Blood Harvest

18

AS HARRY AND TOM MADE THEIR WAY THROUGH THE HALL, Sinclair Renshaw appeared in front of them.

‘What’s happened, Vicar?’ he asked.

‘The two youngest Fletcher children are missing,’ replied Harry hurriedly.

‘The little girl?’ interrupted Sinclair, speaking softly, in spite of the music and noise in the hall.

‘Yes, and her brother. Their parents have gone home to see if they’ve made their way there. Tom and I are-’

‘One second.’ Sinclair turned to look round the room. ‘Father!’ he called. Then he took hold of Tom’s arm and steered him over to the older man. Tom could hear Harry following, but when he glanced back, he could tell the vicar wasn’t happy. Harry had been told to watch Tom and look outside, and that’s what he wanted to do. It was what Tom wanted to do too – look for Joe and Millie and stay very close to a grown-up he could trust.

‘Father.’ They’d reached the door to the alley. Outside it was too dark for Joe and Millie to be wandering around on their own. ‘The youngest Fletcher child is missing,’ explained Sinclair, still speaking in a low voice. ‘The little girl.’

‘And her brother,’ insisted Harry.

‘Yes, yes,’ said Sinclair. ‘Father, get Jenny and Christiana and search the house.’ Then he lowered his voice even further. ‘Lock the door,’ he added.

Tobias nodded once and then made his way (quite quickly for so old a man) across the hall to where Christiana was still twisting straw. Sinclair turned back to Harry.

‘How long has she – they – been missing? When and where were they last seen?’

Harry didn’t know, of course, so he looked at Tom. Tom didn’t know much either, and it was hard to think when the biggest man he’d ever seen was glaring down at him.

‘In here,’ he said. ‘I was…’ He stopped. He’d been told to keep an eye on his brother and sister while his dad fetched drinks. It was all his fault.

‘What?’ said Harry. ‘It’s important, Tom. What were you doing?’

‘I was under the food table,’ said Tom. ‘Hiding from Jake Knowles.’ He looked up at Harry, hoping he’d understand. Jake and two of his mates had come looking for him, his mum was nowhere in sight and his dad had been at the other side of the room, almost in the garden. Tom had ducked under the big white tablecloth and crawled to the other end. When he’d reached his dad, they’d crossed the room again to find Joe and Millie.

‘We looked all round the room,’ he said. And in the alley outside, and in the garden. They’d just vanished.’

As he was speaking, Tom saw Tobias Renshaw and his granddaughter Christiana cross the room and disappear through a large wooden door.

Sinclair Renshaw continued to stare at Tom for a second, then he turned back to Harry. ‘Keep the lad with you,’ he said. ‘I’ll organize a search. We don’t want everyone involved, it would be chaos. Leave it with me.’

He strode away. Harry and Tom looked at each other and headed for the open door, pushing past a woman wearing a bright-yellow sweater. Outside, the high walls seemed to make the alleyway even darker than they’d expected and Tom was grateful for the tiny lanterns on the wall.

‘Your mum and dad would have gone that way,’ said Harry, pointing towards Tom’s house. ‘Let’s go down here.’

Harry and Tom turned left and the sound of the party faded until they could hear nothing but their own footsteps. The spaces between the lanterns became wider and the alley darker. They turned a corner and reached a dead end.

‘Joe and Millie couldn’t have got over that,’ said Tom, looking at the high stone wall in front of them.

‘No,’ agreed Harry. ‘But they could have gone through here.’

Tom turned and felt as if his insides had fallen out. He could almost imagine he’d see them, if he looked down, lying splat on the ground. There was a tall iron gate in the churchyard wall. A padlock lay open on the ground in front of it. Beyond the gate he could see gravestones, shining like pearls in the moonlight.

Harry looked into the graveyard and then down at Tom. ‘Tom, run back to the hall,’ he said. ‘I’ll watch till I see you’re safely back.’

‘No, I want to stay with you,’ said Tom, without thinking, because the truth was, he wanted to go into that graveyard like he wanted someone to poke a stick in his eye.

‘Tom, it won’t be very nice. Go back.’

It was a graveyard, for God’s sake! And not just any old graveyard, but the one at the back of their house where something decidedly odd liked to hang around. Of course it wasn’t going to be nice. But Joe and Millie were in it. Somehow Tom knew it. They’d gone through this gate.

‘I’m coming with you,’ said Tom. ‘We have to find them.’

Harry muttered something that, had he not been a vicar, would have sounded an awful lot like swearing and then picked up two of the candle-lanterns. He held one out to Tom. ‘Hold this away from you,’ he said. ‘Hold it high.’

Tom did what he was told and then they were pushing at the gate and stepping into the churchyard.

It was so quiet, as though the world had had its volume turned down. Then Harry spoke and Tom couldn’t stop himself from jumping.

‘This would have been one of the monks’ private entrances to the church in the old days,’ he said. ‘Now, we’re going to walk slowly, we’re going to keep to the path as much as possible and we’re going to listen hard. Only I’m allowed to shout. Is that understood?’

‘Yes,’ whispered Tom and they set off.

They’d been walking for several minutes before Tom realized they were holding hands. And the silence felt unnatural. They should have been able to hear something, shouldn’t they? Wind in the trees? Something? Tom could have almost imagined he’d gone deaf if it hadn’t been for their footsteps on the path and the sound of Harry’s breathing. Then Harry stopped and so did he.

‘Joe!’ called Harry. ‘Millie!’

From somewhere nearby came a rustling sound and Harry’s head shot round. ‘Joe?’ he called. They both waited. No one answered Harry and, after a second, he and Tom set off again.

‘Tom!’ called a tiny voice from a few yards further up the hill.

Harry stopped sharp. ‘That was Joe,’ he said. ‘Where did it come from?’ He let go of Tom’s hand and began to turn on the spot, holding his lantern high. ‘Joe!’ he yelled, louder this time.

‘Tom,’ called the voice again.

‘That was definitely Joe,’ said Harry. ‘Did you hear where it came from?’ Harry was still turning this way and that, looking more like a gun-dog than a man, as though any second now he’d put his nose to the ground and start sniffing. Tom, on the other hand, hadn’t moved.

‘No, it wasn’t,’ he said.

‘What?’ muttered Harry.

‘It wasn’t Joe,’ Tom repeated, looking back at the gate, trying to work out how far it was and if, once they started to run, Harry would leave him behind. ‘Harry,’ he went on, ‘let’s get out of here.’

Harry either didn’t hear or decided to ignore Tom. He caught hold of his hand again and began to pull him away from the path and up the hill towards the Renshaw mausoleum. ‘He’s not far away,’ he was saying. ‘Stay with me, Tom. Watch where you’re walking.’

Tom and Harry began to stumble across the uneven ground and soon their feet were soaked. Dew had already formed on the long grass and was gleaming silver where the moonlight touched it. The cold softness brushed Tom’s legs and headstones leered up at them. They didn’t look like pearls any more; they looked like teeth.

