The Chinese Takeout (12 page)

‘Not always. He’d got something called
post-traumatic
stress disorder when he first came. Made him really weird, didn’t it, Josie? This time, I know they weren’t real friends, but you could see he was upset. Poor Nick.’

‘He’ll tough it out,’ Robin said.

He would. And I would too.

The last pan washed, Robin said, ‘I suppose she needs a decent father figure – better than the last one, anyway.’

Without blinking, Pix asked, ‘What was wrong with the last one? Apart from dying and leaving a family of five orphaned?’

I counted off my fingers. ‘Alcoholic. Unemployable. Went totally to pieces when his wife died.’

‘And blew himself up preparing a bomb for the White Hart, don’t forget, Josie,’ Robin concluded. ‘They don’t talk about it much in the village because of Lucy.’

‘I bet they talk about it like buggery behind her back. Sorry, Josie. Can’t get the hang of this no swearing rule.’

‘So I’d noticed.’

Pix peered at me. ‘You’re going to have a real
shiner tomorrow. Maybe two. What did Nick say about the accident?’

I aimed to look mildly amused and exasperated: it probably came out sheepish. ‘He – well, it didn’t come up.’

‘It bloody well should have done. I was hoping he’d offer to take a few days’ leave to keep an eye on you.’

In my heart, so was I. ‘There’s a crisis on. A national one.’

‘Not more carcinogenic food dye!’

‘Not this time. But it’s dead serious. I couldn’t ask him, and even if I did, he’d have to say no. Have to.’ Even if I pleaded, which I’d never done yet and wasn’t proposing to practise now.

As for Andy, his name never came up. So I had no one to confess to but myself that I was disappointed he hadn’t popped in to see why I’d missed the service.

It wasn’t, I reflected as I tried to find a halfway comfortable spot in bed, as if I didn’t know half a dozen potential minders. Professional minders, that is. Heavies, prepared to use muscle and – well, anything else necessary. I only had to make a phone call.

That’s what Tony would have done, would have wanted me to do now. But that sort of thing was from my past life, the one I’d so firmly put behind me.

Income apart, of course.

True to his word, the next morning Nick slipped out without disturbing anyone. I was awake, of course, having stupidly refused to take the maximum dose of the painkillers the hospital had provided. But I was too muzzy – and in much too much pain – to be able to leap out of bed, don a demure wrap, sprint down the corridor after him and make any selfish suggestions about his staying put to guard me. In any case, after the slowest set of stretches ever and a very leisurely shower, a cursory Internet scan showed me exactly why bush meat should be kept out of the country. Ebola fever, for instance: I wouldn’t fancy an epidemic of that. It’d make bird flu look a complete doddle.

It might even make my present state look a complete doddle.

If I hadn’t seen all the X-rays for myself, I’d have stormed back and demanded a recount: surely simple bruises couldn’t hurt this much? But I was definitely in one piece, and I knew from bitter
experience the best way to deal with pain was to work through it.

To be honest, tidying Tim’s things wouldn’t have been my idea of therapy, but Andy phoned me before I’d got enough caffeine in me to pass for alert. He jumped straight in without mentioning my absence the previous night. ‘The police say they’ve finished with the rectory. They’ve not made much mess, but then, it doesn’t look as if it was very tidy to start with. And the kitchen’s a typical bachelor mess.’

‘Are we talking thorough spring-clean or a superficial Hoover?’ I might just manage the latter.

‘Just enough to make it acceptable, I should think. After all, it might just help the parents’ healing process to sort through all his belongings.’

‘And if they don’t want to?’

‘Professional house clearers, I’m afraid. The police recommended a couple of firms. But I’d hate that.’

‘Me too. So count me in if necessary. Meanwhile, I’ll make the place presentable, don’t you worry.’

At least I was now awake enough to play down the hit and run when a reporter phoned.

‘Just getting clumsy in my old age,’ I assured him. ‘And how’s that lovely little girl of yours? Sara? You know we’re having a proper play area in the spring?’

Just in case anyone else might phone, I headed straight for the rectory the moment I’d breakfasted.
I overcame the pain every footstep gave me by reminding myself I’d wanted a sniff round the place, hadn’t I?

Not literally.

Prisons had a very male smell, which percolated even the visiting area. The same musty smell hit us the moment Andy opened the rectory door. Poor Tim, he’d not had a great sense of housekeeping. The lounge where he had to hold parochial church council and other church business meetings was tidyish, but not even superficially clean. His study – I’d never seen a study before, not a real, live study, which Andy assured me this was – smelt variously of dank old books and sweaty feet. With more than a hint of pot.

Andy’s eyebrows disappeared towards his hairline. ‘Oh, dear.’

‘If we throw the windows open and get one of those powered air-fresheners it’ll be OK,’ I hazarded.

‘It’s getting rid of the cannabis, not the smell, I was worried about.’

‘First find it. He can’t have afforded a great stash, surely. If he did, you’ve got plenty of options – pop it on a bonfire or flush it down a loo or—’

‘I was thinking about handing it over to the police.’

