A Ghost at the Door (27 page)

It was only as Billy was kneeling in the gutter brushing the dirt from his shirt that he noticed the fox had left something behind, something that he was now kneeling in. Edwards’s fault.
One day he would make sure that bastard got what was coming to him. Meanwhile, and accompanied by another bout of cursing, Billy followed the fox into the night.

It was the weekend, a lazy start to the day, and necessary after the previous evening, which had involved not only an hour of mixed basketball but also an intense time at the
bar afterwards when Jemma had been interrogated by another couple, friends of Steve. They had probed and pushed, particularly the woman, testing her about the relationship with Steve when he
disappeared to the toilet. It had made her feel uncomfortable. ‘Just good friends’ didn’t hack it: they’d clearly got a very different impression from Steve. She
hadn’t been much of an active participant in the sex when they’d got back to his place. She hadn’t slept well and was up early, making coffee, when she heard her laptop warbling
from within the depths of her overnight bag. She flipped it open on the kitchen table and saw it was a Skype call. From ‘findlayfrancismissing’. She ran a vague hand through the mess of
her hair and hit the video button. Her face popped up at the bottom of the screen and she immediately regretted opening the video link: her hair screamed of Friday night fornication. But the rest
of the screen remained blank. The caller was being cautious.

‘Hello, this is Jemma Laing.’

A woman’s voice, hesitant. ‘This is Findlay Francis’s daughter. You wanted to talk.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Hope you don’t mind me not showing my face but when you post a missing-persons page it seems that almost every sicko in the business climbs on board.’

‘Fair enough.’

‘That’s why I called early, before the sickos get out of bed.’

‘Nearly caught me out, too.’

‘Sorry,’ the woman apologized but the voice was still uncertain, unconvinced.

‘No problem. I’m a teacher, my body clock kicks me out of bed early every morning.’ She ran another desperate comb of fingers through the mop of auburn hair. It appeared on the
screen like a gushing spring. ‘Can I have a name?’ she asked.

‘I’m Abigail. You can call me Abby.’

‘Morning, Abby,’ Jemma responded, trying to reassure, sipping her mug of coffee.

‘You said your partner, Harry . . . that he wanted to talk about my father. I have to tell you right from the start there’s no reward, nothing like that.’

‘That’s not why he wants to talk.’

‘So what exactly does he want?’

‘I’d rather he explained the details himself. Your father and his father were friends at Oxford, apparently. And it seems that several of the friends they shared have gone
missing.’

‘He thinks there’s a connection?’ Abby said, her voice rising in alarm.

‘I think he wants to swap stories, show you some photos. Shake a few memories.’

‘Oh dear. What happened to his father?’

‘He died of a heart attack some years ago. Before Harry and I got together.’

‘Sorry but . . . I’m just not sure. The last person who promised to help me turned out to be a spiritualist; the one before that wanted me to join their prayer group. I really
don’t know.’

‘You might think Harry was even worse. He was once a politician.’

A squawk of surprise that might have been misery came from the laptop.

‘Look, Abby, his father was Johnnie Jones – I think he called himself Maltravers-Jones. Both he and your father were at Oxford in 1962. Ring any bells?’

Suddenly the full screen came to life and Jemma saw the round face of a middle-aged woman with spiky purple hair and dark eyes hidden behind oversized spectacles the colour of daffodils. She was
wearing a T-shirt decorated with the image of an elephant and she was sitting in a makeshift domestic office in front of an overcrowded noticeboard made up of cork tiles. The overriding theme of
the room appeared to be chaos and cats. A long-haired tabby was sitting on the bookcase while Abby was sucking her lip nervously.

‘Hi, Abby!’ Jemma waved a hand in greeting. ‘Nice to meet you properly.’

‘Hello, Jemma. Me, too. If –
if
– I agreed to meet him, would you be there, too?’

‘Er, would that be entirely necessary?’

‘Yes, I think it would. I’m not meeting any more men on their own.’

