I glanced up at the clock. ‘It’s pretty late.’
‘Which means we would take him by surprise. We’ll be able to tell if there’s anyone up and about in his house.’
And Keeley would need to be picked up soon, too.
‘Has Sharon been in touch with you yet?’ I asked Greaves, as we drove.
‘Sharon?’
‘Petrowlski.’
He shook his head.
‘Hm, she probably hasn’t had the chance to do anything yet. There’s been a lot happening what with Denny and now Westfield.’
He waved away the apology. ‘It’s fine. To be honest, I didn’t really expect anything.’
Chapter Forty-four
It was eleven thirty but there were lights still on in the Leonard household, so I had no qualms about ringing the doorbell. Leonard came to the door himself and was understandably startled to see us and reluctant to invite us in — at first.
‘Why didn’t you see fit to tell us that you met up with Rita Todd on the night of Friday, March fourth?’ asked Fraser.
Turned out that was the password. Within minutes, we were sitting in the cosy lounge enjoying the warmth from the dying embers of the wood-burner. The rest of the house was quiet. Everyone else must have been in bed.
‘You know that you were very likely the last person to see her alive?’ said Fraser, his annoyance showing through.
Leonard was defensive. ‘Not necessarily,’ he replied.
‘What did you give to Rita, just before you went your separate ways?’
Leonard hesitated.
‘We can do this down at the station if you’d prefer,’ said Fraser. ‘Where we can all see the footage. I’ll even get in the popcorn.’
A pause. ‘It was an address,’ Leonard said.
‘Which was?’
‘It was for one of the large properties that backed onto the river.’
‘That would be upstream from where Rita was found, then,’ said Fraser. ‘What’s at that address?’
‘Not what, but who,’ said Leonard, resigned. ‘She was very persuasive. I have a family, a mortgage. I had no choice.’
‘Who lives there?’ I demanded.
‘Margot Warren-Byrne.’
Fraser’s eyes met mine and I gave him the merest nod. We’d got what we came for.
‘I’ve seen that name somewhere recently,’ said Fraser, once we were back in the car. ‘You know who she is?’
‘Only recently,’ I said. ‘She’s the head of the medical ethics committee at the hospital. Broadly speaking, she heads up the group of people who moderate decisions about who gets to live or die.’
‘What did Rita Todd want with her, do you think?’ asked Fraser.
‘Allegations had been made about Rita’s professional conduct. Perhaps the committee, or even Warren-Byrne herself, have some kind of influence over disciplinary matters. If so, it would make sense for Rita to go and see her to plead her case.’
‘And if Warren-Byrne refused, or was unable to help, that could have been what pushed Rita over the edge into taking her own life.’
I didn’t like that version of events but I had to acknowledge that it added up.
The alarm on Fraser’s phone sounded.
‘Keeley. I’ve got to go and fetch her,’ he said. ‘I’ll drop you off at your flat on the way.’
I spent a restless night going over everything I knew about Rita and still struggled to reconcile the woman I had met with someone about to take her own life. But then, how long had we met for? Five minutes? Ten? Not much more than that. No, the person who had known all about her frame of mind was the man she had spent evenings in the church with just talking — Father Adrian. He was the one person Rita might have confided in. I should have asked more questions when I could. Not for the first time, I cursed myself for having squandered the opportunity when I met him.
The following morning, I saw a message in my inbox from Mick Fraser: Knew I’d seen that name somewhere before. Cast your eye over this unholy trinity.
I clicked on the attached image. It was a poor definition, colour photo downloaded from the web that could only have been taken some years ago, a group shot from some kind of student society. It took me a few seconds to locate the youthful Matthew Westfield, but once I did, it took no time at all to identify the woman at his right shoulder. Fraser had circled another head and inserted a caption: and this is my boss.
Chapter Forty-five
As Plum and I walked through the town to St Barnabas for Rita’s funeral, I realised that in the space of a week, I’d managed to piss off two of the women in my life. It was an uncomfortable walk, and not just because it was raining again. By the time we got to the church gates, I still hadn’t worked out quite what, but I had to say something.
