A Ghost at the Door (36 page)

‘A stiff. Elderly. Male. Not in very tasty condition.’

‘Another? Damn his hide, he’s making a collection.’

‘Who?’

‘My suspect.’

‘I can’t yet confirm that it’s suspicious.’

‘Of course it’s bloody suspicious or why didn’t he report it?’

‘Certainly messy. Could take a while to confirm the cause of death.’

‘No matter. It’s enough. The slippery sod’s mine.’

The bishop, on his knees, was wearing a rich purple cassock with a silver rosary around his neck. The pool of light that adorned the central altar emphasized the bareness of his
scalp and gave the scene a medieval, monastic quality. His hands were clasped in front of him, high, and so hard the fingers were like ivory. He seemed startled, hadn’t heard Harry’s
footsteps, turned suddenly, eyes swimming in agitation.

‘I’m sorry.’ Harry found himself apologizing – for what? He’d been invited, summoned.

‘No, Harry, I’m the one who owes the apology,’ Wickham said, rising from his knees. His ornate crucifix swung from the rosary around his neck; he held it, put it to his lips.
‘I haven’t been entirely forthright with you.’

‘I know.’

‘Time to settle things.’ He turned once more to place his fingers on the polished surface of the altar, running them across its smooth planes, almost sensuous, like a keyboard.
‘Do you like this, Harry? Some loathe it, mock it as nothing better than a chunk of old Camembert. Philistines!’ He shook his head in incredulity. ‘Yet there are those of us who
see it as a reminder of our origins, like the rock where Abraham came to sacrifice his son, Isaac. Do you fear God, Harry?’

‘He’s never been around much when I needed him.’

‘This altar caused the most enormous fuss when it was first placed here. So many narrow minds. You know, Moore spent five years coming to this church, sitting quietly, soaking in the
atmosphere, catching the changing light, the echoes of the place. And the result is . . .’ His moist lips hovered, searching for the words. ‘A gift fit for God himself.’

‘A sacrificial stone?’

The bishop turned sharply in annoyance. Harry seemed intent on provoking him once again.

‘I found Findlay Francis a few hours ago. Or what was left of him.’

The bishop’s face twitched, the flash of ill temper that had filled it as quickly transformed to anguish. ‘I did not know. Poor, poor Finn,’ he whispered, the words struggling
to find their way past lips that had suddenly grown parched in pain.

‘You must at least have suspected.’

Wickham shook his head again. ‘You think me capable of such things?’

‘You steal from the Church, that’s pretty obvious. There are other parts of your private life that might pose a few problems, too, if they were thrown open to the
daylight.’

‘Enough!’ The bishop’s anger echoed around the empty corners of St Stephen’s. ‘Do you know how many churches I have saved from closure? How many letters of
gratitude fill my desk from charities that would otherwise have folded? How many vicars who have given their lives selflessly to God whom I have saved from an old age of grinding misery? I . . . I
. . .’ He was pounding his chest histrionically, boastfully, his amethyst ring sparkling in the light like an angry eye. ‘I, Randall Wickham, have raised more money for the Church than
perhaps any man alive.’

‘And poured quite a chunk of it into your own vices. You know, Bishop, when you go and join the Almighty, the curators of every museum in the country will be tearing each other’s
arms off to be the first through your door.’

‘You know nothing!’

‘Then try me.’

Wickham stared as if explanation were beneath his dignity, then relented. ‘It was my first visit to Russia, when it was still run by Communists and God-deniers, long before the Wall came
down. I met an old Orthodox priest in a suburb of St Petersburg. He was dressed in rags and thin as a winter tree. He found me praying in his church and handed me an icon, begged me to keep it,
preserve it. He told me that if it stayed with him it would soon be lost for ever. They were such desperate days. So I brought it back home. The piece turned out to be of very considerable
value.’

‘On your wall.’

‘Yes, and of greater value with every passing year. Ever since that day I’ve been rescuing special works, putting them to one side for safekeeping. I’m no more than their
custodian. When I die every one of them will go to the Church.’

‘May your God forgive you.’

‘He will! He understands.’

‘He understands about the boys, does he? Lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil. He sure screwed up on that one, didn’t he?’

‘Stop!’ Wickham struck the altar with his palm, gasping for breath and excuse. His head sagged, but when it came up again crimson spots of defiance were burning on his cheeks.
‘There may have been moments in my private life, times when I’ve been totally exhausted by my work, made vulnerable, that I’ve fallen prey to . . . distraction.’

‘You call young boys distraction?’

‘I have done nothing – nothing! – that is unlawful. Not a single one was below the age of consent.’ The lips were once again moist as they lied. ‘Many were just
friends . . .’

‘I’m sure the archbishop would understand. Not so sure about the
Daily Mail
.’

‘If I hadn’t devoted my life to the Church I would be wealthy, I would be honoured and no one would give a damn about the boys.’

Boys. Harry noted the word the bishop had used and the admission it contained. ‘Is that why you asked to see me, Bishop? To hear your confession?’

‘In a manner of speaking.’ He was calmer now. ‘I want to talk about your father.’

Jemma scolded herself. She’d been determined that she would have nothing to do with Harry’s bloody father, had washed her hands of the matter, almost of Harry, too,
yet, despite herself, she found that questions about Johnnie and the Aunt Emmas kept wriggling their way into her mind. A matter had begun with a meaningless black-and-white photograph but now all
those faces had transformed into people who were very real, and very dead, except for the bishop. And perhaps the mysterious woman with the thin face and those nervous, aching eyes, like a sparrow.
It was inconceivable to Jemma that such a fragile bird could be responsible for such malevolence as was unfolding, yet there could be no doubt she was part of the secret.

