The Woodcutter (24 page)

‘Perhaps.’

In fact it was the following morning that the head waiter saw Medler return to the restaurant. McLucky was already at his table, talking into a mobile phone with what looked like increasing exasperation.

Medler strode confidently towards his own table, glanced towards McLucky as he passed, did a double take, then diverted.

‘Davy McLucky, is that you?’ he said.

The Scot looked up and said, ‘Who’s asking?’

‘Come on, Davy. Should auld acquaintance and all that!’

‘Fuck me, is it Medler?’ said McLucky without any noticeable enthusiasm.

‘It most certainly is! What the hell are you doing here?’

‘Trying to get out and not having much luck.’

There was a tinny voice coming out of the phone. McLucky barked, ‘Sod off!’ into the mouthpiece and switched it off.

‘Problems?’

‘I’m trying to get a flight out and not getting any joy, not without coughing up a small fortune.’

‘Perhaps I can help, if it’s a language thing,’ said Medler, pulling out a chair. ‘Mind if I sit down?’

‘You never used to be so polite.’

‘Never needed to be, when I could pull rank,’ laughed Medler. ‘So how are you, Davy? Still with the Met?’

‘No. Asked for my cards years back.’

‘Followed my good example, eh?’

‘Not exactly. They said you were sick. Me, I was just sick of the fucking job.’

‘You always were a bit of a loner, Davy. So what are you up to now?’

‘Security,’ said McLucky shortly. ‘Oh Christ. What’s that mean then? Nightwatchman at a building site?’

The slightly jeering tone seemed to provoke the Scot.

‘No! I run my own enquiry firm in Glasgow.’

‘Oh yes? And are you here on business?’

‘I wish,’ said McLucky. ‘It would be nice to think some other poor bastard was paying me to be in this dump.’

‘Oh dear. Is the wife with you? What’s her name . . . Jenny, right?’

‘Jeanette. No, took off with her hairdresser couple of years before I left the Met. Helped me make up my mind. You can imagine the jokes.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Medler. ‘So you’re here by yourself?’

McLucky stared at him aggressively for a moment, then shrugged and said, ‘Aye, that’s right, I’m a real sad bastard, eh? Not the plan, but that’s how it turned out. Me and a friend – a former friend! – we thought we’d take a break away from the blizzards back in Scotland. Picked this cheap last-minute deal on the Internet. Then I got a call at the airport: she couldn’t make it, family emergency. Bitch! Got a better offer, I reckon. I thought I might as well come anyway, it was a no-refund deal. But I wish to hell I hadn’t bothered. It’s almost as bad here as back in Glasgow! That’s what I was trying to do, get an early flight back home. There must be any amount of spare space on the charters, but no, it’s scheduled or nothing, the bastards tell me.’

He looked at Medler calculatingly and said, ‘You really think you could help? I’d appreciate it.’

He offered his phone.

‘Maybe,’ said Medler, smiling. ‘But tell you what. Why don’t we have some breakfast first, chew the fat about old times? Then we’ll see.’

6

As the days shortened and winter bit deeper and deeper into the earth as though determined to give global warming a good run for its money, the Reverend Luke Hollins’s thoughts turned to Christmas. While naturally his main focus was on the spiritual dimension and he lost no opportunity to decry the unrelenting commercialization of the festival, there was a part of his mind preoccupied with more mundane questions, such as which was more likely to get a result? – a plea to the bishop for a new heating boiler in the vicarage or a letter to Father Christmas at the North Pole?

Most of his parishioners, including Hadda, seemed impervious to the cold. Cumbrians, he decided, had a strong proportion of ice water in their veins. Only at Ulphingstone Castle did he find someone who longed for heat as much as he did and as that person was Lady Kira, this coincidence of feeling brought little mutual warmth.

The lunches, and Lady Kira’s questions about Hadda (now punctuated by strident and abusive commands to servants, her husband and occasionally the vicar himself to pile more logs on the fire) continued throughout the winter.

There was, however, no reciprocal curiosity at Birkstane. If there had been, Hollins would probably have been as discreet in his replies to Hadda as he was in those he offered Kira. But the man’s apparent indifference to news from the outside world in general and the castle in particular was somehow provocative. So some time in mid-December, the vicar heard himself saying as he placed the last grocery box on the kitchen floor, ‘Sir Leon was telling me his daughter’s coming up for Christmas.’

