by Penny Kline
‘Did he make another?’
‘Mmm? No, I don’t think so. He just walked into the building, happened to see me coming out of Heather’s office and gave me some garbled message about how he had to see a friend.’
‘Lloyd,’ said Heather, who must have been listening to the conversation from behind the office door. ‘Don't worry, Anna, I’ll give him a ring. Nice boy, very polite.’
Nick had disappeared. He couldn’t handle the tension between me and Dawn, but I wasn’t going to let him opt out that easily, and he knew it. When I tapped on his door he was waiting for me.
‘Look, Anna, she’s only here for another two or three weeks.’
‘Martin could be away for months.’
‘With shingles?’
‘It’s the chicken pox virus,’ I said. ‘It reappears when you’re under stress.’
Nick sighed. ‘So what d’you want me to do?’
He looked so exasperated I couldn’t keep a straight face. ‘Listen,’ I said, ‘I’ve been seeing this girl who was almost abducted on her way home from school. Someone tried to pull her into a car, but she managed to bite her attacker, struggle free and run off.’
‘Really? Who referred her?’
‘No, she’s not a client. Howard Fry. Actually the guy in charge of the case is called Ritsema. He’s new to the area and, as far as I can tell, fairly heavy-handed.’
‘So Howard called you in to pour oil on troubled waters.’
‘The girl’s father was called Tom Luckham. Can you remember reading about him? Apparently he went for a walk on the Mendips, injured himself pretty badly, then lapsed into a diabetic coma.’
Nick thought about it. ‘Yes, I do remember vaguely. Wasn’t he an artist or something? How old was he?’
‘I’m not sure. Forty, fifty?’
‘What was he doing on the Mendips? Wouldn’t he have told someone where he was going? So you think his daughter could’ve made up the abduction story because she can’t come to terms with her father’s death?’
I opened my mouth to say it was a possibility, but he hadn’t finished.
‘Sudden death of a loved one,’ he said, ‘doesn’t fit into our representation of the world, makes us want to find a reason.’
‘Yes, I know.’ Since his mother's fatal stroke he had become increasingly absorbed with how people adjusted to the loss of someone close to them. It worried me a little. He was even thinking of writing a paper about grief and psychosomatic illness. It was verging on an obsession.
‘The trouble is,’ I said, moving the conversation back to Sally Luckham, ‘I’m supposed to find out if she’s telling the truth and, if so, try and get her to describe her attacker in a little more detail, or at least remember the colour of the car.’
‘Yes, I see.’ Nick had taken a book off his shelf. ‘Has she mentioned her father's accident? If not, it’s probably because she’s still at the why me stage. We all like to feel we’re more or less in control of our lives. An unexpected death reminds us how wrong we are.’
‘Yes, all right Nick.’ Prior to my visit to the Luckham house I had been fighting off depression. For some reason, working alongside the police had cheered me up, although Howard asking about Owen had reminded me how insecure I felt about the relationship. He had been away before, of course, but only for two or three nights, and while he was gone I had vowed I would never find fault with him again. Then, within an hour or two of his return the doubts had returned. Did I really want to spend the rest of my life with someone who thought delving into the way people felt did more harm than good? Someone who boasted that he couldn’t remember crying, not since he was a small boy and fell out of a tree. Not even when his wife died?
‘Luckham,’ said Nick. ‘Yes, I remember. The case prompted a phone-in on one of the local radio stations, some doctor answering questions about the difference between diabetic and hypoglycaemic comas, too little insulin or too much.’
‘Apparently strenuous exercise can affect the blood sugar level.’
‘Yes, that’s right. Anyway, what was he doing, this Luckham bloke? He was found at Seeker Gorge, am I right? There’s a path that goes down to the bottom, then gradually winds up to a kind of rocky plateau. You’d hate it, Anna. Like all people who suffer from vertigo you’d have an irresistible urge to hurl yourself from the top!’ He smiled, then his expression changed, but I still wasn’t sure if he was being serious or just trying to take my mind off Dawn Rivers. ‘Of course, he could’ve been pushed.’
