The Wine of Angels (42 page)

27

High Flier

S
IX A.M AND
fully light, if overcast and cool. A thin, sharp breeze blew apple blossom over the churchyard wall from which the church noticeboard projected.

On it, a printed poster for the festival opening – the old, prosaic title, Ledwardine Summer Festival having pushed out Dermot’s Old Cider suggestion precisely because most of the posters had already been printed. But over this poster another smaller one, A4 size, had been drawing-pinned, giving notice of a

Merrily stared at it for several seconds, quite shocked, before understanding dawned. Being sick in church was allegedly one way of identifying yourself as a Satanist.

This was probably one of the high-school kids with a computer. Things could be difficult for Jane on Monday, with the story all round the school. She tore down the notice and crumpled it up, forcing a smile, even though there was no one to observe it. If you didn’t smile you would go completely out of your mind. If anyone could handle this it was Jane.

But the smile wandered when she thought about the funeral card with
Wil Williams, the Devil’s Minister
on it. Could be the same person, couldn’t it? In which case, a schoolkid was less likely; it would be another move in the campaign, if such it was, to persuade her to keep the Coffey play out of church.

Which, of course, disinclined to feed Stefan’s obsession, she’d already decided to do, with a formal, public announcement of her decision at the buffet reception following her installation.

But that was yesterday. Before something she was insisting to herself was beyond her control had prevented her making her vows and established her as a weak, unstable woman entirely unfit to replace the stolid, long-serving Alfred Hayden.

Perhaps the parish really didn’t want her. Were ministers of the Church supposed to have regard to omens, or was that only for anthropologists and social historians, just as hauntings were the preserve of psychologists?

Something else not dealt with at theological college.

She was shivering inside the fake Barbour, feeling starved. She hadn’t really slept. It was well after two a.m. when she’d heard Jane come in, using her front-door key. Merrily lying on her bed, fully clothed, for over an hour in case the kid should drift into the drawing room and stumble over the refugee in his sleeping bag. In the event, Jane had come directly up to the third-floor bedroom next to the sitting room/study with its decidedly non-Mondrian walls.

About which Lol Robinson – rich coming from a manifest paranoiac – had told her not to worry too much. Something, possibly, that Miss Devenish would be able to explain.

She thought angrily that if she did leave this village it would not be because of her own humiliation but because of what Ledwardine – or something, or even Miss Devenish – was doing to Jane.

She dug her hands into her coat pockets and walked, head down, into the market place. It didn’t feel like a spring morning. The glorious, false summer was in suspension, the blossom on the churchyard apple trees looking grey, like ice.

A few cars were still parked on the square, and she saw that one was a police car. Some damage during or after the party? Vandalism? A break-in?

A compact figure in a flat cap and muffler waved at her and crossed over from Church Street. ‘Cold mornin’, Vicar.’

‘It sure is.’

He came and stood companionably beside her, unlit cigarette stub between his teeth. Had he been in last night’s congregation? She couldn’t remember. Either way, she felt absurdly pleased that Gomer Parry was still speaking to her.

‘En’t found her yet then, Vicar.’

‘Sorry?’

Gomer dipped his cigarette towards the mews enclosing Cassidy’s Country Kitchen. ‘Could be anywhere, see, flighty piece like that.’

Merrily looked from Gomer to the police car and back. ‘Colette Cassidy?’

‘You en’t yeard? Missing, she is.’

‘My God. Since the party? Jane didn’t say anything.’

‘Ah well,’ Gomer said, ‘mabbe ‘er’d left, see, ‘fore they knowed this girl wasn’t around n’more. Far’s I can make out, what happened, she’d brought in a few undesirables, and this din’t go down too well with that SAS bloke runs the restaurant, and there’s a bit of a row like and the next thing she’s walked out an’ they’ve all followed her and everybody’s dancin’ about the square an’ raisin’ Cain, half of ’em doped up to the eyeballs, an’ then the law rolls up and they’re off like buggery an’ ...’

