Past Praying For (21 page)

And
then there was the old boy, Tom – though in fact, despite the descriptions, he hadn’t been that old. Early fifties, the local sergeant reckoned, and he allowed himself a brief spasm of pity for the poor bastard. On the other hand, he couldn’t think an extended life span would have proved happy or rewarding. With increasing age and abuse would come the string of infections, the confusion of mind, the ultimate death in a hostel if he was lucky, a ditch if he wasn’t. If the smoke had got to him first, it would have been – bearable. If not...

He
never permitted himself to think about things like that. They got in the way.

He
had dismissed the possibility that it might be murder, but now meticulously he put the idea to the test.

Could
one of the almsgivers have plied him with vodka and told him he could get in to the garage? For a moment he toyed with the seductive notion that Tom might have been party to some scandalous incident in the vicar’s past which she had killed him to suppress, then regretfully discarded it. She, or anyone else, would have had to be sure that the doors would be left open, which happened only occasionally.

Suzanne
Bolton herself? She could have told the man he could bunk down in the garage, but she had been out all day and in all evening, having brought the boy back with her in the car. No, that didn’t look like a runner.

Insurance
fraud was the next thing to consider, of course. If Suzanne – just by chance, naturally – had happened to have left her car out last night, he’d have had the lighted matches under her fingernails by now, but he had yet to find the householder who would set fire to a garage next to the house containing a relatively new car with a full petrol tank.

But
someone had. You might have no reason to suspect the presence of a vagrant, but you would know that the car was there. It could be malevolence, recklessness or idiocy, but whichever it might be, it was an alarming situation. They needed to get this one under lock and key as soon as possible. Panic would spread like measles in a place like this, and they were probably all intimate friends of the Chief Constable.

He
contemplated the thought morosely, then went back inside to see how the investigation was progressing.

***

After her visit to Suzanne, Margaret Moon headed towards the church once more. She had some organizing to do; she had decided that, as they had done at St John’s Marketgate, she would hold a Watchnight Service on New Year’s Eve. It was always very popular with the young, though the authorities tended to frown on the idea because of the danger of rowdyism. The Bishop, apparently, had raised his eyebrows – a salient feature – but Margaret was of the opinion that a higher authority even than he might find a spot of youthful exuberance a great deal more excusable than polite apathy.

But
it was not her grand design for the spiritual welfare of her parish that was preoccupying her as she walked along in the fragile winter sunshine. She was very much exercised over Suzanne’s story of the keys, confided it seemed almost against her will, and then only on the promise of strict secrecy.

Obviously,
no one needed a key to approach the garage. But Suzanne was convinced that this was the latest, terrifying development in a pattern of persecution against herself, by one of her friends.

Margaret
sighed. She had, of course, urged Suzanne to tell the police immediately, but the woman had become almost hysterical at the suggestion.

‘
How can I?’ she cried wildly. ‘How can I tell the police that I suspect my
best
friends
? I don’t know which one it is; it’s difficult enough already, and the police would go and accuse them all, and then I’d have nobody left, nobody!’

And
her husband didn’t count, Margaret thought sadly, remembering the scene in the supermarket, but she said only, ‘I’m sure the police would be tactful,’ though she wasn’t altogether convinced of that herself.

The other woman shook her head frantically. ‘You won’t tell them, will you? You promised!’

‘
No, I won’t,’ she said heavily. ‘I promised, though I wish you hadn’t asked me to.’

‘
I’m – I’m sorting it out myself.’ Suzanne turned away, fiddling with the twisted flex of her toaster. ‘Taking precautions. Just till I know, OK?’

And
there Margaret had to leave it. Perhaps it would all come out when the police got round to questioning Patrick, who also apparently knew but hadn’t made a direct connection.

Well,
perhaps there was none. Perhaps Suzanne was exaggerating. She was certainly overwrought.

But
then her mind went to her meeting with Laura Ferrars. That had been very strange. Mrs Ferrars had always appeared a calm and collected person, as you would expect from a woman in her position. It was natural, no doubt, to be upset about the fire – they all were – but not to be able to reply to a casual social remark was surely out of character. ‘No doubt she’d be glad to see you’: that was all Margaret had said, wasn’t it? Hardly what you could call contentious.

Piers
McEvoy and James Ferrars would have had access to the keys too, of course, but Suzanne had been forthright in dismissing them. And given Robert’s analysis as well, her gut reaction was probably right.

So
who could it be? Laura Ferrars, who had always seemed so level-headed, until today? Elizabeth McEvoy, who had troubles enough, without seeking for more? Hayley Cutler?

She
held that thought. The woman was apparently both immoral and unscrupulous, and it was tempting to assume her guilt. But somehow...

If
only she could discuss it all with Robert! But she had promised, and though the confidence had not been made under the seal of the confessional, she was bound by professional ethics.

She
was most unhappy about it, though. Margaret sighed again as she turned in under the lych gate.

8

‘Sir – ’

Rod
Vezey was coming out of the tent of plastic when the voice hailed him, and he looked up. Jackie Boyd, the young DC who, with her short spiky red hair had the look of a fledgling bird, was waiting there, standing uncomfortably as if ready to take flight. Her obvious unease irritated him.

‘
Speak up, Boyd, if you’ve got something to say.’