Hadda, who was pouring hot water into the coffee jug, paused and said slowly, ‘Now why should you imagine that bit of information holds the slightest interest for me?’

‘Well, she did used to be your wife, didn’t she? And I thought I’d mention it just to give you a forewarning against a potentially distressing and embarrassing chance encounter . . .’

He was waffling, he realized, and he brought himself to a halt.

Hadda stirred the coffee vigorously.

Then he smiled.

‘That shows Christian foresight, Padre. Lead me not into temptation, eh? Talking of which, is that a bottle of Shiraz I see sticking out of that box? I don’t recollect putting that on my list.’

‘Sorry . . . I mean it’s a gift, it was on offer and I thought you might like it.’

The addition of a packet of chews to the order had come to be accepted, and though Hollins would not have cared to put his relationship with Sneck to the test, the dog’s growl when he arrived was now anticipatory rather than minatory.

For a moment the scowl on Hadda’s face made him fear the wine was going to be a gift too far.

Then his features cleared and he said, ‘Thank you kindly. Much appreciated. But I really must ask you not to repeat the generosity. On the pittance the State allows me, I can’t afford to develop expensive habits.’

‘Come on, it only cost four quid,’ protested Hollins.

‘Nevertheless . . .’

He poured the coffee and they drank in silence for a while.

‘So what are you doing for Christmas?’ asked Hollins.

Hadda let out a snort of laughter.

‘Ask me again after I’ve had time to sort through all my many invitations. But, like I say, definitely no more gifts, eh? I’ll save the Shiraz for Christmas Day. As for a Christmas tree, well, I’ve got several thousand of those just over the wall in the estate.’

The vicar looked at him in alarm and he said, ‘Relax. Only joking. Now look at the time. Got to dash off to see my PO, it’s have-you-been-a-good-boy? time again. Stick the rest of this stuff in the cupboard, will you?’

He was on his feet and limping towards the door as he spoke. His parting request was tossed almost casually over his shoulder and suddenly Hollins felt himself greatly irritated. What he wanted to say was, ‘I’m not your bloody valet!’ but what he heard himself asking somewhat aggressively was, ‘Is that really how you feel about these sessions with your probation officer?’

Hadda paused and looked back at him in surprise.

‘To coin a phrase . . . sorry?’

‘You always seem to refer to your meetings frivolously, as though they were nothing more than a necessary chore.’

‘Didn’t realize I did. Though, come to think about it, what else should they be?’

‘I don’t know. A time for self-assessment, perhaps. A time to quantify progress.’

‘Progress? From what? To what?’

Hollins hesitated before replying. He hadn’t planned to go down this road at this stage in their relationship, but now he’d started, it would be cowardly to turn back.

He said slowly, ‘From what and to what isn’t for me to say. But I do know what I’d call the actual journey. Repentance.’

‘Re-pen-tance,’ said Hadda, as though trying to commit to memory a new word in a foreign language he was learning.

‘Yes. I’m sure your prison psychiatrist, Dr whatsername . . .’

‘Ozigbo.’

‘. . . Ozigbo would have other terms for it, but that’s what the Church calls it. I should have thought it was an essential element in whatever process you went through to get here – outside, I mean, back in the community. To be honest, there are a lot of things I’ve seen in you during our short acquaintance. Fortitude, self-control, temperance, resolution. But I can’t say I’ve detected much evidence of repentance.’

‘So how would it show itself then?’ asked Hadda. ‘Hair shirts? Self-flagellation? Prayer and fasting? I think I could put my hand up for the fasting. Some nights I can’t be bothered to make myself anything more than a mug of coffee and a hunk of cheese. Does that count, Holy Father?’

‘You see, there you go,’ said Hollins wearily. ‘Putting up a front’s fine, but do it too much and the front becomes a fixture that no one, not even yourself, can look behind.’

