The Chorister at the Abbey (11 page)

20

Like as the hart desireth the water-brooks, so longeth my soul after thee, O God.
Psalm 42:1

David Johnstone hurriedly pushed his papers to one side as his wife came clattering into the room.

‘Do you have to frighten the living daylights out of me?’

‘Oh, sorry, I’m sure. What do you want me to do? Knock in my own house?’

‘It wouldn’t do you any harm, busybodying around.’

Must be this new grandchild – it had given her an exaggerated sense of her own importance.

‘David, I need some money. I’ve been invited down to Croydon to help do up the nursery. They say I can go as soon as the weather improves. I’d like to go.’ Her tone fluctuated between aggressive and wheedling. David Johnstone was unsure which annoyed him more.

‘I’ve told you, your place is here. I’m up to my neck in one of the most important deals of my career. I need clean shirts and meals made. I haven’t got time to look after myself while you gad about.’

Thank goodness, he thought, that he held the purse strings. For a while, when they were first married, Pat had talked nonsense about joint accounts. But he ran the house like his father did. The breadwinner controlled the income and the wife was given the housekeeping money. And he made damn sure that there was no surplus for her to squirrel away.

Recently though, he had made a smart move. Years ago he had made Pat open a little savings account. It wasn’t to be touched, he had said. They had left a few thousand quid in it. But a couple of weeks earlier he had dumped a very large sum of cash in there. Pat never checked on it or read the statements. He always opened her post. A man like himself, who wasn’t afraid of taking risks, had to make sure there was tidy sum put aside just in case, in someone else’s name. As long as Pat didn’t know about it, it was safe, and he would still be able to keep his hands on it. Even if she found out about it, he had too much of a hold over her for her to run off with the cash.

His eyes went back to the photocopy he had in front of him. He wasn’t so sure now whether the original was all that important: the main thing was that it hadn’t turned up. If he could move fast, then he could get what he wanted. In the usual Johnstone style, fast footwork was what was needed, that and contacts. Reg Prout was going to come in handy, and of course the Dixons. It had been a wise move, jollying up to them at the Chorus.

Pat shouted: ‘There’s something at the door for you, David. Parcel. You’ve got to sign for it.’

Bloody hell. He pushed his chair to one side and stomped through the hall.

‘Where?’

‘A delivery man. He must have gone down the drive . . .’

Johnstone strode off, increasingly furious. His wife sidled into his office, duster in hand, and tried to make out what the document was that David had been reading. It looked like some flowery dedication from a sort of Gothic name all intertwined with flowers. The only letter she could make out was a giant Q because it reminded her of James Bond. On a piece of paper underneath it was an interesting valuation for the bungalow on the hill at Fellside. She wasn’t sure what to make of the information, but before she could dust the computer she heard him coming back into the house.

‘I couldn’t find any bloody delivery man. What are you talking about?’

‘Oh, that’s funny. He didn’t mention you by name. He just said, “It’s for your husband.” Maybe he really wanted the people next door!’

‘Oh, for God’s sake. Thick old bat! You should have asked the man who he really wanted! Idiot!’

Pat went on polishing the mirror in the hall, smiling to herself. There had been no parcel, of course, but she now had a little package of knowledge for herself!

Winter lingered miserably in the Norbridge area. The searing cold of January soon melted into continual dreary rain. Alex Gibson thought she could scarcely remember a more monochrome season – grey day followed grey day. She was keeping her head down, scurrying into the fug of her office and hurrying out to the car park, making sure other people delivered cheques and expenses around the college. Always a perfectionist and hard worker, asking people to do this made her more communicable. She seemed nicer. Those of her colleagues who noticed the change in her put it down to the drama of finding a dead man in the corridor. Alex seemed to be someone who rose to the occasion.

They also thought the shock perhaps explained her weight loss. Alex was aware her clothes were looser, but she was concentrating on stopping drinking and repairing the bungalow, rather than on her figure. The Chorus rehearsal, and the orange juice in the pub afterwards with Edwin, was a highlight of each week.

