The Gospel Makers (4 page)

‘More than ready — I’m starving.’ He walked past her into the warm, bright kitchen and washed his hands at the sink. Lucy took a casserole from the oven, dished out a generous portion, and put the plate on the long scrubbed table.

‘Roll on half-term!’ Daniel said, seating himself in front of it. He was a PE master at Shillingham Grammar School and grateful that as such he was spared the preparation and marking which continually hung over poor Mattie, making it almost impossible to concentrate on her gospel. Apart from taking his turn on the prep rota, his evenings were his own.

He bowed his head, said a silent Grace, and began to eat. Lucy slid into the seat opposite with a mug of coffee. ‘Hard day?’

‘Much the same as usual. I did some canvassing in the lunch hour, which was a bit of a rush. This is great, Luce.’

‘Good. Did you have any luck?’

He paused, thinking back to the calls he’d made. ‘Hard to tell. I didn’t do badly on collecting, but whether any of them will show up on Wednesday is anyone’s guess.’

‘Think any of the Friday lot will?’

‘I hope so.’ More particularly he hoped Nina would, but pushed the thought aside. He’d been disconcerted to find how often over the weekend she’d come into his mind.

‘Vince thinks those two schoolgirls will be back. They seemed quite keen to know more.’

Daniel smiled tiredly. ‘Or perhaps just to see him again. But whatever the reason, the oftener they come, the more chance we have of saving them. Which, after all, is what counts.’

‘Amen,’ Lucy said automatically.

He glanced at her with affection. She was a plump, pleasant-faced girl, always ready to help out and take on extra work if need be. She and Liz were the only two in the house who were unemployed, and he knew it worried them. The Captain actively encouraged his flock to be self-supporting, though Daniel sometimes wondered if he appreciated the strain of a full-time job in addition to the amount of work they were required to do for the Church. Adam would even now be canvassing his way round Shillingham, after being on his feet all day in the shop he managed.

Daniel pushed his plate away and looked at his watch. Eight-thirty. Time for an hour’s work before evening prayers.

‘Thanks for the meal, Lucy. See you.’

‘See you,’ she echoed, watching him leave the room. Down the hall the front door opened and closed and the sound of voices reached her. Adam was back. She stood up and went once more to the oven.

Adam had looked exhausted, Daniel thought as he entered his room, but Monday was always a late night. After prayers the household meeting was held, with discussions on fund-raising, housekeeping and accounts, and any problems that might have arisen during the week. There were eight of them resident in the house, and by the time each had made his or her report it was usually past midnight. At least the pressure on finances had been eased by what promised to be a handsome legacy. Thank God for it, he thought devoutly. The Captain always said if they had faith enough, the funds would be provided.

He drew the curtains and sat down at his desk, pulling his files towards him. As he did so, his eyes fell on his grandmother’s photograph in its silver frame, and he felt a stab of guilt. It was time he wrote to her; the least he could do, after — he smiled wryly — all she’d done for him. It was a phrase which had echoed through his childhood, as though it was his fault he’d been illegitimate.

Liz was, too, he remembered. She’d mentioned it casually once, surprising him by her unconcern. But hers had been a large, lower middle-class family with plenty of love to go round, and the lack of a father here and there was of little consequence.

He lifted the photograph, staring into the strong, lined face that gazed back at him. Though kind enough in her way, she was an undemonstrative woman and it had never occurred to her that he was starved of love. Small wonder he’d felt so isolated. Until he discovered the Church.

He smiled fleetingly, putting the photograph down again. His church, that is. The standard one had been an integral part of his upbringing, but his childhood God was a remote and awesome figure who, though he’d been taught to address Him as ‘Father’, had remained as distant, mysterious and unreal as his own father had been. Thank God — quite literally thank God — he’d been rescued by the Revelationists.

Abandoning his memories, Daniel opened the file and settled down to work.

*

Christina stretched luxuriously, and Edward, watching her, smiled. ‘If this was a film, one of us would reach for a cigarette!’

‘Not these days, surely.’

‘I don’t know that anyone’s come up with a substitute. Anyway, my love, you’ll gather that I’m more than pleased to have you home again.’

‘Me too. But apart from missing me, how was the weekend?’

‘Oh, the competition was a great success — record number of entries, and the weather stayed fine.’

‘I meant with Stephanie,’ she said, reproach in her voice.

‘Oh. Well, she was OK. Not that I saw much of her, actually; she was off with Marina most of the time, and, of course, I was at the club. One odd thing, though. She announced that she’d gone vegetarian.’

‘What?’ Christina turned her head on the pillow to stare at him.

‘Really. Just suddenly came out with it. Wanted a note to take back to school.’

‘Saying what, for heaven’s sake?’