*
The new client, booked in to see me at two-fifteen, was something of a celebrity. Perhaps that was the wrong word. His face had made the nationals, the same photograph reproduced whenever another chapter in the story unfolded. Stephen Bryce, a vicar in his mid-thirties, kicked out of his parish in Bristol because of his unorthodox views on the nature of God. Had the bishop made the decision against Bryce’s wishes or had he left of his own free-will? According to the media the parish was split down the middle, with some of the parishioners agreeing with the bishop, others seeing Bryce as some kind of hero.
I tried to recall his picture but got stuck with the eyes so that the rest of the face became a blur. Small, intense eyes, although probably not as dark as they looked in the newspaper. A beard? Yes, he definitely had a beard, although that might have gone now, along with the dog collar and clerical dress.
When I found him in the waiting room he was both like his photo and very different. Hair not so black, eyes not so small. No beard.
He stood up, as if he recognized me, although we had never met before. ‘Dr McColl? I’m afraid I got here rather early. I wasn’t sure how long it would take me to find you.’
‘No, it’s not all that easy, and the traffic can be terrible. If you’d like to come this way.’ We shook hands and started up the stairs.
‘Actually I walked,’ he said.
‘All the way from Kingsdown?’
He gave a short laugh. ‘Time hangs heavy, I was glad of the fresh air, if you can call it that.’
When we entered my room he looked all round, as if he was checking it against some preconceived notion of how a psychologist’s room ought to be. ‘I had no idea what you’d be like,’ he said, ‘but we got off to a good start when I spoke to you on the phone and you didn’t call me reverend.’
‘My father’s a church warden,’ I said. ‘Do sit down.’
‘Right. Thank you.’ He was wearing a dark open-neck shirt and black cord trousers. I wondered if he had abandoned his dog collar when he left the parish, or perhaps he had been the kind of priest who prefers not to wear clerical dress. He was fairly short, but of average build, with a long, thin face and now that his beard had been shaved off it was possible to speculate that he had grown it to hide a rather pock-marked complexion, suggesting he had suffered from acne as an adolescent. His deep-set eyes had the restless, intense look of someone who has strongly held opinions, and possibly a quick temper, but has learned how to keep a tight control of his emotions.
‘I’d better tell you straight away,’ he announced. ‘I’m really here on behalf of my wife.’
‘She asked you to come.’
‘Oh no, she’d never have done that, but I’m worried about her, I think she may need some professional help. Things haven’t been easy during the last few months.’ He broke off, frowning. ‘I’m sorry, I’m assuming you know something about me.’
‘Only what I’ve read in the newspaper.’
‘Yes, well in that case you won’t be surprised to hear we’ve had to move out of the vicarage. Not that I’m blaming anyone for that. The bishop couldn’t have been more considerate, impressing on us that he was quite happy to let us stay as long as it took to fix up something reasonably permanent, but Ros preferred to leave as quickly as possible.’
‘Yes I can understand that. You’ve found somewhere else?’
‘Ros is staying with a friend, well, not a friend exactly, more of an acquaintance, in a village between Bristol and
Bath. I’m — well, just at this point in time I’m in what was described as a studio apartment, but is actually one large room with a kitchenette.’ He stood up and started walking backwards and forwards. ‘I’m sorry, I’m not explaining things very well. The marriage is over, beyond retrieval. I’ve let her down. In fact, looking back, I’ve been incredibly selfish.’
He paused. Waiting for me to contradict him? When I said nothing he repeated himself. ‘Totally selfish, self-obsessed.’
‘Aren’t you being rather hard on yourself?’
‘You think so? At the time the book came out I’m not sure I even considered the effect on Ros.’
‘She knew what it was about?’
‘Oh, yes, yes of course, but I don’t think either of us realized the effect it was going to have.’
There was something slightly theatrical about him. It would have been unfair to say he was putting on an act, but his concern for his wife didn’t quite ring true. Still, like actors, vicars are expected to hold an audience. After a time, it probably comes naturally to them.
‘Shall we start at the beginning?’ I said. All I know is that you gave up your parish after the bishop objected to a book you wrote.’
