Sidney Chambers and The Forgiveness of Sins (5 page)

‘IT WILL BE COLD.’

‘Can you come with me then?’

‘Do you think I could have my supper first?’

‘I will wait outside,’ Helena replied. ‘I’ve brought my car. You’ve got ten minutes . . .’

‘Ten minutes?’ Hildegard asked when Sidney finally arrived in the kitchen. ‘Is that all the time you’re prepared to spare your wife and daughter?’

Inspector Keating confessed that he had made it easy for Madara to leave. The suspect had stayed long enough, there was nothing to charge him with, and no evidence of any wrongdoing apart from his story. Now he was hoping that Madara would lead the police to his missing wife.

‘And has he?’

‘Not so far.’

‘Why not?’ Helena asked.

‘We lost him.’

Sidney could not quite believe the incompetence. ‘Surely he has no money and no form of transport? It can’t be that hard to keep track of him.’

‘Are you doing this to throw us off the case?’ Helena challenged.

‘We know where he lives. If he has to earn money he will play with that Zhirkov couple. Musicians have to advertise, don’t they? All we have to do is keep a watch on his flat and a close eye on the papers. You can both help me do that, can’t you? After all, it’s your job, Miss Randall.’

‘I write for the papers. I don’t necessarily read them.’

‘Perhaps you might learn something. See what your rivals are up to.’

‘Did Madara have an accomplice?’ Sidney asked, thinking of Natasha Zhirkov, and heading off an irrelevant spat.

‘We think he hitched a lift.’

‘Where to?’

‘London probably. But then when we stopped the car we thought he was travelling in, the driver denied all knowledge.’

‘A decoy?’

‘Nothing as complicated.’

‘So what are we going to do?’

‘Wait.’

On the second Sunday of Lent, and while he was obeying Keating’s instructions to do nothing until there was further news, Sidney preached a sermon on the nature of penitence.

‘What is true contrition?’ he asked as he thought about Madara’s confession ten days previously. Could a man be
too
contrite, making a confession that was so out of proportion to the crime that it became a form of attention-seeking? Sometimes the admission of sin could almost be a kind of vanity.

The congregation looked confused. What had this got to do either with their sins or the message of Easter?

Sidney knew, from complaints about Leonard’s sermons, that his parishioners did not like moral ambiguity. Stan Headley, the local blacksmith, had even requested: ‘Don’t make it too hard for us, Reverend. We just want to know where we stand. It’s like knowing how much money you’ve got in the bank. We’re just coming for a check-up.’

However, once he had started off, it was hard to backtrack. ‘I want to talk to you this morning about proportional penitence,’ he announced, only to see Mrs Maguire casting her eyes heavenwards in despair.

‘Any request for forgiveness is not the property of the perpetrator alone . . .’ he continued. ‘It must be freely given
and freely received
. The confession and the appeal must allow room for the victim – if he or she were still alive –
to forgive with a whole heart
.’ Sidney immediately regretted that he had brought the idea of murder into his sermon.

He had begun to emphasise his phrases in order to make it clear but worried that he might be sounding patronising. Malcolm Mitchell didn’t seem to have this problem, producing culinary metaphors to aid understanding. He would look at all the women and explain divine spirituality as being like air in the cake mix. You had to let it breathe before it rose. (God, in his eyes, was clearly some kind of divine baker.)

‘There has to be a mutual understanding of what has taken place . . .’ Sidney went on. ‘A time for recognition and a place for silence: reflection on events in all humility. Forgiveness may be absolute but it cannot be taken for granted. It must be re-acknowledged each time we sin. But this is vital. Without forgiveness, we are condemned to the past. Forgiveness gives us our future.’

‘You got there in the end,’ his curate teased in the vestry afterwards.

Mike Standing, the treasurer, was sorting through the collection. ‘Your words went over my head like migrating geese.’ He began to wheeze when he bent over to count the money.

‘I don’t suppose I need to declare my own offering?’ the curate asked.

‘What is it?’

‘Walnut cake from Mrs Maguire.’

Sidney stopped as he took off his surplice. ‘So it’s true?’

Mike Standing was impressed. ‘You’ve got them all eating out of your hand.’

‘Or rather, he’s eating out of theirs.’

‘How is your investigation coming along?’ Malcolm asked. ‘I was worried you were sounding a bit distracted.’

‘I wasn’t distracted
at all
,’ Sidney said fiercely. ‘But it is frustrating.’

‘Anything I can do to help?’

Sidney could not think of a single thing his curate could do that might bring light to the darkness. He missed Leonard Graham.

Later that day, while walking Byron, he was surprised by Inspector Keating pulling over in his car.

‘Get in. Both of you.’

‘What?’

‘Now.’

‘But . . .’

‘There’s been a murder after all.’

‘Sophie Madara?’

‘No. She’s still missing. It’s the other one.’

‘Natasha Zhirkov?’

‘That’s right. God knows what’s going on.’

Sidney took in the news. ‘She was frightened that something was going to happen to her.’

‘Well it has.’

‘Where and when?’ Sidney asked.

‘London. Her flat. Looks like the husband did it.’

‘How?’

‘Stabbed. Not unlike the way Sophie Madara is supposed to have died.’

‘Could Madara have done it?’

‘I don’t think so. It seems he was still in police custody at the time of the murder.’

‘He has his alibi then . . .’

‘He does.’

‘But he left as soon as the deed was done?’

‘A coincidence.’

‘I’m not so sure,’ said Sidney.

Keating sighed. ‘You mean someone got a message to him telling him that he didn’t need his alibi any more?’

‘Possibly.’

