by Peter James
Reluctantly, she dressed the back of his head. He thanked her and returned to the sandwich he was making.
‘You need a hot meal, not a sandwich,’ she said.
‘I’m fine with a sandwich.’
Shaking her head, she said, ‘No client’s worth killing yourself over.’
‘I’m OK, honestly.’
‘You are so not OK.’ She peered at him closely. ‘You really don’t look right.’
‘I’m shaken by what I saw and stressed over the sketch, that’s all – and tired; I’ll take it easy after I’ve finished it – have a chill day tomorrow.’
‘You need to.’
He gobbled down his sandwich and hurried back up to work, carrying a large, strong coffee. He stopped at their bedroom to take two paracetamols from the bathroom cabinet and swallow them, then went on up to his studio and sat briefly at his desk, logging on. A few emails that needed responses. They could wait until tomorrow. He glanced at Instagram, aware it was a week since he had last posted anything there. He quickly liked a number of new posts.
Then he walked to his easel, pencil in hand, and studied the photograph of the spaniel rested on the easel’s shelf. He liked drawing this breed of dog – with its big, floppy ears and this one’s regal pose – and it was his portfolio of spaniel sketches that had led to the Northcote Gallery first taking a serious interest in his work.
A few hours, he figured. That’s all it would take him. A £1000 fee. Good money – and for doing what he loved. What was not to like?
He sipped his coffee and set to work, all his concerns parked in another compartment of his mind.
Sometime after 2 a.m. he had finished the sketch. He went downstairs and, after undressing and brushing his teeth as quietly as he could, he took a further two paracetamols for his headache and slipped into bed. Emily stirred, murmuring, ‘Did you get it done?’
‘Yep.’
‘Love you.’
He kissed her and was asleep, exhausted, seconds later.
43
Tuesday 18 December
Jason woke shortly after 7 a.m. and went through to the bathroom. As he came back into the bedroom, Emily was sitting up, her bedside lamp on, smiling sleepily. ‘You finished the sketch?’
‘Yep! I told you when I came to bed.’
‘Well done.’ She looked across at his pillow and saw it was covered in dried blood. ‘Turn around and show me the back of your head, darling.’
He sat on the bed to let her check the wound beneath the bandage.
After removing it, tenderly, she said, ‘It’s looking clean – and it seems to have closed up a little. Keep it dry in the shower and I’ll put a fresh dressing on it. I’d still prefer you to get it looked at.’
Hospitals gave him the heebie-jeebies. ‘It’s fine.’
Half an hour later they sat at the kitchen table, with the breakfast news on the television, the sound almost muted. Emily sipped one of the protein smoothie shakes she was currently into, and Jason ate a mouthful of porridge.
‘What’s your plan for today?’ he asked.
‘I’m meeting Louise in Lewes for a coffee, then we’re going off to do a massive shop for the freezers – hopefully get everything we’ll need for that twenty-fifth wedding anniversary do.’
‘December twenty-eighth, right?’
‘Yep. Doesn’t give us any time after Christmas. You?’
‘First thing, I’m taking the two pictures over to David to get the framing done, then I thought – no one from the police has called me about yesterday – I don’t know if I should go to the police station and make a report.’
‘You phoned them yesterday?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’d wait for them to contact you; I’m sure they will. Try not to let what happened distract you – you really need to relax.’
‘Yep. I was hoping to, but I’m starting to really panic about the exhibition.’
‘How’s your head feeling, now?’
‘OK.’
She looked at him. ‘I just wonder whether you shouldn’t get an X-ray done.’
‘Why?’
‘Why? Because you clearly hit it very hard. You might have some internal damage.’
‘It wasn’t that hard.’
‘No? It looks like it was pretty damned hard to me.’
‘I’m fine, honestly.’
He finished his breakfast and went up to his studio. He looked across at the construction site. None of the machinery was operating. There were two police cars and a white forensics van, and several people in hooded protective suits and overshoes on the far side of the cordon, where the accident had taken place. One was taking a stream of photographs.