‘Let me guess, that must be New Testament,’ said Hadda. ‘Nothing like that in the OT among all the smiting and begatting. I’m a bit disappointed, Padre. I was almost beginning to think you were a real post-modern priest – you know, to hell with old-fashioned preaching, let’s treat people like people. But if you’re going to revert to type, then you can sod off out of here and take your cut-price Shiraz with you! Think about it while you’re stacking my shelves.’

He left the kitchen. Sneck, with what seemed almost like an apologetic glance back, followed him. A few minutes later, Hollins heard the Defender start up.

After its clatter had faded down the lonning, he began to put the groceries away. Eventually only the wine bottle remained. If he left it, Hadda would think he’d caved in. But if he took it, then that could be the end of their regular contact. He half regretted his outburst, but only half. He’d found himself coming to like the man but he felt the danger in that, especially when the relationship was developing very much on Hadda’s terms. He recalled a seminar on the paedophile threat to the Church given by an elderly priest during his training course.

‘Never forget,’ the tutor had said, ‘paedophiles are among the most cunning creatures on God’s earth.’

The man had spoken with the voice of experience. Currently he was serving two years for indecent assault on an altar boy.

So he’d been right to confront Hadda, even if it was only to draw a line in the sand.

But every particle of reason and judgment in him said that the man was OK, that his past was a closed book that would never be opened again. In fact, come to think of it, those medieval manifestations of repentance that Hadda had mockingly cited, weren’t they all around him? Living in this cold damp cheerless house, bathing each morning in the icy beck, surviving on the pathetic groceries that Hollins brought every couple of weeks, and which Hadda always paid for in full out of his social security pittance, weren’t these the modern forms of hair shirt and self-flagellation?

Somewhere a mobile rang.

His own was in his pocket. This had to be in the house. Upstairs, he worked out. Hadda must have forgotten it. Would be furious if it turned out to be his probation officer, cancelling their meeting.

He started up the stairs to answer it but the ringing stopped before he was halfway up. It seemed as easy to continue as turn on the narrow staircase and he carried on up to the landing. Through a half-open door he saw the mobile lying on an unmade bed.

After a moment’s hesitation, he went into the room and picked it up. The display said
1 message.

He pressed the call button without thinking. Or without letting himself think.

Listen to message?

If it was his PO cancelling, he thought, maybe I can think of a way to intercept the Defender.

He didn’t give himself time to deconstruct this piece of irrationality, but pressed again.

The voice that spoke had a strong Scots accent.

Hi. I’m at the villa! Dinner invite turned to ‘Stay as long as you like’. Christ. He’s done well for himself. All mod cons, swimming pool, jacuzzi. Very security conscious, big gate, high fence with what looks like razor wire on the top. All windows and doors fitted with metal security shutters that come down sharp when he presses the button. Could do with them to keep his wife at bay! She’s a nice little package of simmering hormones. After the second bottle of Rioja, she started eyeing me up like she was contemplating inviting me to share her
paella
. Wish I’d got one of them shutters on my bedroom door! I’m out of here soon as I can! I’ll stop off in London, see if there are any developments on the home front. It’ll be good to get back somewhere with a bit of life. You can keep the Costa Geriatica for me. I’m glad you’re paying for it. I’ll be in touch. Maybe I’ll even beard the Wolf in his lair on my way home. Cheers!

What was that all about? wondered Hollins.

He switched the phone off and laid it on the bed.

Then he looked around the room.

Not much furniture but maybe that was all there’d ever been. A bedside table, an ancient Lloyd Loom chair, a picture of what looked like a lumberjack on the wall, a wardrobe that looked as old as the rough-plastered wall it stood against.

The door was ajar.

Peering inside without opening it any further wasn’t poking around, was it?

You should have been a Jesuit! he told himself pulling the door wide.

Couple of rough shirts and two pairs of heavy trousers. And on the floor a cardboard wine box.

He checked its contents.

Half a dozen of Gevrey-Chambertin plus a couple of bottles of fifteen-year-old Glen Morangie.

He thought of his four-quid bottle of Shiraz on the kitchen table. The cheeky sod had said he’d save it for Christmas! So where had this lot come from? Perhaps with the economy soaring to record levels once more, social security were being unusually generous with the Christmas bonuses.

He looked round the room for other signs of unexplained affluence.

Nothing obvious, but the blankets draped over the bed had been caught by something pushed underneath.