She turned away, moved quickly up the street, clack, clack, clack on the cobbles. As good a way as any to do your exit.
Grabbing the chance to go out angry; it helped. On either side of her were the gateposts of the stone cottages, a black cat on one, watching her like it knew her well. Lights behind curtains, lights from an electrified gaslamp projecting from an end wall, and over them all, like another moon, the illuminated church clock. Take it all in, you won't see it again. Bye-bye, Bridelow.
'All right!' It rang harshly from the cobbles like an iron bar thrown into the street.
It didn't stop her.
'Yeah, OK!' Running feet.
She carried on walking, turned towards the lych-gate, the corpse gate, but passed it by and entered the parking area behind the church, where it was very dark.
She was taking her keys out of her bag when he caught up with her.
'I'm sorry. All right?'
'Good. You'll be able to sleep.' Fitted the key in the car door. 'Night, Dic. Give my love to your mother.'
'Look…'
'Hey,' she said gently. 'I'm leaving, OK? You know your dad was screwing me, what can I say to that?'
'I want to talk about it.'
'Well, I'm no' talking here, it's cold and I'm no' going to the pub, so maybe you should just go away and think about it instead, huh? Call me sometime. Fix it up with my agent. I'm tired. I'm cold.'
'Where will you go?'
'And what the fuck does that have to do with you? I shall find a nice, anonymous hotel somewhere…'
'Look,' Dic said. 'There is somewhere we can talk. Somewhere warm.'
'Cosy.' Moira got into the car. 'Goodnight.'
'Moira…'
She started the engine, switched on the lights, wound down the window- 'By the way. Your playing, it was… Well, you're getting there.'
'I don't want to get there,' he said without emotion. 'I just wanted to please him.'
'Aye,' Moira said.
'It never did, though.'
'No,' she said.
A dumpy, elderly man walked through the headlamp beams. He wore a long raincoat and a trilby bat, like Donald's, only in better shape. 'Good evening,' he said politely, as he passed. The lights were on in the church, am be ring the pillars in the nave. A suitcase stood by the font.
Ernie Dawber watched the new curate manhandling a metal paraffin stove into the vestry.
'All right, lad?'
Joel Beard, alarmed, set down the stove with a clang.
'Ernie Dawber, lad. We met the other day, with Hans.'
'Ah, yes.' The curate recovered, stood up straight. He was wearing his cassock and the huge pectoral cross. 'Look, I'm sure you mean well, Mr Dawber, but I'd rather not discuss anything tonight, if you don't mind.'
'Beg your pardon?'
'The funeral, Mr Dawber. What happened at the funeral. You were about to tell me how innocuous it all was. I'm saying I'd rather not discuss it.'
'Well, I think we should discuss it, Mr Beard. Because it looks like you're in charge now.'
Joel Beard looked bewildered. He'd obviously rushed away from the graveside, dashed down to his little cell to recover and didn't yet know about Hans.
Ernie told him.
'Oh,' Joel said. 'Oh, my Lord.'
'Aye.'
'Is he going to be all right?'
'Happen,' said Ernie. 'If he gets some rest. If he doesn't spend all his time worrying what the bloody hell's going on back in Bridelow.'
Joel Beard gave him a hard look for swearing in church.
'Now look, lad,' Ernie said. 'Pull yourself together. You're not really going to kip down there?'
'I am.' Joel rested an arm on the edge of the font. 'It's quite clear to me that it's become even more important to sleep in God's pocket. You were there today, I think, Mr Dawber. You saw what went on.'
'I saw a big, soft bugger making a bloody fool of himself,' said Ernie stoutly. 'Now, come on, it's getting cold. Pick up your suitcase; you can stay in my spare room for tonight, and we'll have a bit of a chat.'
Joel Beard made no reply. He stood very call and very still, the amber lights turning his tight curls into a golden crown.
'Good night, Mr Dawber,' he said. The double doors crashed back. Roger Hall burst in, and he was white to the edges of his beard.
Chrissie was sitting at her desk, the senior detective, Ashton, casually propping his bum against it, hands deep into his trenchcoat pockets, the detective-sergeant playing with the zip on his anorak.
Roger just stood in the doorway breathing like a trainee asthmatic. He was wearing casual gear, the polo shirt and the golfing trousers. 'All right, what's happened?' Staring all round the room and finally noticing her. 'Chrissie…?'
'Don't look at me like that, Dr Hall. I know less than you.' Obviously. Being the minion.
'How much did they tell you on the phone, Dr Hall? Ashton asked, corning to his feet.
'Just… Just that… Is this on the level? It s not a joke?'
Ashton shook his head. 'Doesn't look like it, I'm afraid sir.
Roger glared across the office at the metal door. It was shut. 'It's unbelievable.' Shaking his head. 'What happened to the so-called security patrol?'
'We'll be talking to the company, sir, have no doubts.
Meantime, we didn't like to touch anything until you got here, so it you'd be good enough to take us through…'
Roger nodded dumbly. Chrissie was almost feeling sorry for him. His face was like a crumpled flour bag. He looked like a parent who'd just learned his child had been found on a railway line. In fact, to him, if somebody had vandalized his beloved bogman, this was probably worse
Which is why Chrissie didn't quite feel sorry for him.
The two detectives, Ashton and the chubby one in the anorak, waited while Roger went to unlock his personal high-security cabinet. He brought out both keys. The detectives followed him to the ante-room and then all three of them went through to the inner lab.
Chrissie stayed behind, elbows on her desk, chin propped in her hands, waiting for the eruption. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry on his behalf.
'No…!' Roger's voice echoing back. 'Look…Inspector, is it?'
'Gary Ashton, sir. Greater Manchester.'
'I'm… I just can't believe this has happened. What I… Look, let me do some checks. It's possible… unlikely, but possible… that there's a rational explanation. I've been away for a few days this week. It's conceivable, I suppose, that something was arranged and by some incredible oversight I wasn't informed.'
'You mean whoever it was forgot to inform the caretaker they'd be dropping in, sir? After dark?'
'No. You're right. Clutching at straws, I suppose. God almighty, this is… How did they actually get in?'
'Quite professionally done, sir. The rear doors were forced, both sets, but forced by somebody who knew how, if you see what I mean.'
'It's… unbelievable.'
Chrissie heard a clang. Roger's fist hitting the metal table.
'If you wouldn't mind, sir… fingerprints.'
'Sorry. It's just… if anything, any one thing, had been specifically calculated to fucking ruin me, this..
'Ruin you, Dr Hall?'
'I… We had a lot riding on it. You don't get your hands on one of these very often.'
