Fallen Angel

Sally stared at her lap. ‘Yesterday morning.’

‘Who?’

‘My vicar.’ She shied away from her reasons for not wanting to talk to Derek. ‘He’s being very supportive. So’s his wife – and so’s the whole parish.’

‘Derek Cutter.’

She looked up, surprised. ‘You know him?’

‘Only by reputation.’ David inserted a small, chilly pause. ‘Did you pray together?’

‘It’s none of your business.’ She paused but he said nothing, so after a while she muttered, ‘As it happens, no. There wasn’t the time. But I expect I’ll be seeing him later today.’ She knew she should at least phone Derek; she felt guilty about rejecting his offers of help, guilty about not liking him.

‘Do you talk to any other priest on a regular basis? Do you have a confessor?’

‘I’m sorry, but I really don’t see that this is any of your business.’

‘It’s not just a question of what you think.’

‘Where’s Michael?’ Sally was suddenly desperate to see him. ‘And what are you doing here?’

‘He’s talking to the policemen outside. They met us at King’s Cross and brought us straight here.’

‘You know what they’ve found?’

He hesitated. ‘They told us on the way. You’re sure the – the remains aren’t Lucy’s?’

‘Yes.’

‘I don’t understand how you can be so sure.’

‘That’s because you’re not Lucy’s mother.’

To her surprise he nodded. ‘You know your own flesh and blood.’

She turned her face away from him, appalled by the images his words conjured up. A door creaked. David looked up.

‘Here’s Michael,’ he went on. ‘We must get you home.’

‘I don’t want to go home. I want to do something useful.’

Michael’s quick footsteps clattered down the aisle. He was pale, but he had shaved and his hair was brushed. His jacket was open and Sally did not recognize the shirt and jersey underneath; he must have borrowed them from David. She gripped the back of the pew in front and pulled herself to her feet. David Byfield stepped away from her and tactfully feigned an interest in the list of the church’s incumbents.

‘Sally.’ Michael hugged her. ‘I’m sorry.’

She clung to him. ‘It’s all right. It’s all right.’ She found that she was patting his back. ‘It doesn’t matter, not now you’re here.’

Over Michael’s shoulder she watched David walking eastwards. He stopped at the step before the chancel and bowed towards the high altar. Bowed, not genuflected: which in a priest of his type meant that the sacrament was not reserved here. He straightened up and stood there, apparently absorbed in contemplating the east window.

Michael pulled away from Sally. ‘They’re talking to someone, the landlord of the pub round the corner. He thinks he saw someone turning into Beauclerk Place last night when he was locking up.’

David turned round. ‘Any description?’

‘No – he wasn’t paying much attention. Someone wearing a longish coat, he thought. Medium height, whatever that means.’

‘Man or woman?’

‘He couldn’t tell.’ Michael turned his back on his godfather and touched Sally’s cheek. ‘Shall we go?’

Sally allowed him to lead her into the little vestry, where there were mousetraps on the floor and dust on the table, and out by the side door into the alley beyond. Michael was saying something, but she neither knew nor cared what. In her mind she was concentrating on the shapeless figure in the long coat: sexless, of medium height, and possibly completely unconnected with the package in the vestry. But even a possibility was better than nothing: it was something to focus on, something to hate. May God damn you and yours. The words set up echoes in her memory. Audrey Oliphant had used them when she cursed her, Sally, in St George’s: only three months ago, and already so remote that it might have happened to someone else.

May God damn you and yours.

‘Steady,’ David said behind her.

Michael slipped his hand under her elbow. ‘Are you all right?’

She stared blankly at him. Why did people keep asking if she was all right? She was all wrong.

Maxham was waiting for them at the end of the alley, leaning against the tall spiked gate that separated it from Beauclerk Place. ‘There’s a car here for you. You’re going back to Hercules Road?’

‘Yes.’ When Michael was level with Maxham, he stopped. ‘This person the landlord saw. Which way down the street was he coming?’

Maxham hesitated long enough to show that he was seriously considering refusing to answer. ‘From the north.’

‘Fitzroy Square? Euston Road?’

‘Maybe.’

‘When?’

‘Between eleven-forty-five and midnight. That’s all we know, Sergeant. OK? And there may not even be a connection.’

The two men stared at each other. Antagonism flickered between them. Sally tugged at Michael’s arm. He allowed her to pull him away.

They were to travel back to the flat in the car which had brought Sally. Sergeant Carlow was leaning against the wing, smoking. Yvonne Saunders raised her hand a few inches, a token wave, and opened one of the back doors.

‘You go on without me,’ David said.

Michael glanced back. ‘You’re very welcome. We’d like you to come.’

‘I know.’ The old man stopped and folded his arms. ‘And I shall, later, if Sally doesn’t mind.’

‘But where will you go?’ In other circumstances Michael’s surprise would have been comical.

‘Oh, don’t worry about me. I shall go to church.’

As soon as the car turned into Hercules Road, it was obvious that news of the discovery at St Michael’s had gone before them. There were more cars, more reporters and men with cameras. A uniformed policeman stood at the entrance to the Appleyards’ block of flats.