The Art of Standing Still (30 page)

DETECTIVE SERGEANT MORRISEY WAS OFF DUTY WHEN JOSH AND JEMMA
arrived so they were received indifferently by the laconic WPC Patel, who sat behind the reception desk, reading a newspaper. She reluctantly put down her paper and took the package across the counter. This time they were not going to have the courtesy of the interview room. Jemma recounted the story of how they found the money.

‘Fine, we'll keep it until it is claimed,' WPC Patel said.

‘This isn't just lost property, you know,' protested Jemma.

‘What do you think it is?' she asked.

‘I don't know. It could be anything, stolen during a robbery, a ransom payment, drug money . . . anything!'

‘When you find out, come back and tell us.'

‘But that's your job – to find out.'

‘We investigate crimes. If you see a crime being committed, notify us and we will investigate.'

‘We could be in danger.'

‘How?'

‘Because of what I've seen. The man, last night. He dropped something – the money in the river, then ran to his car. First he pushed past me on the bridge, then he tried to run me down. I had to jump into the hedge to get away.'

‘Did you see him throw
the money?' WPC Patel chewed the end of her pencil.

‘No,' said Jemma, ‘but I heard the splash.'

‘So you can't be sure he was involved with the money at all?'

‘It was at the same spot,' said Josh.

‘Did you see anything, Sir?'

‘No, Jemma called me later, but I helped fish the money out.'

‘I'm sorry, but I don't see that there's much we can do.'

Outside the police station, Jemma let out a scream of frustration. ‘I don't believe it; the police here are useless! They just don't want to know. What possible reason is there for hiding money in the river unless it's linked with a criminal activity?'

‘One way to find out,' said Josh.

‘What's that?' asked Jemma.

‘We'll have to keep our eyes open and find some way of monitoring that part of the river. Like the policewoman said, wait until someone comes to claim it.'

Scene Seven

RUTH WAS NOT THE SORT OF PERSON WHO MADE LISTS. NORMALLY SHE HAD
no trouble at all remembering what she had to do or to whom she had to speak. She nudged Dimitri off her desk and wrote at the top of the list,

Buy cat food

Then she wrote,

Phone Raj
Check sound equipment
Collect costumes
Spare scripts
Notify press
Write to Mr Giddings
Call Alistair

She wondered if she ought to add eat, sleep, and go to the toilet to the list as she didn't seem to have got round to doing any of those things lately. As if she didn't have enough to think about with the dress rehearsal, she had the added worry of Alistair – and Richard Sutton's bizarre reaction to him. Alistair seemed as bewildered as anyone else. She had bundled him out of the room while Josh held Richard down; then she drove him home.

‘So what just happened in there?' Ruth struggled to keep her eyes on the road.

‘Search me.'

‘Why would he accuse you out of the blue like that?'

‘I told you, I've absolutely no idea. I've never seen him before in my life.'

‘Perhaps you reminded him of the man who attacked him. Maybe you have a double.'

‘Or perhaps it's a symptom, caused by the bang on the head.'

‘Do you think the police will want to talk to you?'

‘I don't see why they should. I couldn't tell them anything.'

The rest of the journey took place in strained silence. Ruth had made a promise that she wouldn't let herself be alone with Alistair. She watched his hand in case he tried to touch her. It felt even more dangerous now. This new Alistair, the one that might have attacked Richard, was altogether unknown and threatening. When they had first met, he had seemed so solid, so sound and dependable, the perfect Councillor and model churchgoer. Now she wondered what he was hiding.

The doorbell rang, making her jump. She padded downstairs, opened the door to the postman, and signed for a parcel. She scooped up the
Monksford Gazette
from the doormat and made her way into the kitchen to make some tea and toast, a quick breakfast. She glanced at the clock. It was almost seven. It would have to be a very quick breakfast. Dimitri made figures of eight around her legs. She scooped him up and deposited him outside the back door. He would have to find his own breakfast until she had been to the shop.

