The Shadows in the Street (17 page)

Jane.

He wished her well. But it would not have worked. Nobody would, he thought, nobody could ever break permanently into this world, this private space.

He remembered what the new DS had said about Leslie Blade, unmarried, the loner, and so in his elementary profiler’s handbook, a suspect – ‘weird’. Simon smiled to himself, thinking of easy-going Kirsty, who had no wish to pry, nor probably even to get his Christmas card – remembering, too, Douglas’s swift upper cut. His jaw remembered it as well.

He dropped Jane Fitzroy’s postcard into the waste basket along with the entire pile of junk mail, poured himself a whisky, and went to unpack.

Twenty-seven

‘
Now is the time for the burning of the leaves
,’ Cat said. ‘Is that Shakespeare?’

‘Binyon.’

Cat and Judith had been raking the lawn at Hallam House since before tea, and now the leaves were piled at the far end of the garden ready for a bonfire.

‘My mother loved this job,’ Cat said. ‘She loved everything to do with the garden, but for some reason, this especially. She said she liked putting it all gradually to bed for the winter.’

‘Do you mind? That I’m here doing it instead?’

‘No. Not now. I mind her not being here as well – if you follow.’

‘I follow.’

The light was almost gone. In the house, Felix was asleep, Sam in bed reading
Galahad at Blandings
. Hannah was staying at the house of her friend Ellie, who possessed even more Barbie dolls and their paraphernalia than she did.

‘What I could never bear was Dad being here on his own. The place was so bleak and he was so forbidding. I used to put off coming, get him over to us instead. It’s different now.’

‘Thank you.’

Cat put down the rake and rubbed her neck and shoulders.

‘Yes. I think we’re done.’

‘Dare I ask about America?’

Judith shook her head. ‘I told you – all sorted. Perhaps later next year and for a couple of months. Let’s go in, I must put the vegetables on.’

But as they went into the kitchen Cat’s phone rang. She went back outside to get a better signal, expecting to have to advise on a patient in the hospice.

‘Cat? It’s Miles Hurley. Is this is a bad moment?’

‘Oh. No, it’s fine. Is everything all right?’

‘Well, I rather wanted to have a chat about all this Magdalene Group business. Do you think that would be possible?’

‘Of course. I wasn’t altogether happy with how things went at the meeting.’

‘No.’ He had a faintly sarcastic, dry manner of speaking. ‘Indeed not.’

‘Were you wanting me to ask anyone else?’

‘I rather hoped to keep it between us. Are you free tomorrow evening? I know you’re tied up at work during the day. Perhaps you could come by for a drink around half six?’

She agreed, warning him that if she couldn’t make arrangements for the children she would have to cancel.

But Judith, as ever, was glad to help her out.

‘I can’t get used to it … I’m a single parent – how can that be me? It doesn’t make sense.’

Judith handed her two glasses of wine. ‘One for you, one for Richard. Go and keep him company.’ As Cat went out she said, ‘I thought I’d try asking Simon to supper. Again.’

Cat hesitated. Judith had turned her back and was filling a saucepan with water, moving a pile of beans across to it, being busy, not wanting a discussion.

‘Fine.’

Richard Serrailler was sitting at the small desk her mother had always used, marking proofs of the medical journal he still co-edited. Cat put down his glass of wine.

‘I gather the wanderer has returned,’ he said without looking up. ‘I do wonder why we pay our police such large wages to take long holidays.’

‘He needed it. And he’s plunged straight back in with these two murders.’

‘Ah, the street girls, yes. The letters in the local paper are full of moral outrage. Do people go about with their eyes shut?’

‘They certainly turn blind ones.’

He put away his proofs and came to sit opposite her.

‘You look well,’ Cat said. It never ceased to surprise her, that happiness could so transform someone.

He gave her a sharp glance but ignored the comment, saying instead: ‘I have started my grandson on his first book by The Master.’

‘Wodehouse? Bit old and dated for Sam, isn’t he?’

‘Neither. We shall see. I heard promising chuckles coming from his bedroom. I decided Lord Emsworth was the right place to start rather than Jeeves.’

