Embroidering Shrouds (21 page)

Matthew held the book for a moment then gave Joanna a sudden kiss on the cheek. ‘Thanks,' he said with one of his broad grins. ‘We both know it won't work but thanks for trying, Jo. I appreciate it.'

She felt warm, virtuous and happy.

‘And as a reward', he continued, ‘you should find my official report of Nan Lawrence's PM on your desk this very morning.'

She kissed him and left.

For the first time in years Lydia had put away her exercise book in the top drawer, cleared the top of the desk completely and tipped every single photograph out of the antimony box. She was lining them up, muttering private thoughts, thoughts she would not have spoken aloud if there had been the remotest chance anyone would hear. Sam ‘n' Ella clucked softly in the corner.

She laid the pictures out in sequence, one child joined by a sister, and then a second sister, the three children growing up, Nan's engagement, Arnie in uniform, a wedding day. And then the pictures stopped.

Lydia picked up the last of the photographs. ‘So,' she said, ‘the time has come, it'll soon be too late. We're old now. Nan is dead, and Arnie …'

Gazing through the window at the dull day outside, she began, at last, to face up to her sister's murder.

Matthew was as good as his word. The report, neatly typed, was waiting for her when she arrived. It made ugly reading, every single blow neatly documented, Nan Lawrence's body subjected to the most intense scrutiny, medical facts baldly scripted. Joanna scanned through it, as always impressed by Matthew's thoroughness, if not able to understand every single word. On impulse she picked up the phone. ‘I wish you wouldn't use such long medical terms,' she grumbled. ‘I only understand half of it.'

‘I only resort to medical terminology', he said, ‘when layman's terms fail to describe her condition accurately. What particular words are you having a problem with?'

‘Well, I can cope with contusion,' she said. ‘But haematoma? Frenulum? Pinna? Gravid? I need a dictionary.'

Matthew chuckled. ‘The pinna is a part of the ear,' he said, ‘the outer bit. The frenulum is the flap of skin that ties the tongue to the floor of the mouth. Gravid is a term connected with pregnancy and haematoma is a collection of clotted blood. How are you doing?'

‘Scribbling like mad,' she said. ‘I shall have to attend some of these lectures you're always giving.'

‘Do,' he said. ‘You'll be more interested than half the police surgeons who turn up.'

‘So what have you two got planned for the rest of the day?'

‘Not sure,' he said vaguely. ‘I've got the awful feeling she wants to take me shopping.'

‘Oh?'

‘I'm sure we'll think of something. What time do you think you'll be back?'

‘Late. Eight – nine, maybe even later. You know what it's like during a murder investigation, all fun and families cancelled.'

‘Right.' A pause. ‘See you when I see you.'

They both hung up.

Korpanski turned up at lunchtime armed with a bag full of sandwiches, some cake, drinks and fruit. ‘Thought you might want feeding,' he said, dropping them on to her desk.'

‘I do. I do,' she said, leaning back in her chair and opening one of the packs. ‘So, what have you got for me?'

‘Christian didn't get up to much this morning,' he said. ‘Tried to gain access to his great-aunt's house.'

‘Checking up on his inheritance?'

‘That or destroying evidence.'

Joanna picked up a second report on her desk. ‘I don't think so, Barra's picked the place clean. Look at this.'

Mike scanned the note with a dour smile on his face. ‘He's a clever sod,' he said. ‘Put the bloody thing through the dishwasher after taking it to pieces. No wonder they didn't find anything.'

‘Then get me the make of dishwasher used, mine leaves loads of debris.'

Mike flipped the papers on to the desk. ‘It's an admission of guilt,' he said disgustedly. ‘I mean, how many people with nothing to hide would put a Stanley knife through a dishwasher after taking it to bits?'

‘Patterson's defence will think of a perfectly good excuse. And they'll have months to do it by the time it gets to Crown Court.'

‘Do you ever think the law is tipped on the side of the criminal?'

‘Never.' Joanna made a face.