Then one morning she received a business letter which astonished her. It would probably come to nothing, she thought, putting it in her dressing-gown pocket. But you never knew . . .

It encouraged her to maintain her new hair colour with some tint she bought at Uplands store. While she was there, she noticed Norma Little was back behind the till. But she said nothing to her. The Frost boys were remanded in custody, and Morris’s body had been released for burial. Alex hadn’t gone to the funeral, but everyone had talked about it at the Chorus practice. It had been a very quiet affair, not what Morris Little would have wanted at all. But Norma now went through life grim-lipped and silent, serving at the shop with manic intensity as if she might pull a gun on anyone who argued, and the funeral reflected her anger with the world.

Edwin Armstrong called Alex once or twice each week, as well as enjoying their regular drinks after the Chorus practice. He seemed to value her thoughts.

‘Freddie says he’ll have a go at those bass solos,’ he had said on the phone one Monday night.

‘That’s great!’ Alex loved the Chorus practices, but she made sure she arrived at the last minute, staying at the back next to the warbling Pat Johnstone. There was no way she was making eye contact with Robert Clark again. But in any event, he was missing at most rehearsals.

Freddie Fabrikant was over the moon at being asked to be the bass soloist. He started playing Stainer’s
Crucifixion
very loudly in the tiny cottage, and singing along.

‘For God’s sake stop that noise,’ Wanda would shriek at him. She found the congregational hymn music embarrassing. She longed for the days when he played Ozzie Osborne at maximum decibels. ‘I thought you had famously good hearing. Why do you need to play this droning crap so loud? It’s just ordinary people, for God’s sake!’

‘What was that? I can’t hear you!’ Freddie would guffaw at his own joke. It was a relief to her when he donned his huge cycle cape and rode off in the dark for a practice at the Abbey or a jam session at Fellside Fellowship. Wanda was glad to see the back of him. She was trying to write a piece for
Music Today
on Messiaen’s relationship to rap. All this amateur church music-making was so provincial. She couldn’t believe she had actually socialized with vicars’ wives!

In Uplands, the Cliffords were coming to terms with the fact that Chloe had refused to return to Leeds University. They had driven over to Yorkshire without her to talk to her tutor, who seemed to have some difficulty recollecting her. Her room in the hall of residence was pathetically normal. Lynn was moved to tears by the tawdry bits of jewellery and tatty posters, and could hardly bear to collect the few belongings which Chloe had demanded they brought home. Yes, Chloe was going through a difficult patch, her tutor nodded sagely, but it wasn’t unusual. Many undergraduates panicked. It was possible she might be able to catch up on the work she had missed thanks to e-learning and email, and if the worst came to the worst she could retake the year, no problem.

But it
is
a problem, Lynn heard herself shouting at this smug man in his jeans and earring. My daughter is suffering.

‘Counselling?’ he suggested.

‘Get stuffed!’ Chloe said to them when they got home, with a hint of her old spark. ‘I’m all right. I’ve got plenty of people to talk to. Just give me a bit of space.’ Later she was on the phone for over an hour, in her bedroom. To Poppy? Lynn wondered. Or maybe Tom Firth?

The next day, Lynn noticed that Chloe was calm again. It was quieter in the house as a result, but she felt her real daughter was hiding somewhere. Chloe wouldn’t be drawn – she just smiled remotely. Then Lynn was distracted by a sudden row on the parochial church council about the ‘Lenten array’ which would be used in a few weeks’ time. Some people objected to the altar cloth, which showed a brutal hammer, nails and whip, appliquéd in red and black on the ivory background. It was traditionally used at Uplands Parish Church. It frightened the kids, some said. But crucifixion
is
frightening, Lynn thought. Sorting out a compromise was absorbing a lot of Neil’s attention, and hers too.

Ash Wednesday was less than a month away.

