The Quick and the Dead (A Sister Agnes Mystery) (5 page)

Without warning, a memory flashed into her mind. Warmth and scratchiness; of being nestled up close, watching flames leaping in a huge fireplace. Long, pale fingers turning the pages of a book, a rare, leather-bound edition of Cuvier’s
Natural
History
. Papa. Reaching out to trace the raised blue veins on the back of his hand, allowing her own fingertips to touch the rich, yellowing paper with his.

‘Of course,’ Mike was saying, ‘those social workers don’t seem that bothered.’

Agnes gulped her drink. ‘Social workers?’ she mumbled. ‘They’re very over-worked, you know.’

My own father, she thought, wondering how she’d begin to describe him, the man who had wafted unpredictably in and out of her life, provoking unbearable feelings of love and loyalty only to abandon her when some new business project, or mistress, called him away. She blinked as Mike flipped the beer mat again.

‘Another drink?’ Mike was saying. The pub suddenly seemed unbearably noisy.

‘I’d better go, thanks all the same.’

Outside the pub they shook hands.

‘I’ll tell Sam I met you,’ Agnes said. ‘I’m sure she’ll want to see you soon.’

Mike held her gaze. ‘I hope so,’ he said. ‘Oh, God, I hope so.’ 

Agnes walked briskly away from him towards the Tube, descending the station steps, breathing in the humid air with relief. She found a seat on the platform. Really, it was unfair of her, she thought, to allow her own confused memories to cloud her judgement now. Mike seemed a nice enough man, and compared to Sam’s current set-up, might prove to be a very good thing for her. In the end, it was up to Sam; she was the one who had to decide. Agnes shivered in the sudden breeze of the approaching train.

*

‘Well,’ she said to Sam the next morning, ‘I might as well take you back to the camp, if you want to go. It’s going to be a day or two before we can arrange for you to meet Mike.’

‘What was he like?’ Sam said, crunching breakfast cereal. ‘Is he rich, and is his house nice, and has he got cable telly?’

‘He’s very keen to meet you,’ Agnes said. ‘And I’ve no idea what his house is like.’

‘And how old is he, and what does he look like?’

‘He’s about thirty-seven, he’s got blue eyes —’

‘Like mine?’

Agnes looked at Sam’s eyes. They were a soft grey, not the sharp blue she remembered from her meeting with Mike Reynolds.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘like yours.’

*

The blackened kettle was steaming tepidly on its bed of warm ash. There was a jangle of abseil harness as Jeff descended from a tree and rubbed his eyes.

‘Any tea?’ he asked, giving Sam a hug.

‘I can’t get this fire going,’ Paz replied. 

Jeff knelt by the stones and prodded at the bits of wood under the kettle. Rona appeared from her bender and nodded at Agnes.

‘How’s it going?’ Agnes asked.

Rona sighed. ‘We’re all still reeling. And the Press don’t help. But, you know, we’ve got the eviction coming up.’

‘Have you got a date?’

Jeff sat back on his haunches. ‘Not officially. But one of the locals, Sheila, one of her daughter’s mates was down the job centre and they’re recruiting security guards round here. And that means they’re gearing up to get us out, right? And it’s like, we’ve got to get full on.’

‘So who evicts you?’ Agnes asked. ‘I mean, who owns the land?’

‘The Department of Transport,’ Rona replied.

‘And before them?’

‘The farmer here. He still leases it from them, but they bought it off him some time ago, when they first decided to build the road here.’

‘Has it always been in his family?’

‘I wouldn’t know. Oi, Jeff, don’t use that treated wood, there’s good stuff from the forest next to it.’

Paz said, ‘The farmer? You mean, Nicholson? He told me his great-uncle got the land cheap.’

‘Who from?’ Agnes asked.

‘I’m not sure. I think it was a local family. You’d better ask him if you’re interested.’

Agnes noticed that Sam was standing silently. Her fists were clenched at her side, and she was staring down at the fire from which guttered a few small flames. 