‘Plum, about last night. I’m sorry. You’re a lovely girl, but you’re very young. You should be seeing someone your own age. Plus, I’m already seeing someone.’
‘That doctor.’ Two words imbued with contempt.
‘Yes. We’ve got to work together, and I really value you as a colleague. I’d hate to spoil that. I count on you as a mate, too. I like your company. Tell you what — why don’t we go out sometime, just the two of us?’
Her lip curled with suspicion. ‘Really? You’d do that?’
‘Place of your choosing,’ I said in trepidation of what I might be letting myself in for. ‘So we’re OK? No hard feelings?’
She shrugged. ‘I’ll get over it.’ I had to trust that she was telling the truth. She flashed me a sudden, cheeky grin. ‘Maybe I’ll try my luck with the priest.’
* * *
Andrea’s wish to keep her mother’s funeral low key was granted. In Father Adrian’s continued absence, Deacon Robert was officiating, so there would be no communion and the service would lack the usual Catholic bells and whistles. The gloomy weather seemed only to underline the sadness of the occasion.
Even as the service got under way, there were no more than thirty of us present. Delores was the only representative from the hospital who I could see. Clearly those staff shortages were such that no one could be spared for even a couple of hours.
‘I watched The Wizard of Oz again last night,’ said Plum, as we got to our feet for the first hymn. ‘It didn’t help.’
On our way out, she paused by the noticeboard, where a new flyer had been pinned announcing a candlelight vigil for the rough sleepers who had perished in the town, including, controversially, Liam Archer. She took out a pen and wrote the details on the back of her hand.
‘You’re going to go?’
‘I knew a couple of them.’
‘Really?’
‘From way back. Want to come?’
It was a challenge. She expected me to decline.
‘Yeah, all right then. I said we could have a night out.’
* * *
We’d been invited back to Rita’s house, where Andrea had laid on drinks and nibbles for the wake.
‘It went well,’ I said to her, noting the unlikely sight of Plum in earnest conversation with Dean Robert.
‘Mm, looks like I was wrong,’ Andrea said. ‘Mum had planned it all — hymns, music and everything. I think she knew it was going to happen — and sooner rather than later. It’s made me think again.’
Plum’s voice rang out. ‘Father Adrian said something really weird,’ I heard her say. ‘He told us he didn’t have the Lion’s courage. We thought . . .’ Plum hesitated as she caught sight of me watching. ‘I thought it must be to do with The Wizard of Oz,’ she said, deliberately avoiding my gaze.
‘Really?’ The curate was taken aback by this statement. ‘How extraordinary.’
‘Was the vicar a fan?’ Plum persisted.
‘I really don’t know,’ said the curate. ‘I can’t remember it ever coming up in conversation.’
Chapter Forty-six
Today was education day for Westfield, so I dropped him off at Millpool Primary School. There weren’t many people
about at the station when I got back, but Sharon Petrowlski was one of them.
‘I’ve got to catch up on paperwork at some point,’ she said, by way of explanation. ‘I’m really behind and Bowers doesn’t like that, does he? Thanks for the tip-off about the CCTV, by the way. Haven’t had the chance to look yet, but I’ll get onto it.’
‘No worries,’ I said. ‘I’m effectively here twiddling my thumbs for the next couple of hours. Want me to have a look? I’ll give you a shout if I find anything.’
‘Thanks, I owe you one.’
I went back to the CCTV footage and sought out the camera from outside Davey’s supermarket. I didn’t hold out much hope. It was obviously intended to be a traffic camera designed to cover the speed bumps, so was angled too far to the right of the pavement. I could fast-forward without much risk of missing anything. But at least I might catch anyone going in the direction of Greaves’ flat. Feet crossed the corner of the screen and thanks to his distinctive, jerky gait, I recognised them. Then nothing. Headlights approached from the end of the street — a lone driver, going slowly thanks to the traffic calming, and on his mobile. Why was I not surprised at that? The car moved off the bottom of the screen. As the registration plate dipped in and out of focus, I hit pause and rewind. I’d seen that vehicle before.