Tom fixed his eyes on the ground and concentrated on staying on his feet. Harry was going too fast and Tom wanted to yell at him to stop, that he was making a terrible mistake and that-

‘Tom,’ called the horrible voice, from right behind them. Tom pulled away from Harry and sprang round, ready to fight as hard as he could, because he’d had enough, absolutely enough this time and-

It was Joe. Real Joe. Half walking, half running across the grass towards them. Stepping forward, Harry had scooped Joe up off the ground and was hugging him tight, muttering, ‘Thank God, thank God.’ Tom was saying it too, in his head, Thank God, thank God. And then, suddenly, he wasn’t. Because Joe was on his own.

19

‘YOU’RE OBSESSING, YOU SILLY COW,’ MUTTERED EVI TO herself. ‘Shut it down and go to bed.’ She looked at the JL clock in the bottom left-hand corner of her computer screen: 9.25 p.m. She couldn’t go to bed at half past nine.

Would there be anything on TV? She spun herself round in the chair and glanced across the room at the set. Was she kidding? It was Saturday night. And there was nothing on her bookshelves she hadn’t read at least four times.

She looked back at the screen, at the picture of Harry that she’d found on the Lancashire Telegraph’s website. He was wearing a black shirt, clerical collar and black jacket. The photograph was perhaps a year or two old. His hair was a little longer and in the lobe of his left ear he wore a tiny metal cross. The accompanying story told her that the Reverend Harry Laycock had been appointed to the living of the recently united benefice of Goodshaw Bridge, Loveclough and Heptonclough, and that in his previous post he’d been a special assistant to the archdeacon in the Diocese of Durham. Earlier in his career, he had spent several years working at an Anglican ministry in Namibia. He was unmarried and gave his hobbies as football (playing and watching), rock-climbing and long-distance running.

She could print the photograph off.

Except that she was absolutely, positively, not going to do anything that pathetic. She scrolled up the page and typed ‘Heptonclough’ into the search engine, pressing Return before she had time to think about what she was doing. The site found several entries. This wasn’t obsessing, this was legitimate research. She had a patient in the town.

Heptonclough didn’t make the news too often. The most recent story was the reference to Harry’s appointment. She passed over it quickly before she was tempted to open it up again. Heptonclough man fined for poaching, New bus service linking Heptonclough with nearby Goodshaw Bridge. He lived in Goodshaw Bridge – oh, get a grip, woman. She found the story about the fire in Gillian’s house, and then a follow-up article reporting that Barry Robinson had been discharged from hospital but remembered nothing about the fire. Search continues for missing Megan; Heptonclough pub’s warning to under-age drinkers…

Evi scrolled back up the list. Search continues for missing Megan. Why did that ring a bell? The story was six years old. And – she scrolled down the list – there were several follow-up stories and one that preceded it: Child missing on moors.

She opened the link and read the first few lines. She’d been working in Shropshire when the story first made the news, but she remembered a young girl going missing on the Pennine moors. The search had gone on for days. The child, or the child’s body, had never been found. Evi had even mentioned it in a lecture she’d given at the university – the particular stages of grief people suffer when their loss is unquantified and unconfirmed, and the difficulties of closure when hope – however unrealistic – lives on.

Dozens of local people joined the police search for missing four-year-old Megan Connor. Megan, who wandered away from her family during a picnic, has blonde, shoulder-length hair and blue eyes. She was wearing a red raincoat and red wellington boots. Photographs are being distributed throughout the north-west, and in the meantime, Megan’s family have asked the public to remain vigilant and pray for their daughter’s safe return.

The picture accompanying the story showed a girl in a Snow White costume, no longer a toddler but still with the plump, soft features of the very young. If Gillian had taken part in the public search for Megan, it might explain why, three years later, she’d become obsessed with the idea that her own daughter might be similarly lost.

It was no good, she couldn’t sit still any longer. For some reason the pain in her leg seemed worse tonight. She had Tramadol in her bathroom cabinet. She hadn’t taken one, hadn’t needed to take one, for nearly six months. Did she really want to start using them again?

20

‘WHERE’S MILLIE?’ SAID HARRY, PUTTING JOE BACK ON his feet. ‘Joe, where’s your sister?’

‘I think they went up there,’ said Joe, giving his brother a nervous look and pointing uphill towards the church. ‘Who?’ said Harry. ‘Who went up there?’

‘I didn’t see,’ said Joe, again looking sideways at Tom. ‘I saw Tom go under the table and then Millie was gone.’

‘Did she go outside? Did she leave the party?’

‘I looked outside,’ said Joe. ‘I thought I saw someone coming in here, but they went too fast.’

Harry took his eyes off Joe for a second and looked towards the older boy. He really didn’t like the look on Tom’s face.

‘Do you know anything about this?’ he asked. ‘Do you know who took Millie?’

Tom wouldn’t make eye-contact with Harry, wouldn’t take his eyes off his brother. Slowly, he shook his head.

Harry pushed himself upright. ‘Hello!’ he yelled into the night. ‘Can anyone hear me?’ They waited. ‘Where the hell is everyone?’ he muttered, when no one answered him. ‘OK, are you two all right to come with me?’

Joe nodded immediately, followed – a second later – by Tom. Harry bent down again and picked up Joe. Leaving the lantern behind and holding tight on to Tom’s hand, he set off.

‘Millie!’ yelled Harry, stopping every few seconds. They reached the top of the hill and stopped in the shadow of the ruined abbey, ten yards or so from the church door. Joe, tiny though he was, had become heavy. Harry lowered him to the ground.

‘Millie,’ he yelled and heard his own voice bounce back from a dozen different directions. ‘Millie, Millie, Millie,’ called the echo.

‘Millie,’ called a voice that was loud and clear. Definitely not an echo.

‘Who said that?’ asked Harry, spinning on the spot.

Joe and Tom looked only at each other. ‘Has she taken her, Joe?’ said Tom, in a low voice. ‘This is serious. Where are they?’

‘And who are they?’ said Harry, who was walking backwards away from the boys towards the church. ‘What’s going on here? Millie!’

‘Tommy,’ called a high, thin voice and Tom sprang to Harry’s side.

‘OK, this has gone far enough, guys.’ Harry made sure he wasn’t yelling, but it was difficult to keep the anger from his voice. ‘There is a child missing and the police will be called, if they haven’t been already. Come on out now.’

They waited. In the distance a dog barked. They could hear a car engine start up. Then suddenly a high-pitched wailing broke through the night.

‘That’s Millie,’ said Tom. ‘That’s really her. She’s somewhere close. Millie! Where are you?’

‘She’s in the church,’ said Joe. ‘The door’s open.’

Harry saw that Joe was right. The door to the church was open just a few inches. Which it shouldn’t have been at this time of night. He sprinted across, aware of the boys following close behind. In through the doors he ran, pressing the light switches as he went. He ran into the nave and stopped dead. Above his head, someone was whimpering.

‘Oh, God save us,’ said Harry, looking up.

Tom and Joe lifted their heads to see what Harry had spotted. Way above them, on the wooden balcony rail, her little face screwed up in terror, sat Millie.

21

Dear Steve,

I’d really love your advice on something. I’m attaching two newspaper articles to give you background, although you may recall the case of Megan Connor. From what I can recall, she was never found.