David Johnstone was enjoying the winter. Darker evenings meant his trips to his woman friend in Fellside were more likely to be unnoticed. This time of year was always a quiet time in property, when he would work out his strategies. He chatted to the weasel-like Brian Dixon one night after the Chorus about his plans for Fellside Leisure. It meant a big investment in the area, but Brian had been all for it and had offered to get the Johnstones an invite to Lord Cleaverthorpe’s place – just on a social level.

He needed to get the bungalow too, of course. That was crucial. It was a pity baldy Reg’s drunken sister-in-law had turned out to be tougher than he’d expected. But joining the Chorus had been a good move, he thought happily. He could keep tabs on her there, and the other contacts were worth having. He quite fancied one of the sopranos. And he liked eyeing up plump little Chloe Clifford who’d been trailing along after her mother. Young ones were much more fun than some of these older, so-called sophisticated types. He felt sorry for Robert Clark, with that TV producer.

Suzy and Robert rubbed along domestically, but that was about all. The closeness was gone. Robert was evasive, and she found that she was nervous of discussing things. Anyway, there wasn’t much time for talking. Every Saturday there was a new reason to drive to Nigel’s, who found his wife and children much more interesting now his girlfriend was off the scene. And on Sundays she took Molly to Sunday School in Tarnfield, and later drove Jake to Fellside Fellowship to rehearse and play at the rock service. His mate Ollie went with them to play drums. At least she got to chat to Mark Wilson. In the week, her work was hectic.
Geordies in Space
was doing surprisingly well and they needed to record a few ‘specials’ with north-east celebrities. On one of the rare occasions she and Robert found themselves at home on their own, a row had flared from nowhere.

‘I’ve taken that rug Molly spilt glue on to the cleaners.’

‘Oh, you shouldn’t have bothered, Suzy. It hardly showed.’

‘But it was one which Mary made herself. It’s beautiful.’

‘I know. She was really good at that sort of thing. But we can’t expect a child to keep it pristine. And it’s not Mary’s house any more.’

‘You sound like you regret it, Robert. Was that what you meant before Christmas when you said, “Mary’s dead,” in that tone of voice?’

‘No! It was just a point of fact.’

‘But if Mary were alive then we wouldn’t be together.’

‘She’s not alive, Suzy. She died. I can’t say I would have left her for you, because I wouldn’t.’

I stayed with Mary and it wasn’t always easy, he was thinking. These days his conscience was pricking him more and more. I did some wrong things – but I stayed, he told himself. I really did do my best.

‘Oh, and because now I’m abandoning Nigel I’m not as good as you. Mr Perfect stayed the course! You’re so flaming sanctimonious!’

‘No, Suzy, that’s not what I meant . . .’

But she had gone and slammed the door.

21

Let it be unto him as the cloke that he hath upon him . . .
Psalm 109:18

Suzy had arranged to meet Lynn Clifford for coffee again. The part-time contract at Tynedale TV gave her some time during the day while the children were at school, though the erratic shift pattern meant she felt unsettled. But it was good to talk to Lynn. They were in the coffee shop at McCrae’s, which was tucked in a corner of the lingerie section, cordoned off and furnished with tiny metal tables.

‘Chloe’s rather better, I think.’ Lynn leant forward confidingly. ‘She stays in a lot but she’s been out once or twice this week to meet a friend. She’s still very quiet and dresses very sloppily, but maybe that’s no bad thing.’ Lynn was smiling, but Suzy could pick up a hint of concern. People don’t change so dramatically, she thought, but there was no way she would puncture Lynn’s fragile happiness.

‘I’m glad. Will Chloe be going back to university?’

‘I hope so. I think the real problem was that it was all too much too soon after living in a little place like Norbridge.’

‘Maybe she should defer for a year. She could try travelling, or maybe working somewhere.’

Lynn shook her head. ‘Neil thinks she should get over this and get back to normal as soon as possible.’