Seated at his desk, he logged on to his computer.
And saw white, seemingly random numbers, again, on a black background. He tried to take a screenshot but they vanished before he hit the keys. As before, the login request then appeared.
He called his computer guru and got his voicemail. He left Matt a message asking him to call back, and to do something to stop the glitch causing these irritating numbers from appearing. Then, carefully placing the paintings of the dogs into protective carriers, he kissed Emily goodbye and set off to his framer in Lewes.
David Graham’s workshop was, undoubtedly, the most chaotic work environment Jason had ever seen. A huge open-plan loft space, in former industrial premises in the centre of Lewes, there were exposed beams and rafters, shelves crammed with rows of old books and battered old chairs blotched with paint. Each of the several work surfaces was littered with ancient computer terminals, bottles of chemicals, loose papers, strips of wood. In addition, there was a soiled cooker where the mix for his gesso boards was heated up, and propped against a wall was a gigantic roll of bubble wrap.
The framer himself, in grubby overalls with a creased, paint-spattered face and equally spattered grey hair could, if he stood perfectly still, have blended into his environment like a chameleon.
Jason never ceased to wonder at the ability of the man to produce exquisite framing of his work, exactly as they discussed, and always on time. Their relationship, over the past decade, had reached the point where he hardly needed to brief the man at all. He handed him the two carriers and David assured him they would be ready for collection the following morning. He reminded Jason that he was closing up shop at midday on Wednesday until early January, and flying up to the Scottish Highlands.
Feeling relieved and a lot happier than yesterday, Jason went Christmas shopping for Emily. He bought a selection of items, including a gold chain and a cookbook he knew she wanted by the Israeli chef Yotam Ottolenghi, then drove out of Lewes and headed for Cold Hill village, through light, late-morning drizzle.
He turned off the main road and crossed the now-familiar humpback bridge. He slowed to take a look at the deserted cricket pitch, with its small wooden pavilion, thinking of ideas for cricketing scenes. He would come down and watch a game when the season began.
He drove on the short distance to St Mary’s, the decrepit-looking Norman church. It was set well back in a commandingly high position above the road and fronted by an ornate wooden lychgate set in a low, stone wall. Beyond was an uneven graveyard, filled with rows of weathered headstones, some partially concealed beneath the spreading branches of a massive, ancient yew tree, some almost toppled over. He could see a lot more graves beyond the rear of the church. He pulled up the BMW outside the house adjacent to the graveyard and climbed out.
A faded, barely legible sign he’d passed by the front gate said, VICARAGE.
It was a modest, somewhat square house of fairly modern construction. Peering closer, he could see the window frames and sills were all rotten – what little paint remaining on them was flaking. A number of slates were absent from the roof, several lying broken amid the weeds that covered what was once a front lawn, and the brickwork was in dire need of repointing. With some serious TLC on the house – and garden – it would actually be rather an attractiv
e little property, given the location. He figured the Church must have sold off the original vicarage years before, unable to fund its maintenance. Not that they’d done a good job of looking after the replacement.
He struggled to open the gate, which was sagging badly on its rusted hinges, pushed it aside and walked up the mossy path to the front door. The closer he came, the sadder and more unloved the place looked. The phrase poor as a church mouse sprang into his mind, as he pushed the bell in its cracked plastic housing.
He couldn’t hear any ring.
He tried again.
Waited.
Nothing.
He rapped the corroded knocker.
Still silence.
He rapped again. The silence that followed was almost oppressive.
Deciding the vicar – and his wife – must be out, he walked back down the path. Just as he reached his car, he saw a figure he recognized from the pub, on Sunday, striding towards him. A wiry-looking elderly man, with white hair and a goatee beard, dressed in a baggy shirt with a spotted cravat, grey trousers and ancient walking boots, and carrying a stout, knobbly stick.
