The Gospel Makers (3 page)

‘Me too. I feel so much better than when I arrived. More hopeful, somehow. I think it’s knowing everyone here is my friend.’

‘Yes,’ Nina said inadequately. She smiled and nodded as Pam moved away, glancing back at the girls. She’d go and have a word with them, she decided, try to deflect any undue influence they might have been subjected to.

But people were at last stirring themselves, emerging from their rows and jamming the central aisle in front of her. Before she could reach the girls, two young men who had earlier been handing round drinks slid into the row in front of them and, leaning over the chair-backs, engaged them in conversation.

Damn! Nina thought — just what she’d wanted to forestall. As she drew level one of the boys said something, making them laugh, and, since there was no way she could approach them, she continued her slow progress down the aisle.

As they emerged from it, everyone else turned towards the coffee table where there was now quite a crowd, and she approached the door alone. Daniel, standing there with a handful of leaflets, raised his eyebrows at her.

‘Not staying for coffee, Nina?’

So, despite the dozens of people he’d met, he’d remembered her name. More salesmanship, but again she was warmed by it.

‘I have to go,’ she said awkwardly.

‘You’ll be back on Wednesday, won’t you?’

She smiled noncommittally, took the leaflet he handed her and went out into the cool October night. The skies were clear and scattered with stars. She stood for a moment at the top of the steps, gazing upwards. Just what had happened in there this evening? That something had, she was in no doubt. Perhaps the recorder in her handbag would pinpoint it.

Love
, she thought as she walked quickly to the corner and turned towards home.
Love, trust, salvation
. She frowned, trying to recall the words of Noah Bellringer and of Adam who had introduced him. But all that came to her was
love, trust, salvation
, and the phrase repeated itself like a litany all the way home.

*

When Nina turned into the gateway her mother was at the window, holding the curtain aside as she peered out. Nina waved, the curtain dropped back into place, and the front door opened as she reached it.

‘How did it go?’ Mrs Paxton demanded anxiously, before her daughter was properly in the house. ‘Was it the people you thought? I’ve been that worried I’ve not been able to settle all evening.’

‘Sorry, Mum, but as you see, I’m still in one piece.’ Nina hung her anorak on the hook. ‘Yes, it was them all right. And it was weird, there’s no denying it. I recorded the speeches — would you like to hear them?’

‘I most certainly would. You go through, and I’ll bring the cocoa.’

The little front room was cosy with the fire glowing, the lamp on, and the television flickering silently in the corner. Mrs Paxton came in with the tray and set it on the low table by the fire.

‘I’m ready for this,’ Nina commented, picking up her mug. ‘You’ll be glad to hear I didn’t drink anything while I was there, though I had difficulty making them take no for an answer.’

Her mother’s eyes widened. ‘You’re never saying there was something in the drinks?’

‘I don’t know,’ Nina said slowly. ‘I thought I was just being paranoid, but now I’m not so sure. There could have been some kind of relaxant, to make us more receptive. Quite a few of them looked a bit woozy by the end of the evening.’

Beneath her mother’s concerned exclamation, the words
love, trust, salvation
still lingered in her mind, though less stridently now she was back in familiar surroundings.

‘Anyway,’ she said firmly, setting down her mug, ‘see what you think.’ She switched on the recorder, and they sat in silence through Adam’s opening speech. Then, as the gentle American voice filled the room, Nina tensed, waiting for the sense of oneness she had experienced in that crowded room.

It did not come. The words that had stirred her before now sounded hollow and empty, mere rhetoric. She was filled with a sense of betrayal, not helped by her mother’s reaction as the recording ended.

‘Well, what’s so special about that, I’d like to know? All that about spoiling the planet — it’s what we hear every day. And why get everyone there, build up their expectations, and then not even tell them what he was on about? A con, that’s what I call it. If it had been me, I’d have walked out.’

Nina smiled painfully, doubting that. Had she been there, her mother would have been as spellbound as everyone else, but it was useless trying to explain.

And she’d been right — neither Adam nor Bellringer had used the actual words that had haunted her. So where had they come from? Had there been a subliminal message flashing on the screen, something so swift only the subconscious could register it? Was that what had held them in thrall?

She shuddered involuntarily. It had all seemed so innocuous, and yet …

She’d have a word with the DCI on Monday, she decided. In the meantime she’d try to put it out of her mind and enjoy her weekend.

*

Mattie Hendrix skirted a crowd of drunks on the corner of Gloucester Circus and turned into Station Road. Farther along, it degenerated into one of Shillingham’s least desirable areas, some of the town’s meanest streets lying behind its eastern frontage.

Thankfully, Mattie lived only a short way from the Circus and on the west side of the road, in a one-room flat above the Co-op. It was a good twenty minutes’ walk from the school, slightly less from Victoria Drive. There were buses, of course, but she took them only if it was raining or she happened to be late. Every penny must be saved towards her future — her future, and that of the world.

