Fallen Angel

‘Since Sharon left.’ His voice was unemotional. ‘We’re dividing the spoils.’

Sally lost interest in Oliver’s problems. She warmed her cold fingers on the steaming cup of coffee and stared into its black, gleaming surface. She wished she could see Lucy’s image there, as in a crystal ball. The reality of her loss swamped her. It was all she could do not to howl.

‘It’s much too big for me,’ Oliver was saying. ‘We bought it when we thought we might have kids.’ He paused, perhaps aware that children were not the best subject to mention. ‘I suppose I could take lodgers, but I don’t much fancy having strangers in the house.’

‘I wouldn’t, either.’ Sally made an enormous effort to concentrate on what he was saying. ‘So you’ll look for a flat or something?’

‘Got to sell this place first. It means there’s lots of room for you and Michael, anyway. And for his uncle, or whoever he is.’

‘Godfather.’ She registered in passing another of Michael’s failures in communication. ‘His name’s David Byfield.’

‘As long as he doesn’t mind roughing it. I can manage a bed and a sleeping bag for him, but sheets and curtains are a bit awkward.’

‘I’m sure it will be fine. It’s very kind of you.’

Oliver stirred his coffee, the spoon scraping and tapping against the inside of the mug. The lull in the conversation rapidly became awkward. Oliver said all the right things, but his house was unwelcoming and she hardly knew him; and no doubt the Appleyards’ invasion had ruined his plans for Christmas. She regretted their decision to come here. The old irrational doubt – that Lucy might not be able to find them if they weren’t at home – resurfaced. She would look a fool if she changed her mind, but she no longer cared about that.

‘I’m sorry,’ she burst out, ‘I think I’d better go back to Hercules Road.’

‘I’ll drive you, if you like. But would you rather wait until Michael comes back? He may be on his way already. And so may David.’

‘I don’t know what to do for the best.’

‘It’s not easy. But don’t worry about Lucy coming back to Hercules Road and finding no one there. Maxham will make sure that won’t happen. Why don’t you have some more coffee before you decide?’

Automatically she passed her mug to him.

As he handed it back to her, he said, ‘What exactly did they find at that church?’

She stared at him. ‘No one told you?’

‘Not in any detail. There wasn’t time.’ His lips twitched. ‘Maybe everyone assumed that someone would do it. But perhaps it’s too painful for you? I’m sorry – I shouldn’t have asked.’

‘It’s all right.’ In a brisk, unemotional voice she told him about the package in the porch of St Michael’s. ‘They’re keeping the details to themselves at present. And there was something else: there’s a pub round the corner, and the landlord thought he saw someone turning into Beauclerk Place just before midnight. Wearing a long coat – could have been a man or a woman.’

‘Is he trustworthy?’

‘How can you tell?’

‘You can’t. Or not easily. You get all sorts in an investigation like this: people so desperate to help that they invent things; people who want to feel important; even people who think it’s all a bit of a joke to waste police time.’ He smiled anxiously at her. ‘You must think me very insensitive. But in the long run it’s wise to be realistic, not pin your hopes on that sort of evidence.’

‘What hopes?’

He ignored the question. ‘There’s also the point that even if there was someone there, he might have had nothing to do with the case.’

‘Then who was it? Besides the church, I think there’s only offices in Beauclerk Place. No one should have been there on a Saturday night.’

‘As far as we know. People do work odd hours. Anyway, it could have been someone looking for somewhere to doss down. A drunk, a drug addict. One of the homeless, and God knows there are plenty of those. Or just someone who took a wrong turning.’

To her surprise and embarrassment, she found herself smiling. ‘You’re a great help.’

There was a glimmer of an answering smile. ‘The landlord’s vagueness is a good sign. It suggests he’s not making it up. And it was only last night, so he’s not likely to have got confused about the day. But where does that leave you? A man or a woman turning into Beauclerk Place.’

‘It has to be a man. A woman wouldn’t do that sort of thing, not to children.’

Oliver shook his head. ‘What about the Moors Murders? Myra Hindley was in it just as much as Ian Brady.’

The weight of the suffering, past and present, oppressed her. Sally stood up and walked to the window. She was aware that Oliver was watching from his armchair. She stared at the rows of parked cars and the blank windows of the houses opposite. No journalists here, not yet.

‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said all that.’

‘I wanted to hear.’ Sally turned back to the room. ‘How common is it?’

‘That women offer violence to children? It’s much more widespread than you might think. Some of it you can almost understand: it’s the product of circumstance.’

‘Mothers trapped with a small child in a bedsitter – that sort of thing?’

‘Exactly. Or under the influence of a man. But some of it isn’t like that. It’s willed.’

Willed. Someone had decided to take Lucy, decided to cut off the hand of another child, decided to chop off the legs of a third, decided to leave them where they would be found. How did you explain that? You couldn’t justify it, Sally thought, any more than you could pardon it.

‘Evil,’ she said quietly.

‘Evil? What do you mean?’ Oliver said sharply. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but that’s the trouble with clergy. Anything nasty they can’t understand – no problem, they just label it evil. The work of the devil. All part of the divine plan, eh? Ours is not to reason why.’

‘Maybe you’re right. Maybe we don’t try hard enough to understand. But right now I don’t want to try. I just want Lucy.’

‘Sally – I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to –’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

She sat down again and sipped her coffee. It was cold here, in this unloved room in an unloved house. For an instant she thought she heard the thrumming of wings. She caught herself glancing up at the ceiling, as if expecting to see a giant bird hovering above her head. I must not go mad. Lucy needs me. Oliver was still watching her. His concern irritated her.

‘You’re having a hell of a time at present,’ he told her in a low, sympathetic voice which brought her to the verge of screaming at him. ‘All this on top of Michael’s problems.’

‘Yes.’ Sally’s mind made an unexpected connection: Oliver’s phone call two weeks ago on that disastrous Saturday when Uncle David had come to lunch. She looked down, afraid her eyes would betray her. Suddenly cunning, she murmured, ‘Poor Michael.’

‘Don’t worry too much. Maybe they’ll drop the complaint.’

‘And if not?’

‘Hard to tell.’ This time he avoided her eyes. ‘Michael’s record is in his favour. And most people feel a lot of sympathy. We’re all tempted.’

‘But Michael didn’t resist.’ It was not quite a question: more an intelligent guess.

‘Obviously he acted on impulse and under great provocation.’ Oliver sounded like counsel for the defence. ‘It’s not as if he makes a habit of hitting people. And in the circumstances …’ His voice trailed into silence. Then: ‘I assumed he’d have told you.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Sally said. ‘I shouldn’t have tricked you. But will you tell me the rest? Who did he hit, and why?’