He sat down again, then leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees. ‘God is Good, that was the title of the book. To tell you the truth, I had no idea it was going to cause such a stir. Hardly a new idea: God as perfect goodness, perfect understanding, rather than an old man up in the sky.’
‘More like Eastern religion,’ I said, but now was not the time for a theological discussion, however enjoyable it might have been. As it was, I was having to make quite an effort to allow him to tell me what had happened in his own way; I had been longing to hear the whole inside story.
‘Of course, all religions have their own myths and metaphors,’ he said, ‘in keeping with the culture of the people who belong to them. Ros agrees with me, well, up to a point she does, but it was different for her. Does faith have anything to do with Jesus as a historical figure?’ The somewhat dramatic tone of voice had been replaced by a kind of tortured whine. ‘The wife of a clergyman is expected to go to all kinds of ridiculous functions, mostly attended by people — ’ He broke off, his eyes meeting mine, then looked away. ‘No, I don’t want to sound like a cold intellectual, although I suppose that’s exactly what I am. Ros is more gregarious, far better suited to the job of a parish priest.’
‘I doubt if it’s quite that simple,’ I said. ‘Look, I hope you don’t mind me asking, but were you forced out of your parish or was it your own decision to leave?’
He hesitated, but only for a moment. ‘Oh, it was by mutual agreement, after a fair amount of soul-searching on both sides. I’ve no regrets, well, hardly any, apart from the pain it's caused Ros.’
‘There must be practical problems, too, like how you’re going to earn a living.’
‘Yes, of course, but I’ve enough money put aside to provide for Ros, at least for the time being. The trouble is, I’m afraid anything I say or do will only make matters worse. I suppose that’s where you come in, I need your advice. No, don’t tell me, psychologists don’t give advice, even I know that.’
Out in the street the traffic had come to a stop and the exhaust from an ancient pick-up truck was blackening the air. An old woman with a basket on wheels was crossing the road at a dangerously slow pace.
‘You wanted to talk over the situation with someone who can be more objective,’ I said, ‘and you didn’t think your wife would be prepared to come here with you.’
‘The two of us?’ He looked appalled at the suggestion. ‘I should think it’s the last thing she’d want’
‘You say she’s staying with a friend?’
‘Livvy, Livvy Pope. I suppose her real name’s Olivia. She writes poetry.’
‘The two of you felt you needed some time alone, away from each other?’
‘Sorry?’ He had heard what I said, but was playing for time. ‘Yes. No, there’s very little chance of us getting back together again.’ I could see the top of his head, where his hair had started to thin a little. ‘I was never cut out for the Church,’ he said. ‘Sometimes I wonder what I was thinking about. No, maybe that’s not right. Maybe I’ve changed.’ He looked up, and smiled a little sheepishly. ‘Sorry, I came to talk about my wife and here I am, indulging in more tedious introspection.’
‘Don’t you think if she wanted to talk to someone your wife could have arranged it herself?’
His hands were gripping the arms of his chair. ‘So what you’re saying is I’m here just to get myself off the hook, stop myself feeling so guilty? I tell you what, I’ll write her a note, tell her if she needs to talk to someone … ’ He glanced at the clock. ‘How long am I allowed? Another twenty minutes or so?’ He moved his chair a little closer to mine. ‘You see, there's something else. I’m not sure how to put this. You may feel … You see, Tom Luckham, Sally’s father, was one of my parishioners. You probably know that already.’
‘No, I didn’t,’ I said, irritated that it now looked as if he had made the appointment in order to pump me for information about Sally.
‘I’m sorry.’ He had guessed what I was thinking. ‘You must feel I’m wasting your time, indulging in aimless gossip, but it’s not like that.’
‘Who told you I’d been to see Sally?’
‘Yes, I should have explained. I phoned Erica, Sally’s mother, just to see how she was and she said a Dr McColl had been round, sent by the CID. I’d no idea you did work for the police, but of course it makes sense in a case like that.’
‘Was there something you were going to tell me, about Sally’s father?’
He drew in a deep breath, then let it out again in a long, despairing sigh. ‘Ever since he died … Look, I’d better explain. He was probably my closest friend, even though we were about as different as you can get. D’you believe in altruism? I used to, now I’m not so sure. One of those questions it’s impossible to resolve. Do we put money in a collecting box because we feel sympathy for those worse off than ourselves, or as a superstitious gesture designed to appease the gods?’
