The Loner (8 page)

‘He wants me to formally identify the body.'

Tom frowned. ‘No way. Tell him to ask Gerry Eustice. John Preece was up to the shop every week. Gerry seen him far more often than you did.'

Jess repeated Tom's suggestion, relieved when the coroner agreed. ‘We're having a collection in the village to pay for his funeral. Can you tell me when –? Right. I will. Thank you.' She replaced the receiver. ‘He told me to phone him in a couple of weeks. He should know more then.' She swallowed the remainder of her tea and set down her mug. ‘Thanks for suggesting Gerry. I really didn't want to do it.'

‘'Course you didn't. He shouldn't have asked. You found the body and done everything you was s'posed to then. That's enough. 'Tisn't your responsibility to tick all his boxes for 'n.'

Jess was touched. Tom rarely showed anger. Usually when something upset him he simply went quiet. ‘We still on for Wednesday?'

He grinned, visibly relaxing. ‘We are.' He glanced at the clock.

‘Give me two minutes.' Jess made for the stairs. When she came down again he was drying the plates. ‘You can come again.'

‘I'm counting on it,' he grinned.

Twenty minutes later he turned down the road to the yard, stopped the pickup and turned towards her. ‘See you soon, bird.'

Jess leaned forward and kissed him. His lips were warm, soft,
familiar.
She would have moved back but he cupped her head and kissed her again thoroughly.

He sat up. ‘Go on then.' He grinned. ‘Some of us got work to do.'

Jess jumped out. ‘You'll pay for that, Peters.' She shut the door.

‘Promises, promises.' He roared off down the road.

Jess laughed as she watched him go. Being with him made her
happy.

She walked across the gravelled drive to the vicarage. A square Victorian house with a pillared porch, it looked drab and neglected with cracked paint on the window frames, and a front door weathered to dullness. She gripped a tarnished brass knocker, and banged it twice.

She waited, and waited. She was wondering whether to knock again or walk round the back in case Mrs Griffin was in the garden, when the door opened.

There was no smell of alcohol. But it was obvious Claire Griffin had been drinking. Was that what Gill had been hinting at?

‘You're Jess Trevanion. I heard all about your talk. If you want Paul he's not here.'

‘Oh. Sorry, I should have phoned –'

‘No, don't go.' Claire started to reach forward, then shoved her hand into the pocket of her long cardigan. ‘He shouldn't be long. Come in and have a … cup of tea.'

Jess didn't want to. But nor did she want to appear rude or condemning. Tom's words echoed.
Not your responsibility.

‘You don't have to. I expect you've got better things to do.'

Jess knew she was being manipulated but she also recognised loneliness. The Griffins had only been in the village since November. During the first month following Alex's death she'd had lots of visitors. Three weeks later there were few, though Sam and Rob still phoned every Sunday to check that she was all right.

Of course she wasn't all right. But she lied and said she was. What else could she do? Their lives hadn't changed. Hers had, but there was nothing they could do about it.

She smiled. ‘I'd love a cup of tea, Mrs –'

‘Claire,' Her fleeting smile was tinged with surprise as if she hadn't expected Jess to accept. ‘Come through.' She pushed a hand through her thick untidy hair and led the way down a wide passage tiled in squares and diamonds of brown, cream, and deep red and dulled by dust and footprints.

Jess closed the door. Above the half-landing of a wide staircase with a threadbare beige carpet, light streamed in through a tall arched window with narrow side panels of red and blue glass. She followed her hostess into a large untidy kitchen.

Claire checked the water level in the kettle then clattered it onto the Aga's hot plate. She slumped onto a chair by an oblong pine table covered in clutter.

Jess saw a tumbler with an inch of clear liquid in it. Vodka?
None of her business.

‘How is your daughter?'

Claire gave a bitter laugh. ‘I wish I knew. It's ages since we had a letter. Ginny could have got a job in this country. British hospitals are crying out for trained nurses.' She pushed a brown pottery teapot towards Jess. ‘Would you mind? Not at my best today. What was I saying?'

‘About your daughter?' Jess emptied the pot, rinsed it, added two teabags from an open box on the worktop, and poured in boiling water.