Flicking through my pocketbook confirmed what I’d thought. It was the car that had been sitting on Evan Phelps’ drive when I went to speak to him. It belonged to a Tyler Curzon. OK, this was a small town, but I didn’t like it when names kept recurring. Sure, it could be a complete coincidence that the mate of the man Davey picked out was close to where Stefan Greaves had been mugged on the same night, at the same time, but really, what were the odds?
I called over to Sharon. ‘Can I tear you away from your paperwork for a minute?’
‘I thought you’d never ask.’
‘Here’s the thing.’ I showed her Tyler Curzon’s car. ‘Is he any relation to the councillor?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Sharon. ‘His son. He was the little scrote who got off that burglary charge with Evan Phelps, thanks to Daddy’s influence. The Phelps parents were the ones with the common sense to make the misdemeanour a learning experience. Kid nearly got expelled from Cavendish as a result. It was touch and go, I seem to remember.’
‘What’s Cavendish?’
‘It’s the posh independent school over Hoyland way. The primary schools in Charnford are all right, but it’s a different story at secondary level. Most parents who can afford it generally try and get their kids into Cavendish. My beat copper’s salary doesn’t quite stretch that far, so my kids lost touch with some of their friends when they moved up.’
‘So Phelps and Curzon could be schoolmates?’
‘They might have gone to primary school together, too,’ said Sharon. ‘I don’t know about Phelps, but it’s only really the last ten, fifteen years that Ashley Curzon has been raking it in. Curzon junior was involved in petty stuff from a young age — him and his little gang. Used to call himself something stupid . . . Oh yes, “Top Cat”, that was it. The family moved off the Flatwood as soon as they could afford it, but you know what they say — you can take the man off the Flatwood . . .’
I thought about Bostwick and Phelps being only a couple of years apart.
‘Would they have known the Bostwicks?’
‘It’s possible, again, especially at primary school.’
‘You said that Phelps learned his lesson from the burglary bust. What about Curzon?’
‘We’ve never had him back, as far as I’m aware, but he’s a little thug who didn’t strike me as being all that bright. And if his dad protected him once, he can do it again. He carries a lot of influence in this town.’
Returning to my desk, I found an email from Natalie. Regretfully, both Keeley’s shoes and the test results had vanished into thin air. On a more positive note, she had managed to harvest enough DNA material from the envelope to build a profile, but it didn’t match anything on the database. It was beginning to feel like one step forward and two steps back.
* * *
I’d gone back to the office when a call came through from Dean Robert.
‘Father Adrian’s returned?’ I said, sounding more hopeful than I felt.
‘No, it’s something your partner said . . .’
‘She’s not . . .’ I began.
‘Sorry?’
‘Nothing. Please, go on.’
‘Well, what she told me was rather puzzling. But then it came to me. I’m sure the “Lion” Father Adrian was referring to must be an old bishop. He was nicknamed “the Lion” for taking a stand, speaking out against the authorities when no one else would.’
He and Rita had something in common, then, I thought. ‘Do you have his contact details so that we can get in touch with him?’
‘Hardly,’ said the Dean. ‘He died in 1946. I don’t know much about him but old Father Aidan will be able to tell you more.’
‘I thought he was in Rome.’
‘Not Father Adrian — Father Aidan, his predecessor. He’s long retired now and is rather infirm, but I understand his mind is still sharp and he was quite a scholar in his time. I’m sure it’s of no consequence whatsoever, but it might clarify, for your partner at least, why Father Adrian might have made reference to him.’
‘Does Father Aidan live locally?’
‘Not too far away. He’s in The Cedars nursing home.’
It occurred to me as I hung up that those flowers in Rita’s house could have been from Father Aidan. There was a good chance we had been talking to the wrong priest.
* * *
Since she was the one who’d prompted the breakthrough, I took Plum with me to The Cedars Roman Catholic Care Home. Having signed in to the visitors’ book, I flicked back through the pages and there was her name, time and time again. Rita, it seemed, had been a regular visitor here, going back a good few months before her death. Father Adrian was telling the truth when he said he hadn’t seen Rita often. It was Father Aidan she’d been coming to see.
The staff member who signed us in went ahead to check if Father Aidan was up to seeing us. He was, but she was firm.
