The Woman In Blue: The Dr Ruth Galloway Mysteries 8 (10 page)

‘Goodbye then, Doctor Rainsford.’

‘Goodbye.’

As Nelson walks towards the front door, he hears the chanting starting up again.

Outside, it has started to rain. Despite this, there’s a steady stream of people walking down the high street, some in clerical robes and some in more touristy garb, carrying cameras and picnic baskets. The pilgrimage has begun.

Chapter 14

‘Don’t leave me, Mum!’

It’s pitiful, like a child being wrenched from its mother’s arms at the pit head, or the prison gate or on board the sinking
Titanic
. When, in truth, all Ruth is doing is going out for a meal at a hotel a few miles away. With any luck, she’ll be back by ten.

‘I won’t be long, sweetheart.’ She crouches down. ‘And Clara’s going to play Sylvanians with you and watch a DVD.’

‘
Frozen
?’ says Kate hopefully.

‘What about something else?’ Ruth feels she’s had enough of
Frozen
’s faux feminist message. How come, when Elsa sings about letting go and the cold not bothering her, she suddenly gets an hour-glass figure and a plunging neckline? Ruth thinks that both female characters could benefit from wearing anoraks, to be honest. ‘What about
The Jungle Book
?’

‘
Frozen
!’

‘Oh, all right then.’

When Clara arrives, all smiles and home-made fudge, Ruth tells her that she has promised to let Kate watch
Frozen
before bedtime.

‘Oh great! I love that film.’ Both Kate and Clara launch into ‘Let it Go’. Ruth is glad that Kate has cheered up, but she suddenly feels a hundred years old. All she wants to do is go to bed with the latest Ian Rankin and
Book at Bedtime
on the radio. Well, with any luck the priests won’t want to make a night of it.

‘I won’t be late back,’ she tells Clara.

‘Don’t worry,’ says Clara. ‘I’ll be quite happy. I’ve brought my books with me.’ Clara is studying for an Open University degree. She already has a degree in law, but dropped out of law school, saying that she wanted to do good in the world. Since then, as far as Ruth can see, she has been living at home and accumulating qualifications. Ruth sometimes feels that she should advise Clara to travel and see the world, but she doesn’t because she’s such a good babysitter.

Hilary and her friends are meeting at Briarfields, a popular hotel on the edge of the marshes. Ruth likes Briarfields, it’s smart without being intimidating, the food is delicious and it’s only a few miles from her cottage. She’ll have a nice meal, chat politely and come home. She imagines that all the priests will be fasting anyway and drinking water. She does hope they won’t say grace before eating.

When she gets to the hotel the first thing she sees is a group of smartly dressed women in the bar. They are shrieking with laughter and drinking cocktails. She is about to back out, but she sees that one of the women, wearing tight jeans and a black lace top, has grey hair in a smooth bob.

‘Ruth! Come and meet the girls.’

The ‘girls’, who are in their thirties, forties and fifties, greet Ruth warmly. They commiserate with her for not being able to drink alcohol. ‘Have a Virgin Mary,’ says one, without apparent irony. Ruth accepts a non-alcoholic cocktail and is soon engrossed in a discussion about archaeology with a woman called Paula.

‘I wanted to be an archaeologist,’ says Paula, who is extremely attractive, with long, blonde hair. ‘But I couldn’t do the physics.’

‘There isn’t much physics in archaeology,’ says Ruth. ‘It’s a mixture of history, geology and guesswork.’

‘Bit like the priesthood,’ says Paula, ‘minus the geology, I suppose.’

‘What did you do . . . er . . . before?’

‘I was an actress,’ says Paula, accepting another Manhattan. ‘Not a very good one although I did get to play Third Prostitute in
The Bill
.’

‘Not even First or Second Prostitute,’ says a woman called Sydney, taking a swig of her drink. ‘That’s rough.’

Ruth’s mind is reeling. Who are these women, talking about prostitutes and drinking strong liquor? It’s worse than going out with the field archaeology team. Her heart sinks when she hears the talk turn to relationships.

‘I’d like to find a man,’ says Sydney, ‘but Christian dating sites are so dull.’

‘Oh, I met Simon on a Christian site,’ says another woman. ‘He posted a video of himself playing the ukulele.’

‘Surprised that didn’t put you off for life,’ says Sydney.

‘What about you, Ruth?’ asks Hilary.

‘What about me?’

‘Do you ever want a man in your life?’

