by James Runcie
‘We’ve met before,’ said Sidney on being introduced, ‘at the audit dinner in Corpus.’
‘You must be mistaken.’
‘I don’t think so. It was on the fifth of September, when The Gospel Book of St Augustine was on display.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘In Cambridge.’
‘I can assure you that I was not there.’
‘Not in your current guise.’
‘What on earth do you mean by that?’
‘You impersonated the cathedral agent of Canterbury.’
‘And why would I do a thing like that?’
‘You tell me.’
‘I do not know who you are,’ the man continued. ‘We have never met. We haven’t even been introduced correctly. I am here to do some business with Mr Torrens. Please do excuse us. I am sure you have other concerns that take up your time.’
‘This is my only concern, Mr Simeone. You made sure that you were locked into the Parker Library at Corpus not because you wanted to steal the gospel book but because you had to check the burglar alarm and security system,’ Sidney explained. ‘You watched the chaplain lock up and set the alarm, and then questioned the porters closely when they came to rescue you. Later, when you were having your nightcap with the Master, you asked if you could borrow a book. I am guessing that it was an Illustrated History of the Coptic Church. While the Master went to fetch it you took his library key from the rack and replaced it with a similar key so that he would not notice the loss. The front door of the Lodge could hardly be closer to the Library. It would take moments to slip in, steal the gospel book and use the dustcover of the book on the Coptic Church to disguise it. You then left the college with what appeared to be a recent publication under your cloak.’
‘That is very interesting, Archdeacon. I don’t know how you can ever prove it.’
‘And that’s where I come in,’ said Geordie, stepping forward to introduce himself.
The enthronement of Donald Coggan took place in Canterbury Cathedral on 24 January 1975. The new archbishop passed a small, silent, anti-Roman Catholic protest outside the cathedral and knocked three times with his pastoral staff on the great West Door to gain admittance. He was dressed in a gold and red cope decorated with the arms of the towns, cities and colleges with which he had been associated throughout his life and processed up the Nave to make his solemn vows on the gospel book, and then be twice enthroned, blessed by the Archbishop of Kenya and welcomed by representatives of the Anglican communion and other faiths from across the globe. He preached on the text of John 16:33: ‘In the world you shall have tribulation. But be of good cheer. I have overcome the world.’ He spoke of how the Church militant expects wounds, for it follows a wounded Lord, but that we should be filled with the confidence to overcome our fears. ‘We are on the victory side of Calvary,’ he concluded. ‘We are children of the Resurrection.’
The pale winter light gave the stained glass an even luminosity, the low sun hitting the tops of the well-worn steps that led up to the High Altar. The sheer volume of the hymn-singing, ‘Immortal, Invisible,’ caused the pages of the gospel book to flutter lightly, as if the breath of God were upon them. The final organ voluntary resounded through the stone, its deep bass affirming that a church had survived on this spot through the centuries and would continue to occupy holy ground until the end of time, greater than any individual life or congregation that filled it, offering up one final Hallelujah to the promise of redemption from death and the joy of life everlasting.
Sidney stood between his wife and Ralph Mumford, and looked at all the other clergy in their pomp, their ceremonial roles stretching back across history, enjoying their moment amidst the glory and the splendour, and wondered what his life would be like when the next Archbishop of Canterbury was appointed, and how much more tribulation he would have to overcome before then.
The Long Hot Summer
In the summer of 1976 it never seemed to rain at all. There was a nationwide hosepipe ban, water rationing in Wales and fires in the New Forest. A specially appointed Minister for Drought demanded that Britain halve its water consumption. Car washes were outlawed, fountains were shut off and most people were unable to find an open swimming pool. Sidney noticed in The Times that the Kensington Institute was taking advantage of the conditions to advertise a course in ‘water divining’. He wondered who would sign up.
He was on a train to London to see Gloria Dee’s ‘Farewell to Europe’ tour at the club owned by his brother-in-law, Johnny Johnson. He had first heard the great singer over twenty-five years ago when she had been a still-youthful firecracker. Now she had turned into a diva, ‘the Cleopatra of Jazz’.
Hildegard was with him, and they opened all the windows in their carriage to create as much of a breeze as possible. Outside lay the wilting flowers, parched earth and brown lawns of England’s once-proud gardens. There were a few exceptions, where owners had either been canny with their bathwater or had taken to illicit watering at night, but there was enough green grass and blooming roses to make Sidney remark that if only it was as straightforward to spot a murder suspect then his life, and Geordie’s, would be a lot easier.
‘Do you ever stop?’ Hildegard asked.
‘I’ve stopped now.’
‘You promise?’
‘Always on duty. You know that.’
‘As a priest. Not as a detective.’
‘I am always on duty as a husband.’
‘Good.’ Hildegard smiled. ‘I am intrigued to see the woman you once admired so much. I hope she does not distract you.’
Sidney was glad that he could take his wife to hear the legendary performer before she retired. He only hoped that Gloria was not ill. Weren’t jazz singers supposed to go on until they dropped?