‘Men want things “back to normal” as soon as possible because that means that they’re in control.’

Lynn looked at Suzy sharply. What was wrong there?

‘Oh, Neil’s not like that,’ she said vaguely.

But later, when she got home, it made Lynn wonder if her husband was perhaps being a little intolerant. Neil had been tired lately. The Lenten altar cloth argument had drained him. It seemed trivial but was brewing into a local schism. And Paul and Jenny Whinfell at Fellside seemed to be going through a difficult phase, which had meant long phone conversations for several evenings running. It was lucky that Paul had Mark Wilson as such a steadfast supporter, Lynn thought. According to Neil, Mark was doing more and more of the routine parish chores.

Paul had confided to Neil, who was his boss in the hierarchy, that Jenny seemed unhappy and uncommunicative.

‘I think she’s angry, Neil. But I don’t know why. Everything’s fine.’

To Neil, most personal issues boiled down to a crisis of faith.

‘Why not start a Bible study course?’ he said. ‘You could relate it to Lent, but you don’t have to wait for Ash Wednesday. Get cracking now. Jenny could be a leader; it would do her good. And why not try looking at the Psalms? They would be interesting to Mark with his High Church leanings, but equally interesting to you and Jenny with your evangelical approach.’

‘But who would come to a Bible study course at Fellside? It’s not really what kids do. Would we get enough interested people at a mid-week session?’

‘You would if I didn’t do a Lent course at Uplands. I could encourage my parishioners to come to you. I’ll help you with the extra work, though with Jenny and Mark you’ve got a good team.’

‘That’s a thought. Thanks, Neil.’

In fact it was a great idea, thought Paul. It would be meaty enough for all three of them to get their teeth into. He would publicize the course to everyone in the whole area. And he had his own reasons for feeling it would be particularly helpful. How significant that Neil should mention the Psalms! Then he put the phone down and guiltily tapped into ancestry.co.uk.

* * *

The following Monday, Edwin Armstrong arrived home at about six o’clock. The phone was already ringing as he got out of the car, which he parked outside his small cottage on the road between Uplands and Fellside.

‘Hello?’ He expected it to be someone selling him financial services, but the rasping voice at the other end was distinctly local.

‘Is that Edwin? From the Abbey Chorus?’

‘Yes, that’s me.’

‘It’s Norma Little here. Morris’s wife.’

‘How are you, Norma?’

‘How d’you think?’ Her smoker’s voice rattled irritably. ‘Never mind all that. There’s stuff here I want you to look at. Music stuff. You know. Morris wanted to talk to you about it.’

Edwin’s heart sank. He imagined piles of dusty scores and sticky old-fashioned cassette covers. Morris had been the sort of person to keep everything. ‘What sort of thing do you have?’ he asked guardedly.

‘All sorts. But that’s not the point. I want you to have a look at the stuff on his computer. I’m not good at technology and my children just keep trying to stop me. They think it will upset me.’

‘What are you getting at, Norma?’ Edwin knew his own voice was sharpening. This wasn’t a routine call by the bereaved.

‘My husband was doing some research. I know you all thought Morris was a pain, but he knew what he was talking about. He wanted to talk to you about it.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes, you. You should look at his work.’

Edwin suddenly felt guilty. No one from the Chorus except Robert had really bothered to talk to Norma. The funeral, once the body had been released, had been a very utilitarian affair and Edwin had wondered at the time why Norma was so tense and fierce. Perhaps she felt there was unfinished business.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘You’re right. Morris was a first-class researcher.’

She sniffed, happier. ‘I think you should come over to the shop sometime this week. What about Thursday night? I’m finishing at six that night, and my daughter’s taking over.’

It wouldn’t harm him to be sympathetic. And there was still a lot about Morris’s death that seemed peculiar.

‘Maybe I can have a look at Morris’s psalter at the same time?’ he suggested.

‘Salter? What do you mean, salter? Is it something to do with the grocery side?’