She turned the key in her front door, letting herself into the tiny linoleum-floored hallway at the bottom of the steep staircase. It had been a shock to see the girls there tonight — she still wasn’t sure how to tackle it. She knew she was expected to spread the word among the pupils at Ashbourne, but that was yet another area in which she had failed. Her faith was deep and vital to her, but she was no evangelist and that was a lack in her.

The stairs ended in the one-room flat. Mattie went to draw the thin curtains, glancing longingly at the black bars of the electric fire. Perhaps if she lit it for just ten minutes, to take the chill off the room, that wouldn’t be too extravagant.

She switched it on and made herself a cup of tea in the curtained alcove she thought of as the kitchen. It had been a good turn-out tonight and Adam had done well. She knew he dreaded the evenings he was in charge.

Should she mention the meeting when she saw the girls on Monday? Would they tell their friends about seeing her there? Not, of course, that it was anything shameful, but the Captain had warned them of the hostility. They must expect when they spoke of their beliefs. As he pointed out, Satan was always ready to mock and revile those who served the Lord.

She removed her coat with a shiver, noticing as she did so that another hole had appeared in her jumper. Something else that must be attended to before she went to bed.

She sat down with her tea at the rickety table and removed a bulky mass of exercise books from her satchel. With these essays to mark, she wouldn’t have time for her gospel tonight — it was nearly eleven already. She’d have to set the alarm an hour early and work on it in the morning.

But what, she agonized, should she do about the girls?

*

When Hannah had gone and the front door was duly locked and bolted, Dilys stood for a moment, feeling the house fold itself peaceably about her. There was silence except for the soft shifting of the sitting-room fire as it subsided into ash.

Hannah was right, she thought, Hassocks was full of character — well worn and comfortable. As the old house settled for the night, Dilys walked slowly up the stairs, her thoughts returning to the guests who would shortly be thrust upon her.

Two spare bedrooms led off the L-shaped landing, each with its own bathroom, and on impulse she opened the door of the larger one where, presumably, the nanny would sleep.

She gave it a swift mental check. Tissues on the dressing-table, clock radio by the bed, plenty of hangers in the wardrobe. This time next week, a stranger would be sleeping here. What would she be like?

Suddenly, unaccountably, Dilys shivered, and as she retreated to the landing, remembered her mother’s macabre phrase, ‘Someone walked over my grave.’

For heaven’s sake, she thought as she reached her own room. She’d be reading the teacups next! Her trouble, as she’d admitted to Hannah, was that she was altogether too self-absorbed. Well, one way or another, the next three weeks should shake her up a bit. With which glum reflection she began to prepare for bed.

Chapter 3

She was going to be late, Christina thought anxiously, easing the car out of the Heathrow sliproad on to the M4. The shuttle flight had been delayed and it had taken longer than usual to get out of the long-term car park. Which meant she wouldn’t have time to call at the office before her lunch appointment.

Stephie would be back at school now; too bad this trip had coincided with her
exeat
, but it wasn’t every day one had the chance to meet the head of an American hotel chain — one who, moreover, though in the UK only for the weekend, had specifically requested a meeting. And it seemed to have gone well; she must put Belinda straight on to working out the quotations. If they could get in with Bryant Hotels, she thought jubilantly, they would be made.

Her lunch appointment could also be fruitful. She’d not yet met Mr Derringer, who lived in the south of the county. He was staying at the King’s Head for a few days on business, which was where they were meeting. The hotel had just reopened after a year’s closure for refurbishment, which, according to the Broadshire News, had incorporated more
en suite
facilities and a leisure complex in the basement. A pity she couldn’t have landed
that
contract, Christina thought ruefully. Still, it would be interesting to see what they’d made of it.

And here at last was the Shillingham junction. She turned thankfully off the motorway and twenty minutes later was in the hotel car park.

As soon as she pushed her way through the swing doors she was disorientated. Gone was the solid, old-fashioned ambience which had been the hotel’s hallmark, the heavy chairs and thick velvet curtains. Instead, there were pale wood panels, glass doors showing a transformed lounge, and an overall luminescence far removed from the pervading gloom she was used to.

The chief surprise, though, was that on this Monday lunch-time the foyer was thronged with people. How, she thought despairingly, was she going to find her client in this crowd? ‘In the bar,’ she’d suggested unthinkingly. Now, she wasn’t even sure where it was.

Fighting her way through the throng, she was grateful to see arrows indicating the direction of bar and restaurant, and a board at the foot of the stairs explained at least part of the activity: two separate conferences were in progress, and no doubt both had disgorged their delegates for the lunch break.