There was no air conditioning in the club, but Johnny had installed a series of fans and kept the doors open between acts. It was still, however, a hot and crowded occasion, with men in summer shirts and women in light cotton dresses, sleeveless tops and billowing skirts. There were few young faces. Gloria’s fans had aged with her. And so, as Sidney sat beside his wife and sister Jennifer, he wondered if jazz music was becoming rather like the Church of England, an acquired taste, soon to be out of date, replaced by an easier, popular, secular culture?
Gloria was wearing a yellow silk trouser suit with a matching rose in her dark hair that had been swept up to give her height an extra three inches. Sidney remembered how intoxicated he had felt when he had first met her, the exhilaration of her presence, the sensual smell of sweat, gardenia and tuberose, and, as she sang, he surrendered once more to a voice that had mellowed like a 25-year-old malt whisky. It was all honey-smoke, peat and flame.
The first set was a straight run through some of the old standards – ‘Satin Doll’, ‘The Girl from Ipanema’, ‘How High the Moon’, ‘Caravan’, ‘Mean to Me’ – and although she took them at what was, perhaps, a slower tempo than her recordings, Gloria replaced speed with a languorous seductiveness that seemed to suit the Alabama heat of the evening.
Hildegard was impressed by the singing and amused by her husband’s adoration, and remembered that this was what it had been like the first time they had gone to a jazz concert together, the Eric Dolphy Quintet in Berlin in 1961. It was when she had first known for sure that she would marry him, and as she recalled that night, her husband seemed fifteen years younger, the man she had found at last and knew that she would always love. She reached for his hand and held it as Gloria sang, smiling as her husband occasionally clicked his fingers and even, at one point, shouted out: ‘Yeah!’
In the break between sets, as everyone cooled down and ordered more drinks, Jennifer took them to meet the great performer backstage. Every time Sidney saw his sister he was perplexed at how similar and fond they were of each other and yet how little time they spent together. How could it be that families could drift apart so easily over the years?
As soon as Gloria spotted Sidney s
he put her hand to her mouth in mock-horror at the sight of him. ‘Careful, boys, there’s been a murder.’
‘Nothing like that, I’m pleased to report.’
‘You surprise me, Preacher Man.’
‘You remember me?’
‘You’re kinda hard to forget. I only hope you haven’t brought trouble. I seem to remember how it follows you around.’
Twenty years ago, Gloria had been singing when there was a murder in the toilets. She informed Sidney that she had seen plenty of suffering and it was always about love or money. ‘Those things go together the whole damn time.’
Now he told her that he hoped London wasn’t proving too hot. The weather had been extremely oppressive lately.
‘Too hot?’ Gloria almost spat. ‘Do you think a woman who comes from where I’m from can ever be too hot? Is there such a thing as being too darn hot?’
‘I’m sorry. I should have expressed myself differently.’
Hildegard changed the subject by saying what a pleasure it was to be there. As a musician she appreciated both Gloria’s voice and her piano playing.
‘Perhaps you should accompany me, honey?’
‘I’m only a teacher. It’s nothing glamorous. I trained as a classical pianist.’
‘And so did I. Studied classical. I can play that stuff too.’
‘I can tell.’
‘You’re too kind, sweetheart. Although I’m not sure if I can keep it up for much longer. I’m too old for touring. Going to be seventy come December.’
‘You don’t look it,’ said Jennifer.
‘I used to lie about my age in the past,’ Gloria continued. ‘I had to say I was so much older than I really was so I could play in the clubs that served liquor. Then I started to lie that I was younger than I was so no one would think I was past caring. That’s what my life has been, honey, a pack of lies.’
She turned back to Hildegard. ‘So you’re the woman that tamed the preacher?’
‘And you’re the woman that got away?’
‘He didn’t run fast enough to catch me, baby.’
‘It didn’t feel like that at the time,’ said Sidney.
‘Oh, you know, preacher, I was only kidding you. That flirting never meant a damned thing.’
Gloria returned to do her final set – ‘April in Paris’, ‘How Long Has This Been Going On?’, ‘Let’s Do It’, and ‘Ain’t Nobody’s Business’ – while Hildegard smiled at her husband and gave him a little nudge.
‘“Never meant a damned thing” . . . Poor you.’
‘She also said she was an habitual liar.’
‘Are you disappointed?’
‘Of course not. I love you and only you.’
‘It’s so good to hear you say that.’
‘You think I don’t say it often enough?’
‘I think we should remind each other as much as we can. It’s my fault as much as yours.’
They looked steadfastly at each other, surprised by the moment, and kissed each other on the lips.
Despite the exhilaration of the music Sidney felt nostalgic, thinking that this celebratory liveliness was locked in the past, already swept away by relentless disco and the emerging anger of punk. Gloria’s singing seemed like the end of an era or the conclusion of a holiday in a beautiful landscape to which he would never return.
She finished with three encores, the last being ‘It Don’t Mean a Thing If It Ain’t Got That Swing’, and it was almost two in the morning when the family finally got back to Kentish Town. Sidney was still holding the gardenia his heroine had thrown to him at the culmination of the show.
‘Let me put that in some water,’ said Hildegard. ‘Unless you’d like to take it to bed with you?’