‘So,’ Agnes went on, ‘this land. Is Nicholson happy about handing it over to the road?’ She felt Sam tense next to her.

Rona shrugged. ‘They’re always compensated. Bought off. Half the time they don’t care.’

There were shouts from the trees and Col and Jenn abseiled down.

‘Just in time for you to make the tea,’ Rona said.

‘I’ll do it,’ Paz said, wandering to the kitchen bender in search of tea bags.

‘Oh no, Paz’s tea,’ Jenn groaned, settling by the fire.

‘It’s either that or making it yourself,’ Paz said, returning with some grimy mugs.

Col joined Sam and they hugged. ‘You OK?’ he asked.

She nodded, then shook her head and whispered to him. They wandered off a little way into the trees. Agnes helped Paz pour boiling water over cheap tea bags, then, taking two mugs, went to find Sam and Col. They were sitting on a log, side by side, their heads bowed, talking quickly.

‘But how do we know where she’s gone?’ Col was saying.

Sam shrugged, then looked up to see Agnes there.

‘I was just —’ Agnes began, handing them a mug each. ‘I wanted to check you could meet Mike Reynolds this week — I’ll be going back to London soon.’ Sam exchanged quick glances with Col, then nodded.

Agnes wandered back towards the fire. The others were some way away coiling rope. Paz was poking at the wood, one hand over his eyes. He looked up.

‘Paz —’ Agnes said. ‘You were the one who found Becky.’

He sighed. ‘Yeah.’ 

Agnes sat down next to him. ‘Do you mind me asking you about it?’

‘No. I don’t mind. Nothing to tell, mind you. The pigs were keen on me being the last one to see her alive — like I’d done it or something.’

‘Did you see anyone, anything?’

‘Yeah. That’s what they wanted to know.’

‘Well, did you?’

‘’Course I fuckin’ didn’t. If I’d seen some mad strangler, I’d have gone for ’im, wouldn’t I?’ He shook his head. ‘Nah. The pigs told me she’d been dead an hour or two before I found her anyway.’ He shuddered.

‘It must be awful for you all.’

Paz looked up. ‘For some of us, yeah. Those of us who still have a soul.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Everyone’s throwing themselves into this eviction, like they don’t have to think about Becks then.’ His eyes were watering — from the smoke? Agnes couldn’t tell. ‘She hadn’t been here long. I didn’t know her that well. I did try and — well, once I tried it on with her. She weren’t interested. Usual tat.’

‘Did she see anyone? Family or anyone?’

Paz shook his head. ‘Nah. No family. She hated them, she said. She was friends with Jenn, they were close. Then there was a girl she saw a lot of — she lived in the town, I think. Sometimes I thought they were a couple, you know, but then you think like that if someone turns you down, don’t you.’

‘What girl?’ 

Paz shrugged.

‘Did she ride, this girl?’

‘No idea. I met them once together, when I was out blagging stuff. They were laughing.’

‘What did she look like?’

Paz screwed up his eyes. ‘Couldn’t tell you. Smart, maybe.’

‘Becky spent a lot of time with Col.’

‘Yeah. And Sam. Up to something.’

Agnes sighed. ‘Well, the police are dealing with it now.’

Paz looked at her hard. ‘Fuckin’ pigs. What can they do? They’ll lunch it, fuckin’ babylon shit.’

Agnes smiled at him. ‘Yes. Well, we’ll see.’ She stood up. ‘Look, let me know if anything occurs to you.’

She fetched some water from the stream and began to wash up the mugs. She watched Rona climbing a tree, calling to Jeff, saw her reappear a long way up between the branches, throwing lengths of rope to him. They hung there, the two of them, spinning their web, building their magic fortress in the sky.

Chapter Five

‘They’re right, of course, these protesters,’ Agnes said to Madeleine as she arrived in the office later that afternoon. ‘Julius not here?’

‘Julius is visiting the needy folk of Southwark. What do you mean, they’re right?’

