by Anne Coates
“Hello this is St John’s Vicarage. Father Patrick is unable to take your call but please leave a message and…”
Hannah hung up. That was the third time she’d called. She’d left a message the first time, just asking the priest to call her but that was four hours ago and she thought he’d have checked his messages by now. It gave her an uneasy feeling. She looked at the leaflet he’d given her detailing all the church services. None was scheduled for this morning but there were evening prayers at five o’clock. Maybe she should just turn up?
Hannah could hear the murmur of voices and headed towards them. Two rather smartly dressed women sat conspicuously apart from three people who, from their attire, looked as though they were from Cardboard City. Just to one side the priest sat reading the prayers and pausing as the tiny congregation made the responses. As Hannah approached the priest looked up and smiled. She stood rooted to the spot. It was not Father Patrick.
The priest waved his hand to a seat and continued. Hannah sat down and one of the tramps indicated the page they were on in the prayer book. Hannah’s mouth was so dry she could only mouth the unfamiliar words. In contrast her hands were clammy and her heart was pounding. At last the service seemed to be coming to a conclusion as the priest said: “May Christ, who has opened the kingdom of heaven, bring us to reign with him in glory.”
There was a mumbled “Amen”.
“Let us bless the Lord. Alleluia, alleluia.”
This time the response was a little louder: “Thanks be to God. Alleluia, alleluia.”
For a few moments there was silence then everyone started making moves to leave.
“Hello – are you all right? You looked as though you’d seen a ghost when you came in.” The priest had sat down beside her, his white cropped hair in sharp contrast to his black clerical robes. “Is there anything I can help you with. I…”
“Where’s Father Patrick?” Even to her own ears she sounded rude. “I’m sorry, it’s just I came here specifically to see him. Is he at the vicarage?”
Something changed in the priest’s expression. Briefly he looked angry but this was quickly replaced with a smile.
“I’m sorry he’s been called away.”
“Where?”
“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say but he could be gone for some time. Is there anything I can help you with?”
“I’m not sure… There was a murder here not long ago… My friend Liz Rayman –
“Aye the dentist lady,” one of the tramps who had been standing nearby interrupted. “Terrible. Terrible thing.” He looked close to tears and sat down abruptly.
Hannah thought the priest looked irritated. She was right.
“Well I don’t want to rush you but I have to get over to St Faith’s for Mass. Perhaps we could continue this conversation…?”
The invitation hung in the air.
“Can I contact Fr Patrick by letter?
“You could try sending a letter care of the Archdeacon but I wouldn’t count on receiving a reply in the near future.”
“But I don’t understand…”
The priest looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Give me your telephone number and I’ll see what I can do.”
Hannah fished in her bag then handed him her card. “And you are?”
“Father Anthony. And now I really must lock up the church and leave.”
Hannah heard her name. It came again. “Hannah…”
“Yes?” she listened for a reply. Nothing. The room was completely dark and she realised that she must have been dreaming. She turned to look at the clock radio. 3.45. That’s all she needed – another broken night’s sleep. But these days, it wasn’t Elizabeth who disturbed her slumbers but her namesake Liz. Elizabeth now slept through the night. Liz would sleep forever.
She could feel the sob rise in her throat. During the day it was easier to guard against the horrendous thoughts that threatened to overcome her at night. She wondered how Lady Rayman coped. How do you carry on living when your child has not just died but been brutally murdered? Senselessly killed it would seem. There was no rhyme or reason as to why anyone would want to end to a life that not only had done much good, going out to work in areas of desperate need but which also had had the promise of another life. A double tragedy. Her last image of Liz seemed seered onto her eyelids every time she closed her eyes. She was way out of her depth, just as Tom had suggested.
Hannah’s thoughts anchored on Tom. She hadn’t heard from him since their brief conversation after Celia had had the private post mortem carried out. She wondered why. None of the police who were purportedly investigating Liz’s murder had been in contact with her or returned her calls. A conspiracy of silence culminating in Father Patrick’s disappearance. No one had contacted her from whomever it was in the church who dealt with these matters. Although what matters these were Hannah was at a loss to know.
Hannah picked up the notebook she kept on her bedside table. If she couldn’t sleep, she could make a list of things she needed to do. But pencil poised, she wrote nothing. Something was eluding her, she knew. And above all else she knew that Liz’s funeral was being planned by her mother who had asked Hannah to read a poem and say a few words. With terrible clarity she remembered the last funeral when she’d delivered the eulogy. Caroline’s. No comparison.
She thought of those who had attended – prostitutes, tramps who turned out to be not what they seemed. The sad lost property clerk. What was his name? It saddened Hannah that she no longer remembered. But maybe there was someone just like him at Waterloo?
She thought of the men and women living rough in what was termed “Cardboard City” in the underpasses by the station and opposite the church. Maybe she should make an effort to engage with them.
The thought didn’t appeal. Some of them looked terrifying and for the life of her she couldn’t understand how Liz had come to be working with them. At least for Father Patrick it must have been part of his mission.
Remembering their conversation and his assertion he was being blackmailed, Hannah wondered if there was any connection to his disappearance and Liz’s death. She had no idea how the church hierarchy worked but assumed he had been whisked away from harm.