I have a 26-year-old patient from the town where Megan went missing, whose daughter was accidentally killed three years after Megan’s disappearance. I can’t help thinking the prolonged grief my patient is experiencing might have been influenced by her memories of the earlier event.

I seem to remember the whole country was pretty traumatized by it, and it must surely have been worse in the area itself. My patient may even have taken part in the public search.

My question is this: can I bring it up in our discussions or should I wait for her to mention it herself? On the surface, she seems to be making progress but there’s a lot I still don’t understand. I can’t help thinking she’s keeping something from me. Any thoughts?

Love to Helen and the kids,

Evi

Evi checked her spelling, added a comma and pressed Send. Steve Channing was a sort of informal supervisor, a more experienced psychiatrist to whom she often turned for advice on difficult cases. Of course, he’d know from the date and time on the email that she was working on a Saturday night, but… well, she couldn’t hide from everyone.

22

‘HOW DID SHE GET UP THERE?’ WHIMPERED TOM, UNABLE to take his eyes off his tiny sister, balanced precariously twenty feet above the hard stone floor of the church. No one answered him – why would they? – it was a stupid question. The only important thing was how they were going to get her down.

‘Stay where you are, Millie. Don’t move.’ Harry was running back towards the church door. They heard his footsteps on the stairs that led to the gallery. He’d be in time, he had to be. Harry’s footsteps stopped and they heard the door that separated the gallery from the stairs being shaken in its frame.

‘You are kidding me,’ came Harry’s voice from behind the door. Then the church echoed with the sound of loud banging. Harry was kicking at the door from the other side.

‘They’ve locked the door,’ said Joe. ‘He can’t get to her.’

Scared by the noise, Millie looked down at her brothers. Then she held out both arms and Tom’s stomach turned cold. She was going to jump to him, like she did from the back of the sofa. She was going to jump, confident that he’d catch her, like he always did. But there was no way he could, not from that height, she’d fall too fast. There was nothing, absolutely nothing they could do, she was going to fall and her head would shatter on the stone like glass.

‘No, Millie, no, don’t move!’ Both boys were yelling up at her, watching in horror as the toddler lost her balance on the narrow ledge and tumbled forward. As Joe began to scream, Millie reached out and grabbed the rail with one hand. At the same time her feet, still wearing pink party shoes, found the smallest of footholds on a slim ledge that ran around the edge of the gallery.

‘Shut up, you two, shut up now,’ hissed Harry, who’d joined them again. Tom caught hold of Joe and pulled his brother to him. He hadn’t realized both of them had been yelling so much. Joe clung tight and somehow the boys managed to stop screaming.

‘Millie,’ called Harry, in a voice that Tom could hear shaking. ‘Keep still, sweetheart, hold tight, I’m coming to get you.’

Harry looked at both sides of the church and seemed to be making up his mind. Then he turned back to the boys.

‘Get the hassocks – the prayer cushions,’ he said. ‘Get as many as you can and put them down on the floor, directly underneath her. Do it now.’

Tom couldn’t move. He couldn’t take his eyes off Millie. If he looked away for a second, she’d fall. Then he was aware of Joe scurrying around at his side. His brother had already taken three hassocks from their hooks in the pews and had put them on the ground beneath Millie.

Tom shot round and began gathering more from the pew opposite. As he pulled them off their hooks, he hurled them through the air at the spot where Millie would land. He threw six and then sped back to the aisle. Looking up, he positioned himself directly beneath his sister’s plump legs and pink shoes and began arranging the cushions to form a soft carpet. If they could only get enough, the hassocks would break her fall.

Out of the corner of his eye Tom could see Harry pull himself up on to the window ledge and then move sideways until he could reach the gallery rail. How he was going to get up higher, Tom had no idea, but Harry climbed mountains in his spare time – if anyone could do it, he could. Tom just had to concentrate on the hassocks. Joe was following his example and throwing them over the top of the pew. As fast as they landed, Tom placed them next to the others. Millie’s crash mat was getting bigger.

‘No, sweetheart, no.’ Harry’s voice was strained with the effort of climbing. And of trying not to panic. ‘Stay where you are,’ he was calling. ‘Hold tight, I’m coming.’ Tom paused for a second and risked looking up. Harry was clinging, like a huge spider, to the carved panelling that lined the rear church wall. If he didn’t slip, he’d reach the balcony rail in a few seconds and be able to climb over. Another second would take him to Millie and she’d be safe.

They were seconds he might not have. Because Millie had spotted Harry edging his way towards her and was trying to get to him. She’d moved along the ledge and was no longer directly above the hassocks. And those chubby fingers of hers had no real strength. She was sobbing hard. She couldn’t hold on much longer. She was about to fall. And she knew it.

23

EVI WAS LOOKING AT GILLIAN ROYLE’S MEDICAL RECORDS. When she’d accepted Gillian as a patient, they had been forwarded to her, following normal procedure. Luckily, the GP’s surgery Gillian attended had been one of the first to become fully computerized. Even the old paper-based records from the girl’s childhood had, at some time, been inputted on to the system.

She’d read them already, of course, before her first appointment with the girl. Was there anything she’d missed?

‘He’s a cheating bastard,’ Gillian had said. ‘My stepdad was the same’ More than once now, Gillian had become edgy on the subject of the men in her life. Several aspects of the girl’s character – her cynicism about men and sex, her sense of being a victim, a sort of unspoken belief that the world owed her something – were all making Evi suspect there was some history of abuse in Gillian’s past.

Evi scrolled back to the early records, when Gillian had been a child. She’d had the usual immunizations, chickenpox as a three-year-old. She’d visited her GP shortly after her father’s accidental death, but no medication or follow-up treatment had been prescribed.

At the age of nine, Gillian had started to attend a different surgery in Blackburn. The change probably coincided with her mother’s remarriage and the family’s moving away from Heptonclough. Gillian’s visits to the GP at that time had increased in frequency. She’d complained often of unspecified tummy aches, causing her to miss several days of school, but investigations had found nothing wrong. There had also been a series of minor injuries a broken wrist, bruising, etc. It could indicate abuse. Or it could just suggest a lively, accident-prone child.

When Gillian was thirteen, she and her mother had moved back to Heptonclough. Gillian had been prescribed the contraceptive pill at a very early age – a couple of months short of her fifteenth birthday – and had had a pregnancy terminated at the age of seventeen. Not an ideal scenario, but neither was it untypical for a modern teenager.

Oh, for heaven’s sake, she had plenty of other patients. Evi stood up again. She glanced towards the bathroom. The door was open and she could see the cabinet.

It was completely dark outside. Would there be dancing up in Heptonclough right now? Evi hadn’t danced in three years. Probably never would again.

24

‘WE HAVE TO MOVE THE CUSHIONS,’ TOM URGED HIS brother. ‘Help me push them.’ On their hands and knees, he and Joe began to slide the hassocks along the floor. But they didn’t move smoothly across the uneven flags; as they hit bumps and nicks in the stonework, they separated.

