Evil Intent (12 page)

‘Quite a large family, back in Nigeria,’ Father Vincent said. ‘By family, I mean parents, brothers and sisters. That sort of thing. ‘Aunts and uncles, cousins, nieces and nephews. None of them ever visited him here.’

‘Friends?’

‘Jonah was a very…private person. He kept himself to himself. Don’t misunderstand me – he was a wonderful priest. He always had time for his parishioners.
Our
parishioners. But there were strong boundaries. He
didn’t
socialise with them, ever. He never would have considered them friends. And he didn’t have time for friends outside of the parish. Didn’t seem to need them. He was…aloof.’ Father Vincent leaned forward and added in a confidential voice, ‘I admired him for that. Envied him, even. To live
happily
without the need for human companionship – well, that seems to me to be a very special gift from God.’

It sounded dead boring, thought Neville. Unnatural. And it didn’t help them at all. A man without family, without friends.

But not without enemies.

Frances Cherry had been an enemy. They needed to talk to her as soon as possible, Neville realised. He made a move to get up, trying to catch DS Cowley’s eye.

The front door opened and closed, and a blonde woman looked into the study. ‘Vincent?’ She took in the presence of the policemen and frowned. ‘Whatever —’

‘These men are the police,’ Father Vincent announced, rather too
loudly.
‘They’ve brought me some very bad news, I’m afraid. It’s Father Jonah. He’s been murdered.’

It was well past lunchtime when Callie first heard about the murder. She’d gone into the church to help with early preparations for Sunday’s Harvest Festival – something which even in the countryside seemed of dubious relevance in the twenty-first century, and in the middle of London was a ludicrous anachronism. But it had been celebrated at All Saints for many years, having been introduced by a long-ago vicar, and was a much beloved institution. Periodic suggestions to drop Harvest Festival were always firmly quashed by the traditionalists, as well as the flower ladies, who relished the opportunity to exercise their skills on something different once a year.

The actual flowers wouldn’t be done until Friday and Saturday. On the Wednesday, though, the custom was for the women of the church – those who had nothing better to do, at any rate – to gather and make corn dollies. This comparatively modern addition to the ritual had been introduced to All Saints by Jane Stanford, who had learned the
technique
when she and Brian had done a stint in a country parish some years earlier.

By now they all knew how to do it, and Jane’s tuition was no longer necessary. Still, by tradition, Jane was in charge of the activity, so there was some uncertainty when she had not arrived by the appointed two o’clock starting time. A quarter of an hour later, Callie suggested that they might begin without her.

‘Or maybe we should ring,’ someone countered nervously. ‘Perhaps Jane has forgotten.’

‘She’s had a great deal on her mind, with the boys going off,’ added someone else.

Callie produced her mobile phone, into which she had already
programmed
Brian’s home number. The number was engaged.

The women looked at each other helplessly. ‘Well, if you think we should begin…’ one of them said.

A few minutes after they had started, Jane Stanford burst into the room, bright spots of colour on her cheeks and gasping for breath. ‘Oh,
you’ll never believe it!’ she cried. ‘Brian’s just heard! It’s Father Jonah! He’s dead – murdered!’

Frances had been sitting for several hours at the bedside of an elderly man who was dying. He knew that he was dying, and that fact did not trouble him, but he was fretting about whether his family would arrive in time: he did not want to die alone.

‘I’m here,’ Frances murmured continually, stroking the back of his
emaciated
hand. ‘I’m sure they’ll be here soon, but I’m here, and I’m not going to leave you.’ Now and again she stole a peek at her watch. Surely they
would
arrive soon? They didn’t have that far to come. Perhaps they’d been delayed by traffic. She didn’t mind for herself; after all, this was her job, and there was nowhere more important for her to be at this moment. She
minded
on behalf of the old man in the bed, longing for the comfort of his loved ones around him when he breathed his last.

So when the two men appeared in the doorway, Frances looked up at them expectantly, then realised with a stab of disappointment that they weren’t the awaited family.

‘Frances Cherry?’ said the older of the two men, stepping into the room.

‘That’s right.’

He flashed a warrant card in her direction. ‘DI Stewart. This is DS Cowley. We’d like a word with you, please.’

Her mind raced in a spiral of panic. It was Graham: he’d had an
accident.
His church had burnt down. The vicarage had burnt down. Heather had been killed by a crazed gunman in the lawless streets of America.

In spite of her thoughts, she kept her face tranquil and her voice calm, aware of the man in the bed beside her. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to wait,’ she said quietly. ‘I can’t leave just now.’

‘It’s important,’ stated the policeman.

‘So is this.’ Deliberately she turned away from them, bending over the bed and resuming her soothing noises. ‘Don’t fret. I’m sure they’ll be here any minute now. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.’

Surely not, she told herself, even as she continued to speak words of
comfort. Surely nothing had happened to Graham or Heather. Then why were they here? What could be so important that the police would seek her out at work? She hadn’t done anything—

Yes, she had, she realised, and it was like a blow to the solar plexus,
making
her both breathless and dizzy.

