Andrew Taylor - Fallen Angel

‘I remember.’

‘She died before I reached the hospital.’

‘Was she one of ours?’

‘Yes. In a sense.’ Sally sat down. ‘She was the woman who made a disturbance when I preached my first sermon.’

‘Oh, yes. Poor woman. Where did she worship?’

‘I don’t know if she went anywhere. Her landlady thought not. But I think we should see she gets a proper burial.’

‘Better make sure it’s a man who conducts the service.’ Derek began to smile, then stopped, remembering why he was here.

‘Anglo-Catholic for choice. Her room was like an oratory. I’ve got a bag of her clothes.’ She looked wildly round the room, wondering where the bag was. ‘And also some books.’ Had she taken the books out last night? If so, why?

‘It doesn’t matter now. We’ll sort it out.’

Derek’s voice was so soothing that Sally realized she must be sounding overwrought. She made an effort to turn the conversation back to the parish and the arrangements which needed to be made.

Derek slipped from the pastoral mode to the managerial. Here he was in his element; his efficiency was a virtue. He had already arranged cover for her services. Margaret would see to the Mothers and Toddlers and the Single Mums for as long as needed. As he went through her responsibilities, Sally had a depressing vision of Derek rising unstoppably, committee by committee, preferment by preferment, up the promotional ladder of the Church. It wasn’t the meek that inherited the earth but people like Derek. She told herself that the Church needed the Dereks of this world, and that she had no reason to feel superior in any respect.

‘And if there’s anything that you or Michael need,’ he was saying when she pulled her mind back on course, ‘just phone us. Any time, Sally – you know that. Day or night.’

He stood up, tied the silk scarf round his thin neck and slipped the strap of his helmet over his arm. In its way, it had been a polished performance, and part of Sally was able to admire its professionalism. It made her squirm. Yvonne had almost certainly been eavesdropping through the open door of the kitchen.

‘Look after yourself, my dear.’ He seized her hands again and pressed them between his. ‘And once more, if there’s anything I can do.’ Another, firmer squeeze, even the suggestion of a stroke. ‘You have only to ask. You know that.’

Good God, Sally thought, as her skin crawled: I think he fancies me. With a wave of his hand, Derek called goodbye to Yvonne and left the flat. Too late, Sally remembered Miss Oliphant’s bag but could not bear to call him back.

Yvonne came into the living room. ‘Quite a charmer.’

‘He does his best.’ Sally forgot about Derek. ‘Who’s in charge of the case?’

‘Mr Maxham. Do you know him?’

Sally shook her head.

‘He’s very experienced. One of the old school.’

‘Shouldn’t he be asking me questions? Shouldn’t someone ask me something?’ She heard her voice growing louder, and was powerless to stop it. ‘Damn it, I’m Lucy’s mother.’

‘Don’t worry, love, they’ll send someone round soon. Maybe Mr Maxham will come himself. They’re doing everything that can be done. Why don’t you sit down for a bit? I’ll make us a nice hot drink, shall I?’

‘I don’t want a drink.’

Sally sat down and started to cry. Yvonne dispensed paper handkerchiefs and impersonal sympathy. In a while the tears stopped. Sally went to the bathroom to wash her face. The reflection in the mirror showed a stranger with moist, red-rimmed eyes, pinched cheeks and lank hair. She went back to the living room. Being with Yvonne, with anyone, was better than being alone. Solitude was full of dangers.

The minute hand crawled round the clock, each minute an hour, each hour a week. Everywhere Sally looked there were reminders of Lucy – photographs, paintings, toys, clothes and books.

The worst reminders were those which were coupled with regrets. Lucy had wanted her to play Matching Pairs on Thursday evening, and Sally had said no, she needed to cook supper. Lucy had demanded another chapter of the book they were reading at bedtime, an enormously dull chronicle of life among woodland folk, and had thrown a theatrical tantrum when Sally declined. Lucy had also wanted Michael to kiss her good night, but he had not been at home; she had not cried on that occasion, but her silence had been worse than her tears and screams. Lucy had wanted to bake gingerbread men the other day, Lucy had wanted the conjuring set from Woolworth’s, Lucy this and Lucy that. Sally sat placidly at her desk and pretended to read a magazine while, all around her, the flat hummed with lost opportunities and reminders of her failure to be the mother that Lucy needed and deserved.

Suffering had a monotonous quality; Sally had never known that before. Only the phone broke into the tedium. Each time it rang, Sally willed it to herald news of Lucy; or, failing that, that it should be Michael. Yvonne answered all the calls. Sally held her breath, digging her fingernails into the palms of her hands, until it became clear that the caller was just a time-waster – or rather, worse than that, someone who might be preventing news of Lucy from reaching Sally.

‘Mr and Mrs Appleyard aren’t available for comment …’

Sally’s fingernails left raw, red half-moons on her palms. Some of the calls were from friends but more were from journalists.

‘I’m afraid they’ll soon be camping on the doorstep.’ Yvonne went to the window and looked down at the road below. ‘Not a lot we can do about that except move you somewhere else.’

‘Why are they so interested?’ Sally made an enormous effort to be objective about what had happened. ‘Thousands of children must vanish every year. They aren’t news.’

‘They are if their dad’s in the CID and their mum’s a vicar. Let’s face it, love, that makes it a news story whether we like it or not.’

Michael did not ring. She wanted him very badly. What the hell was keeping him? Sally tried to prise information out of Yvonne but had no success: either the policewoman knew no more than Sally or had been forbidden to discuss the case.

By ten-thirty, there were three journalists outside the front of the block. Sally felt sorry for them: though they were well wrapped up against the weather, they looked pinched and cold. One of them tried to sneak into the service entrance at the rear and was indignantly shooed out of the communal garden by the owner of a ground-floor flat.

Sally tried to phone Carla, but there was no reply. Sally wondered how the child minder was feeling. Did she blame herself? Sally perversely wanted to monopolize the blame.

At eleven o’clock Sally made some coffee. By then she and Yvonne had stopped trying to talk to each other. Sally sat at her desk in front of the window, nursing the steaming mug between her hands, and waited for something to happen. In her mind, the pictures unfolded: she saw a pool of blood sinking into bare earth under trees; Lucy’s broken body half-concealed under a pile of dead leaves; a man running. She heard laughter. Fire crackled; a bell tolled; there was snow, straw and excrement on the cobbles. Briefly she glimpsed the dream that had filled her mind just before waking. Had there been a woman screaming? In the dream or in reality? Another or herself?

‘Do you do crosswords?’ Yvonne asked.

Sally hauled herself out of the confusion. ‘No – well, I used to, but I haven’t had much time recently.’

Yvonne was working on the crossword in the Daily Telegraph and had already completed a respectable number of clues. ‘It passes the time. Do you want a clue?’

Sally shook her head. She tried to read but it was impossible to concentrate. Her mind fluttered like a butterfly. She pushed her hand into her pocket and touched Lucy’s sock, her talisman, her Jimmy.