Angels Passing

by Hurley, Graham

  ‘Girlfriends?’

  ‘Only one he talked about. Black chick. Never had the pleasure, me, but he was crazy about her.’

  ‘Had they got it on?’

  ‘He said yes. Non-stop.’

  ‘Did you believe him?’

  Marchant paused again, weighing the question. A staff break had begun now and a succession of girls in matching blue Brennan’s smocks were queueing for the Coke machine.

  ‘No,’ Marchant said at last. ‘If you want it straight, I don’t think he stood a prayer with anyone.’

  Faraday parked his Mondeo beside the Square Tower and limped slowly up the High Street. The rain had cleared overnight and thin sunlight bathed the soft grey stones of the cathedral. Leaving the office, given Cathy Lamb’s current mood, was an act of some bravery but Faraday was beyond bitter asides about impossible workloads and part-time bosses. He didn’t even care that J-J had failed to show up at Highland Road. Just to feel the sun on his face was enough.

  He paused on the pavement, looking up. He’d always liked this cathedral. A recent appeal had extended the nave towards the west but the building itself and the surrounding close still had a scale altogether in keeping with Portsmouth’s standing in the world. While it might lack the grand Gothic gestures of the calendar cathedrals – towering spires, flying buttresses – it had a certain down-home charm Faraday always found immensely attractive. It didn’t keep you at arm’s length. It wasn’t stately and slightly intimidating, the way Salisbury and Lincoln could be. On the contrary, it seemed to beckon you in, offering the most domestic of welcomes. The cathedral, like the city itself, was a mongrel, growing like Topsy as the years drifted by. In the grander order of things, it always knew its place.

  Phillimore’s house lay further up the High Street, between the cathedral and the neat little cul-de-sac where Jane Bassam lived. There was a poster for an anti-mines charity in one window and a big glass crystal suspended in the other. Beside the crystal, enjoying the sunshine, was a slender Siamese cat.

  Phillimore opened the door to Faraday’s knock. He looked early middle-aged, forty at the most. He was wearing a T-shirt and a pair of baggy jeans. He had a runner’s build, slight, but it was the face that drew you in. He had a face made for laughter and the sparkle in his eyes offered immediate, unconditional friendship. This was a man who’d show you the brighter side of everything. No wonder Jane Bassam had sought the Lord within these walls.

  Faraday introduced himself. Phillimore’s handshake was warm. He was grateful that Faraday had found the time to pop down and he hoped his journey wouldn’t be wasted.

  The house smelled of joss sticks. The framed colour shots in the hall looked African, and there were more as the stairs wound upwards. Hundreds of families camped out on an abandoned railway station. Old men bent under bundles of firewood. A legless child peering up from a hospital bed.

  ‘Angola,’ Phillimore murmured. ‘Ninety-eight.’

  The sitting room was up on the first floor, a small, warm, intimate space with a threadbare oriental carpet and postcards pinned to the cluttered bookshelves. A piano had somehow found space for itself against the back wall and a cushioned seat in the tiny bay window was littered with copies of the New Statesman and Private Eye. Two more cats sprawled in front of the hissing gas fire and Faraday was reminded irresistibly of a weekend course he’d once attended at one of the older Oxford colleges. If you needed a glimpse of a peace the world had left behind then this was surely it.

  ‘There’s coffee if you’d like one.’

  Faraday said yes, scanning the bookshelves while Phillimore disappeared downstairs again. Albert Camus and J.D. Salinger. The Rough Guide to Venice. A handful of African poets. Phillimore returned with two Oxfam mugs. The coffee was a freshly brewed bitter roast, a world away from the swill at Southsea nick. It came, said Phillimore, from a cooperative in Brighton, imported straight from a people’s plantation in Jamaica. He had a leaflet with the details and insisted Faraday take it.

  ‘Spread the word,’ he said. ‘Please.’

  Faraday folded the leaflet into his jacket. What, exactly, did Phillimore want to discuss?

  ‘Good point.’ He cleared a space amongst the magazines and settled himself in the window. ‘It’s about Jane Bassam.’