‘Abby, if you’re to make any progress finding out what happened to your father I think you’re going to have to take the risk.’

‘Maybe.’ Suddenly Abby’s eyes widened in surprise and she leaned forward intently into the screen. In the box at the bottom of Jemma’s screen, showing what her camera was
revealing to Abby, a body was moving in the background. A naked body. Steve. Ears plugged into music. Scratching himself. Utterly heedless. Heading for his coffee.

‘Is that Harry?’ Abby whispered.

‘Um, no. It’s complicated.’

‘I bet.’

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend—’

‘You haven’t, Jemma, believe me. Made my day. I was young. Once.’ She giggled, stifling it with her hand. ‘Look, if you’re willing to take risks, I suppose I am,
too.’

‘You ever think about coming back to this place, Harry?’

‘No, but occasionally I think of doing a little root-canal surgery on myself.’

‘In which case, you’ll be needing a touch more anaesthetic.’ Cyrus Harefield leaned forward and poured more Sauvignon. Harefield was a senior Member of Parliament –
‘the crust on the vintage port’, as he described it – and also sat as a Church Commissioner, a member of the group responsible for safeguarding the property and other assets of
the Church of England. The Terrace of the House of Commons was a favourite hiding place, away from the turmoil of the chamber and the interminable plotting of the younger brethren. On the other
side of the river the multicoloured lights on the wheel of the London Eye turned slowly through the night while the sound of bagpipes drifted from the direction of Westminster Bridge. The neon-blue
lights of an ambulance sped towards St Thomas’ on the other bank. Nothing had changed, it seemed, since Harry had sat here in his own right and poured his own wine.

‘But you should, you know,’ Harefield continued as he dunked the empty bottle back into the ice. ‘You were the best and the brightest, Harry, yet you got shafted. You could
right that terrible wrong. Damn, but we need you.’

‘You seem to have survived without me.’

‘Perhaps too well,’ Harefield said, tucking a thumb into his belt, which seemed to have gained a notch with every election campaign. ‘At times I feel my job is to eat for
England – or, at least, the
Church
of England.’ He chuckled. ‘You look as if you could do with a few extra pounds. Come back, find your feet once more.’

‘I don’t feel at home here any longer.’

‘We could put you in the Lords.’

‘It’s come to that, then, has it?’

Harefield roared with laughter at his old friend, sending an inquisitive seagull scurrying away along the parapet. ‘Yes, I suppose ambition should be carried on rather more supple
thighs.’ In the middle of the channel a pleasure cruiser was turning, its screw beating the river and sending a bow wave slapping against the embankment. They watched its battle with the tide
before returning to their conversation. ‘So, you wanted to know about Bishop Randall. What,
precisely
, did you have in mind?’

‘He is, of course, a good man of the cloth.’

‘Diligent, godly and sober. Or most of the time, anyway. OK, we’ve got that out of the way, Harry, so what more do you need to know?’

‘I think he’s false and entirely two-faced, Cy. You tell me.’

Harefield mined a bowl of nuts and began throwing them one by one into his mouth as he considered the request. ‘It’s no great secret that Bishop Randy is a man of more than a little
controversy. But why do you think he’s a shit? I thought you said he was a friend of your father’s.’

‘Being a friend of my father’s doesn’t help.’

‘Ah.’

‘There’s too much about the bishop that doesn’t add up – or perhaps adds up to too much. His nails are manicured, his teeth too expensively capped. He wears a tailored
suit you couldn’t afford and a watch that is simple and elegant, and also very Swiss.’

‘Yes, for a humble man of the cloth he has it cut from a rather splendid fibre.’ More nuts disappeared, fuel for his thoughts. ‘But Randy is controversial in part because
he’s so bloody successful. Climbed his way up the greasy pole of clerical preferment, ended up in a bishop’s palace. You don’t do that without stepping on a few bunioned toes. Yet
I do so hate this evangelical need to decry success. God knows, the Church could do with a little more of it rather than spitting in its face. And, yet . . .’ Harefield sighed. ‘Envy
isn’t very ecclesiastical, Harry, but it’s hellish common. And the man simply refuses to stop.’ He reached for his glass.