Ruth hesitates. Should she tell Hilary to mind her own business (religious people can be very nosy) or explain the whole complicated story of her relationship with Nelson? Or should she tell her about Frank? On evenings like this she misses Frank – confident, gregarious Frank – very much.

‘I don’t need a man,’ she says at last. ‘I’ve got a daughter and a cat.’

This is met with universal approval. It turns out that, if there’s one thing women priests love more than cocktails, it’s cats.

*

Nelson has had a frustrating afternoon. The road blocks and door-to-door have failed to bring forth any new witnesses. The CCTV footage from the Slipper Chapel shows nothing between the hours of eight and midnight on the 19th apart from a dark and deserted car park. At one point a large animal stalks across the screen and there’s some discussion in the station about whether it’s a ‘big cat’. There are always dozens of these big cat sightings in Norfolk; Nelson supposes that it gives the locals something to do.

At six o’clock Nelson is in his office reading Tanya’s report on angel healing courses. The one she considers most likely to have appealed to Chloe is an online qualification in angel therapy, promising a certificate via PDF at the end of it. It has a comforting pseudo-academic feel, with each of the seven modules based on one of the archangels. Some of the names Nelson recognises – Gabriel and Michael, for example – others, like Uriel, Chamuel and Zadkiel, sound frankly made-up. He reads on, with increasing incredulity. The course promises to help the participant tap into ‘vibrational energies’ which will aid healing. Did Chloe really believe in this stuff? Tanya has added a note to say that the company running the course has no record of receiving payment from a Chloe Jenkins. So either Chloe thought better of studying angel healing or she booked under an assumed name. Nelson Googles and, under the coy heading ‘Remuneration’, he finds that the course costs a hundred and fifty pounds, including complementary angel oracle cards. Jesus wept. Purely for the pleasure of disapproving, he clicks on the link ‘Angel gifts’ and finds an array of crystals, bracelets, pendants and colour-therapy scarves. He’s about to switch off when he notices the last item in the celestial shopping basket. ‘Beautiful angel brooch, solid gold. Provides protection wherever you go.’ Nelson thinks of Jean pointing out the ornament pinned to her grey tracksuit. Whether she had completed the course or not, Chloe had clearly thought enough of her friend to buy her this gift. In solid gold no less.

He is still browsing the angel healing sites (who knew there were so many?) when Tim knocks on his door.

‘Boss? I’ve had a call from Larry Westmondham. You know, the vicar. Doreen’s son. He said he has something to tell us. A matter of conscience, he said.’

‘And he couldn’t tell you on the phone?’

‘He said he’d rather talk face to face.’

Nelson sighs and rings Michelle to tell her that he’ll be late home. Or rather, he tells her answering service because she’s still at the salon.

‘She’s always working late these days,’ he says to Tim.

Tim doesn’t answer. Nelson supposes that old married couples are of no interest to him.

Larry Westmondham says he’ll see them at seven ‘after Evensong’. Now they’re sitting in the beautiful old church of St Simeon’s waiting for the vicar to emerge from some shadowy space behind the high altar. The church seems very bare after the Slipper Chapel. Like all churches, it smells of incense and candlewax. It’s also freezing cold.

Nelson picks up a hymnbook. ‘Fancy a sing-song to pass the time?’

‘I only know “Jesus loves you”.’

‘“Soul of my Saviour”. That’s the one I remember. Depressing as hell.’

‘We should have Cloughie here. He loves karaoke.’

‘Jesus. Do you remember all those Elvis songs at the Christmas party?’

A faint cough signals that the vicar is in their midst. Nelson is faintly embarrassed that he was caught saying ‘Jesus’.

It’s his first meeting with Larry Westmondham, and his immediate impression is that this is a man with the cares of the world on his shoulders. The vicar is fairly young, despite being almost bald, but his face has already settled into lines of worry. He’s dressed in a black shirt and trousers and doesn’t seem to feel the cold.

‘Detective Chief Inspector Nelson. Good of you to come.’

‘Sergeant Heathfield said that you had something you wanted to tell us.’

‘Yes.’ The vicar sits in the row in front and twists round to face them. Nelson feels oddly awkward, childhood memories of Confession fighting with his police officer’s instinct to conduct interviews in properly regulated circumstances, not sitting in an icy church at seven p.m.

Westmondham, too, seems to be finding it difficult. He runs a hand over his smooth skull. ‘I’ve wondered whether I should tell you this. I’ve prayed about it. It goes against my instincts, but there’s a chance that it might have a bearing on the murder of Chloe Jenkins.’