‘No, no, not at all. It’s a sort of music book for singing psalms. Apparently Morris had rather a nice copy. It was with him when . . . when he died.’

‘A music book? No, you’re wrong there. Morris had nothing with him but the clothes he stood up in. And his wallet and mobile. Funny that, don’t you think? You’d think the Frost boys would have taken his money.’

‘Maybe they didn’t get a chance in the dark.’

‘Hmmph. We’re all in the dark, if you ask me. But one thing’s for certain. There was no music book of any sort with him.’

Were both Tom and Alex wrong? Surely not, Edwin thought. If the police had found a book in Morris’s hand, or even near his body, they would have given it to his widow – unless it was evidence. But what sort of evidence could it be?

‘I’ll be there on Thursday,’ Edwin said. ‘Definitely.’

Norma grunted. ‘Right. We’ll see you then,’ and put the phone down sharply as if she was worried he might change his mind.

Edwin’s next move, almost as a reflex, was to push the button he had pre-programmed with Alex’s number.

‘You’re sure you saw a book in Morris’s hand, aren’t you?’

‘Of course I’m sure. A psalter.’

A few minutes later, as he was pouring himself a drink, Edwin’s phone rang again. He jumped to answer it, hoping the unexpected caller might be Marilyn. She would call him soon – he knew that.

But it was the husky voice of Norma Little again. ‘I’ve called the policewoman who’s on Morris’s case. She says there was no book anywhere near him.’

So someone had removed the psalter from Morris’s hand. It had been there when Tom and Alex found the body and gone when the police got there, and it wasn’t the Frosts because witnesses had seen them disposing of the piece of wood outside at the time. Alex had said that the admin offices in the Music Department had been playing bad schmaltzy carols at top volume. The loud, crass music was still going full blast so she had heard nothing. Then the lights had gone out and the music had stopped. She had waited about five long minutes, hoping the power would come back on, before deciding to grope her way out. Then suddenly light had flooded the corridor where she had been standing; she had picked up her bag and gone out of the door, planning to turn left to the Music Department’s separate entrance. But the sound of Tom crying out had changed her mind; she had turned right and found him and the body.

And Morris had been clutching a psalter. She had taken Tom by the shoulders, pushed him into the main corridor and guided him down the stairs to the reception desk. The guard had radioed his colleague, who had gone straight to Morris’s body. The dead man had been left alone for about five minutes. And in that time the book must have gone.

But would other people come to the same conclusion that Edwin was rapidly reaching? – that the murderer wasn’t necessarily one of the Frosts, but could be someone who stole the book, having attacked Morris in the first place? Someone who expected the Music Department to be deserted, not realizing Tom might be in the toilets, or Alex in the vicinity, with any sound masked by the raucous carol singing?

Edwin knew of no one in the Music Department who would play music like that. They had been playing Bach’s
Christmas Oratorio
earlier. Had the murderer put on the blaring music to mask all sound of an attack? But then, in turn, not heard Alex? Had the same person lurked at the scene in the dark, and then watched Tom crying, and Alex leading him away?

Was that possible? If it was, the consequences were crazy. It meant there was a murderer on the loose in Norbridge. Someone with an interest in the Psalms, or why else would they remove a psalter?

Ridiculous, Edwin said to himself. He was being over-imaginative. He would heat up a pizza and then do some work. And tonight, he thought firmly, he would concentrate on modern jazz.

Freddie Fabrikant grunted as he pushed his bicycle up the hill on the outskirts of Fellside. But he chuckled too. He could still hear Wanda’s ringing outrage in his ears.

‘What? You’re going where?’

‘To a religious group meeting, Wanda. It’s very interesting. A study for the Lenten season which is coming soon. We’re starting early.’

‘You’re off your head, Freddie. What is happening to you?’

‘Well, I am taking a new interest. Religion is the rock and roll of the twenty-first century.
The Da Vinci Code
and Cabbalism and Islam and Scientology, it’s all there.’