‘Asking that her wishes be respected.’

‘Good Lord. When did this come up?’

‘Just after you’d gone on Saturday morning, when I asked if she fancied some bacon and eggs.’

‘Well, if she keeps it up in the holidays she’ll have to make do with whatever vegetables we’re having. I’ve better things to do than plan alternative menus for her ladyship.’

He said slowly, ‘There was something else odd, too. When she’d gone back to school I went into her room to retrieve the sweater she’d borrowed, and I saw she’d tipped all her make-up and scent into the wastepaper basket.’

‘Oh love, that can’t be right. She spends most of her allowance on make-up, she wouldn’t throw it away.’

‘Go and see for yourself. And there was that bottle of scent she begged and begged for, for her birthday. Cost me an arm and a leg, I seem to remember, and there it was, only half-used, in the bin.’

‘Then I shall retrieve it myself,’ Christina said decidedly. ‘Whatever’s got into the child?’

‘Some passing fad, no doubt. Now, what about your trip? You haven’t told me any details; was it worthwhile?’

‘Oh, I think so. Belinda’s been working out figures all afternoon. If we can get in with Bryant Hotels we’ll be in the big time.’

Her thoughts moved on. ‘And as soon as I got back I had that lunch appointment at the King’s Head. Have you been since it reopened? It’s very plush now — all different shades of wood and lamps everywhere.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘And you’ll be interested to hear I tried to pick someone up!’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Really. Rather a dishy man, actually. I saw him sitting alone frowning at his watch and was sure he was my lunch date, so I went over to him. But as soon as we’d sorted ourselves out and he’d offered me a drink, the real Mr Derringer arrived, and that was that.’

‘And was the real Mr Derringer “dishy” too?’

‘Far from it. But much more importantly, he’s on the point of signing a contract.’

‘Good for him. And what happened to your deserted swain?’

‘Oh, his friends turned up eventually — I saw him leave with them. I bet they had a laugh about the blonde who tried to get off with him!’

But the handsome stranger wasn’t laughing now. He was at that moment lolling in an armchair in his darkened room at the King’s Head. And he was dead.

Chapter 4

Dilys watched the car turn into the drive, arranged a smile on her face and went to open the door. The rhus in the border, she noticed, had started to redden — proof, if proof were needed, of the relentless march of time towards the date when her manuscript must be delivered. And now this.

‘This’ was in the process of emerging from the car, held tightly in his mother’s arms. Sebastian was a placid baby, secure in the love that surrounded him and confident of getting his own way. Dilys returned his stare somewhat doubtfully.

‘Darling!’ Susie planted an enthusiastic kiss on her cheek. ‘You’re an angel! I’ve stressed to Sarah that you mustn’t be disturbed in any way.’

Dilys’s eyes moved to the young woman who was helping James extract a folding cot from the boot. ‘One point, Susie,’ she said quickly, remembering Peggy’s reservations. ‘Where does she sit in the evenings? I mean —’

‘Oh, don’t worry about that. If it’s convenient, she goes out. Seb never wakes once he’s put down, so provided there’s someone in the house we don’t mind. She has relatives in the town and spends most of her free time with them. And if she’s in, she works in her room.’

Dilys was relieved that neither she nor Peggy would be called on to entertain their visitor. ‘Works?’ she repeated with a raised eyebrow.

‘For some exam or other,’ Susie said vaguely. ‘She keeps very much to herself. She has breakfast and lunch with Seb and supper on a tray in her room. Honestly, you’ll hardly know she’s here.’

James and Sarah approached them with what seemed an inordinate amount of baggage. James bent to kiss Dilys’s cheek, and Susie continued: ‘Dilly, this is Sarah Baines. Miss Hayward, Sarah.’

Dilys smiled and nodded, disconcerted to find the young woman’s gaze as uncommunicative as Sebastian’s. However, she smiled gravely and the moment was eased by James’s inquiry as to where the luggage should be taken.

‘I’ll lead the way.’ Dilys turned back to the house and went up the stairs with the contingent following behind her.

‘This is Miss Baines’s room,’ she announced, aware of sounding formal but unable for some reason to call the stiff young woman by her first name. And unbidden, the memory returned of her involuntary shiver the previous week when checking the room for her guest.

She moved hastily down the landing. ‘And this is Sebastian’s,’ she continued. ‘There isn’t a general bathroom each room has its own. The next door is the little room where we do the ironing — the airing cupboard’s in there — and the one at the end is my room. If there’s anything you need,’ she added to Sarah, ‘do please ask either me or my housekeeper.’

‘Thank you, I’m sure everything will be fine.’

James went into the baby’s room and began to set up the cot, while Sarah, depositing various bundles on the bed, unrolled the mattress. Susie turned to her son. ‘Now, my darling, you’re going to be a good boy for Auntie Dilly, aren’t you? And Mummy and Daddy will be back before you know it.’

