‘I didn’t see Tommy again after he went missing that summer. It wasn’t through lack of trying. We were very close. I went to Belsar’s Hill but they said he was in Ireland. They were lying of course, but they must have thought I’d go to the police.’
‘Tommy never tried to use your relationship to get help, money, a place to hide?’ Dryden was fishing, the file had been circumspect, but reading between the lines had been easy enough.
‘That would presume our relationship was physical, which it wasn’t. For the record, that is actually a matter of regret to me. Especially today. But no, Tommy had no basis for blackmail.’
Dryden thought of the hunched decaying remains on the cathedral roof. He’d never thought of Tommy as a human being, let alone a lover. In his experience murder wasn’t something that happened to real people, people whose going left other lives empty. Murder happened to cardboard cutouts who appeared on police WANTEDposters. Chalk outlines on the pavement.
‘Tommy could have lied. The circumstantial evidence of your relationship would have been enough to raise questions. It could have been very damaging.’ Tavanter was lost in the past. Dryden brought him back by touching the hem of his cassock: ‘Did he try?’
‘That’s all true. But frankly Tommy was no fool. Far from it. He knew exactly where he had me, in the palm of his delicate hand. He knew I’d do almost anything for him anyway, he didn’t need to resort to blackmail. I was looking for him.’
‘So you’ve no idea who was capable of killing him?’
‘Oh, I’ve got lots of ideas. Take our esteemed deputy chief constable. What if Tommy hadn’t been at the Crossways that day?’
‘But he offered to tell the police who was. He sent them a letter.’
Tavanter let his eyes rest on Dryden’s. ‘But did he say he was there himself? If he had turned in his friends – an act of betrayal he was more than capable of, by the way – any one of them could have cleared Tommy. Where would that have left Stubbs? As the detective in charge of the case he was responsible for verifying the fingerprints. They could have lied to take Tommy down with them, but that would have required a collective act of revenge. Unlikely I think. If Stubbs faked the evidence and Tommy gave himself up, the future deputy chief constable’s career was over. What about that for a motive?’
‘Is it as good as money?’
Tavanter smiled. ‘My fortune?’
‘Certainly a fortune spent on good deeds, but a fortune nonetheless. And spent. The AIDS centre in Cambridge was built with your money I believe, and is still run with it. Quarter of a million? Half a million?’
‘Yes. Oh yes. More. And we sceptics know that all charitable giving is selfish. I enjoy running the centre. It has given me a purpose in life. Status. Friends. A place of my own. So you think I killed Tommy to get the money?’
‘No. No, I don’t. But, for the sake of the argument, the money wouldn’t have had to be the reason for his death. It’s just that whoever did it would have got the money anyway, and faced the problem of finding somewhere to spend it. It was no small amount – if he got a share from the Crossways and his winnings, it was a small fortune. Well invested, a large fortune.’
‘You’ve turned detective? Don’t the police do these things better? But then they might be suspects too?’
Tavanter tugged at his collar. ‘I was lucky. Lucky to the tune of seven hundred and fifty thousand. I bought some land in London. It was worthless then, except for a youth club. I sold it when developers moved in and the youth club needed it no longer. I gave the money to the diocese here, they asked for the details before accepting. I’m sure they can confirm if…’
Dryden raised his hand. He knew the story but would check it anyway. They stood and walked to the chapel doors, left open by the departing deputy chief constable. Out in the garden of remembrance the mayoress sat with her back to them on a cast-iron bench.
‘And then there’s jealousy,’ said Tavanter, smoothing down his ash-white cassock. ‘She could tell you about that’
Dryden’s golden rule: you can always ask one more question.
‘Did Roy Barnett know?’ The police file had been clear about Liz Barnett’s relationship with the young, handsome gypsy boy.
Tavanter shrugged. ‘They went away a lot, she had some money. But he may have guessed.’
‘If Tommy was on the run and needed help why do you think he didn’t come to you? Wasn’t Little Ouse the perfect place to hide? St John’s was remote, he was unknown.’
Tavanter’s grey eyes swam. ‘An astute question, Dryden. One I have asked myself many times. We’ve just consigned to God’s mercy the only soul on earth who could have given you an answer. Perhaps I don’t want that answer. Perhaps he used me. I gave him some money, not much, but some. God knows. We don’t.’
Dryden found Liz Barnett in the rose garden. The mayoress had recovered what little of her composure had been lost. She was smoking, sucking in lungfuls of nicotine in the bitter cold air. She wore a full-length suede coat, and a brilliantly coloured scarf, held fast by the jet stone. The make-up was applied with an audience in mind – circle rather than stalls. The hands, fine but muscular, were decked out in silver rings. On the whole the effect was diverting and worked a treat. She was angry still, and spitting self-justification.
She answered a question he hadn’t asked. ‘He wasn’t a bit like they said, you know.’
‘They?’
‘The police. Old Stubbs. He looks dreadful by the way, made my day. Pity Tommy wasn’t here to see it.’
She turned and walked down the snow-covered path between ranks of memorial urns. Above, thin white smoke from the crematorium chimney thickened to grey and drifted up into the low clouds.
‘Low-life, scum, that’s what Stubbs said. They showed me pictures of that poor woman from the Crossways. Made me sick in a bucket. Said they’d have to interview Roy. They said Tommy was an animal. But I tell you what he wasn’t, Dryden.’