She had assaulted Jonah Adimola. At least that would be his story. And he had decided to press charges against her. Yes – that must be it. That was the only explanation that made any sense.

She would be arrested, charged. She would have to stand trial.

She shouldn’t have done it – she shouldn’t have let her temper get the better of her. Leo would vouch for her, and so would Callie, that she’d been provoked. She’d been defending them, not herself. Surely the courts would let her off lightly. A fine, perhaps, or community service. Perhaps just an apology to Jonah. They couldn’t send her to prison for throwing a glass of wine, could they?

But no matter how the legal process turned out, it would get her on the front page of the tabloids: Woman Vicar Assaults Colleague. The fact that he was black would make it even worse; she’d probably be forever dubbed ‘Racist Woman Vicar’.

Conscious of the minutes ticking by, imagining the increasing level of anger in the police she was forcing to wait for her, she glanced again at her watch.

At that moment they arrived: a stocky man, a woman who looked as though she’d been weeping, two teenagers. ‘Dad!’ said the woman, going straight to the bed without a glance at Frances.

‘I’ll just go, then,’ Frances said, but they were too intent upon the
figure
in the bed to notice when she slipped from the room.

The two policemen were standing in the corridor, leaning against the wall. The younger one was fiddling with a packet of cigarettes, glaring through narrowed eyes at the ‘No Smoking’ notice, while the other one sipped at a cup of vending machine coffee.

They both looked at her as she approached them, and they weren’t happy.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, in the same calm voice she’d adopted earlier. She
wouldn’t get hysterical; that would do her cause no good. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting. But he’s dying, you see. I couldn’t leave him until his family got here.’

The older policeman made a disapproving noise. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’ he asked.

Frances weighed up the possibilities. She could do with a cup of coffee, she thought longingly, but the caff was at the other end of the building. There was a small day room nearby, mostly used by patients’ visitors while dressings were being changed or bedpans used. And it had a vending machine – presumably the one the policeman had already found.

She led the way into the room – unoccupied apart from a tearful young man at the window – and went straight to the vending machine. She didn’t carry a handbag when she was working; while she fumbled in a pocket for change, the policeman came up beside her. ‘Allow me,’ he said in a
sardonic
voice. ‘Milk? Sugar?’

‘Black.’

He fed in some money and handed her a plastic cup of steaming black liquid, then got another for himself. ‘Sid?’ he asked.

The younger policeman shook his head. ‘No, thanks. I’d rather have a smoke.’

‘Not in here,’ said Frances, pointing out the ubiquitous notice. ‘Sorry.’

They sat on wood-framed chairs with seats and backs upholstered in coarsely woven royal blue hessian, Frances facing the policemen across a low table littered with a variety of out-of-date magazines. The pictures on the wall were anodyne: watercolour prints of mediterranean harbours with impossibly blue water, masses of flowers spilling over wrought-iron
balconies.
The view from the window, of urban Paddington, was something else entirely.

Frances had been thinking about what to say to the policemen, and was determined to get in there first, before they had a chance to put her on the defensive. She took a bracing sip of the coffee and said, in what she hoped was a conciliatory tone, ‘Listen. I think I know what you’re here for. It’s about Father Jonah, isn’t it?’

The two policemen exchanged a look. ‘Yes,’ said the elder – the
Inspector – cautiously.

‘He’s decided to press charges, then, has he?’ Without waiting for an answer, she continued with what she’d planned to say. ‘I know what I did was wrong. It was unprofessional of me, not to mention unChristian. And I’m very sorry. Do you think he would be prepared to accept an apology, instead of making a legal issue of it? After all, he didn’t suffer any
permanent
damage. It was just a little wine.’

‘Jonah Adimola is dead.’ The Inspector’s words cut through the room like a knife.

Frances gasped, as the blood drained from her face and the fingers
holding
the cup of coffee went slack. The cup fell to the floor, spattering her legs, the old magazines, and even the policemen’s trousers with hot coffee.

‘You seem to make rather a habit of throwing your drinks over people,’ said the Inspector ironically. ‘I’d watch that, if I were you.’

‘It wasn’t…it wasn’t an accident?’ she faltered. ‘Jonah?’

‘He was murdered.’

‘Oh, God.’ Frances’ brain, which seemed to have ground to a
momentary
halt, now kicked into overdrive. Jonah murdered. They would think she had done it. ‘Listen,’ she said urgently. ‘I didn’t know. I didn’t see him again. Not after…the wine incident. You have to believe me.’

The younger policeman – the Sergeant – was writing in a small
notebook.
The Inspector looked across at her, seeming to take in every detail of her appearance, before he responded. ‘You went straight home, did you?’