‘Keep them together,’ yelled Tom, not daring to look up, as he and Joe frantically tried to push the hassocks back into place. He had no idea whether they were under Millie or not, he simply didn’t dare look up because he knew if he did he’d see his sister’s body hurtling towards him.

‘’Ow the fuck did she get up there?’ said a voice from across the church. Tom glanced up to see that Jake Knowles and Billy Aspin had silently entered the building. Both were staring up at the vicar and the toddler in fascination.

Harry was getting closer to Millie, who was still clinging to the balcony rail. Something hit Tom in the face and he looked round to see Jake and Billy in the third pew down, collecting hassocks and throwing them at him.

‘You’re miles out, dickhead,’ called Jake, his eyes fixed on Tom’s but his pointed finger switching from the balcony to the floor. ‘Six inches that way.’

He was right. Tom began pushing the cushions to the left, as Joe worked hard to keep them together. They were joined by Billy, who started to double them up, while Jake carried on throwing them like missiles through the air.

Then he heard a thumping noise above him and caught the scream before it left his mouth. Billy, Jake and Joe were all looking up. Harry was in the gallery, talking softly to Millie as he made his way slowly towards her. He was about five strides away… four… three… Tom held his breath. Harry reached out. Tom closed his eyes.

‘He’s got her,’ said Jake. Tom exhaled as his eyes opened. There was no dead sister, bleeding on the stone floor in front of him. It was over. Jake was looking at the hassocks, scattered over the tiles.

‘Suppose we have to put this lot back now,’ he said.

‘Boys.’ It was Harry’s voice, coming from above them, sounding like he’d just run a race. ‘Millie and I can’t get down until we find the key for this door. Can someone look in the vestry?’

For a moment, Tom couldn’t remember where the vestry was. At the front of the church, he thought. He turned and stopped dead. Blinked and looked again. Nothing there. But for a second he’d been sure. To one side of the organ, her thin body pressed against the pipes, someone had been watching them. A little girl.

25

T HEY WERE LEAVING THE CHURCHYARD: THE MAN WHO seemed to be in charge of the church now and Millie’s two brothers. And the mother too; not Millie’s mother, she was still running round the family’s garden, shouting and making a huge fuss. No, this was the other mother, the one who’d appeared from nowhere just as the children and the man had left the church. She was carrying Millie in her arms as they turned down the hill.

Millie’s parents had seen them. They were running towards the group. Everyone was talking at once, looking at Millie, patting her head, hugging her close. They’d been scared, had thought they’d lost her. They’d take better care of her now. For a while.

26

2 October

‘AT FIRST, FOR A FEW MINUTES, IT WASLIKEI WASBACKIN the old nightmare again, do you know what I mean? My little girl was lost and I had to find her. I had to go out and walk the moors, calling and calling, until I found her.’

‘It’s OK, Gillian, take your time. Give yourself a minute.’

‘I couldn’t think properly. I just wanted to scream.’

‘I understand,’ said Evi. ‘It must have been dreadful for everyone, but especially for you.’ Yet another search on the moors for Gillian: first Megan, then Hayley, now this latest – Millie, was she called?

‘It was,’ said Gillian.

‘Take your time,’ Evi said again. Should she mention the search for Megan? She hadn’t heard back from her supervisor yet.

‘But then it was like someone flicked a switch and I could see clearly again. The worst had already happened to me. I had nothing to be afraid of, so I was in the best position to help. I know all the hiding places around the town. I’ve been checking them all just about every day for nearly three years and I knew I had the best chance of finding her.’

Gillian had been out shopping since Evi had last seen her. She was wearing black trousers that looked new and a tight black sweater. Her skin was improving all the time.

‘We’ve plenty of time, Gillian,’ she said. ‘Forty minutes before we have to stop. Do you want to tell me what you did?’

‘I went out looking,’ answered Gillian. ‘On my own, in the dark, because I’m used to that. I walked along Wite Lane, past our old house, up through the fields towards the Tor. Then I came back again because I saw lights on in the church.’

‘That shows great strength of character,’ said Evi. ‘That you were able to take part in the search, after everything you’ve been through.’

Gillian was nodding, still excited. ‘And it felt really good, you know, when I saw Alice and Gareth and I had Millie in my arms. They were so grateful and-’

‘You found the little girl?’

‘Yes – well no – not exactly. I found all four of them, coming out of the church. They were all in a bit of a state. Tom was arguing with his brother about something to do with little girls. I took Millie off Tom because I was worried he was going to drop her. I didn’t notice Harry at first. He was leaning against a wall and in his black clothes he was pretty hard to see.’

Evi picked up her water glass from the desk and realized she wasn’t thirsty. She kept it in her hand, swirling the water around. ‘And the little girl had just wandered off?’ she asked.

‘To be honest, no one’s sure what happened. Millie’s too young to tell us. The official line is that she followed some bigger children out of the party and then found she couldn’t keep up.’

The glass was distracting Gillian. Evi made herself put it down. There was a paperclip on the desk. If she picked that up she’d start twisting it in her fingers. It would be another distraction.

‘And the unofficial line?’ asked Evi, finding herself curious.

‘The family have had a few run-ins with a local gang,’ replied Gillian. ‘Who were hanging round while it happened, apparently. The Fletchers think perhaps they took Millie, maybe as a joke, and then it all went wrong. The police have been up but none of the boys has admitted anything. Everyone’s just glad it ended the way it did.’

‘And this was past nine o’clock?’ Evi asked. ‘Quite late for a little one to be up, wasn’t it?’

‘Oh, all the kids stay up late for the Cutting. It’s tradition.’

‘The Cutting?’

‘That’s what they call it. It’s an old farming thing. Then a party. Everyone’s invited. I was never that keen, to be honest, especially after Pete left. But then, when Harry asked me if I was going to be there, I thought, why not? Except then I was in this big panic about what I was going to wear. Not that it was a date or anything, but he had made a point of asking me if I was going to be there and… what’s the matter? What have I said?’

The paperclip was in Evi’s fingers after all. She shook her head and forced a smile. ‘Nothing, I’m sorry,’ she said, putting the twisted piece of metal back on the desk. ‘You’re in a very upbeat mood today. I can’t quite keep up. Carry on.’

‘So I decided to wear the cropped trousers in the end. With the yellow sweater I got in Tesco, only it doesn’t look like something you’d buy from Tesco, it looks sort of classy, really. I can’t remember the last time I bought new clothes. It’s a good sign, isn’t it, wanting to buy new clothes, to look nice again?’

Silence.

‘Isn’t it?’ Gillian repeated.

Evi nodded. Was she still smiling? Just about. ‘It’s a very good sign,’ she agreed.

It was an extremely good sign, wanting to look nice again. A long, floaty skirt almost to her ankles, a tight red top that would have shown off her shoulders, and a lavender pashmina in case the evening became chilly; that’s what she’d been planning to wear.

‘And how did you cope with the party afterwards?’ she asked. ‘There would have been alcohol, I’m guessing. Were you tempted?’

