The Chorister at the Abbey Read online

  ‘God, must I?’ the girl said harshly, and clattered down the stairs, gathering Poppy in her wake, before slamming the front door behind her.

  A couple of hours earlier, the Finance Director at Norbridge College had emerged from his glass bowl office and called to his last remaining clerk.

  ‘I’m off, Alex. D’you know how long you’ll be?’

  ‘An hour at least. Probably more. I’m still finishing sorting out all the expenses cheques. I can do some later but I need to rush with these for the Music Department. You know what the new boss is like.’

  It was infuriating. This was the first time in ages that Alex Gibson had been invited out for supper. She was almost looking forward to going to the Cliffords’ – though it would be too late for her to get home to Fellside to change, especially as she no longer drove. She was getting a lift there, and she had hoped to grab some time before leaving the college to get washed and changed in the Ladies, and even perhaps apply some make-up and look halfway decent. But work had been piled on. With all these last-minute cheques there wasn’t much chance of smartening up.

  But there wasn’t much chance anyway, if Alex was honest. Dressing up was a joke. Living with her mother had hardly been conducive to wearing high fashion. She’d searched out one of her old kaftans and stuffed it into a bag for the evening at the Cliffords’. It was already creased, because her mum’s ancient iron had seized up with brown lumpy water and spat it out all over the black cotton before blowing up. And she hadn’t bothered to go to the hairdresser’s since her mother’s funeral. Nowadays she just pulled her grey hair back off her face and put it in a clip on top of her head. It made her face look really round, but did that matter? She pushed up her heavy old-fashioned glasses, another legacy from her mother. They kept slipping and had given her an ugly red weal on the bridge of her nose. She knew she was a mess. She had been struggling to get over the disaster of her sordid divorce, when her mother’s death had knocked her back. It was one more awful thing. Had anyone asked, she would have said she was prepared for the death of an eighty-year-old woman with infuriating dementia. But it was the last straw.

  Losing a parent was more universal than having a baby, but no one talked about the devastating effect it could have. Particularly if life had already taken a wrong turn. And though she knew it happened to everyone, Alex felt totally alone. Was it worse for her because she was childless? She was becoming increasingly bitter about it all. With her mother’s death, she felt as if she had lost the one unconditional support she had ever had. Even in her mental decline, her mum had been full of shrewd good sense. Alex had been drinking too much already – but, without Mum to say ‘You’ll be the size of a house if you go on guzzling!’ the wine and spirits in the evening had taken the place of any social life she might have had. Once, she thought ruefully, she had been vibrant, successful, happy. The Golden Age is always over, by definition, she had thought in a moment of insight.

  When her marriage had broken up in disaster and humiliation, Alex had slunk away from London, back to Cumbria, on the edge of a breakdown and desperate to keep a low profile, after more than twenty years away. She had been brought up in Workhaven on the coast, but her mother had retired to Fellside, near Norbridge, a few years earlier. Her sister and brother-in-law lived locally but they were intent on maintaining their own lifestyle without a burdensome relative. Alex knew hardly anyone. The only person she had recognized in Norbridge was someone she had met at a conference years before, in London, and she had no intention of remaking his acquaintance.

  Apart from her sister’s occasional dutiful invitations, the kindly Cliffords were the first people to ask her to their home in ages.

  Her boss’s remarks cut in. ‘The Music Department’s probably deserted. I bet they’ve already left for Christmas. This place is like the Marie Celeste.’

  ‘Well, that’s up to them. But if the new music head has her cheque ready by five thirty, at least she can’t blame me.’

  ‘OK. Suit yourself. But I’m going.’

  Alex was not gifted as an accounts clerk, but she was extremely diligent. Her boss occasionally wondered what it was she had to prove. He’d taken her on as a temp a few months before, and she had stayed, plodding along, doing the tedious jobs and rarely speaking. But she was awesomely thorough.