‘You seem on a high,' Mike commented, ‘considering you've –'

The white witch staying with me? Oh, Matthew and I had a little talk about her this morning. I feel better for airing my grievances.'

‘Well, I wish I did,' Mike rejoined grumpily. ‘Although she is taking the kids to the Halloween firework show tonight. Fran and I are having a meal out.' His dark eyes twinkled. ‘Or we may not go out at all.'

‘Then take tomorrow morning off, you'll get your overtime in next week. I'm going up to the church anyway, unless you want to come?'

Mike shook his head. ‘Strictly a weddings, christenings and funerals man myself.'

They worked steadily through the day and most of the evening too, packing up at nine. Joanna let herself into an empty house and picked up a note from the kitchen table. ‘Gone to the New Vic. to see
Cabaret.
Trick or Treat. Matthew XXX.'

Joanna picked up one of his forensic textbooks and began to read.

10 a.m. Sunday, November 1st

Rudyard church was a traditional, stone-walled edifice, built centuries ago and approached by a single-track lane. The rain had started up again, heavy and drenching, pouring from skies so dark with cloud Joanna began to wonder whether the sun really was behind it. Like the rest of the congregation she was forced to run from the car park to the porch, where the Reverend Leon Gardiner stood, greeting his flock. He was an extraordinary-looking man. Very tall and powerfully built with a shock of thick, tawny hair. It was difficult to guess his age, certainly over sixty. Possibly even upwards of seventy. He crossed towards her and held out his hand. ‘Hello.' She introduced herself and was subjected to a piercing stare from very calm grey eyes. ‘You're not at all what I expected, Inspector.'

‘No.' She had thought she was used to this reaction but it still stung. ‘I believe you wanted to talk to me, Reverend Gardiner?'

He shot a swift look around. The organ was already playing very softly.

‘Maybe after the service?'

‘Yes.' His relief was obvious as he pumped her hand. ‘Yes, of course. That would be most convenient. You may be interested in my sermon, Inspector, about neighbourliness.'

‘I'm sure I shall.'

She sat near the back of an ageing congregation and was surprised to see how many she recognized. Cecily Marlowe was two rows in front, Florence Price, in shiny pink straw hat to the side. As the organ started playing Emily Whittaker clattered awkwardly up the aisle, her two sticks tapping on the stone floor like the blind beggar of
Treasure Island,
rain dripping from her pacamac. She sat down with an audible groan which translated to a ripple of sympathy around the pews. The Reverend Leon Gardiner climbed the step to the pulpit. The slow ritual of an English Sunday service began to the breathy tones of a pedal organ. Handel. Joanna closed her eyes and dreamed of far-off days when her grandmother had insisted she attend church. And she had, glad of the peace and tranquillity, away from the warring factions of her parents which her grandmother's sharp eyes and ears had picked up. With hindsight Joanna knew the real reason her grandmother had insisted she attend church had had nothing to do with her immortal soul; she was simply trying to prevent further damage to a sensitive child, caused by insensitive parents. Occasionally, in quieter moments, Joanna allowed herself the luxury of pondering incidents that trickled through her childhood and spilled into the adult woman she was. Understandable that after such turbulence, ending only with the abandonment of her mother for a woman much younger than herself, Joanna was reluctant to tie the conjugal knot. For her mother her husband's departure had been the ultimate insult. So the years of bitterness and acrimony ended in yet more poison, poison not even neutralized by her father's death. Still, every time her father's name was mentioned the muscles in her body would tense up involuntarily. And coming here today almost convinced her that she would walk away from the church, her hand holding her grandmother's tightly. They would return to the pink-washed cottage, open the door. And the peace of the service would be shattered.

Joanna frowned. Strange that she didn't remember Sarah being there, but then Sarah had been older, disdainful of her younger sister. They had never discussed their parents; they had never discussed anything. And the only way she had been able to attract her father's attention had been to be the daredevil – the chancer – the son he had never had. So she had ridden her bike the fastest, dived from the highest board in the swimming pool and sailed on the stormiest of seas. Her father had still gone.