Gillian thought for a moment, then shook her head. ‘Not really,’ she said. ‘There was so much going on. A lot of people wanted to talk to me, ask me how I was getting on. Jenny was sweet. Jenny Pickup, I mean – used to be Jenny Renshaw. I used to nanny for her years ago and then she was Hayley’s godmother. And Harry was around a lot. Course, I didn’t take too much notice of him at the party. You know how people talk.’

‘Was it a late night?’ Evi had imagined a late night, being driven home in that open-topped car. The night had been warm when she’d gone out into the garden just before eleven. There had been stars.

‘It all finished not long after we found Millie,’ Gillian said. ‘The Fletcher family went home and then the rest of us went back to the Renshaws’, but the band had stopped and people were starting to clear up. Odd really, because in the old days the parties could go on well into the night.’

‘Did you go home?’

Gillian shook her head. ‘No, I went with Harry.’

Evi reached out and lifted her glass. She put it to her lips, then licked the moisture off them. The glass went back down.

‘With Harry?’ she said. ‘Harry the vicar?’

‘I know, I know.’ Gillian was almost chuckling. ‘I’m still not used to the vicar bit myself. But when he took that stupid dress thing off he didn’t look like a vicar at all. He was standing outside when I left and I just had a feeling he’d been waiting for me.’

‘Did he say that?’

‘Well, he wouldn’t, would he? I think he might be a bit shy. So I asked him if he wanted to come back to the flat for a coffee.’

Evi’s hand was on the glass again. ‘What did he say?’

‘Well, I was sure he was going to say yes but then some people came round the corner, so he said he had to make sure the church was locked up and he walked off up the hill. Course, I knew he wanted me to follow him so I waited a few minutes and then I went up too.’

‘Gillian…’

‘What?’

‘Well, it’s just… vicars have a certain code of conduct.’

Blank look on Gillian’s face.

‘A certain way they have to behave,’ Evi tried again, ‘and inviting a young woman he hardly knows up to a church at night… well, it doesn’t feel too responsible to me. Are you sure that’s what he wanted?’

Gillian shrugged. ‘Men are men,’ she said. ‘He might wear a dog collar but he’s still got a prick in his pants.’

Evi picked up the glass again. It was empty.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Evi, when she trusted her voice again. ‘You probably think I’m prying. If you don’t feel ready to talk about this, that’s fine. Are you still sleeping well?’

‘You think a vicar wouldn’t be interested in someone like me?’ Gillian asked. The lines on her face seemed to have hardened. The lipstick she’d chosen looked too dark for her.

‘No, that’s not what I meant at all.’

‘So why did he kiss me?’

Evi took a deep breath. ‘Gillian, my only concern is whether you’re ready to get involved again. Emotionally, you’ve been very badly damaged.’

He’d kissed her?

The girl had shrunk into her chair again. She didn’t seem able to look at Evi any more.

‘Do you really like him?’ Evi asked softly.

Gillian nodded without looking up. ‘It sounds stupid,’ she said, speaking to the rug at her feet, ‘because I hardly know him, but it’s like I care about him. When I went in the church he was just sitting in the front pew. I went and sat down next to him and put my hand on his. He didn’t pull his away. He said he was sorry about what had happened, that it must have been dreadful for me, after what I’d been through.’

‘Sounds like it was pretty grim for everyone,’ said Evi. Ten minutes before the end of the session. A tiny amount of time in the greater scheme of things. And yet too long to carry a picture in her head of Harry and this girl, in a dimly lit church, holding hands.

‘It was like we had such a connection,’ Gillian was saying. ‘I felt I could say anything. So I asked him what I’d wanted to the first time I met him. How could God let bad things happen to innocent people, like Hayley? And almost to Millie. If He’s all powerful, the way people say, why do these things happen?’

And me, thought Evi. What part of the great plan made me a cripple? What part of the plan whisked Harry away from me just when… less than ten minutes to go.

‘What did he say?’ she asked.

‘He started quoting this prayer at me. He does that a lot, I’ve noticed. Incredible memory. Something about Jesus not having any hands or feet…’

‘No hands but ours,’ said Evi, after a moment.

‘That’s it. Do you know it?’

‘I was brought up a Catholic,’ said Evi. ‘That prayer was written by St Teresa in the sixteenth century. “Christ has no body now on earth but ours, no hands but ours, no feet but ours.” It means that everything that happens here on earth – all the good things, all the bad things too – are down to us.’

‘Yes, that’s what Harry said,’ replied Gillian. ‘He said it’s up to us now. He said God had a great plan, he was sure of it, but that it was a plan in outline and that it was up to us to fill in the details.’

‘He sounds quite wise, this Harry of yours,’ said Evi. So ridiculous. She’d only met him twice. There was no reason, really, for her stomach to feel like lead.

‘I think so,’ said Gillian. ‘I’m going to church on Sunday. First time in years.’

Gillian turned suddenly and looked at the clock on the wall. ‘I have to go,’ she announced. ‘I said I’d meet him at noon. I’m helping decorate the church. Thank you, Evi, I’ll see you next week.’

Gillian got up and left the room. There were still eight minutes of her appointment left to run but it seemed she didn’t need Evi any more. And why would she? She had Harry.

27

‘T HE ASSISTANT REFEREE RAISES THEBOARD AND THERE ’ S only three minutes of injury time to play in this crucial top-of-the-table clash. The ball goes to Brown… he turns, passes to young Ewood debutante Fletcher… Fletcher, still Fletcher… a little look up… Green’s in space… I think Fletcher’s going all the way… GOAL!’

Giving the supporters a modest wave, Tom jogged back to the centre of the pitch for the final kick-off. Less than a minute of injury time to go and victory, as they say, was in the bag. Then one of the other players turned to him.

‘Tommy,’ he whispered.

Tom was awake in an instant. No longer the new star striker, leading his favourite football team to victory. Just ten-year-old Tom Fletcher, lying in bed in the middle of the night. With a big problem on his hands.

Outside, the wind was racing up the moor. Tom could hear it whistling through alleyways, making windows tremble in their frames. He lay, not daring to move, with the quilt pulled up around his ears; he was used to the wind by now. In the radiator pipes he could hear the odd gurgle as the house settled down for the night. He was used to that too. From two feet below he could hear the soft ticking of Joe’s breathing. Everything normal.

Except that someone else was in the bedroom with him and Joe. Someone at the end of his bed, who had just tugged at his quilt.

Completely awake now, Tom didn’t dare move. The tugging could have been part of his dream, he just had to stay still, make sure it didn’t happen again. He waited for ten, twenty seconds and realized he was holding his breath. As quietly as he could, he let it out. A fraction of a second later, someone else breathed in.

Still he didn’t dare move. It could have been his own breath he’d heard, or Joe’s. It could have been.

The quilt moved again, pulled away from his face. He could feel the night air on his cheek now and his left ear. In the bunk below Joe called out in his sleep – a muffled word that sounded a bit like ‘Mummy’ and then a low moan.

‘Tommy.’ Joe’s voice. Except Joe was asleep.

‘Tommy.’ His mother’s voice. But his mother would never scare him like this.