  Alex sighed, and checked all the expenses chits once again. She was amused to see that Wanda Wisley, the new Head of Music, had high expenses for the last month, whereas Edwin Armstrong, her deputy, had hardly recharged anything. That was interesting. Edwin would be giving Alex a lift to the supper party that evening. He was Lynn Clifford’s younger half-brother, or something, she thought. He was good-looking in a morose way. Alex had noticed him around the college, and someone had told her he was an expert on choral music. Once, that would have intrigued her and she would have looked forward to chatting with him. But now, Alex just had to make sure she looked presentable, said the minimum, and didn’t drink too much – until she got home.

  She was suddenly aware how silent the office was. A few shiny decorations twirled pointlessly in the draught from under the door. There were some dirty, abandoned coffee cups on another desk and the remnants of a box of cheap mince pies. Although she had already eaten four, Alex got up and helped herself to a slice of greasy pastry. It was supposed to be comfort eating, except it brought no comfort. Nothing did.

  She grabbed her old, bulging shoulder bag. There was no way she was leaving it in the empty office while she went on her rounds. It occurred to her that her boss hadn’t even said ‘Merry Christmas’, though he would be off now for the holidays. The thought propelled her into a fugue of self-pity.

  I’m a non-person, she thought bitterly, a fat frump who is functional at best. Is this how depression feels? Her doctor had suggested treatment, but she’d been unresponsive. There was nothing anyone could do. It wasn’t necessary to try and analyse what was wrong. It was obvious anyway Her life had ended in two stages: first when her marriage collapsed and she left London, and then again when her mother died. This was just some sort of existence, dragging on from day to day with no one giving a monkey’s.

  Except the Cliffords, and that was just pity of course.

  ‘I’m still here,’ she said to the security clerk at reception. ‘I’m just going over to Music, but I’ll come back.’

  ‘OK,’ said the guard, hardly looking up.

  She delivered the signed cheques in their sealed envelopes to the in-tray in the Music Department. The office door had been left open but it was empty, and really rather sinister, with a raucous CD blaring out cheap Christmas schmaltz on someone’s computer. The noise was horrible, shrieking and distorted. Half a bottle of red wine and some coagulating fruitcake sat unwanted on a desk. For a moment, Alex was tempted to grab some cake and take a swig, but thought better of it. Then she started to make her way out.

  She was just outside the office when the lights went out. She stayed absolutely motionless for what seemed an age, aware of how utterly silent it all was. Just as she was getting accustomed to it and thinking of groping her way out, the lights snapped on and she hurried towards the double doors.

  The noise of the boy wailing reached her long before she saw him.

  3

  Behold, how good and joyful a thing it is, brethren, to dwell together in unity! Psalm 133:1

  In the town centre, Wanda Wisley, the new and controversial Head of Music at Norbridge College, stood in the middle of the Cloister Centre shopping mall and looked angrily at her watch. Ten to six. She’d escaped from the department to do some shopping and she was furious. Where the hell was Freddie? She had so many bags, she had to put them down. And one was from McCrea’s, the dreariest shop in Cumbria. What was she doing, toting carrier bags from Norbridge’s dated department store? So much for her image!

  Of course it was Freddie’s fault. He’d spotted a garish waistcoat in McCrea’s that he just had to have. Who would have thought that an ageing German rock star with a po
nytail and interesting tattoos would have become such a liability? But Norbridge had brought out an alarming rusticity in him.

  ‘Oh wow!’ Freddie would exclaim. ‘Little calves!’ Or, ‘Oh Wanda, look – home-made chutney!’

  He’d become addicted to farmers’ markets and Women’s Institute stalls. He sounded far more German than he ever had before, when they’d lived in London and New York. Well, if she was honest, they hadn’t really lived in New York. But a few years ago Freddie had had a couple of gigs playing in the Village and Wanda had gone along for the ride. It had probably been the high point of their relationship.

  ‘Where are you, Freddie?’ she murmured though clenched teeth.

  She saw the Principal of Norbridge College in the distance, with his wife in a particularly smart coat that looked like Bruno Magli. Bugger. Who’d have thought it! Wanda struggled to wave, while holding her mobile and her classy Fiorentina bag. She refused to put it down anywhere near the grasping mitts of Norbridge’s fast-fingered juveniles.