Then a thought that had been niggling at the periphery of her mind crept into her consciousness. She didn’t know how the church worked but she knew a man who did. Reverend John Daniels, the priest who had agreed to offer Caroline a safe refuge in Essex. Maybe he could shed some light on what might be going on.
She made a note to phone him later and switched off the lamp hoping sleep would claim her for a couple of hours. But as soon as she closed her eyes she was back in Liz’s makeshift consulting room in St John’s. Exhausted and hovering between sleep and wakefulness she saw Liz mouthing something to her. But no sound emerged. Hannah called out to her, her face wet with tears.
November 1993
“You haven’t spoken much about your time in Somalia?” Hannah poured some more wine into their glasses. They had finished the meal but were still sitting at the dining table.
Liz smiled but her eyes looked immeasurably sad. “Oh you know, I don’t want to become a charity bore.” She stared into her glass. “When you see how people are living there, it makes me feel so humble but also frustrated and…” she took a sip of wine. “Did you know that there is almost 100 per cent female genital mutilation there? We had no impact on reducing that. Girls have no rights. They’re the ones who walk miles each day to fetch water for the family. Every time they go outside to the loo they risk being raped or assaulted. If they are lucky enough to go to school, once they menstruate they miss a quarter of their education. You can’t begin to imagine…”
Hannah had been thinking of her own daughter as Liz spoke. They were so fortunate yet there were inequalities in the west as well. Her eyes misted as she thought of Caroline and what she had been through.
Liz put her hand over Hannah’s. “Sorry I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s so diffi
cult now that I’m back to find any perspective. And there were some strange people working there.”
“What do you mean, strange?”
Liz took a gulp of wine. “I don’t know really. Misfits I suppose. Not drop-outs exactly but people who have had problems in their own society. Not all of them obviously – there were some really great philanthropists working there but sometimes I did wonder about the motives of some of them.”
“And where did you fit in? High-minded philanthropist?” Hannah smiled to reduce the implied criticism of her words. She still hurt from what she saw as Liz’s desertion when she was pregnant and now she was back she seemed distant. She felt Liz’s attitude towards her was judgemental.
Liz ignored the jibe. “So how’s motherhood treating you then?”
“Good. I love it. But sometimes I feel a bit overwhelmed by it all.”
“Well it was your choice…”
“I know.” Hannah wondered at Liz’s tone. They were both scratchy with each other. Probably because they hadn’t seen each other for so long. There were experiences both had had that distanced them from each other. She hadn’t meant she was overwhelmed in a negative sense but in a positive one. Overwhelmed by love. She found Elizabeth endlessly fascinating. Always adorable. But to say all that might have seemed to be gloating, boasting. And Liz seemed immensely sensitive to mentions of babies and children at the moment.
“Anyway I’d better make a move – I’m doing my first clinic at St John’s tomorrow. Just wonder if anyone will turn up.”
“How on earth were you persuaded to take that on?”
“I imagine in a similar way that you were persuaded to take in a beaten up prostitute – because I care. I might be a ‘high minded philanthropist’ but at least I can put my skills to practical use.”
“Meaning I can’t?”
“Good lord, no Hannah. What you tried to do was admirable. In fact you did manage to get that place closed down and the ringleader deported. Just because your story wasn’t published doesn’t mean it didn’t have repercussions. A real and lasting impact.”
Liz phoned for a cab. “It was lovely to catch up and thanks for dinner. My treat next time.”
A toot from outside announced the cab’s arrival. They hugged in the hallway and Hannah watched her get into the car before closing and locking the door.
There was some wine left in the bottle that she poured into her glass and sat down to watch Newsnight. But she wasn’t really paying attention to the discussion between political pundits.
She felt saddened that her friendship with Liz was so strained. Perhaps because there was so much they couldn’t tell or explain to each other. Hannah’s thoughts strayed to Tom. She missed him but they’d never had a chance to grow into what she would have called a proper relationship. Almost soon as they were free to see each other, Tom accepted the placement in New York. He said he had to play the game whatever that meant. But why? Was she still at risk?
After the appalling scene with Gerald Lacon in her own home, Hannah had thought about moving away. But what good would that serve? Problems didn’t disappear with a change of address. But she didn’t want to live her life continually looking over her shoulder. Always worrying? What effect would that have on Elizabeth?
The wine mellowed her thoughts…
She woke up stiff and cold. The heating had gone off. The television was a blank screen. “Shit,” she thought and decided to leave all the dinner things and just go to bed.
In the bathroom she studied her face in the mirror. Her mascara had smudged accentuating the dark circles under her eyes. She looked the wreck she felt herself to be as she cleansed and moisturised her face and neck and then cleaned her teeth, wishing, as she spat out the toothpaste, she could clear her life of evil just as easily.
She didn’t turn the light on in her room. Another precaution she’d got used to. Before closing the curtains, she stared out of the window. The bedroom light at number nine across the road was on. As always. The dark outline of a fox stalked silently down the centre of the road. Everything else was still. Silent but for the faraway sounds now and again of car doors opening and closing. Nothing to worry herself about but there was always that niggling fear.