Tom’s eyes were open. How had it got so dark? The landing light that was always kept on at night in case one of the children needed to get up had been switched off and his room was darker than it ever normally was. The furniture, the toys left scattered around, were little more than dark shadows. They were familiar dark shadows though, the sort he was used to and expected to see. The one he really hadn’t expected to see was the one at the foot of his bed.

Whatever it was, it was sitting quite still, but breathing, he could see the slight movement of the shoulders. He could see the outline of the head and the two tiny points of light that could have been almost certainly were – eyes. The shadow was watching him.

For half a second Tom wasn’t capable of movement. Then he wasn’t capable of anything else. He scrambled backwards, kicking against the cover with his heels, pushing with his elbows. His head slammed hard into the metal frame of the bed-head and he knew he couldn’t go any further.

The shadow moved, leaned towards him.

‘Millie,’ it said, in a voice that Tom thought was perhaps supposed to be his. ‘Millie fall.’

28

3 October

‘ARE THEY OK?’ ASKED HARRY, WHO‘D BEEN LISTENING TO the story in fascination.

, Gareth shrugged. ‘Well, they’re all pretty quiet,’ he said. ‘Tom and Joe aren’t speaking but neither of them will let Millie out of their sight. Tom’s developed something of a fascination with window locks, checking they’re secure, wanting to know where the keys are.’

‘And he says it was a little girl? Who’s been watching you all?’

Gareth nodded. ‘He’s mentioned her before, we just didn’t take much notice. There are lots of kids around town, and Tom’s imagination has always been on the colourful side.’

‘And where was Alice while…’ he stopped. Did that sound judgemental?

‘In her studio,’ said Gareth, either not noticing or choosing to ignore it. ‘She’s been working on a portrait of old Mr Tobias, he’s been sitting for her several times a week and she wants to get it finished before the end of the month. She heard Tom screaming upstairs but by the time she got to him he’d woken the other two and they were yelling their heads off too.’

‘Any sign of a break-in?’ asked Harry. ‘Is it possible Tom did see someone?’

Gareth shook his head. ‘The small window in the downstairs loo was open but no normal-sized person could get through it. And a child – even if one were out on her own at night – wouldn’t be able to reach it.’

The two men had reached the back of the church. They stopped in front of a tall narrow door that looked as though it had been made from yew. ‘Are you sure you’re OK to do this?’ asked Harry. ‘It’s not urgent. You should probably…’

Gareth picked up the tool-box he’d brought with him. ‘It’s fine,’ he said. ‘They’ve gone on a walk. Joe wanted to have a look at the Tor. I said I’d join them when we’re done.’

‘Well, if you sure.’

‘I’m sure. Let’s open this crypt.’

Harry found the right key and pushed it into the lock. ‘Technically, not a crypt,’ he said. ‘More of a cellar. Might be handy for storage. I just want a steer on whether I need to call a surveyor in to check it’s safe.’ The key turned easily enough. Harry took hold of the handle and raised the latch.

‘And you don’t want to look round the spooky place on your own,’ said Gareth.

‘You’re absolutely right about that. Blimey, this door is stiff. Shouldn’t think it’s been moved in years.’

‘Oh, step out of the way, Vicar, this is a job for a man.’

‘Back off, buddy, I’m on it,’ said Harry. ‘Here we go.’

The door swung inwards just as a bubble of sour-smelling dust burst in front of them. Harry blinked hard. Gareth cleared his throat. ‘Stone me, that’s a bit rich,’ he said. ‘Are you sure there’s nothing dead down there?’

‘I’m not sure of anything,’ replied Harry, picking up his flashlight and stepping on to the spiral staircase that wound its way down beneath the church. The cold air seemed to steal around the back of his neck. ‘Stakes and garlic flowers at the ready.’

The damp smell of the church’s cellar got stronger as the two men went down. Before they were halfway Harry was glad he and Gareth were wearing fleeces. Twenty-two steps and they were at the bottom, shining their torches around. The two beams picked out massive stone pillars and a vaulted brick roof. So much bigger than either of them had expected.

‘I stand corrected,’ said Harry, after a few seconds. ‘This is a crypt.’

If Tom had been asked a couple of weeks ago, he might have said October was one of his favourite months. Because October was when the trees started to look like toffee apples and ploughed fields turned the colour of dark chocolate. He liked the way the air tasted on his tongue, fresh and sharp like a Polo mint, and he loved the sense of expectation, as first Hallowe’en, then Bonfire Night, then Christmas drew near. This year, though, he was struggling with the whole expectation business. This year, he just didn’t like to look too far ahead.

‘Hold on, you two,’ his mother’s voice called up the hill. ‘Wait for us girls.’

Tom glanced back. Joe was a few yards behind, dressed as a medieval archer with a plastic bow strung over his shoulder and a quiver of arrows on his back. He was keeping up well and singing quietly to himself. Almost thirty yards further down the hill Alice and Millie were just appearing through the fog.

‘Tom, stay on the path!’ called his mother.

‘OK, OK!’

He carried on up.

Harry walked forward until he was in the centre of the wide, dark space. Three rows of ornate brick columns held up the vaulted ceiling. The floor was not the earth one he’d expected but was lined with old headstones like the church paths at ground level.

‘Just incredible,’ muttered Gareth at his side.

The two men walked on. A few yards ahead the wall to their right seemed to come to an abrupt halt and Harry’s torch hit blackness. As the two men drew closer they realized an archway led through the wall. They could see nothing beyond.

‘You first,’ said Gareth.

‘Wimp.’

Harry stepped through the black archway and shone his torch around. ‘Well, I’ll be…’ he began. The underground space on the other side of the wall was even bigger than the church crypt.

‘We’re under the old church,’ said Gareth, who’d followed close behind. ‘Two churches, one massive cellar.’

‘I don’t imagine storage space is going to be a problem somehow,’ said Harry, shining his torch round to see arched and gated alcoves against the far wall. ‘I don’t think this was ever just a cellar. There’s too much ornamentation. I think it was used for worship. Can you hear water?’

‘Yeah. Sounds a bit more than a burst pipe,’ said Gareth. ‘I think it’s coming from over here.’

Gareth led the way; Harry followed, admiring the stonework around the walls, with its carvings of roses, leaves and insects. He saw a procession of carved stone pilgrims heading for a shrine. The flags beneath his feet were worn smooth. For hundreds of years monks had silently trod these stones. Ahead of him, Gareth had found the source of the water sounds.

‘I have never seen anything like this,’ he was saying.

Set into the furthest wall of the cellar was a massive stone scallopshell. Water was streaming into it from a narrow pipe several inches above and then, almost like a decorative water feature in someone’s garden, it poured over the sides of the shell and disappeared into a grille. Harry held out his hand and scooped up some of the water. It was freezing. He held it to his mouth, sniffed, then dipped in his tongue.

‘Probably drinkable,’ he said. ‘Do you think this was some sort of massive priest hole for the monks? When enemies came they fled down here. With their own water supply they could probably hole up for weeks.’

‘There are several underground streams around here,’ said Gareth. ‘We had to watch out for them when we were putting the house foundations in. Maybe you can bottle it.’

‘Heptonclough Spring,’ said Harry, nodding. ‘Has a ring to it.’