Sudden tears filled her eyes and she hid them by burying her face in the baby’s neck and kissing him.

‘Have you time for coffee?’ Dilys asked, to distract her.

‘No thank you, we must be going. The car’s coming for us at eleven. Now don’t worry,’ she added, intercepting Dilys’s cautious glance at the baby. ‘Sarah’s very experienced — she’ll take good care of him.’

‘I’m sure she will,’ Dilys said, unsure whether it was herself or the baby’s mother she was reassuring. James and Sarah emerged from the bedroom, where the cot now stood in the centre of the floor.

‘We’d better be going, darling.’

‘I know.’

Susie thrust her son into Sarah’s arms and turned blindly to the stairs. James, with a wry little smile, said goodbye to the nanny and followed Dilys downstairs. Moments later the car had driven away.

Dilys went through to the kitchen, where Peggy had been keeping a low profile. ‘All right, Peggy, you can relax. She either goes out in the evenings or spends them in her room.’

‘Well, that’s a relief.’ The woman paused. ‘What’s she like?’

‘Not what I’d expected.’ She’d imagined a fresh-faced girl with a ready smile. ‘In her mid-thirties, I’d say, and rather severe-looking. Still, if she’s as devoted and efficient as Susie says, that’s all that matters.’

So the invasion had taken place. Dilys devoutly hoped it would have no inhibiting effect on her thought processes. ‘I’m going to the study,’ she said.

*

‘Ken?’

Sergeant Jackson straightened in his chair. ‘Yes, Guv?’

‘That sudden death at the King’s Head: Pringle’s not happy with it. I’ll meet you at the gate in five minutes. No point in taking the car.’

‘Right, Guv.’

Jackson dropped the phone back on its stand and glanced out of the window. The sun was shining — a great day to be out of the office, even if it meant dealing with some poor stiff at the King’s Head.

He was whistling as he strolled past the pond in the station forecourt. It was Vicky’s birthday at the end of the week — unbelievable to think she’d be eight. She’d set her heart on a video game, Millie said, but there was no way she was getting one. Jackson didn’t hold with them on various counts, not the least being cost. In any case he’d rather she played outdoors like kids always used to, instead of being cooped up all day in front of the telly.

Quick footsteps behind him announced Webb’s arrival, and Jackson prepared to adjust his shorter stride to his chief’s long lope as they set off down Carrington Street.

‘So what have we got, Guv?’

‘The chambermaid found him when she went to do the bed. In his chair, apparently without a mark on him, but Pringle smells a rat, not least because they don’t know who he is. No identification at all: money in his wallet, but no credit cards, cheque-book, driving licence or diary and no clues in his overnight bag.’

‘He must have registered, surely?’

‘I’d have thought so. We’ll sort it out when we get there.’

They had turned the corner into the busier thoroughfare of Duke Street and had to raise their voices to be heard over the heavy traffic.

‘And there’s no obvious cause of death?’ Jackson asked.

‘Seems not, but I’d back Pringle’s suspicions any day.’

They walked on in silence until they reached Gloucester Circus, the busy centre of the town where, like spokes from a wheel, no fewer than five main roads radiated in all directions. Waiting for the lights to change, Webb eyed the hotel directly opposite them. It had been a landmark of the town for as long as he could remember, but had been closed for a year or so while major refurbishment took place. No different from the outside anyway; probably a preservation order on it, he reflected.

The lights changed and they crossed to the other side and pushed their way through the swing doors.

‘Fair smartened the old place up, haven’t they?’ Jackson commented, noting with approval the pale wood panelling and thick carpet. ‘Don’t think they’d welcome us for a pie and a pint these days, Guv!’

‘It was never my scene,’ Webb returned shortly. He approached the reception desk. ‘DC Webb, Shillingham CID.’

‘Yes, sir, Mr Diccon is expecting you. He’ll show you up, if you’d like to come this way.’

They were whisked smartly into an elaborately appointed office. A tall, thin man with over-long dark hair and a pale face rose from behind a desk.

‘Ah, good morning, gentlemen. This is terrible — terrible. And coming so soon on our reopening, too.’ He was almost wringing his hands.

‘If you could take us straight up, sir,’ Webb interposed smoothly, ‘we’d be glad of a word later.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Diccon led them down a short corridor to what was obviously the service lift, no doubt to protect the sensibilities of the other guests.

‘I understand there’s some question about the deceased’s identity?’ Webb said, as they waited for it to arrive. ‘Surely he checked in on arrival?’

‘Alas, no,’ Diccon replied. ‘He arrived yesterday around lunch-time, our busiest period. We have two conferences in progress and as you can imagine, the staff were under considerable pressure.’