‘Thank you,’ her husband replied, handing it over. ‘You know you’re all that I need.’
‘You say the nicest things when you’re feeling guilty, Sidney.’
They were awoken next morning by a commotion at breakfast. Jennifer was quizzing her youngest son Dan about his elder brother’s whereabouts. It seemed that Louis Johnson had not come home the previous evening.
‘He’s not allowed to stay out overnight without asking us first,’ said Jennifer, ‘even in the school holidays. What the hell’s he playing at? Do you know where he went?’
Dan was finishing his bowl of Weetabix. ‘He didn’t say.’
‘When did you last see him?’ Sidney asked.
‘It was after Are You Being Served? He said he wouldn’t be long but I shouldn’t wait up.’
‘Was Louis supposed to be your babysitter?’
‘I’m not a baby.’
‘Sorry. But he was responsible for looking after you.’
Jennifer interrupted. ‘It’s bloody irresponsible, if you ask me.’
‘Are you taking me to tennis coaching?’ Dan asked.
‘You can get the bus,’ his mother replied.
‘I’ll be late.’
‘Don’t you care about your brother?’
‘He’s probably with Amy.’
‘I thought they’d split up.’
Once Dan had left for tennis and Amy’s mother had been telephoned and expressed surprise, and not a little anger, that the Johnson family would think their son would be allowed to stay over with her daughter on any night at all, let alone the last one, it was clear that something was wrong.
‘Where the hell has that little shit got to then?’ said Johnny.
‘Don’t call him that,’ said Jennifer.
‘Well, he is. Selfish bastard. Only thinks of himself.’
‘I wonder where he gets it from.’
The Johnsons spent the rest of the morning ringing round everyone they knew.
No one had seen their son.
He was fifteen years old.
Missing.
‘Please,’ said Hildegard, ‘let Sidney stay and help you.’
‘I’m sure it’s nothing,’ her husband replied.
‘Will you stay, though?’ Jennifer asked. ‘I’m worried.’
Sidney looked to his wife for an answer. Hildegard had to get home for her teaching and to pick up Anna from her friend Sophie’s house. She offered to let the dean know about the situation and cancel Sidney’s appointments for the next twenty-four hours. Members of the cathedral staff were all too familiar with such absences, but they could hardly object when this was a family matter and, in any case, most of them were away in August.
Sidney searched his nephew’s room for clues. There was a corkboard with Louis’s ticket to a free festival at Watchfield; a Polaroid photo showing some friends gathered around a punch bowl in the kitchen at a party; and a Shoot magazine centrefold of the Arsenal team for the season 1975–6.
As well as his O-level textbooks (biology, maths and physics) and files for English, history, French and geography, Louis’s bookshelf contained Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, Kerouac’s On the Road and Sartre’s Nausea. By his bed and on the floor were scattered old copies of NME, punk fanzines, leaflets and alternative magazines – Black Flag, Freedom, Outa Control – together with a 30p handbook for student militants: The Little Red Struggler.
In the rest of the room, despite the overwhelming evidence of teenage taste, there were still reminders of Louis’s younger self: a junior athletics trophy, a framed family photograph from a Normandy holiday and a teddy bear that had been given a punk make-over with an eye-patch, slashed T-shirt and a pair of safety pins.
Sidney noticed the Hendrix recording of ‘Hey Joe’ on top of an Amstrad amplifier. He remembered that it was a song about a man on the run after killing his wife.
Jennifer was in the little back washroom, trying to work out what her son had been wearing by going through his clothes.
‘I knew there was something wrong,’ she told her brother as they re-gathered in the kitchen and thought about what to do next. ‘I told myself not to let him out of my sight. But what can I do? Louis’s so wilful, Johnny’s out the whole bloody time. The holidays
are just a nightmare.’
Her husband tried to defend himself by going on the attack. ‘You nag him too much.’
‘Oh, so you’re saying it’s my fault?’
‘It’s nobody’s fault,’ Sidney interrupted, ‘and we don’t know for certain that anything’s wrong. Has there been any evidence of truancy?’
‘None as far as we know,’ Johnny replied. ‘We thought he was all right. He’s got good friends.’
‘Any new ones? Older ones?’
‘Don’t, Sidney . . .’ said Jennifer.
‘Let him ask what he needs to ask,’ said Johnny. ‘He’s had enough practice. Do you mean people not at the school? Someone who might have led him astray?’
‘That is a possibility.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘We can’t discount anything.’
‘He joined CND, if that means something.’
‘It will to Louis. What about drink, smoking?’
‘And drugs,’ said Johnny. ‘I suppose you’re going to ask about them too?’
‘The police will want to know everything. We had better get our story right.’
‘The police?’
It was not as if the Johnson family were unknown to the authorities. Johnny’s father had been an infamous burglar; his sister, Claudette, had been murdered; and there had even been a shoplifting scare with Louis when he’d got in with the wrong people in his first year at secondary school.
‘We can’t lose any more time. I think you’d both better come with me. They’ll want to know everything about Louis, the good as well as the bad.’