His name was Harry something, Jason recalled. ‘Hi!’ he said as he drew near. ‘We met briefly on Sunday, in the pub.’
The man gave him a strange look. ‘Pub?’
Jason smiled, pleasantly. ‘You were in the Crown, with Albert Fears, I think it was, at the bar?’
‘I was?’ The man seemed impatient to walk on, as if he were in a hurry.
There was something definitely odd about him, Jason thought. ‘You mentioned something about a digger – that you used to drive a digger?’
‘I did?’
Jason wondered if the man might have some form of dementia. ‘Do you by any chance know where the vicar might be today?’
‘The vicar, did yer say?’
‘Yes, the Reverend Fortinbrass.’
Observing Jason through rheumy eyes for some moments, he jerked a finger towards the church. ‘He’s in the back, out in the graveyard at the rear. You’ll find him there.’ He strode on, deaf to Jason’s thanks.
Jason walked down to the lychgate and pushed it open. Behind him he heard the roar of a tractor thundering down the road. He turned and saw it was Albert Fears, towing a large, rattling trailer full of sheep, with a barking collie at the rear of it, and driving far too fast. Jason waved a greeting at him, but the farmer stared grimly ahead, ignoring him.
He walked in the misty drizzle, up the church path then onto the wet grass and around to the back. Sheep grazed on the hill that rose up steeply beyond the end of the graveyard, which was bounded by a low flint wall. An old man in a cloth cap, he presumed a gardener, was kneeling, tending to a flower bed that ran the width of the wall. Jason could see no sign of Roland Fortinbrass or anyone else as he walked on, passing rows of graves. He stopped by one particularly grand headstone, in marble, standing over what looked like a family mausoleum. A former lord of the manor, he wondered? Curious, he read the names and inscription.
Jason stared and read each of the inscriptions again. They had all died on the same day. Husband and wife and their children? What had happened? Had they been in a car crash or a plane crash, perhaps? It made him feel sad. Not quite sure of his reason, he pulled out his phone and took a photograph of it, then walked on, glancing around again for the elusive vicar. The strange old boy – Harry – had been very definite that he’d seen him here. He passed another, much simpler and more recent headstone.
Then a quite fancy one, more recent still, in white marble with black lettering.
Beneath, plainly and poignantly, was the symbol of a cross.
Husband and wife and their daughter? Again, all died on the same day? Another accident? Again, he took a photograph, then strode slowly over towards the gardener, who had a green tool bag lying on the ground beside him. As he approached, he caught a sweet whiff of cigarette smoke.
When he was some distance off, not wanting to creep up and startle the man, he called out.
The man turned and stood, bent roll-up dangling from his lips, a trowel in his gloved hands. He had a weathered, outdoors face.
Approaching him, Jason said, ‘You’re doing a great job – this is a very beautiful graveyard.’
The cigarette bobbing as he spoke, the man said in a rural accent, ‘Always something to do here.’ He waved a hand at the graves. ‘And none of these lazy buggers are going to give me a hand, are they?’
‘I doubt it! That cigarette smells good.’
‘’Bout the only place I can smoke in peace these days without the missus or someone else yelling at me. At least the dead don’t mind; they don’t give me any grief about it.’
Jason chuckled. ‘I’m looking for the vicar – I was told he was here a short while ago.’
‘Vicar?’
‘Yes. The Reverend Fortinbrass.’
The man’s demeanour changed. He looked bemused. ‘The Reverend Fortinbrass, did you say?’
‘Yes, I wanted to have a word with him. Have you seen him?’
‘Oh yes, I see him most days – he’s here all right and he isn’t going anywhere.’
‘What do you mean?’
The man pointed a gloved finger towards the far wall. ‘Over there, second row, third one in. He’s another of the lazy buggers, he is.’
Jason’s first thought was that the man was pulling his leg. But there was no trace of humour in his face. Feeling very strange, he turned and headed swiftly, heart in mouth, towards where he had been directed. A row of gravestones.