‘I’ve just driven, or rather crawled, around the M25 from the camp to here in this heat, breathing in God knows what, passing houses where all the kids must be asthmatic … What I mean is, it’s not sustainable, is it? Roads aren’t the answer.’

‘And how else would you have got here?’

Agnes frowned. ‘Well, that’s the problem, isn’t it? But at least the people protesting are saying something’s got to change.’ Agnes filled the kettle with water and switched it on.

Madeleine said, ‘You seem tired.’

‘I’m OK.’ Agnes fiddled with her bunch of keys. ‘Madeleine?’

‘What?’

‘Nothing. Tea?’

‘Camomile, please. The bags are in the blue tin there. So what’s worrying you?’ 

‘Me? Oh, it’s silly really. I was driving around the M25 and I thought, God the Father.’

Madeleine laughed. ‘You thought that?’

‘Do you think of God as a father?’

Madeleine raised one eyebrow. ‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’

‘You see, these kids at the camp, the way they believe’ — Agnes poured boiling water into the teapot — ‘they’re sort of pagan, and herbalists, and they have solstices, and astrology and tarot and — and they don’t have to struggle with it, you know.’

‘So what are you saying? That your faith is a struggle because God’s male?’

‘Is He?’

Madeleine took the mug Agnes handed her. ‘Well, no, I’d say God is beyond gender, wouldn’t you?’

Agnes signed. ‘Yes, of course. Except, why do we choose a male God to pray to?’ She shook her head. ‘I mean, there’s Becky’s death, and then there’s all this business with Sam’s father, and it made me think … What I mean is, if our image of a loving God is based on fatherhood, you only have to look around you to see it isn’t working.’

Madeleine watched her for a moment. ‘Is all this about the order, then? About your meeting with Sister Christiane?’

‘Why should it be?’

Madeleine sipped her tea. ‘Dunno. It’s just, you seem angry.’

Agnes looked at her. ‘Angry? What with? The order? My father?’

‘I was only asking.’ 

‘I can’t be angry with my father. He’s been dead for years.’ The phone rang and Agnes snatched it up. ‘Hello?’

‘Sweetie, are you free this evening?’ Athena gushed.

‘Um, yes, s’pose so.’

‘There’s an opening at the gallery, private view thing, quite decent wine, I chose it myself. I meant to ask you ages ago. Thing is, Nic is coming, almost definitely, and I thought you two should meet, he’s so interesting about this reincarnation thing —’

‘You do work fast,’ Agnes said.

‘Hardly, it was sheer luck, darling, he came in yesterday evening, the gallery was very quiet, I just seized the moment. He’s gorgeous. Anyway, about six thirty?’

‘Yes, OK. Thanks.’

Agnes put down the phone. ‘What does one wear to private views?’ she asked Madeleine.

‘Heavens, don’t expect me to know,’ Madeleine said.

‘I should have asked Athena. Mind you, she’d have just insisted I borrow her Dalmatian fun-fur mini-dress, and I can’t see it, can you?’ Madeleine was looking at her blankly. ‘What were we saying?’

‘About fathers,’ Madeleine replied.

‘Oh yes, that. Maybe a glass of wine will cheer me up.’

*

‘So where’s the Bakelite radios?’ Agnes said as she walked into the gallery just behind Bond Street where Athena worked.

‘Gone, darling, all packed away to go on tour or something. No, it’s these abstract landscapey things now, hence the bit of a do. Simon, darling, you know my friend Agnes, don’t you?’ 

Agnes nodded vague greetings to a bustling man in angular tortoiseshell spectacles. ‘Agnes, great you could be here,’ he said, shaking her hand, looking beyond her towards the door. ‘Feel free to buy as many as you like,’ he added over his shoulder as he went away.

‘He’s a sweetie,’ Athena said. ‘And he knows so much about art, you know, not just these sort of things, but Titian and Botticelli and everyone … Oh my God, he’s here! Oh heavens, really, I didn’t expect him to turn up this early. Is my lipstick straight? I’m sure I smudged it earlier —’

‘Athena, your lipstick’s fine,’ Agnes said, surveying the doorway, watching a lean, tall man pause by the entrance, his head slightly on one side as he looked around the room. He was relaxed, upright, his long greying hair tied back at his neck, his leather jacket accentuating the line of his shoulders. He noticed Athena and sauntered over.