‘Twenty minutes at most. He’s very frail and tires easily.’
When we went in, I thought we must have been sent to the wrong room. The man who sat in the high-backed chair and looked up from the substantial volume he was reading looked little more than seventy years old, certainly not two decades older. He regarded us curiously as Plum introduced us, his eyes magnified by thick-lensed glasses. And as it appeared that he had both his wits and senses about him, I felt able to speak, too.
‘We wanted to ask about a bishop known as the Lion,’ I said. ‘I understand you can tell us something about him.’
The old man regarded me carefully. ‘He’s suddenly in vogue again,’ he observed, in a soft Irish accent. ‘I wonder what he would make of that.’
‘Someone else is interested in him?’ I asked, feeling a murmur of anticipation in my gut.
‘One of my old parishioners comes to visit me. She remembered my mention of him in one of my sermons from thirty years ago, would you believe?’
‘Rita Todd?’
‘Yes, Rita. She couldn’t recall the man’s name, of course, but the story was remarkably fresh in her mind. He’d made an impression on her and she wanted to know more about him.’ He smiled. ‘We churchmen always hope that what we spout from the pulpit will resonate and be relevant for our congregation, but we don’t expect that to happen quite this far down the line.’ Closing his book, he handed it to Plum, who put it on the nearby table. ‘The man you are asking about is Bishop Clemens von Galen. He was the Bishop of Münster, in Germany, from 1933 to 1946. As you can imagine, it was not an easy time or place.’
‘And what did he do that made him the Lion?’ I asked.
‘He spoke out against the injustices happening in his town and in his country, even though it meant putting himself in the gravest dange
r.’ He glanced at each of us. ‘It’s quite a long story.’
‘If you feel up to telling us, we have the time,’ I said.
He settled back in his chair. ‘Very well.’
Chapter Forty-seven
Münster, August 1941
By the time the young priest arrives, the thunder is a constant, rumbling around the city like a prowling beast, preparing to strike. But still the storm does not break. As my assistant shows him into my office, I see in him the same restlessness and indecision that I myself feel. Now it is he who paces the room while I wait calmly for him to collect himself. Finally, I persuade him to sit and explain.
‘The first time I encountered Martha Keller,’ he begins, haltingly. ‘I had no idea why she made such an impression. She wasn’t beautiful in the conventional sense, but there was a sharp intelligence and often a sense of mischief about her. She seemed somehow more alive than anyone around her. On the first Sunday she came to Mass, she sat with her children — but no husband — exuding confidence, and I felt an instant and unsettling reaction, which I can’t adequately describe. There are enough of my parishioners who like to gossip, and I quickly learned that Frau Keller was from a wealthy family in the capital and was educated and well-travelled. Certainly, she seemed at odds with our tiny parochial town, too sophisticated. After the service that day she waited behind to introduce herself, at the same time quite unashamedly appraising me.
‘“Since two-thirds of the congregation is female, I would say that’s two-thirds of the congregation who have an improper affection for their priest,” she said. It was a joke, but, subjected to her intense gaze, I found myself suddenly awkward, which only seemed to amuse her further. She added, “I’ll look forward to confessing my sins to you, Father.”
‘I suppose the warning signs were there from the beginning — the new and unwelcome feelings in anticipation of Sunday mornings, her absence from Mass, which was rare, bringing with it a jolt of disappointment. When she was in the congregation, I had to make an effort not to address myself only to her. I told myself that what I looked forward to was the cut and thrust of our exchanges, the originality of her thoughts and ideas. Conversations with her were never dull. And she was fundamentally a good person, she regularly made donations of food and clothing for the needy, always with the utmost discretion. She once even denied to me that she did it, although I knew differently. She made her confession regularly and I came to recognise her footfall and perfume. Her confessions were unremarkable: she had been abrupt with the children, she had lacked tolerance or spoken unkindly to a neighbour. She was invariably bright and talkative, but sometimes she looked strained. Her husband, who seemed to have an important civil service job, was often away, and on the rare occasions he came to Mass there was a subtle change to her demeanour. Some of the brightness left her, and it seemed to me that her behaviour was more controlled.
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