‘So can we discuss this whole crypt-versus-cellar business?’ said Gareth, who was shining his torch into the nearest of the alcoves. ‘Because I can’t help thinking there are dead things yonder.’

Shapes loomed out of the fog and for a moment Tom slowed down. Then he realized there had been buildings here at one time. He was looking at their ruins.

‘Tom, stop now!’

She meant it this time. There was no mistaking that particular tone and volume. He waited until his mother and Millie had caught up. Both looked tired.

The previous night, when his mother had come racing from her studio, smelling of paint and strong coffee, to find her eldest son crouched terrified behind his bedroom door, Tom had been convinced the little girl was still somewhere in the house. He’d refused to go back to bed until everywhere – absolutely every possible hiding place – had been searched.

Joe, the lying toe-rag, had refused to back him up, to admit that he too had seen the girl, had even spoken to her. Joe had just opened his eyes until they were as wide as saucers and shaken his head.

‘Thank you,’ said his mum. ‘Now can we all stay together, please? No one is going out of my sight in this fog. OK, I think it’s this way.’

With Millie on one hip, Alice set off and the boys trailed behind. Tom kept his eyes on the ground. If Joe said anything to wind him up he would land him one.

They reached the edge of a copse of trees just as the fog seemed to lift a little. A carpet of beech leaves lay before them. The trees were old and massive. Tom and his family stepped forward until they were in amongst them. The tiny cottage, straight out of a fairy tale, appeared before them.

Harry and Gareth were standing beside a small, stone-lined alcove. The entrance was covered in intricate ironwork and the gate was locked.

‘Don’t have the key to that one,’ said Harry.

‘Really not a problem, mate,’ replied Gareth, shaking his head.

Beyond the ironwork the two men could see four carved stone coffins, set on shelves on either side of the alcove. Prone statues of men in clerical robes lay on each of them. The name Thomas Barwick was inscribed on the first. He’d been abbot in the year 1346. The writing on the other coffins was too worn for Harry to make it out. The men started walking back down the length of the cellar, shining their torches into each locked alcove they passed. They stopped at the last. Beyond the stone coffins, set into the far wall, was a wooden door.

‘Where do you think that leads?’ said Gareth. ‘I’ve completely lost my bearings.’

Harry shrugged. He had too. ‘There are some old keys in the desk in the vestry,’ he said. ‘Shoved to the back of one of the drawers.’

‘Another day, perhaps,’ said Gareth.

‘I can’t believe no one told me this was here,’ said Harry. ‘Its historical significance could be huge. There’ll be coach parties visiting.’

‘Maybe that’s why it’s been kept so quiet,’ suggested Gareth. ‘Does your churchwarden strike you as the sort of man who wants his town turned into a tourist attraction?’

‘He doesn’t own the whole town,’ said Harry, annoyed. Abbots from hundreds of years ago could be interred in this very space. It was an incredible find.

‘Just most of it.’

‘Yeah, well he doesn’t own the church. And he certainly doesn’t own this.’

‘Red Riding Hood’s house,’ said Tom, forgetting that he was sulking.

‘Red Riding Hood’s grandmother’s house,’ corrected his mother, as Millie toddled up to the cottage’s front door.

Unlike the ruined buildings they’d just passed, the cottage seemed solid and in good repair. The walls were intact, the roof looked sound, the front door firm on its hinges. There were even two windows, with shutters pulled tight. And a chimney.

Alice reached out and tried the door handle. Locked. She turned back to her children and shrugged. ‘Guess Grandmother’s not home,’ she said. ‘I think this must be the cottage Jenny told us about. The one she and her sister used to play in.’

Tom shivered. He glanced at Joe, who was looking down at the ground, as though he had no interest in the cottage. A sudden thought struck Tom. What if this cottage was where the girl lived?

‘Let’s go,’ he announced. Alice nodded and the family walked on until they came to the Tor.

‘Can we climb up, Mum?’ asked Joe.

‘Absolutely not,’ replied Alice. ‘In this fog and without your father, this is as far as we’re going.’

Tom was staring up at the massive pile of rocks that disappeared into cloud. There was something about the way they towered over him that made him feel nervous. And he certainly didn’t like looking up, the way his mum and Joe and even Millie were doing. Turning away, he cried out before he could stop himself.

‘What’s the matter?’ called Alice, spinning round.

‘There’s someone over there,’ said Tom. ‘In the trees. Someone watching us.’

Alice frowned and screwed up her eyes. Then she looked quickly from right to left. ‘I can’t see anything,’ she said. ‘Just trees.’

Tom moved closer to his mother. A tall, thin figure had been standing amongst the trees, watching. Once spotted, it had moved, fading back into the fog. Tom turned to glare at Joe, then stopped himself. It hadn’t really looked the right shape or height to be the girl.

‘Come on,’ said Alice. ‘We should get back. I don’t think this fog is going to lift. Quick as we can, everyone.’ Hoisting Millie on to her hip again, she set off towards the trees. Then she stopped. ‘There is someone there,’ she said in a quiet voice. ‘Hold on a sec, Joe.’

Tom felt a lump forming in his chest. He couldn’t see anything, or at least… his mother was reaching into her pocket. She brought out her mobile and looked at the screen. Then she pressed some keys and held it to her ear.

‘Who are you phoning?’ said Tom.

‘Daddy,’ replied Alice, before shaking her head. ‘He must still be underground.’

She looked behind them once more and then set off again, heading downhill. First Joe and then Tom followed. Neither of them spoke. Every few steps Alice slowed down and looked back. After a few seconds Tom found himself doing the same thing. Just grey cloud behind. Already the Tor had disappeared.

After a few minutes, they reached the copse. The trees seemed to Tom to have grown taller since the family had last walked past them. He moved closer to his mother and realized Joe had done the same thing. No one seemed to want to speak. Even Millie was unusually silent. Alice hadn’t put her mobile away. She glanced at it again and Tom could see her thumb hovering over one of the keys. It looked as if his mother was getting ready to press 9.

‘Mummy, I’m scared,’ said Joe in a small voice.

‘There’s nothing to be scared of, sweetheart,’ replied his mother quickly, in a voice that seemed a bit shriller than normal. ‘We’ll be home in ten minutes.’

She set off again, more slowly this time, one step in front of the other. When Tom looked up he could see her eyes darting from side to side. They were in the midst of the trees now. Everywhere they turned, dark shadows surrounded them.

‘Tom, poppet,’ said Alice, without looking at him. ‘If I were to tell you to, could you take Joe’s hand and run as fast as you possibly can down the hill and find Daddy?’

‘Why?’ said Tom.

‘He’s probably still in the church,’ said Alice. ‘Maybe at home. Could you find him and tell him where we are?’

‘What about you and Millie?’

‘I’ll look after Millie. I just know how fast you are. I know you and Joe could get home really quickly. Can you do that for me, angel?’

Tom wasn’t sure. Run in the fog and leave his mother behind? They were almost through the trees now. The mist wasn’t quite so thick lower down the moor. The outlines of Heptonclough’s buildings were starting to appear. They could see further down the hill.

