Guilty Pleasures (23 page)

Didn't I? Well, maybe I didn't. ‘This Bonnaventure guy missing, presumed dead. My lovely old friend Josie in an ICU. You know, I'd worry about Robin very officially indeed, if I were you.'

It seemed a good line to part company on, and we both turned back to our cars. But then I remembered there was one church I hadn't checked out, and I ran towards her yelling, ‘What about St Jude's?'

‘Lead the way,' she snapped.

I did.

TWENTY-THREE

I
f Freya'd been an ordinary vulnerable woman five minutes ago, by the time we'd thrown our cars on to the lay-by beside the church she was a cool professional again.

‘Back in your car, please, Lina. We don't want any more of your DNA around the place confusing the issue. No. I'm telling you officially. Get in and stay put.' She was already hurtling towards the church, where police tape still fluttered. Snatching at it, she disappeared from view.

She reappeared immediately. ‘Where can I get a key? I've broken down enough doors in my life, but not one like this.'

‘Fiona Pargetter's the churchwarden. But I've no idea where she lives. I'm nothing to do with this parish, Freya!' I said sharply as she raised furious hands to heaven. ‘Is there anything on the noticeboard?' I pointed. I could see the peeling wooden structure but not read anything on it, not from the car.

She came back with a torn sheet of paper, which she thrust at me. ‘Can you make anything of these? I shall be needing fucking reading glasses next.'

The sheet with the Churchwarden's number was bleached by sun and washed by rain. ‘I can guess . . .'

‘Call them out – I'll dial. If I can get sodding coverage.'

It took three attempts to get the numbers right, and then Freya only located the last warden but one. She snapped a great deal, and eventually must have got a result.

‘Why can't these people keep things up to date, for God's sake?'

‘All volunteers,' I ventured.

‘If a job's worth doing it's worth doing well,' she snarled. Was this yet another of her quotations? At least it sounded homely enough. How a woman under pressure could come out with bits from the Bible or Shakespeare or whoever as if it was as normal as breathing defeated me. Meanwhile she was dialling a number as if she was jabbing her finger into inefficient eyes. At least she could demand to speak to Ms Pargetter.

‘Away!' she repeated. ‘But she's the keyholder.'

There was a pause. I presume whoever she was yelling at tried a gentle answer.

‘So why wasn't that on the noticeboard in the first place? Thank you,' she added, as if at last remembering her manners – which Griff had dinned into me made the man. Or at least the woman.

But I wouldn't point that out.

‘Apparently, some yokel in a cottage near the church holds a spare. No, I told you to stay there.'

I stayed. She went. She came back tailed by a man in his slippers carrying a huge key. They headed off to the church. He returned, muttering and looking at me with a mixture of anger and pity. She didn't.

What was keeping her? I imagined all sorts of things, from first aid to prayers. I tried adding a few of my own. Maybe a hired Fiesta wasn't the best place to concentrate, but I still had my eyes tight shut when she came back.

‘Not a sign,' she said. ‘I'll get this back to that hayseed and head back to Maidstone.'

I nodded. ‘Sorry to have wasted your time.'

‘These things happen.' She stomped off.

She was just starting her car when something struck me. Waving wildly, I ran towards her.

‘For God's sake—!'

‘Did you try the loo? It's in the old stable block, right at the far end of the churchyard. And there's probably some of my DNA left in it: it was where I applied plasters and bandages when someone had tripped me up.' I tried to explain as she galloped ahead of me, but it was clear she'd rather hear any explanation later.

The door was locked, of course. But we exchanged a glance and as one rushed at it. She was a good deal more scientific than I – I suppose they teach door-busting at police academy. And soon we were in.

‘Christ.' She stopped dead and pointed at the drops on the tiled floor. ‘Did you lose that much blood?' She must have been listening after all.

‘I don't think so . . .' And surely someone – some volunteer – would have cleaned it up by now. Then I got a grip and looked properly. ‘I certainly didn't leave those splashes on the wall there.'

‘So whose is it? Please God, don't let it be Robin's.'

My route back to Bredeham took me – near enough – past Bugger Bridger's and the convenient lay-by. Fi had been sure the boxes had come from him. He was emphatic they hadn't. What if they'd come from one of those tatty outbuildings that stood cheek by jowl with his? It was time someone had a look – why not me?

One very good reason not to was a couple of healthy-lunged dogs, running loose behind what seemed a brand-new fence. It didn't look very substantial, however, and I didn't want to test it or the padlocked gates for dog-proofness. The outbuildings were as unpromising as the colonel's – worse, in some cases. Griff used to chunter from time to time about the decline in vernacular farm buildings for which no one had any use these days: did he mean that, like these, they were literally falling down? The house itself was set almost a hundred yards from the road and the flimsy fence. There wasn't any sign of an entryphone, but perhaps, after all, they had a canine one – in which case I'd better scarper.

Once I'd got my breath back I called Griff to say I was returning to Bredeham. ‘As there's nothing I can do, she's sent me home,' I said, really pissed off, if the truth be told.

‘I'm very pleased she did. Frustrating though it must be not to be in the thick of things, you have to remember that they're not necessarily your things to be in the thick of. Now, I wonder if you'd do me a little favour – make a pilgrimage to Canterbury Marks and Spencer to buy some of their wonderful balsamic vinegar . . .'

Yes, that was Griff for you. Anyway, there was plenty of space in the multi-storey car park when I got there, and a girl does like to see a few shops from time to time. Any other day, that is. My heart felt swollen with anxiety for Robin: it's one thing being awash with adrenalin when there's lots of action, quite another when you have time to reflect on the possible fate of a dear friend.