‘Merrily!’

An urgent clacking of heels on the cobbles and Caroline Cassidy appeared in the entrance to the mews. Caroline as Merrily – and probably Ledwardine – had never seen her before, her eyes hot and glowing like small torchbulbs out of a Hallowe’en mask of ruined make-up.

Gomer Parry took one look and stepped hurriedly aside.

‘Oh, Merrily, I was going to send the police to you. Where’s Jane? Did Jane come home?’

‘Jane’s still in bed. I hope. Caroline, I’ve just heard.’

‘We should never, never, never have let it happen, but Terrence said, in Ledwardine, what could possibly go wrong? What has
ever
happened in Ledwardine? Merrily, I’m frantic. I keep thinking of that girl over in Kingsland who just disappeared, fourteen years old.’

‘I’m sure there’s nothing like that to worry about. Probably a bunch of them went off in a car to some club in Hereford and she’s just a bit sheepish about coming home. Colette’s very ... mature.’

‘She’s a
child!
Caroline’s mouth slack with fear. ‘You don’t know her. Everybody thinks she’s so precocious, but it’s all an act.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Merrily put an arm around her. ‘But I know that, with so many other people about, she’ll be OK. What actually happened?’

Caroline sniffed. ‘Come in and have ... have some coffee?’

Merrily thought of Jane back at the vicarage. She
was
still there, wasn’t she? And Lol Robinson, to whom she was giving sanctuary. A priest’s job was to help people in trouble.

‘OK.’

Lol awoke on the drawing-room rug to a dead fire and Ethel peering down at him from the sofa. He knew at once where he was and conflicting emotions crowded in on him, scaring him at first, like hungry fans after a gig.

The vicarage. Church property. His old enemy, the Church. This big, damp house: soulless. Why did all church buildings seem cold and forbidding and soulless?

Ethel nuzzled him and purred. It wasn’t the pain-purr this time. Cats could always put the past behind them, no matter how bad the past was.

He stroked Ethel and thought about Merrily Watkins, who was nothing like the Church, and felt a strange sense of lightness. In one night, he’d lost everything, his last hope of Alison coming back and then his house. He lay and almost luxuriated in the simplicity of it, knowing that as soon as he climbed out of this sleeping bag, responsibilities would tighten around him.

You never enjoy the world aright, till the sea itself floweth in your veins and you are clothed in the heavens and crowned with the stars.

Wild.

He was filling the kettle when Jane appeared, in jeans and an orange cotton top. The skin around her dark eyes looked pink and swollen. She peered at Lol, recollecting slowly.

‘Oh, hell, she knows, right? I thought she was going to be like out cold for the entire night.’

Lol told her sincerely that her mother had been incredible. He told her about Ethel. ‘Lost a tooth, but she’s not vain.’

Jane smiled, but her eyes had a distant, haunted look. ‘Where
is
Mum?’

‘I think she went out.’ Lol adjusted the rubber band around his ponytail. He’d washed at the sink, but obviously couldn’t shave. ‘When she comes back, I’ll clear off. Sort things out.’

Jane sat down at the kitchen table. ‘This was the best thing. You can’t reason with people like that.’

‘No.’ He sat down opposite her. ‘It was the pathetic thing.’

Jane shook her head slowly. ‘Where did you sleep?’

‘In the parlour. On the rug. In a sleeping bag.’

‘Right,’ Jane said. And then he saw her face tense. ‘Where did you get the sleeping bag?’

‘From the room ... next to your bedroom.’

There was a moment of stillness in the kitchen before the kettle started to whistle.

‘Oh, great,’ Jane said tonelessly. ‘Oh, terrific’

Once inside the Country Kitchen, Merrily realized there must be at least one more police car on the square, but unmarked. Terrence Cassidy was at a central table with a man and a woman, the man taking notes, the woman asking questions.