  ‘Hi there!’ she warbled, but the Principal had waved and moved on. Wanda felt stupid and looked around guardedly.

  Norbridge might be an attractive market town but it had its fair share of hooded louts, all more rodent-like than their larger, bejewelled, exotic London equivalents. She had seen the notorious Frost brothers lurking round the college when she had sneaked away early that afternoon. She had been so anxious to escape that she’d left without her expenses cheque. She’d hurried past the Frosts in reception; with their red hair and white hatchet-shaped faces, they looked subhuman to her. They worried her far more than the gobby louts at home. Not that there were many louts in Notting Hill now it was so smart, thank God.

  The Principal had disappeared down one of the lanes. It would have been really useful to have a word with him about the problem of menacing youths hanging round the department. Not to mention the terrible facilities she was supposed to cope with.

  ‘You’re an unusual choice for the job,’ the Principal had said when he offered her the post. ‘I must be honest, the obvious candidate withdrew. It’s going to take drive to make it work, but I think you’ve got it!’

  Too right. The sole person who seemed able to fix anything in Norbridge was Edwin Armstrong, her deputy. Of course he thought he should have got her job, but there was some story about his pulling out at the last minute. Ambition interruptus, Wanda thought. Edwin probably didn’t have the balls. Well, he didn’t have the job, either. And it was her role to kick ass. His.

  ‘Wanda!’ Freddie leapt up behind her and landed a sharp little bite on the back of her neck.

  Wanda turned on him. ‘I’ve told you: don’t do things like that, Freddie. Not here.’

  ‘Ach, teacher – you’ve become terrifically conventional all of a sudden! Me too! Look!’ he said, and flashed open his full-length leather Barbour-style coat. Inside he was wearing a ghastly yellow waistcoat. ‘I just had to go back to McCrea’s and pick it up!’

  ‘Freddie, that is truly gross.’

  ‘Not for when I join the hunstmen! I’m a countryman now! We’re a celebrity couple. I looove it so much here, Wanda!’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. And keep your voice down. Give me a hand with all the bags. I’ve been frozen waiting.’

  ‘So, a coffee calls my Lieblich.’

  Freddie, who was an imposing man, turned around with his huge coat flapping and ploughed a way through the crowds towards Figaro’s Coffee House. He had taken to the naughty side of Norbridge like a duck to water, becoming the aged enfant terrible, beloved of both students and their parents who saw him as the acceptable face of creativity – especially when compared with his sharp and successful female partner. More than one dad had sidled up to confide about a misspent youth smoking dope, or a brief, heady time in a group. A few had even bought Freddie’s album, Fabrikant’s Factory, in the old days. After fearing he would be on the fringes, Freddie Fabrikant was really enjoying himself.

  ‘Cappuccino, Wanda? With skimmed milk for your waistline?’ Freddie laughed heartily and others smiled with him.

  She nodded, trying not to show her irritation. She hated going to Figaro’s. Freddie waved cheerily to people, greeting them all expansively as if he was some mad lord of the manor.

  Wanda Wisley sank into the sofa. She closed her eyes. They would be in London in twenty-four hours, at her flat. I’ve got to get out of here, even if only for a fortnight, she thought. It would be awful to be reduced to just getting to Town for the odd concert or, God forbid, a ‘show’. Look at pathetic Edwin Armstrong, once a budding composer, now nearly forty and marooned in Norbridge. It was too frightening.

  ‘Wanda!’ Freddie’s loud voiced boomed at her from the counter where he was still waiting for his latte laced with reindeer droppings – or whatever muck she thought he was ordering.

  ‘Wanda, can’t you hear? Your phone’s ringing.’ Freddie had famously acute hearing, honed rather than blunted by the recording studios. Postproduction and synthesizing was his thing. He hadn’t been very successful with live gigs. Not enough real energy.

  Wanda fumbled in the Fiorentina bag and found her phone. As she listened she felt suddenly sick, the hot steamy smell of coffee and milk making her nauseous. The message was telling her to call North Cumbria police. Urgently. In connection with a problem at the college.

