Shaping the Ripples (14 page)

“If you’re sure you wouldn’t rather have some peace and quiet,” I answered. “I think I could be tempted.”

It took only a few minutes to extinguish the candles, turn off the lights, and lock everything away. Then we walked together down the narrow track that led from the church to the large vicarage.

“It must be a hard place to heat when you’re on your own,” I observed as he showed me into the sitting room.

“It is, quite. But I only really live in a few of the rooms so a lot of the radiators are permanently turned off.” Christopher left me alone in the room while he went to fetch glasses and a bottle opener. I looked around and my eye was caught by a tall pile of books on the floor in the corner. I couldn’t read all of the titles but those I could see had titles such as “Fighting the Darkness” and “Deliver us from Evil”. My anxiety about Christopher increased.

He came back in, carrying the open bottle, and poured out two glasses of wine. We both drank in companionable silence for a moment.

“Are you sleeping any better?” I asked him.

“Not really,” he replied. “I’ve just had so much going on in my head at the moment, it’s hard to rest. I hope that now I’ve talked about some of it in the sermon I’ll start to have a bit more peace.”

“Would it help to talk about it?” I offered.

His brow furrowed and then he spoke.

“Do you think that a person is worth nothing more than their worst moment, or than their greatest weakness?”

“I’m not sure I follow you,” I admitted.

“It’s something I’ve been thinking of a lot recently. You know how if politicians or celebrities are found out in some scandal, that’s all that anyone ever remembers them for. Never mind all the good they may have done, all the people whose lives they may have helped, all they are is the scandal. For the rest of their lives they have to wear the label of the moment that they’re most ashamed of – he or she was the one who did such and such.”

I thought for a while before answering. There was something fairly major at the heart of his agonising. What was he trying to hint at?

“I suppose that’s how it can seem, especially in the newspapers.” I said. “But as you were saying today, we’re all a mix of good and bad. If we’re honest, we all do things we’re proud of and things we’re ashamed of. But even those people you mention, the ones whose failings gets shouted to the whole world, are more than that. I’m sure the people who they’ve helped, and the people closest to them, remember all the good things they’ve done as well. That’s got to be worth at least as much as, if not more than, one moment of weakness.”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” he mused. “But I’m not sure it works like that. It’s as if their worst moment defines what they’re worth, and poisons everything else their life has been about.”

I tried to be reassuring. “But even if that’s how some people see it, it can’t be how God measures a person. Wasn’t your point today that He sees the whole of us in a way that no-one else can and yet still loves every part of us?”

Christopher sighed. “I know that’s what I said. But sometimes I wonder if it isn’t all a load of rubbish. Maybe we are alone, and there’s no forgiveness, and no hope of redemption.” Then he shook his head, as if to take back his last words. “But then I think that I’m being too negative, and that there is hope. That’s what I have to hold on to.”

His head had been bowed as he spoke, but now he lifted it. It was almost as if he’d been speaking to himself and had only now remembered that I was here.

“Don’t worry, Jack. I was just rambling. I’m a bit tired and run down is all, and then you start questioning yourself. I didn’t mean to cast a cloud over your day.”

“It’s fine,” I said. “Listening to people is what they pay me for. Do you want to tell me what it is that’s on your mind that’s troubling you so much? It might help to get someone else’s perspective. I know how draining it can be if everyone comes to you with their problems, but you don’t have anyone to turn to yourself.”

With what looked like a great effort, he managed to smile. “No, I think that it’s something I’ve got to work out for myself. Thanks for the offer though, it’s really nice of you.”

I told him to call if he needed someone to talk to at any time and, after exchanging a few more pleasantries with him, got up to leave. I glanced in at the window as I passed it. Christopher was sitting back down, his head bowed again, the wine glass in his hand already refilled.

Back at home, I switched the television on so that the flat wouldn’t feel quite so silent and empty. I had bought myself a roast turkey meal for one, and while that was warming in the oven, flicked around the channels trying to find something worth watching. Nothing particularly inspired me, so I settled for watching “The Wizard of Oz” for the umpteenth time. The food was surprisingly good for a pre-packaged meal, and it was easy to lose myself in the familiar story line. I experienced a feeling that was dangerously close to contentment.