I was so dazed I forgot the upper exit from M and S direct to the car park and headed out to the main entrance, where I found myself stunned and confused in the bright sun. Confused as in
in tears.

‘My dear, are you all right?' a concerned voice asked – a vaguely familiar voice.

Blinking a couple of times, and eventually giving up and wiping mascara all over my face with a soggy tissue, I managed to place the speaker. It was the lilac-shirted clergyman who'd spoken to me the night of the Cathedral nibbles. Today his shirt was midnight blue.

‘You're young Robin Levitt's friend, aren't you?' He put a hand on my arm.

It felt – what was the word Griff had taught me? – avuncular. ‘Would you like to talk? There's nowhere very private round here, I'm afraid.'

The words came tumbling out. ‘It's not you I need to talk to so much as God. I'm so worried something dreadful's happened to Robin, and—'

‘I know just the place.' His grip tightened.

For a bulky man, he was surprisingly swift on his feet. He propelled me through the gaggles of Japanese photographers, guiding my steps as Griff did when he taught me to dance the waltz. I was ready to panic, we were moving so fast. Where was he taking me? Was he trying to kidnap me in broad daylight? Was he part of the whole evil plot? Why didn't I call out, or try to break away? Our progress away from the shops and the tourists was breathless and inexorable.

At last I realized that we were heading towards the Cathedral itself, via the clergy steps, not the tourist queues, and started to relax. I'm sure I'd have been turned back, but he said something inaudible to the gatekeeper and sped me on my way across the green towards the Cathedral itself. It was all beginning to make sense. Possibly.

My feet stopped of their own accord as we went inside. ‘It's one thing talking to God,' I hissed, ‘quite another doing it in front of all these people. It'd be like praying in a museum. Too . . . too ostentatious.' Actually, with the noise a bunch of French school kids were making, alongside even more Japanese photographers, it would have been like praying in Disneyland.

‘So it would. Rather like that complacent Pharisee. But come into this chapel, Our Lady Martyrdom – it's set aside for people like you. Take no notice of Dean Boys and his bones – in those days they were into gruesome reminders of our last end.'

They were as well. All those skulls, with an old guy sitting on them looking as if he'd got toothache.

He smiled and gave my shoulders a little pat. ‘Take as long as you want.' And he was gone, before I could even thank him.

‘Robin's on
what
?' Freya squeaked down the phone.

‘Retreat. According to this clergyman I met this afternoon,' I explained. He'd been waiting for me when I emerged blinking into the sunshine, basking, as he'd put it, like an elderly seal, on a convenient bench.

‘And who is this guy?'

‘He said his name was Tom – he's a rural dean, apparently. And he nipped into the diocesan office and asked.'

‘Are you sure he's kosher?' Freya sounded terribly suspicious.

‘I'm sure you could check. There can't be all that many rural deans, can there? The thing is, we can't get to talk to Robin, because retreat's a time when he's deliberately excluding the pressures of the outside world.'

‘That's a lot of fucking use!'

‘But he – Tom – will get a message to him asking him to let us know he's OK.'

‘And pigs may take to the air. Let me know if you get any hard news, will you? And when you stop believing in Father Christmas.' She cut the call.

Griff was a little more encouraging, but not much, not even breaking off as he chopped onions. ‘You can see why she'd rather have had a more comprehensive identification of your new friend. After all, she's paid to be suspicious. And you must admit it's very strange that Robin's not allowed to take calls or even letters.'

‘Tom said that that's what a retreat's all about. And the state he's been in, Robin needs time to contemplate and do whatever you do on retreat. And give up smoking,' I added, less idealistically and probably less realistically.

‘True. Now, you've just got time to shower and change before our supper guest arrives. Shoo, dear one, shoo.' He touched an oniony finger to my lips.

So it must be someone I'd want to see. I'd no idea who. Morris was in Belgium by now, and Harvey, who'd always been a fairly welcome and very charming guest in the past, had really annoyed me, both by his attitude to his wife and by shoving my urgent request for help to the bottom of his in-tray. Aidan?

Funny, I reflected as I tried to scrub away the memory of the blood-smeared tiles, how many of our friends were male. Josie had been right when she said I needed a woman friend to talk lippie and shoes with. Not that Griff wasn't an expert in both, of course. Would Freya and I ever be mates? As she hadn't pointed out, she was almost old enough to be my mother, but when she wasn't treating me as a village idiot – and she obviously made a habit of that – she might be at least becoming a friend. No, perhaps not. But we were closer than just acquaintances. I think. All the same, she didn't strike me as the sort of woman I could share lipstick secrets with. And I would like to know one of those.

As I dressed and applied slap, I made a To Do list:

There. That felt a lot better. As if I was taking control of my life again.

As if.

I heard Griff greeting someone and the sound of a reply.

There was only one man with a voice like that. I was halfway down the stairs before I realized I'd only got one sandal on. Kicking it off, I ran barefoot.

‘I thought you were in Brussels!' I said, flinging my arms round his neck regardless of Griff's interested smile.

‘I've been stuck under the bloody Channel for more hours than I care to remember. The French strikers. They usually let Eurostar through, but not today. And I thought of Griff's cooking and the way you've always got some white wine chilling and here I am.'

So how would Griff react to knowing that Tim the Bear would be ousted tonight?

As if he read my mind, he added, ‘Only one problem: I can't drink too much of the wine. I've got to get back to London tonight. Leda's babysitter's just phoned to say she needs to get home tonight – some sort of family emergency. So she can't stay over as she usually does when the orchestra's working away from London. How's Josie?'

‘I was just about to phone,' Griff said, obligingly disappearing into the office.

Perhaps he approved of Morris all the more since he wouldn't be under our roof tonight.