Andrew Taylor - Fallen Angel

‘Maybe you’re right. Maybe we don’t try hard enough to understand. But right now I don’t want to try. I just want Lucy.’

‘Sally – I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to –’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

She sat down again and sipped her coffee. It was cold here, in this unloved room in an unloved house. For an instant she thought she heard the thrumming of wings. She caught herself glancing up at the ceiling, as if expecting to see a giant bird hovering above her head. I must not go mad. Lucy needs me. Oliver was still watching her. His concern irritated her.

‘You’re having a hell of a time at present,’ he told her in a low, sympathetic voice which brought her to the verge of screaming at him. ‘All this on top of Michael’s problems.’

‘Yes.’ Sally’s mind made an unexpected connection: Oliver’s phone call two weeks ago on that disastrous Saturday when Uncle David had come to lunch. She looked down, afraid her eyes would betray her. Suddenly cunning, she murmured, ‘Poor Michael.’

‘Don’t worry too much. Maybe they’ll drop the complaint.’

‘And if not?’

‘Hard to tell.’ This time he avoided her eyes. ‘Michael’s record is in his favour. And most people feel a lot of sympathy. We’re all tempted.’

‘But Michael didn’t resist.’ It was not quite a question: more an intelligent guess.

‘Obviously he acted on impulse and under great provocation.’ Oliver sounded like counsel for the defence. ‘It’s not as if he makes a habit of hitting people. And in the circumstances …’ His voice trailed into silence. Then: ‘I assumed he’d have told you.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Sally said. ‘I shouldn’t have tricked you. But will you tell me the rest? Who did he hit, and why?’

‘A man he’d just arrested.’

‘But why?’

‘Why the arrest? Handling stolen goods. Possession of a firearm. But that wasn’t why Michael hit him. This guy liked putting out cigarettes on a toddler’s arm. His own daughter. And he was acting as if it made him some kind of hero. A hard man doing what hard men do. So Michael punched him in the mouth: to shut him up, Michael said.’

Sally sat there, her head bowed, and tried to pray.

‘I’d have done the same.’ Oliver leaned forward in his chair. ‘It’s possible that the man was trying to provoke Michael into taking a swing at him. The lawyers on both sides are hoping for a deal. That was what the meeting on Friday morning was about.’

She remembered finding Michael in the flat at lunch time on Friday when he should have been at work; he had been drinking lager, which he never did on duty. Those and other signs had been there. She should have asked questions.

‘Don’t blame him,’ Oliver said. ‘He probably didn’t want to worry you.’

Sally shook her head. ‘It’s as much my fault as his.’ Now as then. It was abruptly clear to her that the kidnapping did not release her from other responsibilities.

‘It all seems irrelevant now,’ he went on.

She did not want to talk about it with Oliver. ‘Do you mind if I make a phone call? I ought to get in touch with my boss.’

Oliver took her to a room at the back of the house. The only furniture was a dark, ugly dining table and a set of matching chairs. On the table was a phone, a computer, files and books. She tapped in the number for St George’s. With luck, Derek and Margaret would still be in church. In her mind she composed a warmly impersonal message for the answering machine.

‘St George’s Vicarage. Derek Cutter speaking.’

‘Derek – it’s Sally.’

‘My dear, how are you? I tried ringing the flat before church, but –’

‘I – we had to go out.’

‘Any news?’

Sally hesitated. ‘Not really.’

‘We prayed for you today.’

Then it didn’t do much good. ‘Thank you. It’s a great comfort.’

‘Now, is there anything we can do in other respects? Margaret was saying only at breakfast that you shouldn’t be left to cope with all this by yourselves. Why don’t you come and stay with us? At times like this friendship can be a very real blessing. Besides, on a purely practical level –’

‘In fact, we’ve decided to stay with a friend of Michael’s.’ Knowing that she was accepting another’s offer while rejecting Derek’s made her feel even guiltier.

‘Ah. Well, the offer’s still open.’

‘It’s so kind of you.’ Sally heard the insincerity in her voice and tried to banish it. ‘Do thank Margaret. And – and give her my love.’

‘Would you like a word with her? She’s here.’

‘I’d better not. I’m in rather a hurry. And we want to leave the line free.’

‘Of course. But shall I take your phone number? Just in case something comes up at this end.’

Fortunately the number was on the base unit of the phone. Sally read it out to Derek.

‘Shall I phone you this evening?’ he suggested. ‘Unless you’d rather phone me. Just for a chat.’

‘I’m not sure.’ Sally’s good resolutions dissolved. ‘We may be out. I’m afraid I have to go now.’

She said goodbye and put down the phone. It was much easier to think charitably about Derek when you weren’t dealing directly with him. At least she hadn’t actually lied. Her conscience prodded her: there are silent lies as well as spoken ones.

Thanks to Derek, Sally realized, or rather thanks to her dislike of Derek, she hadn’t thought about Lucy for at least a moment. But now her mind was making up for lost time. Sally stumbled into the hall and followed the sound of rushing water into the kitchen.

The room was clean and tidy, the real heart of the house. It had been recently redecorated. Oliver was washing up the coffee mugs.

‘Would you mind if I went out for a walk?’ she heard herself saying. ‘I’ve been cooped up ever since this happened. I feel I need some air.’

That wasn’t the entire truth, either: she also needed to find a church, to try to put right what had gone wrong inside St Michael’s.

Oliver fussed over her, establishing first that she wanted to go by herself, second that her coat was warm enough and third that she did not need a street map.

‘What happens if you need to phone? You’ve got a mobile, haven’t you?’

‘Yes, but I left it at home. Besides, I’m only going out for a few minutes.’

Oliver was treating her like a child, she thought crossly: nanny knows best. Couldn’t he understand that she wouldn’t be long because there might be some news of Lucy?

At last he let her go. Outside the air was raw, the wind cutting at her exposed skin. She turned left without a backward glance, walking briskly down the street in the direction of the church, hands deep in the pocket of her jacket. The road was seedier than she had first thought: the cars were older, the gutters lined with litter; satellite dishes projected from crumbling brickwork, pointing in the same directions like flying saucers on parade; and the curtains in many of the windows were ragged and unmatching, always a giveaway.

A line of railings sealed the far end of the road. A gate, standing open, pierced the railings and on the other side was the churchyard. It was lunch time, so the morning’s services would have finished. The door might well be locked, but with luck the key holder would live nearby.

The church itself was partly masked by a screen of yews and hawthorns which ran parallel to the railings just inside them. The nave and choir were a single, brick-built oblong with an apse projecting from the east end. Early nineteenth century, Sally thought automatically, perhaps a little older. The base of the tower, a mass of weathered masonry at the west end, must have belonged to a previous church on the site; the upper storeys were Victorian gothic.