The bar, too, had metamorphosed, shedding its twenties-style chrome and glass-topped tables for an opulence of rich wood, deep sofas, and waist-high fretted divisions offering an illusion of privacy. On a stand in the middle of the room was a magnificent bronze of a horse: Copper Coin, no doubt, the chestnut which had won the Broadminster Cup for three successive seasons.

The professional part of Christina longed to study the decor in detail; ideas could be gleaned from an imaginative overhaul like this. Unfortunately, though, it would have to wait, and she raked the room for a man alone, one who was no doubt by this time becoming restive.

At once she spotted a likely candidate, seated in one of the low-backed alcoves. There was a briefcase at his feet, and even as she registered him, he glanced with obvious impatience at his watch. In fact, she thought apprehensively, everything about him indicated that he was on edge, from his frequent glances towards the door to the staccato tapping of his cigarette against the glass ashtray in front of him. She’d obviously have to turn on maximum charm to make up for her lateness.

Making her way towards him, she saw that he was younger than she’d imagined from their phone calls — rather attractive, in fact, if he’d only relax — with dark springing hair and a slight cleft in his chin.

‘Mr Derringer?’ she said, holding out her hand.

He looked up in surprise, then rose, taking her hand as he returned her smile. ‘Unfortunately, no!’ he said.

‘Oh!’ Christina stared at him, momentarily nonplussed. ‘I do beg your pardon. I’m meeting someone I don’t know, and I assumed —’

‘Please don’t worry — it’s my pleasure. I’m expecting someone too. Why don’t you join me and we can wait together? Can I get you a drink?’

‘Oh no, really, I must look for —’

‘Nonsense. I need another anyway. What’ll it be?’

But no sooner had he reached the bar than a voice behind her said hesitantly, ‘Mrs French? I thought I overheard — I’m Robert Derringer.’

She felt a spurt of disappointment, accepting that lunch with the man she’d approached would have been more enjoyable. Derringer was in his fifties, bald, bespectacled, and — a frequent occurrence — several inches shorter than herself. Still, it was a business rather than social engagement and he could put a very worthwhile contract in her hands if she landed him successfully.

Having made her apologies to the other man — fortunately before he’d paid for her drink — she set herself to do so. It was some ten minutes later that, from the corner of her eye, she saw him leaving the room with a man and woman. By the time she and Derringer reached the restaurant, she’d forgotten all about him.

*

Detective Chief Inspector David Webb added seasoning to the pan on the stove, stirred it, and tasted the contents. Satisfied, he turned from the cooker, glanced at Hannah who was perched on the kitchen table, and said without preamble, ‘Ever heard of the Revvies?’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘As in motorbikes?’

He grinned. ‘No, as in members of the Church of the Final Revelation.’

‘Good heavens! No, I haven’t.’

‘That’s the colloquial name, I’m told.’

‘Less of a mouthful, certainly. Whoever are they?’

‘One of these new religious movements. An American import, but expanding rapidly over here.’

Hannah sipped her gin and tonic. ‘And what’s your interest in them?’

‘My WDI came to see me this morning. She went to one of their meetings to suss them out and wasn’t very happy with her findings.’

‘In what way?’

‘She suspects the pre-meeting coffee was spiked — though as she didn’t have any that’s pure speculation. And she’s pretty sure the film they were shown was subliminally doctored.’

‘How very sinister.’

Webb filled a large pan with water, salted it, and set it to boil. ‘Yes, not a pleasant thought.’

‘What actually happened?’

‘It was just a warm-up session, whetting the appetite and hinting at marvels to come. They wouldn’t want to lay their goods on the line till they’re sure they’ve hooked their audience.’

‘But you think they could be dangerous?’

‘All cults are dangerous, Hannah. Some are benevolent and some not, but they’re all out to get you. For your own good, of course, as they go to some lengths to explain. Trouble is, it’s often the weak and vulnerable who are attracted to them, and fall straight into their clutches without realizing it.’

The water rose up the pan and he tipped a measured quantity of spaghetti into it. Hannah slid to the floor and prepared to lay the table.

‘Did I tell you I saw Dilys last week?’ she asked, opening the cutlery drawer.

‘No, how is she?’

‘Up to ninety, poor love. She’s being invaded by her god-daughter’s baby, plus nanny. They’ll be there for three weeks, and she’s dreading every minute of it.’

‘Can’t say I blame her. How’s the writer’s block?’

‘Still with her, and this is hardly the remedy.’

Webb made sympathetic noises. He’d never met Dilys, but since Hannah often spoke of her, felt he knew her quite well. Like Hannah’s other friends, she was unaware of his existence; deputy headmistresses, especially those of prestigious private schools, could ill afford gossip, and Hannah had decided right at the beginning that it was wiser to keep her own counsel where affairs of the heart were concerned.

