Shaping the Ripples (8 page)

The lead undertaker picked up a small wooden box on a long handle and offered it to Jennifer’s husband. He reached in, and tossed a handful of soil into the hole where it landed with a thud onto the wooden coffin. One by one, the family filtered forwards to take their turn at symbolically burying her. I glanced to my left to see if Michael Palmer was planning to take his turn in the silent parade, but he wasn’t there any longer. He must have slipped away when the coffin was interred.

We stood in silence for a moment, and then Jennifer’s husband and daughters turned away and led the way back to the road. Slowly others followed until only the old vicar was left, his head bowed as he stared down at the coffin. I moved over towards him and spoke as he looked up at me.

“That can’t have been any easy funeral to do.”

“It wasn’t,” he admitted. “Tragic and sudden deaths are always the most difficult to come to terms with, and a murder is always the worst. There are so many questions, so much anger.” He nodded reflectively, “Perhaps I was fortunate in not having much time to panic about it beforehand this time.”

“I’m sorry?” I said inquiringly, “I don’t quite follow.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he replied, “I just assumed from your comment that you knew. I wasn’t originally supposed to do this funeral, but I got a call late last night from the vicar whose parish she lived in, asking if I could stand in. He wasn’t feeling well and said he didn’t think he was up to doing it.”

I had a sudden instinct and asked impulsively,

“Was that Christopher Upton?”

“Yes, it was,” he confirmed, “do you know him?”

“I go to his church. He hasn’t been looking at all well over the last couple of weeks.”

The vicar nodded again, “He sounded awful last night – he was in a real state. He’s such a talented priest, it would be a tragedy if he is really struggling to cope.”

“I’ll give him a ring and see if there’s anything I can do.” I decided. “Anyway, thanks once again for your kind words about Jennifer. I’m sure the family couldn’t have hoped for a more compassionate funeral.”

I began to make my way back to the road, passing by a wide assortment of tombstones. Most of them were plain, but a few were more ornate with large stone angels on top. Most heartbreaking were those marked with stone teddy bears, to signify that the grave’s occupant was a young child.

As I neared the road, I saw that Jennifer’s family were still there, standing beside the funeral cars. Jennifer’s husband came across to greet me, his right hand outstretched.

“Thank you for coming, Mr. ….?” He left the end of the sentence hanging in the air.

“Bailey, Jack Bailey.” I reached our to grasp his hand but his eyes had suddenly clouded over and his arm fell as if lifeless to his side.

“You’re the one who found my wife,” he said in a rather stunned voice.

“Yes, I am.” I replied. “ I wanted to say how very sorry I am for your loss. Your wife was a very special person.”

He seemed to have regained his composure. “She was.” He responded. “That’s why we’re so anxious to have whoever committed this horrendous crime caught as soon as possible.”

“I am as well,” I agreed. “Whatever the police might have hinted to you, I had nothing to do with her murder. Jennifer was someone who I admired greatly, and who had been nothing but helpful to me. I don’t know why I was summoned to the house that day, but I had no reason to harm her at all.”

“I hope that’s true,” he replied evenly. “Thank you again for coming to pay your respects to her.”

He climbed into the open door of the funeral limousine, and it pulled away. I walked down the hill leading away from the cemetery. Just at that moment I couldn’t remember ever feeling so lonely.

Chapter Nine

I tried to ring Christopher Upton that evening, but only managed to get his answer phone.

“This is St. Thomas’s Vicarage” it declared solemnly. “I can’t come to the phone right now but please leave your name and number after the beep and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

I hesitated, unsure whether to bother leaving a message, until the loud electronic beep decided it for me. “Hi Christopher.” I began, “It’s Jack Bailey. The vicar at the funeral today said you weren’t so good, so I was just ringing to see how you were and if you needed anything. Give me a call if you’re up to it.”

The phone didn’t ring that evening, and when I got home from work on he next day, there were no messages. I tried to ring him again but hung up when I got the answer phone again.