  Had there been a break-in? Or was one of the students in serious trouble? Wanda had become aware that Norbridge was a place of undercurrents. The curious smiles she had taken for bucolic friendliness had hardened into blank looks, or even sniggers behind her back. Freddie understood country life much better than she did. But he would be no help in anything where the police were involved.

  She scrolled through the numbers on her address list. She had never expected to use this one, but she had no option. She pressed the call button to connect her to Edwin Armstrong’s mobile.

  Whatever the problem was at the college, she knew it was serious, and she didn’t want to go there.

  At seven thirty, Suzy Spencer arrived home in Tarnfield, tired and irritable. She’d driven back from Tyneside after an exacting day in the TV studio working on the Christmas special I’m a Geordie, Get Me Out of Here. The title was a bit dated but the show worked well – though it was fraught to produce. It was about people from the north-east of England who’d moved to more exotic locations and still had a hankering for home.

  ‘That bloody director. I’ve had it up to here with men!’ she snapped.

  ‘You must be very athletic then,’ said Robert Clark.

  Suzy flung her handbag at him, just missing the Daily Telegraph he was reading. He’d arrived home himself an hour earlier. She ran her hand through her spiky fair hair and tipped her coat untidily over the end of the banisters.

  ‘Get lost, smart-arse. I’m going into the kitchen. Where’s Jake?’ Jake was her son, just turned fifteen.

  ‘There was a note to say he’s round at Oliver’s for, would you believe, a ‘jam session’. He said Ollie’s dad would drop him back later.’

  ‘And Molly got away to the Brownies’ Christmas party?’

  ‘Yep. There was a note from the childminder saying she went off safely.’ Molly was Suzy’s eight-year-old daughter. Tarnfield kids were almost all car-dependent, with elaborate rotas for driving them to activities in Norbridge, Carlisle and even Newcastle. Suzy was always on edge about Molly’s safety.

  ‘Have you already had a drink?’ she asked Robert.

  ‘Yes, I stopped for a quick half with Edwin Armstrong.’

  ‘How is he? All geared up for the carol service? Or still depressed about his new boss?’

  ‘I think he’s getting used to her.’ Robert got up and followed her into the kitchen where he put his arms round Suzy and kissed her. Usually, these days, the old house was full of kids. But there was peace and quiet in the kitchen for once.

  ‘And how was the Chorus?’

  ‘Morris Little was his usual irritating self.’

>   ‘Sounds like you could do with some wine,’ Suzy whispered. ‘I’m gagging for some.’

  She moved a pile of half-finished home-made Christmas cards from the table and picked up a bottle of wine from the wobbly new rack in the corner. When she had moved into Robert’s house, The Briars had been dusty but impeccably tidy. Robert, a childless widower whose wife Mary had been a supreme Good Housekeeper, had lived on ready meals, tinned soup, and egg and bacon sandwiches after she died. Now the residue of family life was spread across every surface.

  Robert opened the red wine. ‘Something funny happened this evening.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘When I was talking to Morris Little, I called Jake my stepson.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Well, I’ve never thought of Jake in that way.’

  ‘I shouldn’t worry about it. Morris probably didn’t notice. Why were you talking about Jake?’

  ‘Oh, Morris was getting at poor Tom Firth for being interested in church music at his age. Tormenting as usual!’

  ‘I thought Morris got obsessed with things himself.’

  ‘Yes, but he’s an adult. He seems to think all kids are ignorant louts like the Frost brothers.’

  Suzy rolled her eyes. She had only met Morris Little once, at a drinks party after an Abbey Chorus concert. He had pinned her against the wall and lectured her on a derelict nineteenth-century convent in Fellside, which he wanted listed as a Norbridge monument. He had inundated her with information and been childishly crude about nuns. She remembered him jabbing her in the shoulder when her attention had wandered, before making snide remarks about career women being too tired to concentrate. Sexist bore!

  ‘Anyway, you’re right,’ Robert was saying. ‘Morris has been going on about the choir singing something by John Stainer. He keeps hinting mysteriously that he knows of some local connection. But I haven’t heard of one and neither has Edwin.’