The front page of the
Gazette
boasted the headline ‘New Homes Boost for Monksford'. ‘Where are they going to build them, on stilts in the river?' Ruth muttered. She scanned the article and shuddered as she read the line ‘Councillor Alistair Fry plans to oppose the building of fifty-five new homes on greenbelt land in Monksford.' First the business park and the road, now a new housing estate. Alistair had opposed them all, but they had all gone ahead despite his opposition. When she first met him, she had imagined him powerful and influential. Now he seemed weak and ineffectual.

The toast popped up and the kettle boiled. She switched on the radio, as the announcer was summarising the seven o'clock news.

‘. . . Monksford Councillor Alistair Fry is helping police with their enquiries following the attack on a journalist last year in the town. Now over to Karl for our sports and weather . . .'

She stood, frozen, butter knife in hand. She let out a groan. What if they kept him there all day, or worse, arrested him? Today was the dress rehearsal. How could the play go ahead at Corpus Christi with no Judas? She stopped, shocked that a play had become more important to her than a man's well-being and career. She prayed quickly, then threw the toast in the bin, abandoned the tea, and jumped in the car. The show, as they say, must go on.

She parked her car in the farmyard and set off for the upper field, where the first scenes would take place. She glanced at the sky. At least it wasn't raining.

When she arrived, a throng of people, anxious harbingers of gossip and bad news, gathered around her and asked if she had heard about Alistair. She managed to sound calm and reassuring. ‘He's just helping the police, you know, answering questions. I'm sure he'll come as soon as he is finished.'

She brushed them aside and found Josh, still in his jeans and T-shirt.

‘You heard?'

He nodded. ‘What do you think will happen?'

‘I hope he'll answer their questions to their satisfaction and get here in time for his scene.'

‘I meant, what will happen if they find he was involved? Will he go to prison?'

‘I know that's what you meant. I was trying not to think about it.'

‘Sorry. I'm not a pessimist, but this could be serious.'

Ruth felt the urge to scream rising from her stomach. She pushed it down and patted Josh's arm. ‘Don't worry. Everything will be all right.'

She tried to force herself to believe her own words. Her only option was to focus on the rest of the play. If there was a problem when they reached Alistair's scenes, she would concern herself with it then. She wished she had drunk that cup of tea, or something stronger.

The technicians and sound engineers were still running around securing cables and checking microphones.

‘One, two. One, one, two.'

She couldn't help wondering if sound technicians knew how to count any higher. She pulled out her list, checked off the items, then headed for the marquee with a large green trefoil where the actors changed into their costumes. It was hardly luxurious, but it was warm and dry and had been divided with screens, one area for the men and another for the women, plus a general area, a ‘green room' with a tea urn.

It wasn't exactly a room, but the grass floor did indeed make it glow green. She deposited the last few costumes on the hanging rail in the women's section and ran her hand along the rainbow colours. She wished that Eliza could be there. She had phoned the hospital immediately after she got up. Eliza had not had a good night. Her temperature was up, and the doctors did not know why. She had promised to drive Eliza home as soon as they agreed to discharge her, but that would not be today.

Three young mums from St Sebastian's were acting as dressers. They were standing in a huddle, laughing and chatting. Ruth wanted to shake them. Didn't they realise how important today was? It was everyone's last chance to get it right before the performance. She took a couple of deep breaths, trying to calm her jangling nerves, to reassure herself that everything was going to be all right. She felt a sweaty hand on her shoulder. ‘Don't look so worried. Everything's going
to be fine.'

She spun round. ‘Ronnie!'

‘Sorry, sweetheart. Didn't mean to make you jump.'

‘I was miles away.'

‘It really will be okay, you know.'

‘Thanks Ronnie.' She squeezed his elbow. Despite his reassurances, the knot in her stomach was getting tighter. She was concerned about Eliza, about Josh, about Richard and his accusations, Raj and Surinder and the adoption process, and Bram who had become more taciturn each day. Especially, and most painfully, she was worried about Alistair.

‘You heard the news?'

