the buzzing seemed louder. I opened my eyes and blearily identified the source of the noise. It was the signal that someone was at the front door. My clock read eight thirty as I made my way across the room to answer it.
“Hello?” I said, in a voice that was more croaky than efficient.
“Mr. Bailey, it’s Detective Inspectors Smith and Palmer,” came a female voice. “We need to come up to speak to you.”
“I’ll buzz you in,” I said, my heart sinking. The last thing I wanted to start the new year was a long conversation about the author of the anonymous letters. “Just give me a few minutes to pull some clothes on before you knock on the flat door, OK?”
The button hummed as I pressed it, and I hurriedly ran around the room to retrieve some jeans, and a t-shirt and jumper. I had just begun to pull them on when there was a firm knock at the door.
“Just a minute!” I called.
Once I was dressed, I went into the bathroom and splashed some water on my face and sticking up hair, in an attempt to look a little more composed. Then I went and opened the door. The two detectives came in, their faces grim.
“Mr. Bailey,” Michael Palmer began. “We would like you to accompany us to the police station, where we intend to formally question you about the murder of Christopher Upton.”
I stared at him in astonishment for astonishment for a few moments, trying to grasp what he had just said. As the implications began to sink in, a great weight settled in my stomach.
“Am I under arrest?” I asked, my voice shaking as I formed the words.
“That’s an interesting reaction,” he countered. “No, you are not under arrest at this time. You do, however, have the right to have a lawyer present at the interview. You may call one now to meet us at the station if you so wish.”
I considered this for a moment. I didn’t have a friendly lawyer that I could call on, and I doubted that many were at their desk at this time of the morning on New Year’s Day. In any case, I couldn’t see that I had much information to give them.
“No, I’ve nothing to hide. I’ll talk to you by myself.” I answered.
A large smile spread over DI Palmer’s face. “That’s exactly what I told Detective Inspector Smith you’d say. It’s much better if we keep this thing personal, don’t you think? More fun for both of us.”
“I find your comments exceptionally insensitive and distasteful,” I answered, anger starting to rise. “It takes a pretty sick person to find the death of anyone fun.”
“Not as sick as the bastard who did it,” he replied, still smiling without humour. “Shall we go?”
I rode to the police station in the back of Michael’s Mercedes. None of us spoke during the short journey. I was still trying to get my head around the news that Christopher was dead. Once we arrived, they escorted me to the same interview room in which I had spoken to Laura Smith just a few days earlier.
Michael Palmer produced a tape recorder and introduced the three of us for the benefit of the tape. It was clear that he was going to take the lead in this interrogation.
“Let’s make a start then,” he said. “Mr. Bailey can you confirm that you have waived the right to having a solicitor present?”
“I have,” I answered.
“Perhaps you’d like to explain the nature of your relationship with Reverend Upton.”
“Christopher was the vicar of the church which I attend. I probably go on average once or twice a month, but he was very good at getting to know all the people who come to his church. He also leads – led - a house group which I attended from time to time.”
“So your relationship was nothing more than that of any ordinary member of the church?”
“On the whole, that’s true,” I admitted. “But in the last few weeks he seemed to be quite ill. He looked tired and worn out, and didn’t seem to be coping. I was concerned about him.”
“And how did this concern of yours manifest itself?”
“I had phoned him on a number of occasions, and made a point of asking how he was whenever we saw each other.”
“How frequently did you visit him at his house?”
“I never visited him at his house,” I said, and then continued quickly as he looked about to interrupt me. “Except on Christmas Day. After the service he invited me back to his house for a drink. He seemed to need someone to talk to so I accepted. I was probably there for about half an hour."
“What did the two of you discuss during this meeting?”
“It’s hard to put into words,” I answered. “Christopher seemed very troubled by something, but he wasn’t ready to open up about what it was exactly. He seemed anxious that people were only remembered by the bad things that they’d done, and not by the whole of their lives.”
The two of them exchanged a look. Clearly this meant something to them.
“So you claim that Christmas Day was your one and only visit to the Vicarage?” DI Smith said suddenly.
“It was my only visit,” I insisted.
“And that Reverend Upton was in good health when you left him?” she continued.
“He seemed very despondent but, yes, other than that, he was in good health.”
“And so it was on Christmas Day that he showed you the anonymous letter that he’d received?” Michael Palmer said suddenly.
This question took me by surprise. “I don’t know anything about an anonymous note,” I replied.
“I want you to think very carefully about this Mr. Bailey.” He said, speaking slowly and heavily. “In the event that we have discovered your fingerprints on the letter, you would need an explanation of how they got there. Assuming that you’re not going to confess to being the author of the note, the only possible explanation is that you were shown the note by Reverend Upton. I will ask you again. Did Christopher Upton show you the
anonymous letter he had received?”
There was a definite crackle of tension in the air. I answered as slowly and deliberately as he had posed the question.
“I have no knowledge of any letter that was sent to Christopher. So clearly, he did not show it to me. If my fingerprints are on such a letter, I cannot explain how they came to be there.”
The silence that followed seemed to stretch on for an age. Finally, DI Palmer smiled and nodded.
“Very good,” he answered, almost approvingly. “As you’ve guessed, your prints aren’t on the letter. I was hoping you wouldn’t be sure, and would lie about having been shown it to cover yourself. It was worth a try, but I had a feeling you’d keep your nerve.”
My dislike of him was growing. “It wasn’t a case of keeping my nerve,” I answered coldly. “I genuinely don’t know anything about a note. What did it say?”
“Excuse us for a moment,” he answered and they both stood up. He leant towards the recorder. “The interview was suspended at 9.05 am.”
They left the room. I could hear the sound of murmuring through the door for a few minutes, but couldn’t make out the words. Before long the sound faded, and I was left alone with my thoughts. My mind was in turmoil with the shocks of the morning. Did the mention of another letter mean that this was connected with Jennifer’s death? If it was, was this what the letter I received was hinting at? How did killing Christopher “prove that religion was untrue”? I was determined to find out some of the answers before I left the police station.
Eventually, the door behind me opened and both of them walked into the room and sat down opposite me. Michael was holding a plastic evidence bag in his hand. He turned the tape on again, and spoke.
“Interview recommenced at 9.30am, those present as before. Detective Inspector Palmer has brought into the room evidence bag reference CU17/301, containing the letter recovered from Reverend Upton.
He turned to me. “We’ve agreed that you may see the note. You’ll have to read it inside the evidence bag.” He handed the bag to me. As I looked at the note, my worst fears were confirmed.
Shaping the Ripples Page 15
