The Chorister at the Abbey Read online

  ‘Nah.’ She shook her head. ‘But I’ve tried texting her. She hardly ever replies and when she does, it’s weird.’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘She says she’s busy ’cos she’s seeing someone.’

  ‘Yer what?’

  ‘You sound surprised.’

  ‘I am. She looks really frumpy and grim. Wears scarves, long skirts, Timberlands.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Well, it’s not exactly sexy.’ Tom paused before his next killer sentence. ‘You look sexier than her these days.’

  Poppy sucked audibly at her straw, which Tom found uncomfortably erotic. I like big girls, he said to himself. And Poppy was less big than she used to be, and shapely with it. He relaxed into her and conversation stopped for a minute.

  Then Poppy said, ‘I bet he’s an old guy. Or married.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Chloe’s squeeze.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Because then he wouldn’t care what she looked like, would he? He’d just get off on the fact she was young. And she’s so secretive. Before she couldn’t keep her mouth shut about how popular she was and who she’d had sex with. Or nearly had sex with. But now, nada.’

  There was a long but not empty silence while they both drank.

  ‘Actually,’ said Poppy, pausing to suck voluptuously on her straw, ‘I’m a bit worried about Chloe. She was my best friend, after all.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Well, it’s not right somehow. There’s summat going on. I think you should keep a lookout.’

  ‘Me?’

  Tom cast his mind back to his last conversation with Chloe, when he had told her about the psalter in Morris Little’s hand. For a minute he felt uncomfortable. Edwin Armstrong, whom he respected in an obscure sort of way, had told him not to tell anyone. But he had gone and told Chloe. Though surely that didn’t matter; they were family, after all. Edwin would probably have told Chloe himself. But the suspicion that he had been indiscreet would not go away. To make amends, he found himself agreeing with Poppy.

  ‘OK, I’ll keep an eye on her.’ He wasn’t sure why, but he felt that this way he would at least be able to check on what Chloe did. ‘Maybe she’ll have a coffee with me – you know, just as friends.’

  ‘It had better be just as friends,’ said Poppy, to his satisfaction.

  Spurred on, he said, ‘And how about the weekend? Should we go to the Chinese on Fletchergate on Friday?’

  ‘All right.’ Poppy sank her plump leg even further into his bony thigh. This is wonderful, Tom thought. My strategy is working. With luck, if I play my cards right and take things slowly, then, with a bit of girly-style romance, we might be able to go a bit further this weekend.

  ‘And in the meantime,’ Poppy said in a sudden rush, ‘why not come back to my place and watch a movie in my bedroom this afternoon?’

  Tom’s mouth gaped open and his big brown eyes shone like chocolate drops.

  ‘Great!’ he yelped, rather shrilly.

  ‘All right.’

  At that moment, Alex Gibson came out of the Crown and Thistle, blinking in the sudden burst of watery sunlight. The pub had been dark and cosy, which was just as well. She had not wanted Edwin to see how appalled she was by the letter he had shown her. It had been in the mass of paper he had printed out from Morris Little’s computer.

  ‘I always wondered who had sent it to me,’ he’d said quietly. ‘But in a small town like Norbridge there are so many possibilities. Especially if you work somewhere like the college. But I would never have thought Morris hated me enough.’

  Alex had been transfixed by the words. You think you’re the most musical man in Norbridge don’t you? Up yourself aren’t you? And now they say you’ll be head of the college’s music department. But don’t they remember what you did to Marilyn Frost? I bet she’s not the only one either. Isn’t it wrong to shag your pupils? But I’ll tell you something – I know where Marilyn is and if you don’t withdraw from this head of department thing I’ll make sure everyone else knows too . . .

  It had been so spiteful. ‘I wasn’t sure whether or not to show it to you,’ Edwin had said softly. ‘But once we started talking about Marilyn, it seemed a lot easier to tell you everything. Anyway . . .’ He pulled his battered brown leather briefcase on to his knee. ‘. . . I’m not the only one. And I’m glad now that I know where it came from.’