‘Hi,’ he said.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ Athena smiled up at him. ‘Let me get you some wine,’ she said. ‘This is my friend Agnes: Agnes, Nic.’

‘Hello,’ Agnes said.

Nic was eyeing the paintings that surrounded them. ‘She said these would be my
type
but I’m not so sure,’ he said. ‘Still, there’s always the booze.’

‘Perhaps everyone here is thinking the same thing,’ Agnes said.

‘Sad but true.’ Nic smiled, as Athena appeared with three glasses of white wine. Agnes drifted away to study a painting, glass in hand. It was oil on canvas, a series of rough whorls in granite grey and ochre. ‘Portland Beach’ read the label, then Agnes’s eye was caught by a little shelf of leaflets and she saw the heading ‘Regression Workshops’. She picked one up and read it. ‘Encounter your multiple selves,’ it said. ‘The way we live our lives often excludes many facets of our personalities, leading to a sense of dislocation, and sometimes to depression and ill health …’ At the bottom of the leaflet was: ‘Workshops led by Nic Rosborough’, with an address in Kilburn and a phone number.

‘You’ve found my leaflet, then,’ Agnes heard him say, and looked up to see him standing next to her.

‘Yes.’

‘Interested?’

‘I’m not sure, I haven’t really thought about it before.’

‘It has astounding results,’ he said.

‘Why leaflet this place?’ Agnes asked.

‘I have a system. I target different bits of London each week. I’m on Soho at the moment.’

‘And does it work?’

‘I’ve had people come in on the edge of total despair and go out just glowing with energy.’

‘I meant, does the leafletting work?’

‘Oh. Yes. I’m doing pretty well at the moment.’

Agnes noticed his soft voice, his gentle manner. ‘Don’t you worry about being responsible for people, though?’

He smiled. ‘I like helping people. They trust me, you see. A lot of it’s just intuition, you know. That, and healing energy.’ Agnes turned the leaflet over in her fingers. ‘You should come along — with your friend.’

‘Yes, um, I might. I mean, I think she’d like, I mean, we’d like — Athena, Nic’s suggesting we go to one of his workshops.’ 

‘Poppet, how lovely. Are you sure, Nic? We’re mere novices at that kind of thing, aren’t we, Agnes? And anyway, she’s a nun, and Catholic — probably not the right kind of material at all, but I’d love to, how super.’

‘What, really?’ Nic said to Agnes. ‘A nun?’

‘Yes,’ Agnes said. ‘But don’t worry, I’ll probably find out I used to be Pope Joan in a previous life.’

Athena said, charmingly, ‘Oh, she’s always like that, take no notice. And why don’t I give you my number — you can let me know when you’re next doing one. I’d love to be there.’ Sometime later Agnes found Athena in the crowd to say goodbye. Nic was nowhere to be seen.

‘He’s invited me to the workshop on Saturday — he gave me his home number and everything,’ Athena said gleefully at the door.

‘Are you really going to go?’

‘On Saturday? Yes, absolutely. Wouldn’t you?’

‘Wouldn’t I what?’

‘If you really fancied someone?’

‘I’m not like you, Athena. But I can’t wait to find out who you used to be. Boadicea, maybe.’

*

Agnes walked towards Regent Street in search of a bus. It was only nine o’clock but it felt later, despite the warm evening, the sky still deep blue. Discover the power of your multiple selves, thought Agnes. Though, in my case, one is probably quite enough. She walked briskly, aware of the rhythm of her feet. Each of us, she thought, a bundle of history, a summation of our own past. But surely it wasn’t right to get distracted with other pasts, and other stories — particularly if it led you to an ending like Becky’s, so brutally cut short. 

She felt time passing with each click of her heels on the paving stones. The street lights had come on, turning the sky to indigo behind their yellow haze. It was time to act.