‘Maybe it’s skipped a generation. Neither Simon nor Ivo ever took to him.’

‘More fool them. Have you been in communication with your brother?’

‘I had lunch with him before he went off to take charge of the murder squads. He looked well too. He’s working up to a new exhibition in the spring.’

Richard shook his head. He had never understood why Simon was a policeman, or why he was an artist, or why he had not married years ago. Cat thought the reason was that he had not tried.

He was looking at her over the top of his spectacles, a straight, careful look. As if I were a specimen, she thought. That’s the way he’s always looked at all of us. But not Judith. He looks at her quite differently.

‘How are you, Catherine?’

She was taken aback. It was difficult to know how to answer, whether to tell the truth, or to brush the enquiry off. But with her father, that was never possible.

‘The hardest part is trying to find a way of accepting that there is nothing you can do about any of it. Nothing you can do to change it, or to put the clock back, or put things right if they were wrong. Nothing. You probably didn’t leave many things unsaid. You knew what was coming,’ he said.

She had to read between the lines – that he had not known, that he had been completely unprepared for her mother’s death and that there were chasms of unspoken things left lying between them.

‘I just feel leaden,’ she said. ‘Nothing’s worth doing but I have to do things.’

‘If I were your doctor, I would ask if you were eating properly but I am not and you are sensible in that regard.’

She smiled. He was trying to reach her at least. Judith had changed him – or perhaps, more truthfully, helped him to change – in several ways.

Later, as she was helping her load the dishwasher, Cat said as much. ‘Can you work your magic on Si too?’ she added.

Judith stood with a plate in her hand. Her expression was not so much serious as deeply sad, as though a shadow of unhappiness had fallen across and darkened it, and at the same time taken something from her usual sense of ease.

‘I don’t know,’ she said after a moment. ‘Only so much can come from one side. I think after that it’s up to him.’ She slipped the plate into the rack and closed the machine door.

The following morning the application forms for her palliative care course arrived, but a hectic day left Cat no time to read them properly and it was not long before six thirty when she left, running late for her drink with Miles Hurley.

When Jane Fitzroy had been attached to the cathedral and had lived in the same bungalow at the end of the long garden of the Precentor’s House, to reach it had meant a walk down an uneven stone path, one which was treacherous in the dark without a torch. But now it had been relaid, small lights had been placed the whole way down, and Miles had also left the porch light on and his curtains open to guide her.

It was still strange to come here – she had not been since Jane’s time and the bungalow held bad memories of the day when she had been held hostage by one of her own patients.

But as Miles opened the door to her she could see that it was entirely changed, not just decoratively – the wall leading into the sitting room had been taken down, making the whole area open-plan, with only the study still separate.

It was a tidy, bland interior without anything to personalise it as belonging to Miles Hurley rather than anyone else – like a show flat, Cat thought. It had probably been furnished by the sort of person who did these things for a living. Everything was perfectly comfortable, perfectly neutral, a blend of taupe, sand and magnolia, everything new but low-cost, the whole lot bought as a package.

He was unmarried, he was out a good deal, as all the cathedral staff were, he had no touch when it came to turning four walls into a home, yet she thought he would probably be quite surprised if anyone had told him so.

‘I can offer you wine, gin or a decent fruit-juice spritzer.’

She waited, sitting in a chair covered in taupe linen while he brought the drinks. He was a nondescript but not bad-looking man, hair prematurely greying and tonight he wore a normal collar.

‘Right. The Magdalene Group – the putative Magdalene Group. What is this all about, Cat? You see, I thought we were going to start exploring ways in which the cathedral might get the message across to the girls on the street that they are as welcome as anyone else, positively welcome – how we do it, what we say, whether we provide some sort of – I don’t know – welcoming space.’

‘And you think it won’t be welcoming?’

He sighed. ‘Can I be blunt?’

She smiled.

‘Yes – Ruth. Ruth is the problem. She always has been. Stephen will let her steamroller him into letting her head-up this committee on the grounds that he already has enough to do – which indeed he does. But with Ruth, in my bitter experience, nothing is up for discussion – a committee is there to rubber-stamp her proposals, and for a quiet life many of them do.’