  He’d pulled out a sheaf of paper. ‘There are about ten others. They were all sent from a separate account called Norbridge Man. I printed out everything on his hard drive entitled Norbridge and got these too. I didn’t want to show you them because some of them are horrible. And cruel and untrue, I suspect. But Morris was writing to a lot of people.’

  ‘Was there any pattern?’ Alex had asked.

  ‘They’re all to people he thought were too big for their boots. People who had maybe snubbed him or people he felt were “up themselves”. That’s a phrase he uses a lot.’

  Edwin had seemed saddened rather than angry. He seemed to feel that perhaps he should have listened to Morris, rather than swatting him away. ‘Maybe I was a bit up myself. At one time I thought I had the world at my feet.’

  ‘When you were with Marilyn?’

  ‘You’ve been there too, haven’t you?’

  ‘The Golden Age.’ Alex nodded and they had both smiled.

  Then Edwin had looked at his watch. ‘Bugger. I’m needed at a meeting of the new Credits Resource Audit Practice committee. CRAP for short.’

  ‘It may be crap but it won’t be short if I know the college! You’d better dash . . .’

  ‘Listen, Alex, they’re doing Dream of Gerontius in Newcastle the week after next. Do you fancy going over, and having supper afterwards?’

  ‘Yes, great.’

  ‘I’ll call you.’ He grabbed his papers and left suddenly.

  Alex gathered her bag and gloves thoughtfully and pushed her way outside, blinking in the glare.

  It might have been the whisky, a novelty these days, but her head was spinning. She breathed in the clammy air, aware of a sense of warmth – or at least of less raw chill. Maybe winter was ebbing. It would be the anniversary of her mother’s death just after Easter, and for the first time she sensed the seasons coming round again. For most of the year she had stood still or even gone backwards, but now the world was spinning on at a faster rate.

  The low bright winter sun went behind a high cloud and suddenly she could see clearly along Market Street. It had the grey quietness of a provincial town where lunchtime was still recognized. Most shoppers were munching, many in the dated snugness of McCrea’s. But then Alex saw Suzy Spencer pushing her way out of the heavy old-fashioned glass-plated doors opposite. She was snuffling into a large white handkerchief. Her eyes were red and her head was pulled down into her collar. She’s crying, Alex thought.

  And suddenly, she thought, I need to sort all this out. I want to go over and ask Suzy what’s the matter, but because of the past I can’t. I like Suzy. I’d like to be her friend but if I go on evading things like this, at some point we’ll both be compromised. And there are other people to think of too. Like Edwin.

  Alex walked back to the college, keyed up and agitated. There was to be no more of this stupidity. She went straight to her computer, found Robert’s address on the internal address list, and emailed asking if they could meet. And she signed it with her real name.

  Suzy dried her eyes and started driving savagely out of Norbridge. She felt angry with everyone. On the way to the north-east, without thinking she took the old Military Road, not the main A69. The car bounced down the straight switchback which cut the bleak landscape with Roman brutality. Occasionally Hadrian’s Wall reared to her left, and on her right the iron grey hills stretched for miles under pearly skies. It was the top of the world.

  She had been going far too fast, and forced herself to slow down and pull in at a lay-by. She was ahead of schedule now. She got out of the car and walked ov
er to a stile which led up to the Wall, and looked around her. To the east she thought she could sense the change of light over the big city thirty miles ahead. To the west, hills and bogs and no man’s land stretched till it all dropped down to Norbridge in its isolation, and the soft coastal plain. Which way did she want to go?

  I’m tearing myself apart, she thought. I don’t want Nigel any more, but I don’t want Robert as he is now. Yet guilt pulls me to both of them. Nigel was my husband for years and we were a duo, responsible for shaping each other. And I clung to Robert when things went wrong. But which one do I love? And who loves me? And what do my children need? Her head ached with thinking.

  She climbed back in the car. The wind was freezing up here on the ridge, but even so the light was brighter and the sensation bracing rather than chilling. The year was moving on and spring was in the wings.