Just as the end credits were rolling across the television screen, my phone rang. Assuming that it would be an emergency call out, I was grateful that I had given the wine to Christopher rather than ploughing through the bottle by myself as I’d planned.

“Hello, Jack Bailey speaking.”

I felt a rush of warmth as I recognised the voice on the other end.

“Hello, Jack Bailey. It’s Katie.”

“Katie!” I said. “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you. How are you surviving your family Christmas?”

“It’s been good so far,” she answered. “Everyone is sleeping off my mum’s massive dinner in the lounge now, so I thought I’d give you a ring and wish you a happy Christmas. What are you up to?”

“Just watching TV,” I admitted. “It’s a really nice surprise to hear your voice.”

“I didn’t like the thought of you being all by yourself. Have you got any plans for the week?”

“Just being on call at the Centre. Oh, and apparently my ex-wife is coming up to see me on Friday.”

There was a slight pause. “Did she say what she wants?”

“No,” I answered. “It seems a bit strange. I guess I’ll have to wait until Friday to find out. She said it wasn’t anything major though.”

“I hope it goes well. Did you manage to get any tickets for the pantomime?”

“Yes, they just had two left. We’re at the very back of the stalls but it’s a small theatre so it shouldn’t be too bad.”

“Good. I must admit that I’m quite looking forwards to it now, but won’t we be the only people there without children?”

“I doubt it,” I answered. “People tend to keep going year after year, even when their children have grown up.”

“I’ll see you on Monday then,” Katie said. “I hope you have a good week.”

“Yes, you too. See you soon.”

When she had rung off, I had to admit that it had been wonderful to talk to her, even if just for a few moments. “You need to watch yourself, Jack” I admonished myself out loud. Having been so alone in the recent years, it would be easy to get carried away with my feelings. Spending time with a delightful, attractive woman, was bound to produce strong feelings in me. I had to be sure that I wasn’t just desperately grabbing at the first person who was vaguely interested in me, and so opening us both up to be badly hurt.

Even these cautious thoughts failed to dampen down the rush of pleasure that I was feeling. I found a channel that was showing an evening of episodes from the “Angel” series. Jennifer had once suggested that the reason I liked the programme so much as because I identified with the theme; someone trying to atone for the sins of their past by rescuing others. I’d argued that my enthusiasm for this and for “Buffy” was more to do with the excellent writing and acting, and the subtle humour that runs through the programmes like a vein. Whichever, it was a good evening.

Chapter Sixteen

As usual Boxing Day lived up to its name. I had two call outs during the day. The first was the least difficult of the two; a couple who came together to the Centre. It seemed that their relationship had been getting increasingly confrontational, until exploding spectacularly on Christmas Day

It had started with a fairly innocuous argument as to whether or not they had both done their fair share of the work preparing to entertain their families for Christmas lunch and clearing up afterwards. However, by the end they were both hurling crockery and pans at each other. Once they’d calmed down, they were both sufficiently frightened of what they’d done, that they’d agreed they needed help before it happened again.

I spent an hour or so talking with them, and it was soon obvious that there were a lot of unspoken resentments between them. I fixed them up a first appointment with a relationship counsellor for the following week and wished them luck as they left, hand in hand. They both seemed determined to save and work at their relationship, so I suspected that they’d probably get through it together.

The second case was, sadly, a more typical Christmas one. The lady who came didn’t have any obvious bruising, but was moving very gingerly. She saw the pressures of Christmas combined with large quantities of alcohol as the justification for why her husband had marked the evening by knocking her to the floor and kicking her repeatedly. Mostly she just wanted someone to talk to. I outlined the help and support that we could give her, but she wasn’t really ready to think about that. She remained convinced that it was out of character for her husband to behave like that, and that “it would never happen again”.