‘I won’t be steamrollered, Miles. What is a drop-in centre? A bit like a shelter for the homeless, except that most of the prostitutes do have homes. I’m not sure that the cathedral’s the right place for it. Of course we shouldn’t dissociate ourselves from any moves to provide something, but there are other bodies who need to be involved. We ought to look at being part of a group, a team, with a voice and a role, yes.’

‘It’s a great relief to hear you say that, Cat.’

‘The question is, what do we do?’

‘About Ruth? We have to make – certain allowances. That’s all I can say really.’

He stared into his drink for a moment. Cat waited.

‘She has had – troubles. They have no children of course and that has been something of a hardship for her. If she had, perhaps it would all have turned out differently.’ He hesitated, but then seemed to draw a line under making any further confidences. ‘Otherwise, we stand up to her – that’s a lesson I learned some time ago. Let me top up your glass.’

The spritzer, made with some sort of fruit smoothie whisked up with soda and ice, was good. Most men would have provided weak orange squash as a soft drink. She wondered about him. He was a man who gave out no personal clues, though he was easy and open in conversation.

‘How long have you known them?’

‘I was at Cuddesdon with Stephen. He met Ruth when he was in his first curacy. He and I were in the same group ministry in south London, then he was archdeacon. One of those men you never quite expected to rise up the Church career ladder as far as he has, to be frank.’

‘I sense that you and Ruth have crossed swords in the past.’

His face became set and his mouth twitched at the sides, but he simply said, ‘Yes. Which makes it difficult for me. I wanted to hear what you thought, as someone from the outside, as it were. This is quite an important issue, though perhaps not so high up the agenda for everyone else as it seems to be for Ruth. But still, I think it’s something we should be looking at.’

‘Have you talked to any of the others?’

‘No. I decided you were likely to have the most informed opinion.’

‘I’m pretty sure Ilona will agree with us.’

‘Oh yes. Dear, good Ilona.’

There was something in his tone that she didn’t altogether like, a suggestion of – what – sarcasm?

‘Damian will agree – he has his Reachout van, why should he want the cathedral muscling in? Sally – I’m afraid I couldn’t make Sally out.’

‘Nobody can.’

He smiled at her, a quick smile that flashed on and off again, leaving his face exactly as before.

‘I bet we have a majority,’ he said.

‘I think we should start the next meeting by making it quite clear we should move with caution – that everything is up for discussion, and nothing is going to be decided in a hurry. It’s too important.’

‘And Ruth will say that is why the Church of England never gets anywhere – because it is always moving cautiously after much discussion.’

‘I’ve often thought that’s one of its strengths.’

‘You are a woman after my own heart. Now, the other thing I wanted to talk about – just because I don’t have any direct involvement in it – is the musical life of the place. Tell me about the St Michael’s Singers.’

They talked for another half-hour, ranging over some of the things that were causing tensions within the congregation. Miles Hurley listened, and did not come out with clear opinions on any of them, as he had on the Magdalene Group issue. Perhaps he saw himself as a go-between, trying to get rival factions talking to one another, or at least to prevent open warfare. It would not be easy, and she wondered if he was the right person, whether he was likely to keep his counsel. Some people, she knew, say what they imagine whoever they are currently speaking to wants to hear. Miles Hurley could be one of them.

She went away, slightly puzzled as to why he had asked to see her at all.

Twenty-eight

‘Come in.’

DI Franks’s head came round the door.

‘Sir. DNA reports.’

‘I don’t need to ask, do I?’

‘Afraid not. No leads at this stage.’

Simon got up and looked out of the window. The forecourt was even busier than usual. On the other side of the entrance, the press had set up shop. They wanted somebody arrested and charged. They always did – preferably in time to catch the lunchtime news bulletins. It was easy to be put under pressure by the frenzy they could whip up and he had learned over the years that keeping them on side, telling them the truth wherever possible and then asking for their full cooperation, was the only sensible way.

He had scheduled his statement for eleven thirty and was, as always, punctual to the minute. The conference room was packed.