with me at present. The siege, you know. It got too much for her. Gave her nervous palpitations. I had to tell her to go home.’
‘Siege?’
‘The press. They were out there for so long. I don’t know what they expected to get from me.I had to disconnect the doorbell.’He sounded exhausted and defeated. ‘The worst thing, of course, is knowing what Michael must think of me. I go over it all again and again, working out what I should have said. He’s such a good man, has achieved so much, yet I betrayed him to his enemies. They snatched the words from out of my mouth and used them to destroy him. Now he must regard me as Judas incarnate.’
‘I’m sure he doesn’t,’ Brock said gently. ‘It was quite clear to everyone that you were trying to support and defend him. That’s what made their choice of you so very effective. They were extremely cunning.’
‘But were they telling the truth? Did Michael really commit a murder in Jamaica? I’m sure Father Guzowski never told me that, only that the police would kill him if they caught him. Some of them, you know, were as bad as the people they were up against.’
‘I don’t know what the truth is.’
‘I’ve tried to find Father Guzowski’s letter among my papers, but I can’t. It’s so long ago and everything’s in such a mess. I haven’t been very good with my paperwork, I’m afraid. Michael wanted me to write an account of our work here and did help me try to organise things a little, but of course he won’t be interested in continuing now. It’s like a terrible cloud, poisoning everything we’ve done, our whole lives and work.’
‘He was helping organise your papers?’
‘Well, not Michael himself.When he could spare her he sent over the girl who runs his constituency office.’
‘Kerrie?’
‘That’s her. Very efficient young woman. Just what I needed.’
‘So has Michael not been in touch with you?’ Brock asked.
The priest shook his head sadly.‘I pray for him,but I’ve heard nothing.’
‘Apparently he and his family haven’t been seen at their home since Monday. Have you any idea where he might have gone? I really would like to talk to him.’
‘To arrest him, do you mean?’
‘No, no. I’d just like to talk to him about what happened on Monday.’
But he could see that the old man wasn’t convinced. He had betrayed Michael Grant once and he wasn’t about to do it again. ‘Could be anywhere,I suppose,’he said vaguely.‘If I were him I’d probably take my family far away, to the Outer Hebrides perhaps, until things blow over. I’m sure if he’d felt he needed your help he would have asked for it.’ This thought seemed to stiffen his resolve. ‘I’ll see you out now, if you don’t mind. I have things to do, a funeral service to prepare . . .’
They buttoned up their coats and made their way down the path to the street. A few daffodils in the lee of the presbytery were bravely heralding the end of winter. There should have been more, Kathy realised,from the number of cut stalks around them.The rest were probably on sale in the market. As they reached the end of Cockpit Lane, where it divided each side of the churchyard, she looked down to the market and saw people gathering at its far end, and the pulsing lights of an ambulance.
Across the street, large pictures of Michael Grant’s face still beamed with misplaced confidence from the windows of his constituency office. It was locked, but there was a light on at the back and eventually their persistent knocking brought Kerrie to the door. She mimed a message at them through the glass, pointing to the ‘closed’ sign, and Kathy responded by holding up her identification.
She opened the door a little and placed herself firmly in the gap.
‘Sorry, didn’t recognise you. Michael’s not here.’
‘Just a few words, Kerrie,’ Kathy said, and moved forward. The woman reluctantly stood aside.While she locked the door behind them, they moved towards the single desk lamp lit at the back of the office. A computer was switched on there, and the letter that was lying in the printer tray caught Kathy’s attention.
Kerrie appeared at her side and snatched the letter away.‘What is it you want?’
‘We’re looking for Michael, Kerrie.’
She snorted.‘So are a lot of people.Good luck.’
‘You don’t know where he is?’
‘No idea. He’s not been in touch since Monday and he’s not answering his mobile.’
‘You’ve decided to quit, have you?’
‘None of your business, but yes, as a matter of fact. There’s no point in staying here.’
‘What will you do?’
‘I’m moving to a staff position in Westminster, if you must know. It’s a natural step up, after the experience I’ve had in the constituency.’
‘But not with Michael? With another MP?’
‘How long do you think he’s going to have an office over there, do you reckon? He’s not the only one allowed to have ambition, you know.’
Kerrie was angry as well as defensive, and Kathy felt she was catching sight of a drama she hadn’t been aware of before.‘No,of course not. Did you resent being stuck here?’
‘I’ve done my time here, that’s all. It’s a dead end, I have to move closer to the centre if I’m going to get on. That’s the trouble, isn’t it? If you’re any good at what you do, the boss tries to keep you stuck.’
‘Michael did that, did he?’
‘There’s a big gap between those who work in the constituencies and those who work in Westminster. He promised to help me move up, but in the end you’ve got to help yourself, haven’t you?’
‘Is that what you did when you went to sort out Father Maguire’s papers? Help yourself?’
Kerrie gave an involuntary little jump, which she immediately tried to convert into a fussing gesture over her filing tray.
‘Was that how you crossed the gap?’ Kathy persisted. ‘By offering things you’d found out about Michael to his political enemies?’
‘Don’t be stupid.’ She turned away, shuffling papers.
‘Who are you going to work for, Kerrie? Mr Hadden-Vane?’
She was close, Kathy realised, but not close enough, for Kerrie relaxed and turned to face her with a show of defiance.
‘No. Now I’d like you to leave.’
As they stepped out into the street Brock murmured, ‘You were on the right track, Kathy, but it would have been more indirect. Hadden-Vane probably fixed her up with a job with one of his mates.’
‘Yes, I suppose so. So where do we go now?’ She turned up the collar of her coat against the March wind, feeling its implacable cold like a verdict on their situation. The truth was, they’d pretty well explored every option, and discovered each to have been anticipated and blocked long before they got there.
Ahead of them she recognised Adam Nightingale emerging from the market. He was with his friend Jerry, both gesticulating wildly to their heads and ears, white teeth flashing.
‘Hi, Adam,’ Kathy called, and the boys stopped dead and stared at them. Then without a word they hunched into their parkas and turned and fled.
When they reached the car Kathy said she’d try Tom again, and called his home and mobile numbers without result. His voice on both answering services sounded painfully normal and buoyant, like Michael Grant’s pictures in the shop window. She left more messages and rang off. Almost immediately her phone began to burble. The caller gave his name as McCulloch and Kathy recognised the gravelly voice.
‘If you’re still interested,’he said.‘The bloke you asked about, George Murray.’
‘George, yes.What about him?’
‘He was picked up by an ambulance not long ago, in Cockpit Lane. I’m going over to the hospital now.’
‘He’s been hurt?’
‘Yeah. Somebody drove a nail into his head.’
‘What?’