She opened her eyes to see light pouring in through the stained-glass window. The sun had been lying in wait behind the clouds. It had taken a giant breath to clear them. The window reminded her of the picture on Nan Lawrence's tapestry. The subjects couldn't have been more different; this was Virgin with child, not Slaughter of the Innocent. Joanna sat very still, her mind struggling with a new concept she could not quite understand, not fully.

Joanna opened her eyes. The prayers were over and she hadn't listened; they would have been for the dead. Nan. She
should
have listened. She glanced round the rest of the congregation and wondered, how many of them were absorbed in their own thoughts instead of concentrating on the Reverend's words? Or were the soothing words of the matins facilitators for clear and empty minds? She glanced along the row. Marion and Ralph Elland were staring at her curiously, they must be wondering why she was here. She flushed and forced her mind to listen.

Standing high in the pulpit in his flowing white surplice the Reverend looked larger than life. Powerful, strong. Omnipotent. Omniscient. She could almost convince herself he could be omnipresent too. She recalled that the vicar in her grandmother's church had looked much like this when she had been a child, something different from an ordinary mortal. She couldn't believe it the first time she had seen him in normal clothes, strolling down the High Street of the small Shropshire town where her grandmother had lived. He had looked so disappointing. So which, she had reasoned later, with a child's confused logic, was the real person? The larger than life Reverend or the humble, mousey man who had held his shopping in a brown carrier bag?

But somehow she couldn't imagine the Reverend Leon Gardiner scuttling in and out of shops with brown paper bags even out of his vestments. He was a man with a presence, a man who emanated power. Leon was a good name for him with his thick mane of tawny hair. She wondered again how old he was. His voice was strong yet soothing. Easy to listen to. And he seemed to be directing his sermon straight at her.

‘Last week has been a difficult time for us all. One of our members has died, an untimely and violent death and the police are investigating. Nan was, in many ways, a difficult person to love ...' His words were truthful, uttered from the heart. ‘... And in the words of our Lord, I say: love your enemies. Bless them that curse you. Do good to them that hate you and pray for them which spitefully use you and persecute you. We will pray today for the repose of our sister's soul.'

A difficult person to love. Not just Nan Lawrence – Eloise Levin, Fran Korpanski's mother – all these people spinning around their lives were that, difficult to love. But how much more difficult was it to return their spite with prayers and blessings? Back came the answer. Impossible, the Reverend was asking the impossible.

The service ended with a hymn and a prayer during which the Reverend Gardiner again made reference to Nan Lawrence's death, finishing the prayer with a plea that the police would be guided by God's infinite wisdom. Joanna muttered an amen. The organ struck up a valediction.

One by one the congregation filed past the Reverend, each one receiving a word, a blessing, a gesture until the church was empty apart from Joanna and him. Outside they heard cars coughing and crunching away over the gravel, faint acceleration and they were gone. There was no sound but the gargoyles spitting out rain water.

The Reverend Gardiner sat down on an adjacent pew.

Joanna spoke first. ‘It was very brave of you to make such an outspoken comment on Nan Lawrence's life. Most reverends would, I think, have said something bland, incontroversial, possibly even something untrue.'

He looked up and smiled at her. A sweet, sad smile full of pathos and regret but saturated with humanity. ‘It would have been –' he was choosing his words with care, ‘hypocritical for me to pretend that Nan was other than who and what she was. There was something quite twisted about her, but she was one of Christ's children for all that. She was a lifelong member of this church. We owed her something.'

‘You knew her well?'

‘She came here every week – one of the faithful. Though what she got out of the services I often wondered. However many times she listened to sermons preaching love, forgiveness, generosity it didn't make any difference. But her trip to church was one of the only outings she made, she led a lonely and isolated life.' Again that smile. ‘It probably did nothing for her naturally perverse character.'

‘I see.'

‘Are you making any headway over the case?'

‘We've a few suspects but nothing concrete yet. I wonder, Reverend Gardiner, you must have known her better than most. Are you able to shed any light on the case? Have you any idea who might have wanted to kill her?'

He hesitated. ‘I suppose you've heard about the Ellands' boy?'