Стивен Бут - Blind to the Bones

Later, a pair of foxes heaved over the dustbin, scattering rubbish on the path and snarling at each other as they argued over the dried carcass of a roast chicken. There was a sudden swish through the air, and a barn owl’s talons thudded into the breast of a pigeon that had chosen its roost carelessly. The victim’s wings flapped a few times as the owl shifted its grip, then launched itself back into the night. Three grey feathers spiralled to the ground, where they settled and began to soak up the dew. A hedgehog poked its head out of a hole in a pile of dead branches and checked the scents in the air to make sure that the foxes had gone. Its spines scraped against the bark as it came out on to the wet grass and began to hunt for slugs and beetles. As innocent as it looked, it was the most successful predator of them all.

Thursday

In the mist that followed a grey dawn, the Reverend Derek Alton unlocked the door of St Asaph’s church and let it swing slowly open in front of him. As usual, he looked for signs of intruders or vandalism, but could see none. The church had been given a wide berth ever since the news of Neil Granger’s death had spread. But perhaps it was just the frequent police presence in the village that was making the difference, rather than any sense of respect.

It was right here in the porch that Alton had last seen Neil on Friday night. He wasn’t sure whether he had really experienced a premonition as they had stood close together in the darkness and listened to the noises from the village. It felt that way now, but hindsight was deceptive. And, of course, feelings could be even more deceptive.

Alton heard a distinctive engine noise that grumbled to a halt beyond the churchyard wall. It was muffled by the trees and the dampness that hung in the air, but it was enough to make the vicar turn away from the door and steady himself with one hand against the oak frame of the porch entrance. The smooth wood was cold to the touch and running with moisture. Alton shivered as he caught the click of the latch on the gate hidden behind the yews.

It seemed to Alton that the figure approaching him through the mist in the churchyard was one that should not have been there at all. It appeared at first to be a shape returned from the grave. Or, if not actually yet in a grave, then escaped from its drawer in a mortuary freezer to haunt the church porch. And to haunt Derek Alton’s conscience.

He recognized the creak of a leather motorcycle jacket and saw something familiar about the darkness of his visitor’s eyes. Neil Granger had never owned a motorbike, of course. But his brother did.

‘Morning, Vicar.’

‘Philip?’ Alton stared at the young man. ‘This is a bit early in the morning for a call. You’ve only just caught me.’

‘Sorry. But I have to be at work in Glossop in an hour.’

‘Come into the church,’ said Alton. ‘It isn’t much warmer inside than out, I’m afraid. But at least it’s dry.’

‘No, it’s OK. This won’t take long.’

Alton frowned at the young man’s tone. Philip wouldn’t meet his eye, but fiddled with the strap of his motorcycle helmet and stroked the smooth surface. The movement of Philip’s hands drew Alton’s eyes to the helmet. It was bright red, and looked glaringly out of place in the church porch against the dark stone. There were several scratches on it, as if the helmet had already saved its owner from serious injury in an accident. Alton wanted to suggest to Philip that he should replace it with a new helmet, in case it had been damaged and weakened. It might not protect him next time.

But the vicar recognized that his mind was merely reacting to an impulse to change the subject whenever he sensed a difficult conversation approaching. It was one of his weaknesses. He had to learn to face the fire, and hope that he would be made stronger by the flames.

‘Well, out with it, then,’ said Alton. ‘Is it about Neil?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s such a difficult time for you, Philip. Especially without any immediate family around you to offer support. But I spoke to your uncle a couple of days ago. He explained that it would be a question of cremation, when the time comes. I mean, when the coroner releases... when the final arrangements can be made. And a humanist service, I gather. That’s perfectly understandable — though I did think your brother was becoming a little more interested in the church in recent months. I was quite hopeful, you know...’

Alton realized he was babbling, and ground to a halt. Philip appeared to be paying no attention to his words at all, but kept his eyes turned down, thinking about something else entirely. The vicar felt himself beginning to grow warm under his coat.

‘I went to see the police yesterday,’ said Philip.

‘Yes, of course. Are they any nearer...? Did they give you an idea...? It’s been nearly six days now. Surely—’

Philip shook his head in a gesture of impatience ‘Please, Vicar.’

‘Sorry.’

A little bit of sun appeared through a break in the mist that hung between the yew trees. It looked as if someone had switched a light on. For now, it was pale and yellow, and ringed with a faint halo. But soon, it would dissipate the mist and the day would be fine.

‘It was more a question of me giving them information,’ said Philip. ‘That’s what I wanted to tell you.’

‘Information?’ said Alton.

‘Well, among other things, I thought I ought to tell them that Neil was gay.’

For some reason, Alton found himself latching on to the wrong phrase. ‘What other things?’

Philip looked at him then, with an enigmatic smile. ‘Nothing else that concerns you, Vicar.’

‘I see.’

‘But obviously, the police will be wanting to talk to people again now. People who were involved with Neil in some way.’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’

‘I thought you ought to know.’

Alton had promised himself that he’d make a determined attack on the overgrown churchyard today, provided the weather was fine. That was why he was early this morning, so that he could be outside and ready for action as soon as the mist had gone. He had neglected the job too long already, and no one was going to help him now. He was on his own.

Philip Granger was watching him, waiting for a reaction. ‘You get what I’m saying, Vicar? It’s something you ought to know.’

‘Yes, Philip. Thank you. Thank you very much.’

‘It’s a good thing to tell what you know, isn’t it?’ said Philip. ‘That is, unless there’s a very, very good reason not to.’

Derek Alton nodded. But all he could think of were the dock plants growing in his churchyard. He couldn’t quite explain why the leaves of the docks disturbed him so much more than the other plants. When he pulled at them, they stretched and wrinkled in his hands, like aged skin. They might be warm on the surface, where they had been touched by the sun. But underneath, they were always cold and damp, like the grave.

Philip Granger mounted his motorbike and put on his helmet. He looked across the bridge at Withens. He had one more job he wanted to do, one more person to see. Then, perhaps, he could get on with his life and pretend that everything was OK. Then he could leave it to others to sort out the mess.

As he rode north through the village, he looked for his uncle and cousins near Waterloo Terrace, but could see no signs of them. Philip smiled. He knew that the Reverend Alton would be able to tell where he was heading by the sound of his bike engine, but he didn’t care. There was, after all, only one place he could be going once he had passed through Withens in this direction.

When Michael Dearden had finishing inspecting the locks and bolts on the doors of the house, he went around all the windows. There were a lot of windows in Shepley Head Lodge, some of them in out of the way corners that could be reached unobserved from outside. He might have to block a few of them up some time.