‘But this is some silly little group at a church hall in bloody Fellside of all places. It’s hardly Holy Trinity Brompton Road, is it?’

‘I don’t know of this Holy Trinity. But I’m interested. After all, if I’m going to be singing the main part in Stainer’s
Crucifixion –
’

‘Oh, is that what it’s all about! For God’s sake!’

‘
Genau
!’ Freddie had harrumphed triumphantly, and lifted his giant bicycle cape from the peg in the hallway. ‘I’m leaving now, Wanda. It won’t be a long gig. I’ll be home at ten o’clock for my hot milk drink . . .’ He winked and guffawed.

She had still been huffing and blowing as he left. He was very fond of Wanda, whom he found deeply sexy in her driven way, but it was his ability to wind her up which gave him the greatest pleasure. She was a woman of limited sensitivity, he thought seriously as he mounted his bike and weaved unsteadily out of Uplands. She was strangely two-dimensional, wrapped up in herself like a small dark animal that occasionally emerged from a burrow blinking at the world, uttering sharp cries of outrage, and then disappearing again. Of course she had all the outward trappings of a sophisticate. But the real Wanda was really rather solipsistic, like a teenager herself. That was why she didn’t want children of her own, he thought. It had begun to trouble him. The idea of family life in the country was appealing more and more. But if Wanda was getting older and wasn’t interested then perhaps some younger woman might fit the bill. After all, he had always got on well with young people. And there had been a few escapades since he had come up to the north . . .

His bicycle wobbled. I’ve been a naughty boy, he said to himself, but not always. Once or twice he had been kindly, avuncular even. He laughed, liking the sound of his own voice booming in the dark.

The back roads to Fellside had been deserted, and he bowled along, singing bass arias from
The Crucifixion
at the top of his voice, through the damp but chilly night. It was that which made him remember the Chorus practice the previous Tuesday. They had had a break in the rehearsal. Everyone had set off for the pub, and he had gone with them, but at the door of the Crown and Thistle he had remembered that his wallet was still in the cape’s voluminous pockets. He had returned to the dark recess of the Lady Chapel where he had left his cape draped over a pew.

It hadn’t really been dark in there, just misty, with the winter night’s damp air swirling in the spotlights over the altar. Robin, the musical director, was playing the organ softly and Edwin Armstrong had been talking to Alex Gibson by the door. Freddie had made his way into the Lady Chapel, which was very dimly lit, and as he’d picked up his cape he’d heard two people talking.

A man’s voice had said, ‘But it’s the only way. It’s meant to be. Think about it. Think about the way society’s going.’

And an answering female voice had said, ‘But it seems so extreme.’

‘No.’ The male voice had an air of great authority. ‘Think about what the psalm says:
The virgins that be her fellows
shall bear her company, and shall be brought unto thee
. You have this unique chance to be part of something wonderful which only women can do.’

Freddie had been tempted to say in his loud, cheery voice: ‘I could do with some of that!’ but then he had heard the man say sharply, ‘We must split up now. I’ll call you . . .’ The voice had been strangely urgent. But by then Freddie had his cape over his head so, despite his excellent hearing, he had caught no more of the conversation.

It had intrigued him, though. And given him the seed of an idea.

And now Freddie was on his way to a Bible study meeting. How strange life was! He liked the feel of the pull in his leg muscles as he cycled up towards the ridge. He was getting a lot fitter and life in the Norbridge area really suited him. Despite his days as a rock star he had always liked being a big fish in a small pool. The image of a bad guy who was really a big softie suited him very well.

And he was immensely flattered by being asked to sing solo for the Chorus. Freddie had a deep vein of country-boy conservatism running through him. He had been brought up as a Lutheran, going to a rural church in a small town on the flat potato plains of middle Germany. That’s where he’d first heard his own voice surmounting those around him and realized that music was going to be a big part of his life.