Picking up the bottle of Chianti, he followed her through to the living-room. It looked its best at this time of day, he thought contentedly, the lamps lit and — since he’d not yet turned on the heating — the glow of the gas fire to dispel the evening chill.

When he first came here, soon after his divorce, the flat had been simply somewhere to sleep and keep his belongings. But gradually he’d stamped his personality on the place and it had evolved from an impersonal set of rooms into a home.

He stood in the doorway, taking unaccustomed stock and approving what he saw: white paintwork and pale cinnamon walls on which were displayed the carefully chosen paintings which accounted for most of his spare cash; the oak dining-table he’d picked up for a song before antiques became big business; deep, welcoming armchairs, each with its small table alongside to accommodate glass or papers; a glass-fronted bookcase; his desk, and, in the corner, his easel and the pile of canvases stacked against the wall.

Conscious of how much he learned about people from their surroundings, he wondered for the first time what his own home said about him.

Hannah’s voice recalled him from his musings. ‘Any chance of opening that bottle, or are you going to stand there holding it all evening?’

He grinned apologetically, moved into the room and set it on the table.

She bent to read the label. ‘Which glasses shall we use?’

‘Oh, just the everyday ones. I’ll —’

‘It’s all right, I know where they are.’

Still retrospective, he walked to the window and stood, as he did most evenings, staring down the hill towards the lights of Shillingham.

Though his flat wasn’t as spacious as Hannah’s on the floor below, there were definite advantages to being at the top of the building. It was like a watchtower, with the town spread out below for his inspection. And somewhere among those lights, he thought suddenly, as today’s concerns reasserted themselves, it was possible that a new menace was moving.

Hannah, returning with the glasses, glanced across at him. ‘You are pensive this evening,’ she remarked. ‘Still brooding about the Revvies?’

‘I don’t like manipulation,’ he said shortly, ‘which is what it all boils down to.’

‘But who are these people? What’s their message?’

He felt in his pocket and extracted the crumpled publicity sheet Nina had given him. ‘Does this logo suggest anything to you?’

She moved to take it from him, studying the triangle with the curved line above it. ‘Not really.’

‘Suppose that arc was coloured.’ He paused. ‘Multi-coloured.’

‘A rainbow?’

‘Right. And the other shape?’

‘A triangle?’ He shook his head. She studied it further. ‘I suppose it could be a simplified drawing of a mountain.’

‘Ten out of ten! A mountain and a rainbow. Now — any bright ideas?’

‘Noah?’ she hazarded facetiously.

‘Noah indeed!’

Her eyes widened. ‘You’re not serious?’

‘Oh, but I am. Their theory is that another Flood’s on the way, and they’ll be the only ones to survive it.’

‘They’re not building an ark?’ Hannah’s voice was incredulous.

‘Not exactly.’ A smile lifted his mouth. ‘Incidentally, their founder’s name is Bellringer. Would you believe Noah Bellringer?’

Hannah gazed at him. ‘Now you really are joking.’

‘Without a word of a lie. Born and raised, as they say, in the Bible Belt of America.’

‘But — the Flood? Noah and the Flood? He changed his name to fit the theory?’

‘No, it’s been verified on his birth certificate. Mind you, the association of ideas must have played its part.’

‘But if they’re not building an ark, what do they intend to do?’

Webb moved to the table and poured Chianti into the glasses. ‘I’m told they’re investing heavily in high ground, the more mountainous the better. They already have settlements in Scotland, Wales and the Lake District.’

‘They’re taking it pretty seriously, then. When is this Flood due? Should I be keeping an eye on the weather forecast?’

‘Don’t hold your breath. It’s one of the many joys promised for the millennium. Right —’ he took the paper back and stuffed it into his pocket — ‘enough of all this nonsense. The spaghetti should be ready, so let’s eat.’

*

Daniel Stacey eased the car through the gateway of No. 5, Victoria Drive and parked on the concrete base which had replaced the front garden. He was bone-tired, but it would be hours yet before he was free to go to bed. Adam’s space was still empty, though Lucy’s ancient Morris stood in its accustomed corner. It was Lucy’s week as cook, he remembered, and hoped she’d kept something hot for him.

He eased himself out of the car, locked it, and stretched, rubbing his aching back. Then he walked briskly up the steps and let himself into the house. Immediately he was conscious of warmth and comfort and his tiredness began to drop away. In thirty-five years, this was the only place he’d felt at home.

At the end of the passage the kitchen door opened and Lucy peered out at him. ‘Ah, there you are! I was beginning to think you’d got lost.’

He went towards her, relishing the savoury smell which came to meet him. ‘It’s my week to oversee prep, I forgot to tell you. Have the others eaten?’

‘All except Adam, he’s not back yet. Are you ready for yours?’