‘Well, sort of.’ She remembered the jumble of emotions – anger,
indignation,
shame, guilt – which had overwhelmed her in the aftermath of her impulsive action. She remembered Leo’s soothing voice, his comforting arm round her shoulder. She had no idea how long they had walked and talked. ‘I walked around for a while,’ she said. ‘With Leo Jackson – the Area Dean. He took me home.’

‘Your home, or his?’ The Inspector’s expression was unreadable.

‘Mine, of course.’

‘And then?’

‘Then…nothing.’ She tried to remember what, exactly, she’d done. ‘He left, when he was sure I was going to be all right. My husband was out at a
meeting. He wasn’t back yet. So I went straight to bed.’

‘Leo Jackson,’ the Inspector went on. ‘What is your relationship with him?’

‘I told you. He’s the Area Dean.’ She paused, then added, ‘I’ve known him for years. We’re friends.’

‘Close friends?’ the Inspector asked neutrally.

‘Quite close, yes.’

It didn’t escape her notice that the Sergeant looked up from his
notebook
and caught the Inspector’s eye. The Inspector gave a minute shake of his head and the Sergeant frowned.

The Inspector let the silence stretch out for a long moment as Frances wondered what could possibly come next. Would they arrest her now, drag her off to gaol? Or did they believe her, that she’d had nothing to do with it?

‘Well, thank you, Reverend Cherry,’ said the Inspector in a formal voice. ‘You’ve been very … helpful. We know where to reach you if we have any further questions.’

Frances couldn’t believe that was the end of it; she sighed with relief as the two policemen stood.

‘One more question, though,’ said the Inspector. ‘Did Jonah Adimola have any enemies that you know of?’

‘Every ordained woman was his enemy,’ Frances stated bitterly. ‘Or I suppose it would be more accurate to say that he was ours. He always made it very clear what he thought of us. And other… minorities… as well. He was opinionated, outspoken. Rude.’

‘You didn’t like him,’ said the Inspector; it was a statement rather than a question.

‘No. I didn’t like him.’ She paused. ‘I didn’t like him. But I didn’t kill him.’

The Inspector raised his eyebrows and gave her a long, speculative look. ‘Then answer me just one question, Reverend Cherry.’

‘Yes?’

‘You have a white stole with blue writing on it. Names. Women’s names.’

‘Yes,’ Frances confirmed breathlessly, beginning to go cold. Her mouth
filled with saliva, tinged with the bitter after-taste of coffee.

‘Then maybe you can tell me how your stole happened to get round Jonah Adimola’s neck?’

DS Cowley lit up as soon as they were through the hospital doors. ‘God, that’s better,’ he murmured, drawing deeply on the cigarette. ‘Bloody
hospital.’

‘I’m glad your nicotine craving doesn’t rule your life,’ Neville said acidly.

Sid Cowley, though a fairly uncomplicated soul, was able to recognise sarcasm when it stared him in the face. He also knew better than to cheek an inspector, so he contented himself with a muttered, ‘Bloody ex-smoker.’

Neville gave him a sharp look. ‘What did you say, Sergeant?’

‘I said,’ he enunciated clearly, ‘that I wish I could quit smoking.’

‘You wouldn’t regret it,’ Neville stated. ‘Best thing I ever did, giving up the fags. Apart from leaving Ireland, of course.’

They got into the car, Neville behind the wheel. But before he turned the key in the ignition, he sat for a minute, collecting his thoughts. ‘I’m glad we decided to track her down,’ he said. ‘Before anyone had a chance to warn her.’

‘She seemed pretty surprised,’ Cowley recalled. ‘Did you believe her, Guv?’

Neville took a deep breath, trying not to be too obvious as he leaned towards the curl of smoke from Cowley’s cigarette. ‘She was pretty
convincing,’
he admitted. ‘But what you have to remember, Sid, is that priests are sort of like actors. They’re used to performing in public, to playing out roles. That’s one thing I learned in Ireland, and I don’t suppose the Church of England is any different. Quite honestly, I don’t think we can take any of them at face value. Not Frances Cherry, nor Leo Jackson. Or even the husband, or that Father Vincent.’

‘So you still think they’re having it off? Cherry and Jackson?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said frankly. ‘It would explain a lot if they were.’ It would explain, thought Neville, why they were so protective of each other. And it would discredit their alibis, which at the moment consisted only of the fact that they’d each said the same thing: that they’d walked about while she calmed down, and then he’d walked her home. That could so
easily
have been cooked up in advance, Neville reasoned. They might have committed the murder together, or she might have done it and enlisted him to cover for her. Maybe even the other way round, if Jackson had killed the other priest to avenge the honour of his lady love. One thing he felt for
certain,
in his gut: the two of them, as neatly as their stories coincided, were not telling him the whole truth. They were hiding something, and a love affair between them would be a logical thing for them to want to hide. A story like that – prominent black churchman bonks married woman priest – would provide juicy fodder for the tabloids, and possibly put an end to two careers, not to mention a marriage.