Second row.
Third one in.
He read the inscription on it with a chill rippling through every cell in his body.
44
Tuesday 18 December
Jason stood, stock still, staring at the name. Shaking.
It wasn’t possible, there had to be two Roland Fortinbrasses, there had to be.
Dammit, he’d seen the man yesterday, he’d come to their home! Emily had seen him too, and so had Louise.
He walked straight back over to the gardener, who was back on his knees again, working out the roots of a dead plant with his trowel. ‘I’m sorry to bother you again. Are there by any chance two Reverend Fortinbrasses?’
‘No, sir,’ he said, without looking up. ‘Not that I’ve ever heard. Bit of an unusual name for there to be two of them.’
‘But I met – my wife and I met – the vicar of this parish yesterday. He came to our house – we’ve just moved into Cold Hill Park.’
The man shook his head and stood up, taking his time. ‘There’s no vicar in this parish any more, hasn’t been since the Reverend Fortinbrass passed away, back in 2015. Now we have a rector, Reverend Whitely – he covers four local parishes and he’s a useless bugger. Not a good situation, if you ask me – he only does two services a month in this church. Mind you, most times he doesn’t get more than four people, I’m afraid. It’s his teeth, they say, he scares them all. Old Mrs Blackthorne, in the village, told me it’s like being preached at by a blooming skeleton with rattling teeth!’
Jason grinned, fleetingly. ‘It just doesn’t make any sense.’
The gardener squinted at him. ‘Sir, I may be old, but I’ve still got me marbles. That over there is – or was – the only Reverend Fortinbrass.’
‘Who lives in the vicarage now?’
‘No one, that’s been empty these last years. I’ve heard rumours the Church are planning on selling it.’
Jason thanked him for his time, turned and walked back to the grave of the former vicar, and took a photograph of the headstone.
There had to be an explanation. Was the man who came to see them yesterday a conman? Identity theft? Was that it? Going around posing as a vicar, preying on the vulnerable, the elderly, the bereaved, and the troubled?
But if he was clever enough to carry that off, why on earth do it in the one parish where most people would know the real Reverend Fortinbrass was long dead?
He walked, very puzzl
ed, back to his car, and drove the short distance home.
45
Tuesday 18 December
The Penze-Weedells were faffing around in their front garden when Jason arrived home a few minutes later. Maurice was standing on top of a precarious-looking stepladder, trying to reach one of the Christmas lights that was above him and clearly out of reach, while Claudette hung onto the base of the ladder, shouting instructions to her hapless husband.
If he’d been in a neighbourly mood, Jason would have gone over and offered to help, especially as he was the best part of a foot taller than the older man, but he did not want to get involved. He was just relieved that Emily’s van wasn’t in the drive, because he badly needed to collect his thoughts. He climbed out of his car and was just unlocking the front door when Matt Johns rang.
‘Jason, what’s your problem?’
Entering the house and hurrying up to his office, he told his computer guru about the numbers on his screen.
‘Can you fire up TeamViewer?’ Johns asked.
As soon as he was at his desk and logged in, Jason opened the app and gave Johns the ID numbers and password.
Moments later the cursor began to move across the screen, seemingly on its own, as Johns looked for the problem.
Putting the phone on loudspeaker, and letting him get on with it, Jason thought back to yesterday morning. When he had met Roland Fortinbrass, the vicar had reminded him of someone, but he couldn’t think who. A name suddenly sprang to mind.
Alan Rickman!
The actor who had died a while back. That was who the Reverend Roland Fortinbrass reminded him of – a little, anyway.
The tall, thin man in the Aran sweater, his dog collar just visible.
He opened Photos on his phone and scrolled through the pictures he had taken earlier. And in particular, the one of Roland Fortinbrass’s grave and headstone.
Next, he looked at the Harcourt family’s inscription.
21 September 2015.
The same day.