‘It sounds far-fetched. It also would have had to be some kind of inside job. Who else would have known about the Zhirkov murder?’

‘Perhaps he overheard a telephone call?’

‘To the police station? From his cell? I don’t think that’s likely.’

‘Or a young journalist told him . . .’

‘Helena doesn’t know anything.’

‘She soon will.’

‘Even she doesn’t find out about events before they happen.’

‘Then perhaps it is a coincidence. Any pointers?’

‘It’s the husband. Dmitri Zhirkov. There’s a knife with his fingerprints all over it. The victim was stabbed in the neck from behind and then in the throat. No sign of a forced entry. Natasha Zhirkov knew her killer. Nothing was stolen. But keep a lid on it. Williams is not saying anything publicly. And tell Helena that she can’t report any of this . . .’

‘She’s already asked if she can have an exclusive.’

‘You have to admire her tenacity. Can you come down to London with me, Sidney?’

‘When are you going?’

‘First thing in the morning.’

‘It’s my day off.’

‘Perfect. You’ve got no excuse. I’ll drop you back home. Think of the time I’ve saved you.’

Dmitri Zhirkov was all over the place. He confessed to the murder of his wife, then retracted his story claiming manslaughter, before changing his mind one more time and saying that he was innocent. In his anger and panic he asserted that his wife had attacked him and he was acting in self-defence. Natasha had railed at him, provoked him, told him things about an affair with Madara that he hadn’t thought possible. He was also furious the police had let that bastard Josef Madara escape from custody. Everyone was conspiring against him.

Natasha had been of unsound mind when she slept with Madara, he shouted, and now he was going mad; driven to insanity by his colleagues. He could not be expected to work with any of them any more. But it didn’t matter what he had done because he would always be a musician. He had talent. It was God-given. Nothing could take it away. Genius, he shouted, excused all sin.

Sidney wondered how Dmitri Zhirkov had worked himself up into such a state. He had probably confronted his wife about her affair with Josef Madara and the row had escalated in the kitchen, where a block of carving knives was unhelpfully at the ready.

Only one thought troubled Sidney. When Natasha Zhirkov had first come to see him she had been scared of the missing Sophie Madara rather than her husband. Might Sophie still be involved? Could she have committed the murder on behalf of Dmitri Zhirkov or even have framed him?

Sidney was in the midst of speculation when a police officer told him that he was wanted on the telephone. He hoped it was not news from home because he was already late and he didn’t want Hildegard to tell him off again.

‘Sidney?’

It was Malcolm, his curate, on the line. His voice sounded distant, almost strangulated.

‘Is something the matter?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Is Hildegard all right? Anna?’

Malcolm Mitchell coughed. He appeared to be choking.

‘For God’s sake, man, what is it?’

‘You know that man seeking sanctuary?’

‘Madara? What about him?’ Sidney asked, realising that his curate was not in the process of being garrotted but his mouth was full of cake.

‘He’s back.’

Josef had gone first to the church and then to the police station as he had ‘many things’ he wanted to confess. The police officers had told him of the death of his former lover, Natasha Zhirkov, at which point he had wanted to run away. He had been prevented from doing so by the quick thinking of one of the more experienced sergeants who did not want to witness another of Keating’s tantrums.

After they had ordered in their mugs of tea and bacon sandwiches, Sidney and the inspector took it in turns to ask Josef about his whereabouts. Had he been to the Zhirkov home? How had Dmitri found out about his wife’s affair?

Sidney tried to be clear. ‘I think we need to know if either you or your missing wife could have murdered Natasha Zhirkov.’

‘How could I have killed her? I was at the police station.’

‘Could you wife have done so?’

‘She is dead. It must be Dmitri.’

‘And do you think your colleague is the angry, murdering type?’

‘No. But any man can be made to sin. That is his tragedy.’

‘And you are not surprised?’

‘If you live with a knowledge of human suffering then you learn to accept fate.’

‘But we can take steps . . .’ Sidney said, not wanting to get into a discussion of the nature of human responsibility and the problem of free will.

Keating tried to be specific. ‘We are fairly sure Dmitri Zhirkov killed his wife. Probably because he found out that she had an affair with you. Were you still involved with her?’

‘No.’

‘You don’t appear very upset by your lover’s death.’

‘I am still grieving for the loss of my wife.’

‘But we do not know she is dead.’

‘I know what I saw.’

‘Tell me about Natasha Zhirkov,’ Sidney continued. ‘Why do you think she might have been afraid of your wife?’

‘My wife was a very strong woman. Like Dmitri, she had a temper.’

‘Natasha Zhirkov was more frightened of your wife than her own husband?’

‘I was more frightened of her too.’

‘How did Sophie react when she found out about your affair?’

‘It doesn’t matter. She is dead.’

‘Did your wife threaten you?’ Sidney asked.

‘Not me . . . no . . . not me . . . we loved each other.’

‘But about Mrs Zhirkov: what did she say about her?’

‘She said that if I didn’t stop it she would finish it all for ever.’

‘She did?’ Keating cut back in. ‘And did she say how?’

‘She said she would stab Natasha through the heart.’

There was no peace at the vicarage. Anna had had a bad night, Byron needed walking, Mrs Maguire was cleaning the bathroom with intimidating vigour, and Malcolm appeared to be busy with a new section of railway line. He had got it on the cheap from one of the parishioners whose son had left for university.

The only quiet to be found was in Sidney’s study. He retreated to think through events and to listen to a new recording of
The Black Saint and the Sinner Lady
by Charles Mingus. He had bought it as a little treat from Dobell’s in Charing Cross Road on his last trip to London. Impressed with the clergyman’s taste, the manager had ordered it in from America.