I told her that I hoped she was right, and that we were always on hand if she needed us. I watched her go out with a fair degree of trepidation. I wish it were otherwise, but my experience tells me that once the dam has been breached and violence enters the relationship, it usually recurs with increasing regularity.

Going home, I was fairly confident of having a quiet few days workwise. Normally things either come to a head at Christmas, or they plod on until all the emotions and expectations of a New Year cause a crisis. I did wonder how Jennifer’s family were coping, but I was fairly sure that they wouldn’t appreciate any contact from me. The papers seemed to have lost interest in the story, and I was beginning to wonder if her killer would ever be identified.

My mailbox the next morning was unusually full. There were a couple of belated Christmas cards from people that I’d worked with in Bristol, and several letters from banks and loan companies offering me loans and new credit cards at “low interest rates”. Scrooge’s philosophy that Christmas is “harvest time for the money lenders” obviously still holds good. The final thing to emerge from the slot was a plain white envelope, with the words “J.Bailey” written in capitals on the front. It had clearly been pushed through the door by hand, as there was no stamp or address on it.

I was almost back inside my flat as I opened it, and felt my stomach drop away as I recognised the style of print that it was written in. It was clearly letter number two.

Hello Jack

I hope you weren’t thinking that I’d finished with you. If you were, sorry to disappoint you but we’re just getting started.

There are so many things that I despise about you. You are the most pathetic, despicable excuse for a human being. How do you have the nerve to go on living?

I want you to understand that your life is at an end. I am going to crush and destroy you totally. I will see your blood and I will feast on it as I watch you die. But first, you have some things to learn. I want you to appreciate just how futile your feeble little life is.

I know you’re stupid, so I’ll make it simple.

Lesson One. Talking has no power. I think even that stupid bitch of a therapist realised that, once I’d taken her lips and tongue away.

Lesson Two. Only weak fools use religion as a crutch. You pray and whine to your imaginary God, trying to pretend that he’ll make everything alright even for a worthless failure like you.

Answer me this

Where was that God of yours when your face was being pushed hard into a pillow so that no-one could hear your screams?

Religion is just weak-minded insects, being fed lies by hypocrites and charlatans. I’ll prove it to you.

See you soon.

I stood in the doorway to my flat, my hands shaking as I read and re-read the words on the page. I couldn’t imagine anyone who would hate me enough to write like this. Of course, in the job I do you are bound to make a few enemies, but there was just so much venom in what I was holding.

I was so shaken that it was some minutes before it dawned on me that I would have to give the letter to the police. I went into my flat and secured the door behind me.

I really didn’t feel up to another clash with Michael Palmer, so I racked my brains for the name of the woman detective who had been with him at Jennifer’s house. Slowly it came – Laura Smith.

I picked up the telephone and rang the York police station. When it was answered, I asked to be put through to Detective Inspector Laura Smith. Moments later she came on the line.

“DI Smith speaking.”

“Hello, this is Jack Bailey. I’m the person who discovered the body of Jennifer Carter.”

“Yes, I know who you are Mr. Bailey. What can I do for you?” Her tone was business-like rather than warm.

“I’ve just received another anonymous letter. I’m almost certain that it’s from the same person as the last one. Would it be alright for me to come down and give it to you now?”

“I was just on my way out, but I suppose that I could wait here and see you first.”

“Will DI Palmer be there?” I couldn’t stop myself asking.

There was a pause. “As it happens today is his day off. Am I to assume that you’d prefer not to see him?”

“It just means I don’t have to prepare myself to be accused of writing the note myself.” I answered. “I’ll be there within a quarter of an hour.”

On a sudden impulse, I switched on my computer, and scanned the letter into it. I saved it and printed off another copy. Then I put the original back into the envelope it had come in, and put it into my coat.

The walk across the river was surprisingly busy. People had clearly had enough of being at home and were either rushing to buy yet more stuff in the sales, or to return all their unwanted Christmas presents. I walked along in the middle of the throng, isolated by the thoughts that raced around in my head.