‘Who will probably smoke it themselves,’ I overrode him. For God’s sake, what was he thinking of? ‘I didn’t know that clergymen were
allowed to take drugs,’ I added more gently.

‘Who is? And I know of more clergymen who are full-blown alcoholics than I care to think of: I suppose it’s having to polish off the communion wine that pushes them down the slippery slope.’

‘Non-alcoholic wine? Or you could tip the spare into a flower arrangement? OK, OK – only joking. But people like me don’t understand the ins and outs of church lore. Or do I mean law?’ He was not amused, but seemed more anxious than angry. ‘Look,’ I continued, ‘leave any pot you find for me to deal with. Meanwhile I’ll nip round to the shop for an air-freshener.’ Nip? A slow waddle, more like. It was either that or get back into the car, which had been an ordeal.

It was only when he held the study door open for me – I do like old-fashioned courtesy – that he gasped, ‘Are you all right, Josie?’

‘Sure. Why not?’

His voice dropped into what I recognised as counselling hush. ‘If you and Nick – if there’s a problem…’

‘Nick? What’s he got to do with the price of coal?’

‘Your…injuries,’ he explained, delicately. In general I really liked his voice, deep and mellifluous, as you’d expect. But now he sounded more sickly than honeyed.

I threw my head back and roared with laughter. ‘Nick! You think Nick—! Good God, this wasn’t 
domestic violence! Some maniac in a 4x4 and I had a bit of a disagreement.’

‘You mean, road rage?’

Still laughing, I told him, ‘I mean rank bad driving. It’s only pedestrians who are supposed to be on the pavement. Cars – though I hate to dignify the ugly great things with the term – are supposed to be on the road. I got knocked over, right in front of my own pub,’ I said flatly. ‘That’s why I didn’t come to your special evensong.’

A flash of the hand dismissed that. ‘Are you sure you—? I mean, shouldn’t you be resting?’ Despite the professional sympathy, he really did sound quite concerned.

‘I’ve been perfectly all right for the past half hour, haven’t I?’ I probably sounded even more acidulated than I felt.

‘I’m so sorry. I really am. Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Because there was a job to be done, and someone had to do it. Besides which,’ I added soberly, ‘I was rather hoping the police might have spoken to you about the cause of death.’

He blinked. ‘The fire. No? Nick was talking about smoke inhalation and I assumed… Was I wrong?’

‘Why don’t we sit down?’ There was no point in standing half-in, half-out of the study. ‘Here, in this apology for a living room. Andy – surely the diocese could have come up with some money for emulsion
and decent carpet and curtains? These were Sue’s taste, if such a word can honestly be used.’ I found an upright chair and lowered myself carefully.

‘We weren’t talking about interior decor,’ he said, forgetting he was trying to be gentle with an invalid.

‘So we weren’t. And I won’t any more, so long as you promise the place will be tarted up before the next incumbent moves in. Tang and Tim. They may well have died of smoke inhalation, but can you honestly tell me that two fit young men wouldn’t have tried to fight any fire and scarpered when they saw they couldn’t? The door was only locked on the inside. The lock was beautifully oiled. Work of seconds.’

‘If they were asleep?’

‘Possibly. But why should they bother to slit the throats of Samson and Delilah? The geese,’ I prompted, when he looked blank. ‘Someone had sliced their heads off. Does that sound like Tim? I know Tang didn’t like chicken, but that’s carrying an avian phobia a bit far.’

He sat down heavily. ‘You don’t think—? Killing someone in a church? Josie – that must be the worst sacrilege!’

I said mildly, ‘Wasn’t that what Shakespeare thought? When he made Laertes swear his revenge against Hamlet?’

He blinked again. I never liked anything better than taking someone aback like that. I continued
smoothly, ‘I shall be interested to hear what the post-mortems revealed. If anything. They were talking dental records to identify Tim,’ I said. ‘As for Tang…’

We shook sad heads in concert.

‘Somehow it would help to know who he was,’ Andy said at last, surprising me. I suppose I was expecting some platitude about God knowing who he was – but then, in general, Andy wasn’t into clichés.

Hands on knees, I pushed myself vertical. ‘This won’t get the air-freshener.’ And I set off before he could argue.

By the time I’d got back from my expedition to the shops, with no fewer than three plug-in fresheners, plus dusters, spray-polish and bleach and no gossip worth repeating, Andy had a load chugging in the washing machine, with another pile – bedclothes – waiting to go through.

‘Why not pick some daffodils and pop them in a jam jar or something? There are already some at the end of the garden that managed to avoid Sue’s depredations, but I can’t find anything like a vase. Andy, it’s wrong to catapult a young man or woman in here with no support. Kids these days don’t seem to learn housekeeping from their mothers. How are they going to cope living on their own, cooking for themselves and trying to juggle half a dozen churches? And being active in the local
community? Can’t be done,’ I answered for him.