  He wanted to be frank with Faraday because there was no point wasting his time. He’d first met Jane through the parish choir. He sang with the tenors. She was an alto. They’d shared the odd conversation after choir practice on Friday nights and bumped into each other at various social functions. Then, to her very evident distress, her marriage had begun to collapse.

  Faraday stirred. He didn’t feel altogether comfortable with this kind of candour.

  ‘Does Mrs Bassam know—?’

  Phillimore held up his hands, anticipating the question.

  ‘We’ve discussed it at length, Mr Faraday. In fact it’s Jane’s idea that I talk to you. I’m an outsider. That’s the beauty of the church. It’s easier for people like me.’

  Outsider? Faraday wanted to ask.

  ‘Go on,’ he said instead.

  One of the cats stretched, yawned and stalked across the carpet towards the window. Curled up on Phillimore’s lap, it began to wash itself.

  ‘Jane was going through a very tough time. We talked, of course, and I did what I could to comfort her.’

  Faraday nodded. Duty of care, he thought. He ought to throw a little party of his own and introduce this man to Hartigan.

  ‘What about her daughter? Helen?’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s the point.’

  ‘Afraid?’

  ‘Yes. Helen was in the choir, too. In fact she’d been in the choir for some time, way before I joined the chapter. Good voice, nice kid.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She …’ he frowned, treading carefully now. ‘… got the wrong idea. She thought – assumed – we were having some kind of affair. And I must say she wasn’t the only one. Cathedrals are strange institutions, Mr Faraday. I don’t know how familiar you are with church politics but it can sometimes be just a touch claustrophobic. We watch each other like hawks. And we don’t always draw the right conclusions.’

  Faraday knew absolutely nothing about church politics but experience had taught him that one organisation was very much like another. Gossip came with the territory, whether you were a policeman or a cleric.

  ‘There were rumours?’

  ‘Yes, and Helen picked them up.’

  ‘Were they true?’

  ‘No.’ The smile again, total candour. ‘They weren’t. Jane and I were very good friends. We’re still close. We even went away together; took a little trip up to Bath only yesterday.’

  Faraday remembered the suitcase in Jane Bassam’s hall and the sudden transformation in her attitude. Was comfort and conversation really enough to put a smile like that on her face?

  ‘Friends?’ Faraday queried.

  ‘You sound disappointed.’

  ‘Not at all. Adultery isn’t a crime, by the way, and I’m not in the business of passing judgement. But I’m still not sure where all this leads. You’re a priest. You offer comfort. But why phone me about it?’

  ‘Because Helen Bassam was an extremely disturbed young woman.’

  ‘She came to you too?’

  ‘Yes. At first she was angry. With me. It was way before Christmas. She sat here in this room and wanted to know exactly what was going on. No, that’s not quite true. She’d already made up her mind what was going on and she wanted to know why, what right I’d got to smash her parents’ marriage up.’

  ‘She said that?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Her father had gone by then and I was the one who’d driven him out. Ironic, really, given the circumstances.’

  ‘What did you say to her?’

  ‘I told her the truth. I told her that marriages are seldom made in heaven and that her father had found a new partner. She knew that, of course, but she was having problems with the … ah … chr
onology. She was putting the cart before the horse, and in this instance I was the cart. The whole sad episode was down to me, my fault.’

  Faraday was thinking of the Afghan, Niamat Tabibi. Helen must have unloaded on him, too. No wonder he’d pointed Faraday in Phillimore’s direction.

  ‘She believed you?’

  ‘In the end she did, yes. But you have to be careful in these situations, Mr Faraday. Girls like Helen can be very unpredictable. Fourteen’s a very tricky age.’

  ‘What are you telling me?’

  ‘Anger, hate … Emotions like that can turn to something else. It can happen very quickly.’

  Faraday stared at him, suddenly realising where this conversation was going. N for Niamat. N for Nigel.

  ‘She got a crush on you?’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid she did.’

  ‘A serious crush?’

  ‘Yes, oh yes.’

  She’d been round at the house all hours. Her mother had a key and she’d taken a copy, letting herself in, preparing little treats in the kitchen, having the kettle on for when Phillimore got home.