Ronnie nodded. ‘A bad business. But we must keep busy.'

‘Keep busy, keep busy,' Ruth muttered to herself as a mantra. She found a technician and persuaded him to allow her to use a microphone to speak to the actors and crew. Her voice, resounding across the fields, took her aback, but she was pleased that when she spoke, people stopped what they were doing, stood still and listened.

‘Would everyone please take up their positions for scene one, “The Creation”? Anyone not involved in this scene may choose either to watch or to sit in the green room or the scouts' marquee in the upper field. But please, if you watch, don't distract the actors. When we transfer the location to the farmyard, I would like as many of you as possible, in costume, to act as ushers, to make sure that, on the day, the real audience can find its way around the site.

‘I want to press on with the Old Testament section now, so I'll let you carry on uninterrupted. We'll break at twelve for lunch then resume the New Testament at one. Have a good one everybody. Break a leg!' She fervently hoped that nobody would break anything. She had enough problems. She returned the microphone and took her folding chair, ready to settle herself to watch the play. The orchestra struck up the opening chords and tingles ran up her spine. ‘We're going to do it. We're actually going to do it!'

To Ruth's amazement, the first four scenes passed without a hitch. The only cloud on the horizon was exactly that, a large black cloud drifting over from the direction of Maidstone. If it did rain, it would test their waterproofing. Ruth was getting good at looking on the bright side.

‘What are you going to do about it, Ruth? It's just not good enough.'

Harlan Westacre descended like a bat in a black velvet cape and silver jewelry.
Goth is not a good look for the over fifties
, thought Ruth.

‘Harlan!' She forced a smile. ‘What's the problem?'

‘The dressing area is too small, the stage is the wrong shape, and it's going to rain.'

Ruth processed the complaints. Nothing she could do about the third. The second, tough. Harlan would have to cope. ‘I'll see what I can do about the dressing room,' she breezed. And headed towards the marquee before Harlan could find anything else to object to. She spent the rest of the morning watching the action on stage, sorting out technical problems and keeping the actors and crew supplied with tea. By lunchtime, she was ready to drop, and they still had the longer section of the cycle to do.

The cast and crew milled round the farm. Some stayed in the upper field with their lunches, making a picnic of it, others gathered in the farmyard, and Ruth busied herself checking the props and the stable. Herod's armies were mounted on a variety of nags from the local riding stables, and one of the wise men had somehow obtained a llama from a nearby farm, which he had dressed up to look like a camel. Once she was confident all was ready, she allowed herself a brief sit down on a bale of hay. She leant against the side of the stable and sat perfectly still with the sun warming her upturned face. She closed her eyes, enjoying a moment's stolen peace until she heard footsteps on the concrete of the yard.

‘I bring sustenance.'

Ronnie proffered a Roquefort-and-onion sandwich. Ruth waved it away as politely as she could. It would have been difficult to eat had she felt hungry, but considering the queasy apprehension that had haunted her all morning, it might just finish her off.

She checked her watch. Half past twelve. Alistair must have finished at the police station. He had already been there for hours, per haps overnight. She hesitated, then pressed the keys on her mobile phone. It connected but went straight to voicemail. If his phone was switched off, it could mean he was still being questioned or that he had been arrested. Alternatively, it could be that he was driving or simply that the battery needed charging. They would have to proceed without him. Ruth called a young actor who had played one of Noah's sons and handed him a script. They would just have to manage.

She was just about to call everyone to order to start again when a bowlegged elderly man in a tweed jacket, huge glasses, and a flat cap stood squarely in front of her.

‘I need to talk to you most urgently.'

The old man almost plucked at her sleeve, his face contorted with pleading. Ruth was not in the mood for another distraction.

‘Ah, Mr Giddings. You're here again. Why don't I get my diary? We can make an appointment so we can talk this through. Or you could write me another letter.'

He held up his hand. ‘This blasphemy must stop. Stop now, or the consequences will be most dire. I have tried to warn you but you have not listened. Hear me now. Turn from this wickedness.'