‘Exactly. Why did she have to take off for some hellhole country in Africa where the water isn't safe to drink, ten-year-olds carry guns, every disease is lethal, and there's a chronic shortage of even basic medical supplies? Milk's in the fridge,' she waved vaguely.

Taking two mugs from the draining board, Jess quickly rinsed and dried them then poured the tea. Mentally crossing her fingers that it hadn't gone off, she added milk, relieved when the liquid didn't curdle. Placing one mug in front of the vicar's wife, she sat down and drew the other towards her.

‘Ginny was always more Paul's than mine,' Claire said. ‘She shared his sense of vocation. It's years since she left home but I still miss her. Silly, isn't it? I should be happy. I am really. She's doing what she loves. It's just – Why Africa of all places?' She dug in her cardigan pocket for a crumpled tissue.

Jess sipped her tea. ‘Did you ask her?'

As Claire nodded, a lock of hair flopped over her forehead. She pushed it back. ‘She said most of the money people donate never reaches those it's meant for. But by being there she can make a real difference.' She wiped her nose again. ‘Do you have children?'

‘Twin boys. They're twenty-seven now. My husband was away working for much of our married life so I brought them up pretty much on my own. They were noisy, untidy, demanding, and could be great company. When they drove me mad I looked forward to the day they left home. Then it came, and I missed them terribly.'

Claire fiddled with her mug, turning it round. ‘Did the house feel empty?'

Jess gave a wry smile. ‘I expect it would have done if I'd had time to think about it. But I was looking after my elderly grandparents. Then Alex's father had a stroke and moved in so I could look after him.'

‘Was it a bad one?'

‘It affected his left side and his speech so it was very frustrating for him.'

‘Couldn't he have gone into a home?'

Jess shrugged. ‘It would have cost a fortune and he wanted the money to go to the boys.'

‘Didn't you resent it, having to look after him?'

Jess wondered if Claire Griffin was always so direct. Maybe it was the alcohol talking.

‘I told myself I didn't, that it was best for him to be in familiar surroundings with a routine that gave him a sense of security. I thought I was dealing with it really well. Then one day I had a rotten headache and I got impatient with him. He told me to get out and leave him alone, he was sick of being treated like a child. He was shaking and I was in tears.'

Resting her elbows on the table Claire sipped more tea. ‘What happened?'

‘My GP recommended a retired district nurse who did private care for stroke patients. It wasn't cheap, but it cost a lot less than if he'd gone into a home. She knew exactly how to handle him and wouldn't put up with any nonsense. He preferred being looked after by a professional who wasn't family. And I wasn't so exhausted. So though it was awful at the time our row turned out to be a blessing.'

‘Paul doesn't row.'

Jess lifted her mug. ‘Women's magazines say men don't like rows because women are better with words. But that wouldn't apply to Paul.'

‘Why wouldn't it?'

Was she serious?
‘He's a vicar. He always has to find the right thing to say but he mustn't sound goody-goody. He's not allowed to lose his temper or break down even when everyone else is upset and crying.' Jess shook her head. ‘I'd be useless.'

Claire gazed into her mug. ‘His harem don't like me.'

It took a minute. ‘If you mean the ladies who arrange the flowers and run the church cleaning rota like a military operation, don't take it personally. It wouldn't matter if you were a combination of Mother Teresa and Dawn French, you're the vicar's wife so they resent you. Half of them have never been married and the vicar is their crush. Not only is he your husband, you also have a daughter doing a vital job in a dangerous place. Can't you hear their teeth grinding?'

A fleeting smile crossed Claire's pale puffy face as she set her mug carefully on the table. ‘I'm so tired of being worried.'

‘Then stop.'

Claire gaped at her.

‘All worry does is drain you. It doesn't change anything.'

‘That's easy for you to say.'

‘No, actually it isn't. My husband died suddenly while he was abroad on a job. I didn't know he had gambled away all our savings, remortgaged our house, and let his life insurance lapse. I lost everything. I came back to Polvellan because this was where I was born and brought up, and I started over. Then a few weeks ago I found out he had a mistress in Dubai and an eighteen-year-old daughter.'