  She punched into her mobile phone book and chose a number. Three hundred miles away a mobile rang in response.

  ‘Is that you, Suzy?’

  ‘Oh Rachel, thank goodness you’re there. I couldn’t have coped with your voicemail.’

  ‘What’s wrong with “Leave a message already”?’

  ‘Stop taking the piss. I want to come down to London and see you this weekend. I was supposed to be going to Nigel’s with the kids but I’m sick of playing Happy Families.’

  ‘And you’d feel bad having a romantic time with Mr Perfect while poor Nigel does the Daddy thing?’

  ‘It’s Mr Perfect who’s giving me bother.’

  ‘Wow. This is news.’

  ‘Old news really . . . you know it hasn’t been right since New Year. I just want time to think without the pressure of places. Everywhere I look relates to one man or the other. I want to be somewhere unconnected with them, where I can go to pieces.’

  ‘Welcome to my world. Car or train?’

  ‘Train. On Saturday morning. I’ll let you know what time.’

  27

  Hear me, O Lord, and that soon, for my spirit waxeth faint. Hide not thy face from me, lest I be like unto them that go down into the pit. Psalm 143:7

  On Friday lunchtime, effectively the end of the working week, David Johnstone eased himself into his new Volvo. He’d had a few shorts but he was fit enough to drive – anyway, he knew all the roads around Norbridge and fancied he had a few of the local police in his pocket, so it was worth the risk. The conversation with baldy Prout and weasel-faced Dixon had made him think it was about time he took a closer look at the old convent again. Pity the nights were getting a bit lighter and the Volvo was quite conspicuous. But then there was nothing to stop him or anyone else walking through the huge gap in the rotten wall caused by the stampede, and having a look at the property.

  Johnstone farted noisily and then opened the window as he drove through the outskirts of Norbridge. He liked the feeling of control and comfort his big car gave him. Whenever he broke wind in front of Pat she would comment in a silly shrill voice, so to celebrate her absence he did it again, a real trump.

  Laughing to himself, he took the road to Fellside. It always gave him a thrill to ease a large, shiny car up the narrow main street where the only lights shone from the Co-op sign, and where the plain terraced houses opened straight on to the pavement. He had been brought up in Scafell Street, then a particularly miserable side road at the top of the hill. It had been a straggling row of cottages, looking over the waste land opposite, littered with old iron implements, post-war rubbish and bits of engines. Often he drove down there just to see the place, which had been done up now and was lived in by a pair of gay teachers, a far cry from housing seven kids in two bedrooms in the 1950s!

  He parked carefully next to the convent wall. There was no one else on the road and it was easy to amble into the overgrown garden. He remembered climbing over the wall when he was a kid, wanting to see salacious acts, nuns sunbathing nude or snogging or something. It seemed much smaller inside, though he was pleased to see from a distance that the house brickwork was in good nick. It even looked as if someone had repointed around the window facing away from the road, with the bleak view over the quarry and only the drunk woman’s bungalow in sight. Despite the damp grass round his trousers, he kept on going right around the house. With luck he might be able to see in through the windows, which were broken glass on the outside, but boarded up haphazardly inside.

  He moved forward and felt the ground give a little under his feet. He pressed his shoes down. This was good news. If the drains were collapsing, then it would just take a little bit of help to render the place a hazard. If he owned the property next door, he’d have every right to demand that something be done, which would mean a quick sale. There’d be no arguing about who owned it then – they would all want rid of it PDQ! He’d get it for a song – and then go ahead with the holiday development.

  Then he felt the ground give way under him. As he collapsed into the earth, he had the sense of falling into a deep, square hole. He hit his head as he twisted and fell, and the window ledge came up to smack him in the face.

  Early on Saturday morning, Robert dropped Suzy off at Carlisle station for her trip to Rachel’s in London. She was distracted, thinking about the evening before. Nigel had picked the children up on one of his rare trips back to Tarnfield. He had refused to come into The Briars and had been unpleasant about having to manoeuvre the car up the dirt lane which led to the house.