‘In the old days someone like Tim would have raised enough money from farming his glebelands to pay for a housekeeper and a gardener and whatever. Now I suppose we expect the parishioners to help a bit.’

‘In this village? Talk about a house divided… Half the folk are incomers using the place as a dormitory and forcing up prices beyond the range of locals. The other half are resentful natives. The trouble is, without people like Tim and me, the village has to do without its essentials – no church, no pub – and, without the commuting incomers, no kids for the village school either.’

‘But there ought to be enough people willing to rally round in case of need.’

‘I’m sure there are. Look how we responded to the crisis at St Jude’s. I bet the money-raising efforts to refurbish it will be breathtaking. But that catches the imagination far more than day-to-day support. And I’m as much to blame as anyone.’

‘But you have enough on your hands, running a business like yours. What about retired people?’

‘I think the consensus is that they’ve done their share. As for the younger women, either they too work or they devote any space in their lives left over from ferrying their kids around to their fingernails and the gym.’

‘You sound very bitter.’

‘Realistic. Plus my back is hurting, which always
gives a jaundiced view of life. But, emotive language apart—’

‘You fascinate me, Josie,’ he said, laughter making those blue eyes dangerously attractive. ‘One minute you’re as down to earth as they come; next you’re flashing fancy vocabulary and talking about Shakespeare. I just can’t stick a label on you.’

‘Good. Why should I want to be labelled? Why should anyone for that matter? You must hate it yourself, everyone watching their p’s and q’s and creeping round in your presence as if they were at a funeral.’ I nodded home my point, and turned to the washing machine, now chuntering its way to a halt. ‘So here you have a perfect opportunity to go against stereotype: it can’t be everyday a dean gets a chance to hang washing on a line.’

Lest he argue, and I had to remind him that my knees and back were simply not up to such simple tasks, I bustled out into the hall, hoping to locate a vacuum cleaner in the cubby-hole under the stairs. Success! But it wouldn’t work because it was completely bunged up, and there was no sign of new bags anywhere. There was nothing for it but to empty the existing one into the bin, fistful by unlovely fistful. I was hard at work when Andy got back from the garden.

‘Actually, you do me less than justice,’ he complained, peering down the garden to admire the result of his efforts. ‘Since Marcia died, I’ve become pretty self-sufficient. And I find a line of washing
flapping on a spring day like this quite inspiring. I suppose it reminds me of when I was a child, when there were rows and rows of brilliant white nappies on all our neighbours’ lines. People don’t seem to go in for them these days, do they?’

Marcia?
I hadn’t skipped a beat in my polishing, but did now. ‘Don’t get me started on landfill and disposable nappies,’ I said. ‘Right, have you started the sheets yet? Because there’s even more washing than we thought: I found a heap of towels under the bed.’

‘I dread to think what the loo’ll be like.’

‘Full of bleach now,’ I said dryly.

‘I’ll load that machine.’

So he was a widower, was he? I found the information oddly reassuring, though why, since I’d no intention of ever making a pass at him, I couldn’t say. What did interest me was why he’d never mentioned his wife before. But I could hardly ask.

I was making our third cup of coffee, counting the minutes till I dared pop more pills, and Andy, at his insistence, was on his knees (‘I get a lot of practice, after all!’) attacking the bathroom floor, when his mobile rang. Grabbing it, I trotted – which was about the best I could manage – to the foot of the stairs, flourishing it. His descent was faster than I can manage on a good day. He showed no signs of wanting privacy, but I left him to it anyway: I had a kitchen to rescue. I had binned any perishable food
I couldn’t give the birds. No wonder Tim had looked so skeletal – there wasn’t much of anything. Now I was attacking the work surfaces and cupboard doors: to my shame I abandoned elbow grease in favour of a virgin bottle of patent cleanser lurking at the back of a cupboard otherwise devoted to crockery.

‘If he had eaten in here, he’d have stood a good chance of getting e.coli, salmonella, campylobacter and any other food poisoning bug going,’ I told Andy, as he came in, looking particularly sober.

‘None of them as lethal as knife thrusts so hard they damaged the surface of the bone. Tang, too. You were right, Josie. Those kids were murdered.’ He sat down heavily on a filthy-looking chair. ‘And do you know what I said to the policewoman – that DI Lawton? I said, “Who by?” Stupidly, just like that. As if you hadn’t warned me, as if I hadn’t in my heart known, as if I don’t deal with the dying and the dead all the time.’ He stared at the coffee mug I’d pressed into his hand as if it were a book in Sanskrit.

Any other man I’d have simply gathered him to me. In similar crises, some of Tony’s mates cried their eyes out as if they were babies; one or two ended up in my bed. Is there something about death and bereavement, especially funerals, that brings out the testosterone? Even as I stepped forward to hold him, however, I heard Corbishley’s judgement on me. I didn’t want to confirm any suspicions Andy might have of its accuracy.

His knuckles were white against the mug, from which he sipped convulsively. An enormous clock over the fridge told me it was after twelve. Time to knock off. I wanted to be at the White Hart, where there was life and live kids.