The lift arrived, and they stepped into it, Diccon pressing the button for the second floor. ‘And as luck would have it,’ he continued, ‘what with lunch breaks and so on, for just those few crucial minutes there was only one receptionist on the desk, and she was run off her feet. She scribbled down his name — which unfortunately she now can’t decipher — and he took the key and said he’d check in later.’

The lift had stopped and they got out. ‘I shall want to see the receptionist and the note she made.’

‘Yes, of course.’

They were led along another corridor to a door, outside which PC Joe Kenworthy stood impassively on guard. Webb nodded to him. ‘Dr Pringle still here?’

‘Yes, sir, he’s waiting for you.’

Webb opened the door and went in, pushing it shut behind him. The bedroom was the standard layout. Immediately to the left was a fitted wardrobe, to the right a door leading presumably to the bathroom. Twin beds protruded from the right-hand wall, while a luggage rack, dressing-table and mini-bar took up that on the left. At the far end, beneath the windows, stood a table and two easy chairs, and slumped in one of them was an inert body. Beside it, looking out of the window with his hands in his pockets, was the spare figure of Dr Pringle. He turned as Webb came in.

‘Ah, Dave. Thought you’d like a wee look at this joker. No obvious cause of death but it smells a mite fishy to me.’

Webb had great respect for Pringle’s nose. He walked over and stood looking down at the body.

The deceased was — or had been — a good-looking man in his forties. He had plentiful curly hair, dark brown in colour, and straight dark brows. His suit was fairly lightweight and the cut, from what Webb could see of it, didn’t look entirely English.

‘No ID, I gather.’

‘No, that’s what aroused my suspicions in the first place.’

Webb surveyed the position of the body, comfortably relaxed in its chair. ‘If it was natural causes, wouldn’t he have tried to reach the phone?’

The doctor shrugged. ‘If it was heart, he mightn’t have had time. But I don’t think it was natural causes, Dave. Don’t ask me why; apart from the ID business — which could have an innocent explanation — there’s nothing I can put my finger on. It’s more a hunch than anything, but I’d lay money on our having a suspicious death on our hands.’

‘That’s good enough for me. We’ll get on to the Coroner’s Officer and Scenes of Crime.’

Pringle nodded, satisfied.

‘Care to stick your neck out on approximate time of death?’

The doctor grinned. ‘Better leave that to friend Stapleton. Personally, I’d say around twenty-four hours.’ He picked up his black bag. ‘OK if I go just now? I’ve a full surgery waiting.’

‘Yes, of course. Many thanks, Alec.’

Alone with the dead man, Webb stood for several minutes trying to soak up such atmosphere as there was in that sterile room. He believed firmly that a corpse had a lot to tell an investigator, and valued a space of time alone with the victim, always hoping some mysterious osmosis might occur.

What emotions had been experienced here during the last twenty-four hours? Despair? Suicide was still a possibility, though again, no discernible means. Fear? And if so, of what? A sudden pain in the chest? Or, even more threatening, someone standing over him as Webb did now? He was directly in front of the window, as the murderer — if murderer there were — would also have been. But could anyone have seen him or her? Webb doubted it. No windows gave directly on this one, and anyone standing in the car park below would have to crane his head back in order to see him.

He turned again to the suit. The jacket seemed baggier than usual, the trousers narrower. The shoes especially, now that he looked at them, had a decidedly continental look to them, with their supple leather and fringed tongues. But if he was a foreigner, then his passport and flight tickets were also missing.

Webb turned his attention to the case on the luggage rack. It was open, but its owner had not had time to unpack; pyjamas, shaving gear and toiletries were still inside, together with a change of underwear. A label on one of the garments was in French, which seemed to back his hunch, but there was an English paperback stuffed down the side of the case.

Webb looked round for a briefcase. If the victim was a businessman, which seemed likely, he would surely have had something of the kind. But a quick search proved futile, a fact which could be significant.

There was a macintosh hanging in the wardrobe, but its pockets revealed only a soiled handkerchief and half a tube of Polo mints. The bathroom contained nothing personal. It seemed the man had simply come to his room, dumped his mac and his case — and then what? It had been lunchtime: perhaps he’d gone straight down to the bar or restaurant and met someone there — but by chance or design? Or had he arranged a meeting in his room? With a woman, perhaps? That thought opened further possibilities. In any event, it seemed likely he’d died within an hour or so of arriving at the hotel. In heaven’s name, why?

Webb sighed and rejoined Jackson, who’d been chatting to Joe Kenworthy at the door. ‘Right, Joe, I want the room sealing till Dr Stapleton and the SOCOs get here. Bleep me when they arrive — I’ll be in the hotel.’