Most of Saturday was spent preparing my speech for the Charity Dinner, which was coming around much too quickly for my liking. I’d agreed with Katie that she would talk in general about the work we did at the centre, and that I’d try and give it some real flesh by talking specifically about one of the cases that I’d handled in my time there. I knew which one should have the most impact, but that didn’t make it easy to put into the right words. The hard part was finding a balance which gave them a real sense of the case, without breaching the confidentiality of the people involved in it.

By teatime, I thought I’d just about cracked it and decided to go out for a walk into the city centre. I’d forgotten that the shops would now be open in the evenings to try and lure every possible bit of pre-Christmas spending, so the streets were thronged with determined looking people, clutching assorted brightly coloured plastic bags.

The evening was crisp and cold, and bits of Christmas music drifted out of most of the shop doors. Despite that, the atmosphere felt more being in the middle of a military operation with each person trying to elbow their way through the crowds so that they could tick off the next objective on their lists as soon as possible.

I found my way into a food hall and, surrounded by people who were mostly pushing trolleys laden with all sorts of food and drink, picked out a few ready made meals for one which would save me having to think about cooking during the next week or so.

On my way out of the food hall, I was preparing to rejoin the battling crowds when I heard a voice from behind my left shoulder.

“Well, look at who we have here!”

I turned around to see Ryan Clarke smirking at me.

“Ryan” I said without much enthusiasm.

“I hear you’ve not been having such a good time of things recently. You can imagine how upset I was to hear that.” He sneered.

One of the downside of the success of films like “Reservoir Dogs” and “Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels” is that everyone thinks that to sound tough, you have to try and talk like a gangster. “If you can call finding the murdered body of a good friend “not having such a good time of things lately”, then you’re right.” I replied. “It’s nice to see how cut up you are about it.”

“Oh, I heard it was more than that,” he smiled. “The way I heard the story, the police think you might have something to do with it. Surely “Mr. I’m so perfect” doesn’t have his own dark side.”

I could feel anger rising inside me, but decided that the most sensible response was to walk away. As I left, Ryan had one parting shot,

“I’d be very careful if I was you. You never know what might happen to you next.”

I turned back to demand to know what he meant by this threat, but the crowd had packed behind me and there was no sign of him.

Back at home, there was still no message from Christopher Upton and the phone stayed silent all evening. I made up my mind to go to church the following day, and see if he was back at work. It seemed very unlike him to have withdrawn completely from everything, especially so close to Christmas.

Sunday morning dawned clear and very cold. It was a great temptation to stay longer in the relative warmth of my bed, but I managed to hold onto my resolve of the previous evening and got showered and dressed.

By the time I arrived at the church, it was packed. The reason for this substantial increase in attendance was immediately clear as I noticed that the front pews were filled with children dressed as angels and kings, or with tea towels wrapped around their heads. Clearly this was the service which centred on the Sunday School’s performance of the Nativity. I scanned the church in the hope of spotting somewhere to sit. In good Anglican fashion, the back rows were the most densely packed so I moved down the church. I eventually found a spot at the edge of a pew on the very left hand side of the church and sat down gratefully. Only then did I realise that the reason this was the only unoccupied spot was because the stone pillar immediately in front cut off all sight of the front of the church.

The first blast of organ music signalling the start of the service ended any thoughts I had about trying to move. When the hymn was finished, I recognised Christopher’s voice doing the welcome and introduction. He didn’t have too much to say over the next half hour or so as the children acted out the familiar story, interspersed with a few Christmas carols. It finished to a loud burst of applause, and with a few prayers from Christopher, it was over.

I waited for the main throng of people to disappear, before standing and making my way towards the door. As usual, Christopher was there shaking the hands of each person as they left. Waiting my turn, I could see that although he was smiling and talking enthusiastically, his eyes looked drained and empty of life.

“How are you now?” I asked as I approached him.