She drew the curtains, stripped off and slipped into bed. Hopefully Elizabeth wouldn’t wake too early. The new nanny, Janet, was a capable young woman and Hannah felt she could trust her. Well she wouldn’t have employed her if she hadn’t and Tom had helped with ways to check out her background and references. In the half-awake moment before sleep claimed her she saw Caroline’s face. Smiling at her. At peace now, she hoped, although she herself had no belief in an afterlife it was reassuring to think of souls or whatever essence remained of someone in life found rest and were never disturbed again.
Amen she thought. So be it.
TWELVE
The train from Liverpool Street was on time and Hannah had only just made it into the carriage as the whistle blew. Perhaps bringing Elizabeth with her had been a mistake as manoeuvring the buggy had slowed her down. Now she sat down heavily and drew her breath. Elizabeth had nodded off but not so the only other occupant who took out a cigarette and lit up.
Hannah coughed. “Excuse me, this is a no smoking compartment.”
If she’d expected an apology and a swift extinction of the offending cigarette she was sadly deceived.
“So?” The young man looked at her with such belligerence that Hannah metaphorically shrank.
“So you shouldn’t be smoking and I have a child with me.”
“If you don’t like it move.” He put his feet up on the opposite seat, crossing his ankles, then exhaled smoke in her direction. She got up and moved the buggy as far away as possible. She could feel her face flushing and she was perilously close to tears.
As she sat down again, her mobile phone rang.
“Hannah Weybridge.” The youth looked over to her and she wondered at his look of interest at her name. “What can I do for you Detective Inspector Turner?” She hoped that the mention of a police officer would warn the young man off. But as she listened to the precise tones of Claudia Turner telling her that Father Patrick Ryan was in intensive care at St Thomas’s and that the reason she had contacted Hannah was that he had her card on him when he was found.
“Found?”
“Yes he was found wandering along Waterloo Bridge, clearly in extreme distress. Look I don’t want to discuss this over the phone. Where are you?”
“On a train to Essex. I’ll be back early evening.”
“Right could you let me know when you’re home and I’ll come over.” She cut the line not waiting for Hannah’s reply.
No if that’s all right with you, thought Hannah. Then thought how uncharitable that was. At least she’d let her know about Patrick. She wondered if her journey to see Reverend John Daniels was now superfluous.
The man in question was at the station to meet them. She’d interviewed John Daniels a couple of years ago about a street project he was involved in and that was what had given her the idea of despatching Caroline to him for safety. Sadly that had never happened. She hadn’t been able to protect her and had ended up putting her own daughter’s life at risk.
“Hannah – lovely to see you and you must be Elizabeth.” He had squatted down to be at face height with the toddler who was all giggles and smiles after her nap.
“Come on the car’s over here and I have a child seat in the back.” He led the way to a rather smart looking pale blue car. It seemed an incongruous vehicle for a small town priest.
The vicar must have read her thoughts. “My one indulgence… and I need a car that I can rely on not to break down when I’m on call.”
Hannah nodded although she wasn’t sure what he meant. The warmth inside and the movement of the car was having a soporific effect.
“Here we are.” The Reverend John Daniels’s voice broke into her dream-like state and she realised they had arrived at the vicarage, situated next door
to St Mark’s, an imposing Norman church with its squat square tower and two stained glass windows she could see from the road.
The priest opened a side door and shouted, “Hello we’re here” as they entered. Hannah wondered if that announcement was a gentle warning? She had no idea who lived here.
“Welcome Hannah. I’m Alice, John’s wife.” A tall slim woman with long blonde hair held back in a scrunchie and wearing what looked like woollen leggings and a thick hand-knitted jumper, clasped her hand. “And you must be Elizabeth,” she said to the wide-eyed toddler. “Come in, come in.”
They went straight into a large oak beamed kitchen with exposed brickwork and free standing cupboards some of which looked on the brink of keeling over under the weight of shelves of mismatched crockery and an eclectic range of souvenirs. Hannah smiled and thought of the contrast to Liz’s minimalist apartment. It pulled her up short as she had thought of her friend in joy rather than the bleak sadness that usually invaded her consciousness.
“Tea? Coffee?” John – as he had asked Hannah to call him – waved a kettle at her.
“Coffee please and could I warm this up for Elizabeth?” Hannah produced a meal she’d prepared.
“Of course.” Alice took the plastic container and popped it into a microwave. When it was ready she handed it to Hannah who fed Elizabeth with her sitting on her lap. The child managed to get more over her face than in her mouth as her gaze went from Alice to John, then back to her mother.
“How was your journey,” Alice asked.
“Fine except for some yob smoking in the compartment.”
Alice tutted in commiseration as she opened the fridge and produced a huge platter of sandwiches. “Didn’t know what you’d like so I made a selection.” She placed them on the large wooden table that dominated the kitchen, together with some plates and a bowl of fruit.
“Shall I take Elizabeth with me and leave you two to talk in peace?” She held out her hand to the toddler who with little encouragement grasped her fingers and waddled off.
Alice’s smile seemed to linger after she had gone like the Cheshire cat.
