quote.’
‘Oh.’
‘That wasn’t what you were thinking of?’
‘No. Something a little earlier in Ecclesiastes.’
‘Diane, I didn’t know you were so familiar with the Bible.’
‘It must be a sign of my misspent childhood.’
‘Really?’
‘It’s due to one of my sets of foster parents. Everybody has their obsession, and theirs was the most depressing, pessimistic book in the whole of the Old Testament. But everyone knows the verse I’m thinking about. Even you, Ben.’
‘What do you mean, “even me”? I went to Sunday school.’
‘“To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven,”’ said Fry.
‘Ah. The Pete Seeger song, “Turn, Turn, Turn”. Some hippy sixties band had a big hit with it, didn’t they?’
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‘I don’t know about that. The words are from Ecclesiastes. Don’t you remember the next part? “A time to be born …”’
Cooper remembered. Whether from his Sunday school lessons, or from the old pop song, he couldn’t be sure. But the words came almost unbidden into his head. A time to be born …
’”… and a time to die,”’ he said.
Fry paused at the passenger door and studied Cooper across the roof of the car.
‘Professor Robertson is enjoying himself too much, don’t you think? This is the way he gets his kicks.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with enjoying your work, I suppose. Some of us do.’
Cooper got into the car and started the engine. Fry fastened her seat belt and turned to him.
‘Will you turn into a Freddy Robertson when you’re retired, Ben? I can just picture you constantly hanging around the door at West Street, volunteering your services free and gratis in the public interest.’
‘I’ll probably be glad to get away from the place by then. Won’t you?’
‘You bet,’ said Fry. ‘Besides, what special expertise would I have to offer?’
Ben Cooper didn’t possess a Bible. At least, he hadn’t brought one with him to the flat when he moved out of Bridge End Farm. There had been one he’d won as a prize for regular attendance at Sunday school when he was ten years old. But that had been a children’s edition, with illustrations of a handsome, golden-haired Jesus walking on water and feeding the five thousand. Cooper wasn’t sure it had included the Old Testament. Probably not. There was far too much begetting and Sodom and Gomorrah for the trendy curate who’d been in charge then.
The only other copy he could remember was the old Cooper
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family Bible, presented to his great-grandfather and great-grandmother when they married in 1921. It had all the family’s subsequent births, marriages and deaths recorded on the first few pages, just ahead of Genesis. But that one lived in the sideboard at Bridge End, wrapped in tissue paper and preserved like a sacred relic.
Cooper left his flat, went out on to Welbeck Street and knocked at the door of number six, where his landlady lived. Yes, Mrs Shelley had a Bible she could let him borrow. It was the King James version, of course. No Good News nonsense for her.
She invited Cooper in while she fetched the book, and he stood in her hallway, trying not to make too much noise. He could hear his landlady’s Jack Russell terrier whining and yapping at the back of the house. If the dog realized someone was on the premises, it was likely to explode into full-blown hysteria. Best not to make any careless movements. Also, he couldn’t afford to get involved in conversation with Mrs Shelley. Discussions with her were likely to get complicated and bewildering, and he didn’t have time for it tonight. He was finally going on his date - a table for two was booked for seven forty-five at the Raj Mahal. Just one of the reasons he hadn’t been keen to eat there with Gavin Murfin.
But Mrs Shelley wasn’t gone for long. She came back wiping a layer of dust off a heavy black volume before offering it to him.
‘I hope it helps, Ben,’ she said.
To Cooper’s embarrassment, she seemed to be about to burst into tears, despite the smile she gave him. She even patted his arm. OK. So Mrs Shelley thought she’d just been instrumental in saving his soul. What had given her that impression? ‘How is your mother, by the way, Ben?’ she said.
Ah, so that was it. He should have known that his landlady would have her ear to the grapevine. Mrs Shelley wasn’t saving his soul, but bringing him comfort in a time of need.
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‘I phoned the hospital this evening, and they say she’s stable. Thank you for asking.’
‘If there’s anything I can do …’
‘No, everything’s fine. Thank you, Mrs Shelley.’
Cooper held the book up in front of him, not sure whether he was using it to ward off his landlady, or acknowledging that he already had what he needed.
Back in his flat, he got himself a beer and sprawled on the old sofa with the Bible. Then it struck him that drinking beer might not be appropriate while reading the Old Testament. He hesitated for a moment. Nobody would ever know, surely? But he had a clear vision of himself spilling Corona in the middle of Ecclesiastes. With his luck, the stain would form an image of a horned goat leaping across the pages, and Mrs Shelley would evict him from the flat as a disciple of Satan.
He sighed and put the beer to one side. Randy positioned himself on the rug, intrigued by the unusual behaviour.
‘It’s the Bible,’ said Cooper. ‘You ought to read it - you might learn something. Thou shalt not kill, for a start.’