  ‘Playing the wife?’

  ‘More the mistress. She began to turn up in clothes that were …’ he frowned ‘… inappropriate to say the least.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I mean revealing. She was sending me a message. I’d have been blind not to have received it.’

  ‘And how did that make you feel?’

  ‘Concerned, if you want the truth. Helen wanted to be part of my life and she only knew one way to make that happen. The Church of England has become very cautious, Mr Faraday. Helen was still a child and when I tell you that there are rules that govern our behaviour, I mean just that. Take the choir. If I’m alone with a choirboy – or girl – I have to keep the door open. If I want to pat them on the back, encourage them, congratulate them, it has to be between here and here.’ He touched his shoulder blade and the top of his arm. I know it sounds absurd but that’s the way it is.’

  ‘To protect the kids?’

  ‘No, to protect us. We’ve allowed ourselves to become caged, Mr Faraday, and it’s a very great shame. Physical contact is where comfort begins. Believe me, it’s difficult to reach out when you’re not allowed to touch.’

  Faraday was still thinking about Helen.

  ‘So how hard did she push all this?’

  ‘Very hard. And when I said no, it simply added insult to all her other problems.’

  ‘No to what?’

  ‘No to going to bed. No to making love. No to giving her what she thought she wanted.’

  ‘And what was that?’

  ‘A baby.’

  Faraday reached down for his cup. Pour vous, he thought. The coffee was cold.

  ‘You knew she was pregnant?’ he asked at last.

  ‘Yes. Her mother told me a couple of days ago. That’s why I thought it important we meet.’

  ‘And what did Mrs Bassam make of all this?’

  ‘All what?’

  ‘You and Helen. Her daughter behaving like this.’

  ‘It was extremely difficult. As I explained, Jane and I were close but the truth is that Helen came between us.’

  ‘She thought you were …?’ Faraday didn’t know how to end the sentence.

  ‘Screwing her daughter? Yes, she did. Which made life in that little house even more hellish. In fact Jane even went to the Dean about it.’

  ‘The Dean?’

  ‘My boss. He’d heard the rumours of course but there’s a natural reluctance to believe something like that until the need becomes truly pressing. We had an exchange of views.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He believed me but thought I was being foolish. Reckless is the word he used. He thought I should put the Church before Helen, and indeed before Jane. I disagreed. In my view, God comes first.’

  ‘They’re the same, aren’t they? God and the Church?’

  ‘Not necessarily, Mr Faraday.’ The smile had returned. ‘Sadly, there can sometimes be a difference.’

  He lifted the cat from his lap and offered it to Faraday. There was more coffee in the pot downstairs. Faraday took the cat and let it settle, wondering what else was to come. He wasn’t altogether convinced by Phillimore’s account but if the bit about the Dean was true, the man certainly had a mind of his own. To take Jane Bassam away for the night after a scandal like this was an act of some courage.

  From the kitchen there was the trill of a phone, then the mutter of conversation as Phillimore answered it. Moments later, he was back upstairs again, empty-handed.

  ‘That was Jane, I’m afraid. In a bit of a state.’

  Twenty-three

  THURSDAY, 15 FEBRUARY, 15.00

  Winter thought nothing of the envelope waiting for him at Fratton nick. It was A4, manila, with something hard and oblong inside, a book maybe. It had been hand-delivered after lunch and one of the counter clerks had brought it up to the MIR.

  It turned out to be a VHS cassette. There was a play machine in the big office at the far end of the corridor and Winter made himself a tea before slipping the tape in. At once he recognised the setting: the damp stains on the wallpaper beside the door, the pulled curtains that didn’t quite meet in the middle, the thin strip of daylight in between. Kenny Foster, he thought. Another mauling.

  He checked the envelope again. Blue biro. Clumsy capitals, ‘MR DETECTIVE WINTER’. Like he was trying to take the piss. He turned back to the video. Foster had appeared on screen in his trademark jeans and singlet. He must have a whole drawer of singlets, Winter thought. He must buy them by the dozen, one per fight. The camera edged the other man into view. He was huge – six two, six three. The cropped bullet-shaped head was too small for his shoulders and he stood absolutely still, staring Kenny Foster out. He wore black, paint-stained tracksuit bottoms and an enormous pair of scuffed trainers, and his arms hung down beside his body, his fists already bunched.