  The children had been sulky and uncommunicative. They loved their father – but Suzy thought they sensed that Nigel was bored by childcare when there was no female audience. And Jake would miss his big band practice at Fellside Fellowship on the Sunday evening. Nigel, who was an atheist, had refused point-blank to drive back earlier to Cumbria for what he described as lot of superstitious nonsense with third-rate musicians.

  In the station car park Robert said, ‘Don’t worry. The kids will be fine. Give Rachel my love.’ He kissed Suzy on the cheek.

  ‘I will. Thanks.’

  There had been no suggestion that he should go to London with her. Suzy had made it clear this was a girls’ weekend.

  Robert watched her walk through the glass doors to the trains. Then he got out of the car, locked it, and walked into the town centre. Feeling very tense and awkward, he went into Waterstone’s bookshop. There was a section for local writers and another for children’s books, and he wasn’t sure where to look. He probed the shelves until he found what he wanted.

  Seeing it made his heart pound. The West Coast Pirate by Sandy McFay. A local promotion. The other eight McFay books, making up the West Cumbrian Chronicles, were there. As always, there was very little on Sandy McFay, just a blurb about how the old-fashioned boys’ adventure stories had come back to life.

  ‘Robert!’

  He started, looking up guiltily. ‘Edwin! What are you doing here?’

  ‘Well, it is the biggest bookshop in the area. Or do you mean here in the local interest section? Did you read in the Cumberland News about the Sandy McFay promotion?’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘I was intrigued. I’d never heard of Sandy McFay’s books, but Morris Little had them all, you know. I think I’ll buy this one, The Wizard of Workhaven. Sounds good.’

  ‘They are.’

  ‘Oh, well, you’d know, I suppose. Listen to what it says on the cover – meticulously researched and authentic tales which bring the north of England to life in adventures to appeal to readers of all ages. Sounds excellent!’

  Edwin was rather jaunty, Robert thought. He had seemed more cheerful lately, though they had met less frequently than before. The two men moved towards the checkout holding their books. Robert looked at his watch.

  ‘Can’t stop, Edwin, I’m meeting someone in the Cumberland Hotel. We should catch up . . .’

  ‘Yes. In fact why don’t the four of us have supper?’

  ‘Four?’

  ‘Er, yes. You, Suzy, me and . . . well, maybe it’s early days . . .’

  Robert raised his eye
brows, but before he could say anything he was summoned to the till. Edwin moved to the one next to him. He was in an uncharacteristically chatty mood.

  ‘These books must make a mint for the bloke who writes them. You should ask Sandy MacFay to give you some help with your writing efforts.’

  ‘Yes.’ Robert nodded ruefully. If only you knew, he thought. A fat lot of good it would do me.

  Pat Johnstone didn’t report her husband missing because she never really knew when to expect him home. But in the early hours of Saturday morning when the doorbell rang with its cocky three notes chiming throughout the house, she expected that it would be about him. She scuttled downstairs, forgetting her slippers, feeling the thick stair carpet between her toes and trying not to think about anything. There were two men on the doorstep and she didn’t need to see the identification which they proffered as soon as the door opened.

  ‘Mrs Johnstone?’

  ‘Yes, that’s me. Oh no, it must be about David. Is he all right?’

  ‘I’m afraid he’s in the West Cumberland. Fractured skull and internal injuries, but he’ll be OK. May we come in?’

  ‘Yes . . .’ She shuffled backwards. ‘What happened?’

  ‘It’s a write-off. His car hit a tree.’

  ‘What? His car? A tree? What do you mean? Where was this?’

  ‘On a side road near Fellside. Pretty remote. It happened last night, we think, but no one saw it till this morning. We can take you over there now, to the hospital. I’m sorry but we do need to ask you a few questions first. Do sit down, or do you need to go and get something warmer on?’

  ‘No, I’m all right.’ She was breathing puffily and pulled her dressing gown around her. ‘What do you need me to tell you?’

  ‘Was your husband alone in the car?’

  ‘How would I know? I haven’t spoken to him since yesterday morning.’