‘Bloody hell,' Claire whispered.

Jess nodded. ‘Exactly. I'm not looking for sympathy. And I've got past “why me?”' She shrugged. ‘Why not me? A friend pointed out that it had happened and couldn't be undone so I should deal with it and move on.'

Scepticism soured Claire's expression. ‘You make it sound simple.'

‘The advice is simple. Following it isn't. I hate violence, but there are days when I want to smash things. My husband's actions totally changed my life. I had no say in any of it. The cottage I live in is a quarter the size of our house in Truro, but it's mine. I've started two small businesses and resurrected friendships from my school days. So while the past two and a half years have been … difficult is the polite word, I wouldn't be where I am, or have what I've got, without everything that happened.'

‘You're stronger than me.'

‘No, I'm not. I just got sick of feeling miserable.'

‘How am I supposed to stop worrying about Ginny?'

‘You can't. It goes with being a mother. My sons are doing well in jobs they love. But they have problems like everyone else. I could spend every day fretting. But what good would that do? It wouldn't help them, I'd be miserable, and people would avoid me.'

It wasn't until the words were out that she realised how they sounded. ‘That wasn't a dig at you. I went through a stage when I worried about everything. The counsellor I saw said it was an anxiety reaction. She told me to think of happiness and misery as two wolves. The one I feed is the one that will grow strong. She advised me to spend my time and energy on things I enjoy. So that's what I'm doing.' Jess shrugged. ‘Anyway, if you fancy lending a hand in the kitchen at the over-sixties lunch club, you'd be very welcome.'

Claire shook her head. ‘I don't know. I'd feel as if I was on trial.'

‘I don't mean to sound rude, Claire, but it's not about you. It's about people who may not see or talk to anyone else for the rest of the week. The lunch club is not just a freshly cooked meal, it's a reason to dress up, bring along a bottle of beer or wine, and enjoy a couple of hours' chat and laughter.' Jess stood up. ‘Have a think about it. I'd better get back. When your husband gets in will you tell him I called?' She took out one of her cards and glanced round at the sound of footsteps in the hall.

The door opened and Paul Griffin came in. Jess caught his quick glance at the tumbler and his wife and read concern behind his smile. ‘Hello, Mrs Trevanion.'

‘Drink, darling?' Claire invited him. ‘Tea's still hot.'

He touched her shoulder lightly. ‘I'm already awash. “Cup of tea, vicar?” is usually the first thing people say after “hello,”' he told Jess. He turned to his wife. ‘Any lunch?'

‘I was just about to get it,' Claire pushed herself to her feet.

‘I won't keep you,' Jess said. ‘I wanted to ask about a burial plot and funeral service for –' Her discoveries weren't proved and would take too long to explain. ‘For John Preece.'

‘The parish council manages the cemetery. Talk to Charlie Spry, he's the new chair. Do you know when Mr Preece's body will be released?'

‘The coroner promised to ring me. As soon as he does I'll phone you. Gerry and Sandra in the shop have started a collection to cover the cost.'

‘I saw the jar. It's already a quarter full. People are being very generous.'

Jess simply nodded. If he believed the donations were spontaneous he had never seen Gill and Sandra in action, which was probably just as well.

Chapter Nine

Letting herself into her cottage after a brisk walk that had loosened her up, Jess breathed in the scents of cut wood and fabric conditioner.
Home.

She made up the fire, washed her hands, put on an apron, and took out the ingredients for saffron buns, smiling as she thought of Tom.

While the buns were rising she washed up and did a few other jobs. Once the trays were in the oven she set the timer, opened her laptop, and typed Mark Edward Kirby with his date of birth into the browser.

She felt her eyes widen as she read. Searches in newspaper archives brought up lurid headlines and scathing articles. She compared the press photos of the clean-shaven Royal Navy submarine officer and her memories of John Preece – bearded, with long, bushy, grey hair, and a deeply lined and weathered face. A man who avoided eye contact and spoke only when circumstances demanded.

Even allowing for the twenty-five years difference she couldn't be sure. Was it the same man?