Nelson and Tim exchange glances. ‘Then you should definitely tell us,’ says Nelson, trying not to sound impatient.

‘Sergeant Heathfield told me that Chloe used to come to Sunday services here. I didn’t know. I mean I didn’t know that she was the same girl that Mum used to look after. But I did know that there were some patients from the Sanctuary. One of them I recognised.’

Another pause during which the priest seems to be fighting with his conscience.

‘Stanley Greenway. He used to be a vicar at a neighbouring parish to mine. Before I came here. He had to leave.’

‘Because of problems with drink?’ asks Nelson.

Larry Westmondham looks at him squarely. ‘No. Because he was a convicted sex offender.’

The surprise strikes Nelson and Tim momentarily dumb. Westmondham carries on: ‘Almost every priest has a sex offender in the parish. It’s logical. It’s where you come when the rest of the world rejects you. And mostly we manage it. We have safeguarding guidelines. We can make sure they’re never left alone with children, for example. But, apart from that, we leave them alone. After all, they need God as much – if not more – than the rest of us.’

‘Stanley Greenway’s offences,’ says Nelson, ‘were they against children?’

‘Technically, yes,’ says Westmondham. ‘I think the girl was seventeen. It’s still abuse – abuse of power for one thing – but it’s obviously not the same as if she was a very young child. Greenway claimed to be in love with her. The mother found out and called the police. Terribly sad business.’

‘What happened to the girl?’ asks Nelson. He is thinking of Stanley, sad and stooped in the visitors’ room at the Sanctuary, saying ‘She was like an angel’. Had he been in love with Chloe too? Had that led him to kill her?

‘She wasn’t named,’ said Larry. ‘And I think the family moved away. I hope she’s put it behind her now.’

‘Why didn’t you tell us this before?’ asks Tim.

‘Well, at first I didn’t link Stanley Greenway to the dead girl. But then you showed me her picture, and I remembered that he used to come to services with her.’

‘But why didn’t you tell me then? When you remembered?’

Now Larry Westmondham looks really uncomfortable. ‘I thought . . . well, there was nothing to link Stanley to the murder. And being a sex offender – especially in his circumstances – doesn’t necessarily make you a killer. And he was in rehab, obviously getting help. I suppose I didn’t want to be the one to cast the first stone.’

‘What made you change your mind?’ asks Nelson.

‘I prayed about it, as I said. And Sergeant Heathfield seemed a decent man. I didn’t think he’d hound Stanley or anything. And I thought Mum would want me to do everything I could to help the police.’

Thank goodness for a guilty conscience and the power of mothers, thought Nelson. As he stands up, he says, ‘Your mother sounds a remarkable woman.’

Larry’s smooth, worried face seems to come to life. ‘Oh, she was. She fostered over a hundred children, you know, and still always had time for the three of us. A lot of her foster children still keep in touch. They’re nurses, teachers, social workers, all sorts. There’s even a priest. They’re her memorial, not the stone outside.’

‘Talking of the gravestone,’ says Nelson, ‘I think Chloe had been cleaning it.’ He describes the discovery of the cleaning materials hidden behind a bush.

Larry’s face works like a child about to cry. ‘That’s very touching. Poor girl. To think she was still so attached to Mum. I wish she’d come and talked to me.’

It’s pitch dark when they leave the church. Larry Westmondham locks up with a huge, archaic-looking set of keys. He lives at the top of the village, he tells them.

‘Don’t you live in the vicarage?’ Nelson asks. He remembers seeing a rather grand house of this name, set back from the road near the church.

Larry laughs. ‘The vicarage is worth a million or thereabouts. The Church sold it long ago. I live in a modern semi-detached.’

They walk through the graveyard, the frost crunching under their feet. A night bird calls from the trees, but otherwise everything is silent. At the lych-gate in the passage under Justin’s house, Larry says goodbye and heads off into the night. They can hear him whistling as he walks. It sounds like a hymn.

‘We need to talk to Stanley Greenway in the morning,’ says Nelson.

‘OK,’ says Tim, ‘but, like Larry said, there’s nothing to link him to the murder.’

‘He was obsessed with one young girl, he might have been obsessed with Chloe too. Didn’t he tell us that he loved her? We need to get fingerprints and a DNA sample. If his DNA’s on Chloe’s nightclothes then we’ve got him.’

Their cars are parked on the road outside the cottage. Nelson calls goodnight to Tim then starts the engine of his Mercedes. But, instead of the satisfying throaty roar that he’s used to, there’s a feeble click and then silence. He tries again, but the engine is completely dead.