  Foster was kneeling on the carpet, massaging his heel. His feet were bare and Winter caught sight of a blue dagger tattoo stabbing at his ankle. For once he’d abandoned the twist of red that tidied his ponytail in favour of green. He got to his feet, did a couple of lazy stretches, and then winked at the camera. Winter watched, fascinated. The last person you’d want to be just now was the big man with the tiny head.

  The fight began. Foster circled his opponent the way a plasterer might check out a dodgy wall, wondering which bit to start on first, but the other guy wasn’t going to be so easily psyched out. Instead he simply adjusted his balance, lumbering sideways on those huge feet, watching Foster’s every move. Foster stopped. Abruptly, his fists went down. He started to laugh. Then he extended a hand. Confused, the huge man went to shake it, assuming this formed part of the opening ritual, but the moment he relaxed Foster was inside – short, vicious jabs to the body, then a neat uppercut that was only inches wide. The other man gasped with pain. Already you could see the panic in his eyes. Foster took half a step backwards, then drove his head into the man’s face. His hands went up, then down again as Foster slammed punch after punch into the soft flesh beneath his ribcage. The liver, thought Winter. Always the liver.

  The big guy was on his knees now, blood pouring from his broken nose. Foster took another step backwards, giving himself space, then half turned his body and karate-kicked the crimson face with his heel. The blow jerked the tiny head back and Winter watched the blood splatter on the wallpaper behind. The scream from the video brought a couple of DCs in from the office across the corridor, then a couple more. They gathered round the set, kids watching a fight in the playground, enthralled as Foster hauled his opponent back up onto his knees before driving another flurry of punches into the wreckage that had once been his face. By now, the big man looked like something out of an abattoir – raw meat – and seconds later he was sprawled across the carpet, plainly unconscious.

  Foster studied his knuckles a moment, stirred the inert body with his foot, then peeled off his si
nglet. Down on one knee, he used the singlet to mop the blood from his victim’s face. Then he was on his feet again, four-square in front of the camera. He held up the singlet, then pointed a finger at the lens. The gesture was all too obvious and Winter felt the stir of bodies around him. You, Foster was saying. You next.

  Sullivan had joined the group. Winter stopped the video and put the machine into rewind. Everyone else was waiting for a reaction. Winter ejected the cassette and slipped it back into the envelope. Then he caught Sullivan’s eye.

  ‘Foster give you his home address?’ Sullivan was staring at him.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘but Dave Michaels has got it.’

  Faraday didn’t wait for Hartigan’s management assistant to ring through to the inner office. Twenty-three years in the job, and he’d seldom felt so angry. He stepped through the half-open door and pushed it shut behind him. Hartigan was behind his desk, signing a pile of letters.

  ‘Jane Bassam’s got News journalists crawling all over her,’ Faraday said. ‘They’ve phoned three times so far and now they’re threatening to send a photographer.’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear it.’ Hartigan barely spared Faraday a glance.

  ‘Did you have a hand in this, sir? Was it your idea?’

  ‘Of course it wasn’t. As I understand it, they’re already taking an interest in Mrs Bassam. Something to do with her teaching days. I’ve simply added a note to the file. Informally, of course. Editor level.’

  Faraday gazed at him, astonished at his recklessness. The Coroner had yet to hold an inquest. Leaking any information before the official verdict on the girl’s death was courting prosecution.

  Hartigan, carefully laying his pen to one side, wouldn’t have it. He insisted he held no candle for the press, far from it, but there were important public issues at stake and he wasn’t about to ignore them.

  ‘I don’t know about you, Joe, but I refuse to sit on my hands while all this stuff is going on. We have responsibilities here. We have to draw a line. I simply will not tolerate fourteen-year-olds getting off their heads on heroin. Not on my patch.’

  ‘Can you prove that? About the heroin?’