‘If we give to the blind we won’t go blind?’
‘Exactly.’ He was rubbing his hands together. They were small and narrow. He still had a ring on his wedding finger. ‘Ros blamed Tom for my decision to give up the parish.’
‘Why would she do that?’
‘I suppose it was easier than blaming me. And more humiliating. She likes to make out I was too much under Tom’s influence. He believed the role of the parish priest was to alleviate suffering, not get caught up in pointless arguments about concepts of God. As I said, I’m not very good with people, never have been. An academic, I might’ve been quite successful at that.’ He paused, and I could see by the rise and fall of his chest that his breathing had become rapid, shallow. ‘The day Tom died … I don’t know how much you’ve heard. Apparently someone rang quite early in the morning. Apart from Tom everyone was still in bed, but Sally heard the phone, and as far as she could remember the call came at about seven-fifteen. Tom didn't need much sleep so he’d probably have been up and about. I expect you know he was a diabetic, but as far as his health was concerned, and it was the same with everything else, he was meticulous. He’d never have risked a hypoglycaemic attack.’
‘Unless the phone call was something very urgent,’ I said. ‘No one ever discovered who’d made it?’
He rubbed his chin and I wondered if there was something symbolic about the removal of his beard. ‘The police made enquiries,’ he said, ‘but if it was from a phone box there was no way of checking. I was up in London all day, I’d gone in the car, to visit some specialist bookshops. When I got back that evening … Somehow it made it worse, not knowing exactly what happened, and inevitably it led to all kinds of speculation and rumour.’ He paused, giving me a long, unblinking stare. ‘The attack on Sally,’ he said, ‘do you think it’s remotely possible it was linked in some way with her fat
her’s death?’
‘I’m not sure I quite understand what you’re saying. Tom Luckham’s death was an accident. He injured himself, then went into a coma.’
‘No, it couldn’t have been an accident. It’s not just me. Didn’t Sally say anything? And James, her brother, he’s as convinced as I am.’ He had jumped up and was standing with his hands on the back of his chair. ‘Tom would never have let it happen. If you’d met him you’d know I was right.’
Chapter Four
Friday morning and my least favourite client was due at any moment. The flowers came through the door first, an absurdly large bunch, wrapped in cellophane, although I knew they had been picked from Mrs Priestly’s garden.
‘Put them in water,’ she ordered, ‘the stems don’t need trimming but it might be best if I arrange them for you.’ She glanced at her last offering, a bouquet of yellow roses, squeezed into a jug Heather had found in the cupboard under the stairs. ‘Here, give me those, they’re dead as doornails.’
Stuffing the old flowers in the rubbish bin, she began arranging the new ones, talking all the while about the shortcomings of her daughter-in-law and grandchildren.
‘Matthew, he’s the eldest, when his father was still at home I had high hopes of the boy. Now …’ She turned her head, lifting her shoulders, then letting them drop dramatically. ‘Jennifer just doesn’t know how to handle him. And as for Rachel —’
‘She’s the four-year-old?’ I interrupted. ‘It must be difficult for you and your daughter-in-law now your son’s gone back to London.’
It was quite common for clients to come asking for advice, not for themselves, but for a relative or friend. Wasn’t that exactly what Stephen Bryce had done, although in his case he had also wanted to find out how much I knew about Sally Luckham’s attempted abduction, and to try to convince me there was something suspicious about Tom Luckham’s death. According to James, Sally was suffering from tonsillitis. I would like to have gone round to the house and talked to her in bed. People who feel slightly unwell are often less defensive; sinking into the role of a patient makes them feel more childlike, more dependent. What was I thinking about? Sally Luckham was a child. The tonsillitis was almost certainly an invention, designed to protect Sally from more questions, but I could hardly accuse James of lying, and in any case what good would it have done? I could have asked to speak to Mrs Luckham — surely she wanted the ‘abductor’ apprehended, if only for the sake of other children in the area — but in the event I had accepted James’s story and told him I would ring back the following day.