‘So what’s the other part? You said his success is only one reason for his notoriety.’

Harefield savoured his wine as if it held many secrets before he returned to his tale. ‘He was a City slicker in his early days. Got himself involved in a lot of controversial takeovers in
the eighties. It was a little like the Wild West, plenty of shootouts and shady deals, bodies being dragged away. There were some who thought that Randy should have been one. The Serious Fraud
Office had their eye on him for some time; he was arrested more than once but never charged. There are some who believe that it was the heat they put on him that forced him out of the
City.’

‘Into the hands of God?’

‘Where he has used his talents to considerable effect. I only wish I had his wisdom, or his luck. There are those who accept that his talents are God-given and, anyway, don’t give a
damn who’s driving the fire engine when the bloody house is on fire. And there are those . . . yes, there are those who think that the support he gives God has a good deal of help.’

‘Inside help?’

‘Who’s to know? He delivers. Harry, last year more than a hundred churches closed their doors for good. Our pension fund’s hollowed out, there are retired vicars living below
the poverty line and you can buy an old church and turn it into a carpet warehouse, theme bar – even a mosque. So for everyone who has their doubts about Randy there are a hundred who fall
onto their knees in thanks. And he’s devoted to his duties, there’s no doubt about that. Well, I suppose you can when you’re unmarried.’ Harefield left the words dangling in
the night air.

‘I see.’

‘Do you? Do you, Harry? Because I’m damned if I do. I just refuse to believe those twisted little rumours that float around in dark corners, they sicken me. But . . .’ He blew
out his cheeks as if about to climb a very high wall. ‘There were accusations of molestation made against him at one of his early parishes.’

‘Molestation?’

‘Young boys. In Penrith.’

‘What happened?’

‘What all too often happened in those days. They weighed a frightened child’s word against that of a man of God and transferred Randy to a living in the West Country.’ His hand
scrabbled in the bowl of nuts but they were gone.

‘Sermons and secrets.’

‘Not an exclusive preserve of Catholics.’ Harefield reached for the bottle. ‘Ah, the Sauvignon’s finished. Dare we try another? I have this terrible taste in my mouth
that I’m desperate to wash away.’

‘No, thanks, Cy.’

‘You’re probably right. Been too indiscreet as it is. And I don’t have a shred of evidence against him, perhaps nothing but prejudice. Still, as an old friend, my advice is to
steer well clear of him.’

‘Can’t do that,’ Harry replied. ‘Seems I need him more than ever.’ And already he was tapping his iPhone asking for another meeting.

Harry didn’t hear back from the bishop. Wickham was another one who seemed to have vanished. In spite of repeated requests directed both to his e-mail and through the
Church Commissioners, Harry heard nothing, but after his chat with Cy Harefield it came as no great surprise. So once again he followed his father’s footsteps back to Christ Church, where it
had all started.

He didn’t make an appointment, preferred the element of surprise, but he took the precaution of arriving with a box of chocolates wrapped in a bow. The green stretches of Tom
Quad had a different air from the last time Harry had been here: the academic year had come to its glorious end and the undergraduates were gone, leaving the hallowed cloisters in the possession of
fee-paying tourists who arrived by the busload, yet Helen was still in her place of command in the Steward’s Office. He knocked on the door and walked in.

She looked up from her computer. ‘Oh, hello, Mr Jones,’ she said. ‘What brings you here again?’

‘I was passing, brought you these. A token.’

‘Why, thank you, that’s so kind. And I’m sorry about the bishop’s details but—’

‘Actually, I wasn’t just passing. I need to ask you another favour.’

‘And these chocolates are . . .’

‘A bribe.’

She smiled at his audacity. ‘I’m an old-fashioned girl, Mr Jones. A walnut whip could never be considered a bribe, more an offering.’