“Still a bit tired, but much better thanks. I’m sorry I didn’t manage to get back to you but I wasn’t feeling up to talking to anyone. Thanks for the concern, though. It meant a lot.”

I would have listed Christopher as one of the most open and transparent people I have ever met. Even so, as I walked home I couldn’t shake the strong instinct that he was hiding something important.

Chapter Ten

It’s a fact of life that when you’re dreading something, the time before it seems to go by at least twice as fast as normal. So Thursday, and the Christmas Dinner, arrived with predictable speed. Although I had a fair idea of what I was going to say, I felt increasingly nervous as the day drew on. George tried to encourage me not to think about it, but just to look forwards to a decent meal for a change. Unfortunately I was fairly sure that the fact that our speeches were to come at the end of the dinner ruled out any possibility of my enjoying the food.

Katie seemed far more relaxed about the whole thing as, of course, did George although he was rather more flustered when he came out of his office late in the afternoon.

“I need a big favour, Jack.”

“Go on,” I said.

“I’d promised to give Katie a lift to the Dinner. But Ian Jacobs has just rung and he wants to meet me for an hour beforehand. Is there any chance you could pick her up for me?”

I had planned to walk there, more for the convenience of it than for the freedom it would give me to drink. It wasn’t really a major issue though.

“Sure,” I said, “I don’t mind driving.”

“Great!” George beamed. “Her address is on this bit of paper, and I was going to pick her up at about 7.30. I’ll give her a ring and let her know that you’ll be doing it instead. I think he just wants to go over his introduction but it seems a good idea to try and keep him sweet.”

His face took on a concerned expression. “And how are you? I know the last week must have been an awful one to cope with.”

It was nice of him to be concerned, but I would have much preferred it if he hadn’t said anything. I had years of practice at burying things that were painful, and so avoiding any uncomfortable feelings – or any feelings at all for that matter. So I could honestly have said to George that I hadn’t let myself think about Jennifer at all. There was no reason for him to know that the hideous image of her grinning death mask had woken me up several times in each night since.

“Well, obviously it did shake me up.” I admitted. “But I’m coping with it, thanks. I just wish they’d hurry up and catch the maniac who did it.”

George looked unconvinced. “You of all people should know that it doesn’t do any good to bottle things up.”

“I’m not bottling anything up,” I said, far more sharply than I’d intended to. “I’m fine.”

“If you say so. You know where I am if you change your mind, and need a friend to talk to.”

George stood up, and left me alone in the room with my thoughts.

The house Katie shared was out of the city centre towards the University of York. I pulled up outside just a little before half past seven. The night was already cold and my breath steamed out into the atmosphere as I climbed the few stone steps to the front door. On reflection, I wasn’t too sorry that I wasn’t going to be facing a late night walk home in sub zero temperatures.

The door opened and a pretty dark haired girl greeted me.

“You must be Jack. I’m Rebecca. Come on into the warm.”

She showed me through to a small living room which was simply furnished with a couple of battered couches around a real fire with a small portable television and DVD player in the corner.

“Katie will be down in a couple of minutes so just make yourself comfortable. Would you like a drink?”

I passed on the drink, but settled onto one of the couches which was surprisingly comfortable. Rebecca sat on the opposite one and leant forwards.

“It’s the first time I’ve met one of the people Katie works with. Is she as scatty at work as she is at home?”

I smiled back, “We all work fairly independently, I’m afraid, so I don’t get to see Katie all that much. She always struck me as very organised and efficient.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you had to clear up the bathroom after she’s swept through it.” She grinned broadly. “Actually she’s not too bad as a house mate. I was really pleased when she decided to come up to York and move in with me. Have you lived here long?”

We spent the next few minutes in fairly easy conversation, before a voice interrupted us from the doorway.

“I hope you haven’t been telling him what a nightmare I am to live with, Becky.”

We both turned to the door, and my breath caught in my throat. Katie was standing there in a stunning black dress. Her eyes sparkled, and the reflection of the firelight shimmered in her hair.