‘Can I speak to Charlie Woods, please?’

‘I’m afraid Sergeant Woods isn’t on duty tonight. Can I help?’

‘I’m inquiring about Becky Stanton, she was murdered on the twenty-first of July.’

‘And who’s speaking?’

‘Sister Agnes. I was acquainted with her. I was there when she was found. Sergeant Woods took my statement. I simply wondered whether there’s been any progress in your inquiries.’

‘It’s a bit late in the evening, madam. I’ll see who’s about if you’ll just hang on.’

Eventually he returned. No, there’d been no progress. Nothing had come to light so far. She was welcome to phone again in a week or two.

Agnes replaced the receiver. ‘Nothing had come to light.’ She got up and walked to the window. Who had they asked? They’d had nearly a week. What had they been doing? If it was me, she thought … If it was me, I’d have asked the family, of course. Yes, I’d have started with the family.

Agnes went back to her desk and sat down. Unless it really was a random event. Unless it really was the case that Becky had only herself to blame, that the civilised world is surrounded by lurking psychopaths just waiting for someone to stray beyond the edges. Or was it, as Rona and everyone believed, some kind of out-of-control security guard? But then, thought Agnes, was it right just to accept that Becky’s killer might never be tracked down?

Agnes felt a slow anger rising. ‘No,’ she whispered, rummaging for the notes she’d made from Becky’s file. ‘If we accept that Becky’s killer will never be found, then we are one step nearer chaos, one step further from the light. No,’ Agnes said aloud, and her voice reverberated in the room.

*

At two o’clock the next afternoon, Agnes rang the bell of a neat semi in a nice suburb on the east side of Chelmsford. The door was opened by Shirley Stanton, a tall, thin woman with nut-brown hair and a very pale face. She wiped her hands nervously on her apron as she led Agnes into the front room. There was a worn turquoise sofa, a carpet of beige and rust swirls, a small old-fashioned television. Over the mantelpiece Agnes noticed a simple cross placed above a large framed photograph of a rather dashing man in a suit.

‘Morris — Sister Agnes is here,’ she called up the stairs, and a moment later Morris Stanton appeared. He was large and bearded, with black hair and a red complexion. He was wearing a white nylon shirt. ‘Sister, eh?’ he said, in a voice which was gruff but welcoming.

‘Yes, I’m a nun.’

‘Catholic?’

Agnes nodded. ‘Oh well, all equal in the eyes of the Lord. Shirley, pour the tea for our visitor.’ He sank heavily on to the sofa.

Agnes chose the armchair opposite. ‘I was very sorry to hear about your daughter,’ she began. From the kitchen, she heard a cup fall and break. 

Morris forced a smile. ‘The police came and told us. Constable — what was his name, Shirley?’ he called to the kitchen. ‘That nice police officer?’

‘Baxter,’ Shirley Stanton said, coming back into the room with a tea tray. Her face was even paler, and her hands shook as she put the tray down on the low table.

‘Though I don’t know how you come into it,’ Morris was saying.

‘Well, as I said briefly on the phone, I’d met Becky when she spent a night in our hostel earlier this year.’ Agnes took a deep breath. ‘And for various other reasons not connected with this, I happened to be there when her — when she was found.’

Shirley threw a glance at her husband, then quickly looked down again.

‘I see,’ Morris said. There was a silence. The three cups of tea stood untouched on the tray.

‘Yes, the hostel. Of course. When she ran away to London. Silly girl. She was never the same after that.’ Agnes waited. He went on, ‘When I was young, we didn’t think in terms of problems. But these days, they’re encouraged to think they can do what they like. They blab to anyone who’ll ask — teachers, do-gooders like you —’

‘Morris —’ Shirley murmured, but he went on.

‘You’re supposed to rescue them, not make it worse.’

‘I don’t think we did make it worse.’

‘You give them a taste for it, you people. Running wild in London …’

Shirley gave a choking sound. She was working her apron in her lap, scrunching the fabric into a ball between her fists.