‘Just try and calm down and think, Mr Cassidy. Think if there’s anyone you’ve missed out.’

Terrence, unshaven, raised a hand to Merrily. Caroline went across.

‘Anything?’

‘What we’re trying to do, Mrs Cassidy,’ the woman said, ‘is to compile a list of everyone who was at the party, invited or uninvited, and check, first of all, if anyone else is missing. That’s going to take time.’

‘What about the actual
search?
’ Caroline’s voice was frayed and jagged. ‘The woods ... the orchard. The orchard’s huge.’

‘We’ve still got some people out there, but it begins to look as if we need to extend the area of operation.’ The woman looked enquiringly at Merrily.

‘This is Merrily Watkins, our Priest-in-Charge,’ Terrence said. ‘Also the mother of a close friend of Colette’s.’

‘Ah.’ The woman stood up. ‘Good morning. I’m Detective Inspector Annie Howe, this is DC Mumford. Take a seat, Ms Watkins.’

DI Howe had a surgical look. Tall. Fine, light hair, thin lips. If she’d worn glasses they would have been rimless, Merrily thought. But she wasn’t a surgeon; she had a law degree. It had been in the
Hereford Times.
Annie Howe was new to the Division, a high-flier, thirty-one years old.

‘So your daughter was at the party? And her name would be ...?’

‘Jane. She’s fifteen.’

DC Mumford wrote it down. He was thickset and older than his boss by a good ten years.

‘And although she was a close friend of Colette,’ Howe said, ‘she clearly didn’t spend the whole evening with her.’

‘Don’t say
was
like that!’ Caroline shrieked.

‘I’m very sorry, Mrs Cassidy. Nothing negative was implied. Just that by the end of the evening, they weren’t quite so close, as they appear to have gone off in different directions. What time did your daughter get home, Ms Watkins?’

‘I don’t remember exactly. Perhaps around two ... two-thirty.’

‘Were you worried?’

Merrily smiled stiffly. ‘You’re always a bit worried, aren’t you? Even though you know they’re not far away.’

‘Were you aware of the disturbance on the square?’

‘Not really. There are several big trees between the vicarage and the road. Plus, I might have fallen asleep in front of the fire.’

‘Well, I’ll need to talk to your daughter. Unless Colette turns up soon, of course. Which she probably will’ Howe produced a narrow smile, which Caroline Cassidy must have found as comforting as a shot of morphine. ‘I don’t suppose Jane’s up and about yet.’

‘I don’t suppose she is,’ Merrily said.

‘Although
you
are.’

‘In my job, you find it hard to sleep after six. Holy Communion and all that.’

DI Howe nodded.

‘Ma’am.’ A uniformed constable had come in. ‘Got a minute?’

Howe and the PC moved over to the door. Merrily couldn’t hear what they were saying, but the constable was pointing through the window to where another policeman was waiting, with a radio. Howe was looking interested, raising her eyebrows.

‘Oh, my God,’ Caroline said. ‘Oh ... my ... God.’

28

Our Kind of Record

N
OTHING TO WORRY
about, DI Annie Howe had said, almost convincingly. And because Caroline Cassidy was clearly petrified by the possibility that the police had found a body, Howe revealed that it was simply a suspected burglary. At an isolated cottage in Blackberry Lane. Probably no connection at all.

To Merrily, this last statement sounded even less convincing.

Howe and Mumford had both left. Out on the square, a car was starting up. They were off to Lol Robinson’s cottage.

It had to be. The police would have routinely knocked on the door to ask if anyone had seen or heard anything in the neighbouring orchard last night. They would perhaps have found the place empty, this Windling gone, but obvious signs of a break-in.

She stayed with the Cassidys, and when Caroline got up to fumble at the coffee machine, she said quietly to Terrence, ‘If some of those kids were looking for somewhere to get drunk or smoke a little cannabis, and they found an empty house ... you know?’