Parliament Square. Once more stuck in traffic as it snaked past the honey-coloured palace with its soaring clock tower. As she waited for the lights to change she was distracted, temporarily
blinded as a group of tourists snatched their moment in front of Big Ben and their cameras flashed, each taking it in turn behind the lens to capture the moment. Mrs Butt’s face had been a
picture, too, as she and Harry had come downstairs to join Abby at the breakfast table. She had deliberately overcooked the eggs and left the toast like a doormat, banging their plates down in
disapproval. As her thoughts wandered, Jemma was brought back to the moment by the black cab that had been following her around the square and was now blowing its horn in impatience. She slipped
the gear and was soon driving along the bank of the river once again, yet still she couldn’t rid herself of the question: the woman in the photo, who the hell was she?

Suddenly she wrenched at the wheel and pulled over, violently, resulting in another chorus of objection from the black cab. The driver waved a finger of reproach and mouthed something rude; in
return she blew him a kiss of excitement. They’d been stupidly blind, missed the point. The woman didn’t matter after all, or not that much. Both she and Harry had been staring at the
bloody obvious yet managed to overlook it all this time. As the taxi drew away she glanced at the clock. Harry would still surely be with the bishop. She couldn’t call, disturb him, but he
would need to know. Her thumbs were shaking with excitement as she texted him.

‘I want to show you something, Harry,’ Wickham said. ‘Come with me.’ The priest led the way from the light of the stage on which the altar sat to a
doorway in a darkened corner, then through a door of studded oak that Harry guessed was perhaps salvaged from an era even earlier than Wren. It led to a circular stone staircase, narrow, dark,
tight, whose treads were marked by several centuries of wear. Both men took care as they made their way upwards. The stairs became dustier, marked by pigeons and crumbs of ancient masonry; the
bishop paused for breath as they reached the level of the bell hanging in its cradle of wooden beams, then pushed on. Harry had lost count of the number of steps by the time they came to a door;
the bishop tugged, struggling to open it until it came free with a sharp scraping noise and he stepped out onto the narrow roof of the bell tower. The atmosphere inside the old church had been
cool; now the humidity of the summer’s night washed around them. For a moment Harry was mesmerized by the light pouring from the buildings that crowded in on all sides. Most were mercantile,
many of them banks, but in the distance he could see the cupola of St Paul’s and, in the darkness between, the outline of the bronzed figure of Lady Justice that hovered above the Old Bailey.
In front of him at the edge of the roof was an old stone parapet. It was low. Like the staircase behind, it had been built for an age of smaller souls.

The bishop waved an arm. ‘From here you can see everything, the entire machinery of civilization,’ he began. ‘The towers of commerce and the temples of the soul.’

‘God and greed. Greed seems to be winning.’

‘You’re so very like your father,’ Wickham said, unamused. ‘Always a word wiser than anyone else. He’d argue the wings off an angel – if ever he stumbled over
one.’

‘I wish you luck, too.’

‘The point I’m trying to make,’ the bishop said testily, ‘is that these things are what life is about. Body and spirit. Sometimes in harmony when we get it right, other
times at each other’s throat, but we’ve always needed them both. Two thousand years ago there were slaughterhouses on the banks of the Walbrook. Next to them, Roman soldiers built a
temple dedicated to Mithras. Why? So they could bathe in warm bull’s blood while they paid homage. It’s all gone now, of course, the slaughterhouses, the temple, but in a sense so
little has changed. In their place we have the towers of the Lord and of Mammon. Still side by side, and sometimes hand in hand.’

‘What happened to the meek inheriting the earth?’

‘A little naïve, Harry, I’m surprised at you. Your father would never have felt that way. No, not Johnnie.’ He steepled his fingers at his lips, as though in prayer.
‘He used to talk about you, you know.’

‘Me?’ Harry couldn’t hide his surprise; suddenly he was on the back foot.

‘But of course. He was very proud of you.’

Harry wasn’t sure what to say, so he said nothing, waiting.

‘Your father and I were friends for many years, Harry.’

‘The Aunt Emmas.’

‘Yes, and as you rightly suspected we continued to gather together, every year at the start of the Michaelmas term.’

‘To collaborate.’

‘An ugly word. It began as youthful arrogance. We were better than the rest, we thought, each of us bringing our individual perspectives and skills, which we could exploit better together
than alone. It started as fun, nothing more, yet over the years it became serious. Almost too serious.’

‘Insider trading.’

‘We never deliberately conspired. We exchanged views, experiences, as friends, and as we made progress along our chosen career paths those experiences became more valuable.’

‘Even Findlay Francis? He was a writer.’

‘Poor Finn never made much money out of the rest of us, that wasn’t his interest, but he was always so keen to tell the story of what he’d discovered from those rich and
powerful figures he was writing about. He preferred the telling to the taking, God rest his soul.’

‘And my father?’

Wickham recognized the anxiety in Harry’s voice and rejoiced. He’d got Harry to where he wanted. He had the advantage; now he needed to make sure. ‘Yes, Johnnie turned up every
year, without fail. And every year he’d bring with him tales of what you’d been up to.’