Cross shrugged.
‘Just curious,’ he said, pushing a forkful of chips into his mouth.
‘It was my brother, Phil,’ Cath said, irritably.
‘Well, I’ve only got your word for that, haven’t I?’
‘Are you calling me a liar?’ She leaned forward, lowering her voice slightly.
‘Look, even if it wasn’t my brother, it’s none of your fucking business who I have at my flat.’
‘What about us?’
‘What about us? We’re not married, for Christ’s sake. When are you going to accept that this isn’t some big bloody romance, Phil? We both agreed we didn’t want any ties.’
‘You didn’t want any ties,’ he corrected her.
‘So now what? You want a commitment from me?’ she snapped.
There was another sharp hiss of electricity as one more wasp struck the glowing blue bars.
‘Look, I don’t mean to pressure you, Cath,’ Cross replied. ‘Maybe you’re right. Perhaps I’m coming on a bit too strong. But I think a lot of you.’
She smiled. ‘Thanks.’
‘Why do I get the feeling that it’s not reciprocated?’ Cross added bitterly.
‘I’ve been on my own a long time, Phil’ she told him. ‘I like my own company.
I’ve been in relationships before and they always end up getting too heavy.’
‘It was with the wrong guys’ he offered.
She looked at him over the rim of her cup.
‘And what if you’re the wrong guy too? Where does that leave me?’
‘Me. I. Myself. This conversation is a bit one-sided, isn’t it? Haven’t you ever stopped to think about my bloody feelings?’
‘This isn’t the time or the place, Phil-‘ she began.
‘It never is’ he hissed.
They sat in silence for what seemed like an eternity.
Cath reached into her handbag and pulled out a packet of cigarettes.
‘Do you mind?’ she asked, noticing that he was still eating.
Cross shook his head.
She lit up.
‘So, what sort of morning have you had?’ she asked, a smile hovering on her lips.
Cross shook his head, trying to keep a straight face but failing.
‘I should fucking hate you’ he said, grinning.
‘I wouldn’t blame you if you did.’
‘All I’m asking is that you see things from my point of view. I don’t think you realise how much I think of you.’
She took a drag on her cigarette and nodded slowly.
‘I think I do’ she said quietly.
The face of a newsreader glared out at her from the silent television screen.
Something flashed onto the screen. Uniformed policemen.
A graveyard.
The caption at the bottom of the picture read: Croydon Cemetery.
Cath got to her feet and hurried across to the TV set, curious glances following her sudden movement. She turned up the sound and stood close to the set, staring at it as if hypnotised.
She heard the voice of the priest. The caption told her his name was Colin Patterson.
‘.. . third time this kind of thing has happened here in less than two months.
I find it disgusting and I think the people who did this need help. It’s appalling…’
‘Wasn’t that where you said there’d been desecrations a few days ago?’ Cath called to Cross, who had now turned in his seat to look at the screen.
Other faces, too, were glancing at the set.
‘I’ve still got the pictures at home’ the photographer said.
‘We never ran anything on it, did we?’
‘They stuck a couple of columns inside. I think they used one small photo.’
‘Croydon Cemetery’ Cath murmured to herself.
The picture changed, the story shifted. The newsreader was talking about a new school in Hampstead.
Cath turned the sound back down.
As she sat down at the table she ground out what was left of her cigarette.
‘Didn’t you say there’d been other desecrations there, before you took those photos a couple of days ago?’ she asked, her gaze fixed on Cross.
‘I only overheard the vicar talking to a couple of people while I was there’ Cross explained. ‘He reckoned there’d been stuff going on for months.’
‘What kind of stuff?’
‘I didn’t hear properly.’
Cath was already on her feet.
‘Where the hell are you going?’ Cross demanded.
‘Croydon Cemetery. I want to speak to that priest. Fancy a drive?’
‘Cath, I can’t, I’m due at Heathrow this afternoon, Madonna’s flying in, they want pictures….’
‘Then I’ll see you later’
‘Cath, wait’ Cross called, fumbling in his camera bag. ‘Here, take this.’ He handed her a small pocket camera. ‘You might need it.’
She smiled at him.
Then she was gone.
Cross looked up, watching as another insect perished amidst a loud crackle.
The scorched fly dropped to the floor.
He drained what was left in his tea cup.
Twenty-six
Cath had never seen so many cars at a cemetery.
The car park and most of the street outside were crammed with vehicles.
Inside it was swarming with people, many of whom, she assumed, had also seen the report on lunchtime TV and come fearing that the resting places of their own relatives might have been disturbed.
She could only guess at how many people had converged on Croydon Cemetery during the two hours it had taken her to drive there.
Once within the sprawling churchyard she’d had little difficulty finding the Reverend Colin Patterson. He had been walking agitatedly back and forth, speaking to anyone who came to him or who he felt was in need of some comforting words.
In his black robe and standing over six feet tall, he was an imposing, almost threatening, figure and, Cath noted somewhat guiltily, rather good looking.
Not the kind of priest she would normally expect to find.
After a brief introduction, she got straight down to business. ‘Have you any idea who might have done this?’ she asked, pulling the pocket camera from her handbag and looking through the viewfinder.
She focused on a gravestone which bore the words god is fucked in large red letters. She snapped away.
‘No idea’ Patterson told her, sighing.
‘Could it be a personal thing, against you?’ she enquired, moving closer to another of the headstones.
This one was smeared with excrement. The smell was strong in the air. Flies buzzed round excitedly.
‘Priests don’t make many enemies, Miss Reed’ said Patterson.
‘Besides, if it was personal, whoever did this would have come after me.’