She
flinched, but said sturdily enough, ‘They want you round the back. There’s some sort of footprint – not very good...’

Behind
the concrete apron round the garage was a fringe of long grass by the fence dividing the garden from one of the little pathways so common in Stretton Noble. This one was gravelled, with more rough grass growing up the shallow bank.

‘
Here, sir.’ One of the detectives was pointing to an area by the fence.

‘
Someone’s been through here – see?’

The
long, lush blades were flattened in the spot where someone would have had to set their foot to cross from the gravel of the path to the concrete of the garden if they were to squeeze through the fence.

The
grass had not held what could be termed a footprint, but there was the blurred outline of a shoe or boot.

Vezey
studied it attentively. ‘Small,’ he said.

‘
That’s right, sir. We’ll get photos and exact measurements, but it looks as if it’s a pretty small chap. A kid, even.’

‘
Or a woman.’

‘
Suppose so. Not usual, you’d have to say.’

‘
Any idea of the type of footwear?’

‘
We’ll let the lab boys do their stuff. But don’t hold your breath.’

He
turned, looking for his sergeant, a bullet-headed young man called Dave Smethurst.

‘
Dave! Get a group combing that area – both directions, on all fours if that’s what it takes. See if you can figure where our friend came from to get on to the path.’

Smethurst
nodded. ‘Sir. But I’ve walked it already, and most of the houses have a gate and a neat little path. A fence like this is the exception.’

‘
Do it anyway.’

At
least it was evidence. He liked physical evidence; you could make something of it.

Then
an unwelcome thought struck him. There was a child in this house, and children were famously reluctant to take the long way round.

Suzanne
Bolton, her face tear-stained, opened the kitchen window when he tapped.

‘
Well, of course he does,’ she said in answer to his question. ‘If it’s the quickest way to go.’

‘
When was the last time he did it?’

She
looked bemused. ‘I haven’t the slightest idea. You’ll have to ask him – he’s at the Cartwrights’. Yesterday, perhaps?’

‘
But not last night, or this morning?’

‘
Not that I know of.’

He
turned away. Perhaps the lab boys would know how long it took bruised grass to spring up again. They knew the most extraordinary things, but it wasn’t the sort of evidence the Crown Prosecution Service liked. This was what he termed ‘thumb-and-two-fingers’ evidence, the sort they held out at metaphorical arm’s length with a pained expression.

Still,
it was another straw in the wind. Moon’s off-the-wall hunches had an uncanny way of proving to be right.

***

Andy Cutler kicked the stand out from under his motorbike to park it in the driveway outside the Briar Patch, and got out a chain and padlock from the pockets of his leathers. The bike had an engine immobilizer, but it was the joy of his life and he was taking no chances. As he bent to fix it, the helmet he had tucked under his arm fell and rolled across the pavement to land at the feet of a woman who was walking by.

She
stooped to pick it up, and he recognized her: Miss Moon, the vicar. He thanked her politely as she handed it back to him.

‘
That’s a nice bike,’ she said. ‘It’s a Harley-Davidson, isn’t it?’

He
stared, astonished. Old dames like her not only didn’t know the makes of bikes, they tended to freak out if they so much as saw one. His pale olive skin flushed with the pride of ownership, and he could not help looking fondly at the machine.

‘
Cost enough,’ he said gruffly.

‘
What did you do to earn it?’ She actually sounded interested.

‘
That was five years of Saturdays and school holidays working in the supermarket.’

He
paused, but she was still paying attention, not glazing over like most wrinklies once they’d asked what they thought was a suitable question.

‘
Other kids say I’m lucky to have it, but they spent their Saturday mornings in bed.’

‘
It can’t have been what you might call exciting either. What are you doing now?’

He
looked at her vicar’s shirt and collar; suspicion seized him and he withdrew.

‘
There’s no need to chat me up, you know, just because you think it’s your job. I’m not into God-bothering.’

She
didn’t take offence. She smiled and said, ‘I’ll let you know when I start the sales pitch. Just at the moment, I think you’re an interesting person, and I’d like to know more about you.’

‘
Not much to know, really.’ It came out off-hand, because he had felt bad about being ungracious, so he hurried on. ‘Foundation course in computing at the local college. It’s pretty naff, but the syllabus is OK. I want to go on and do electronics at university, but Hayley – Mum – says she can’t afford it.’

‘
Wouldn’t you get a grant?’

He
shot her a sideways look. ‘She
says
she can’t afford it. She’s always had money for whatever she wants. It just doesn’t stretch to serious handouts to us.’

‘
To be fair to your mother, a lot of people find money’s hard to come by these days.’

For
a second he was prepared to go along with the diplomatic whitewash, but the lure of being listened to was too strong.

‘
She says the business is going down the tube,’ he burst out, ‘but she’s said that before. And then surprise surprise some new boyfriend turns up and bales her out.’

He
paused again, but the vicar didn’t look shocked and he went on, ‘Still, this time she’s been in a serious bad mood for days, so maybe she has got problems. She got a huge bunch of flowers today – roses and things – and she looked really pleased till she read the card, and then she freaked out. She tore it up and started pulling the flowers to bits and threw them all over the place. Then she stormed out and shut herself in her room. We cleared it up OK, me and Martha, but – it’s a bit heavy, I suppose. We really don’t know what to do.’