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ said Alice, stopping and closing her eyes. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Tom, you scared the life out of me.’

Tom looked at his mother. She didn’t look cross, she looked hugely relieved. He turned his head down the hill to see a figure a hundred yards or so away from them.

‘It’s Gillian,’ she said. ‘Out for one of her walks. Fancy being scared of Gillian.’

29

8 October

‘EVI, IT’S STEVE. IS THIS A GOOD TIME?’

Evi looked at her watch. She was on her way to a children’s home, to have her first meeting with a child who hadn’t spoken in the ten days since the police had used their special powers under the Children Act to remove him from his home. It was a ten-minute journey. Ten minutes either side of that to get herself in and out of the car. But her supervisor had rung on her mobile. She could talk on the move.

‘It’s fine,’ she said, gathering up her notepad and several pencils from the desk. ‘I have a couple of minutes. Thanks for getting back.’

‘Well, sorry it took so long, but we’ve been away. I only got back to the office this morning.’

‘Anywhere nice?’ Why did pencils permanently need sharpening? She leaned against the desk and fumbled in the drawer.

‘ Antigua. And yes, it was very nice. Now, this email of yours.’

‘Any thoughts?’ She’d found the sharpener. But holding the phone against her ear with her shoulder was going to play havoc with her back.

‘You say the patient is making progress?’ She could hear Steve sipping his usual strong black coffee.

‘On the surface, yes,’ said Evi. Two pencils sharpened, that would have to be enough. ‘She’s managing to curtail the drinking, the medication I’ve prescribed is working well, she’s started to talk about the future.’ OK, writing stuff, phone – yes, she had that what the hell had she done with the car keys?

‘So what’s the problem?’

‘I just can’t help feeling there’s something she’s not telling me,’ said Evi. Her car keys were in her coat pocket. They were always in her coat pocket. ‘She’s very reluctant to talk about her early life, the death of her father, the appearance of a stepfather. There are times when it’s as though a curtain comes down. Subject off limits.’

‘You’ve not been seeing her that long, have you?’

‘No, only a few weeks,’ said Evi, wondering if she could get her coat on without falling over. ‘And I know these things can take time. It’s just that the Megan Connor business struck me as being quite a coincidence. I can’t help thinking it would have had an impact.’

‘You’re probably right. But I’d wait for her to bring it up. Let her talk about what she’s happy to talk about. You’re still right at the start of treatment. There’s plenty of time.’

‘I know. I thought that myself. Just needed you to confirm it.’ The coat was on, just. Evi hung her bag from the bespoke hook on her wheelchair and checked that her stick was in its place along the back. She sank down, still gripping the phone between her shoulder and her ear.

‘That’s my girl,’ said Steve. ‘I tell you what, though, I remember the Megan case well.’

‘Oh?’ Evi’s office door had been hung to swing outwards when she pushed it with her foot.

‘Yeah, a colleague of mine took a very close interest. He was doing some work on the effects of disasters on small communities.’

‘How do you mean?’ asked Evi, setting off along the corridor.

‘When a community suffers an out-of-the-ordinary loss, its impact can be felt for quite some time,’ said Steve. ‘The place gets a slightly grim reputation with the outside world and that can start to affect how people there think and behave. He wrote a paper on the subject, it looked at places like Hungerford, Dunblane, Lockerbie, Aberfan. I’ll try and dig it out for you.’

Evi turned the corner and nearly ran into a group of three colleagues chatting in the corridor. They stepped aside and she nodded her thanks. ‘The BMJ did a piece on it too, not long ago,’ Steve was saying. ‘After a disaster, up to 50 per cent of the population can suffer from mental distress. The prevalence of mild or moderate disorders can double. Even severe disorders like psychosis increase.’

‘But you’re talking about major disasters, surely? Earthquakes, airplanes coming down, chemical plants exploding. Severe loss of life.’ Evi passed a woman and child in the corridor, then a porter.

‘True, and I’m not trying to suggest that a couple of dead children can compare in any real way. But the Megan case was very high-profile. You should still expect there to be an impact on the community’s mental health. On some level the people up there will feel responsible. They’ll feel tainted.’

‘So what happened previously could, albeit subconsciously, be affecting my patient’s recovery?’

‘I wouldn’t be in the least bit surprised. You might want to find out more about what actually happened when your patient’s daughter died. Read some old newspapers, talk to the GP in question. It’ll give you a point of reference. You can compare what she’s telling you with what you know about the facts. See if there are any discrepancies. You mustn’t be confrontational, of course, but sometimes we learn more from what our patients don’t tell us than from what they do. Make any sort of sense?’

Evi had reached the main door of the hospital. Some idiot had left a pile of packing crates at the top of the disabled ramp. ‘Yes, it does,’ she said, glaring at the crates. ‘Thanks, Steve. I’m going to have to go now. I have to give somebody a serious bollocking.’

30

10 October

‘TO EVERYTHING THERE IS A SEASON, A TIME FOR EVERY purpose under the sun,’ read Harry. His voice, rarely lowpitched, bounced around the empty church. ‘A time to be born and a time to die; a time to plant and a time to pluck up…’

A scuffling noise behind him. He stopped. A quick glance over his shoulder told him he was still alone in the church. He’d said goodbye to Alice ten minutes ago, to Gillian three or four minutes after that. Both had been helping him put the finishing touches to the harvest decorations. He’d have seen anyone come in. You didn’t miss much, standing in the pulpit.

‘… a time to pluck up that which is planted,’ he continued, his eyes scanning the rows of pews although he was sure the noise had come from behind him. ‘A time to kill and a time…’ He stopped again, not liking the feeling he was getting between his shoulder blades, the feeling that any second now, someone behind him would reach out and…

He glanced down at his notes again. Ecclesiastes, chapter three, always went down well at harvest time. People liked the simple beauty of the piece, its sense of balance, of completeness.

‘Time to die,’ said a small voice from just behind him.

Harry kept his eyes fixed on the gallery and waited. In the nave something creaked, but old wood does that. For a second he wondered if the Fletcher boys had crept into the church again, but it hadn’t sounded like either of them. He allowed his eyes to fall down to his hands. They were clutching the wooden rail of the pulpit rather tighter than appeared manly. Without making a sound, he spun on the spot.

The chancel looked empty, but then he hadn’t really expected anything else. Someone was having some fun with the vicar. He turned back to face the front of the church again.

‘… and a time to heal… a time to weep and a time to laugh,’ he read out, in a voice that would be too loud, even tomorrow, when the church had people in it. In an empty church, it sounded a bit crazed.

‘Time to kill,’ whispered the voice.

Oh, for the love of…

Harry didn’t bother with the steps, he swung his legs over the pulpit rail and dropped to the floor. The voice had been just feet away, he was sure of it. There was no time for anyone to disappear. Except they had. No one in the choir stalls, no one in the small space behind the organ, no one hiding behind the altar, no one in the… he stopped. Could someone be in the old crypt? Could sound be travelling upwards somehow?

‘Everything all right, Vicar?’

Harry stopped and turned to face the new voice. Jenny Pickup, Sinclair’s daughter, was standing halfway down the aisle watching him with a look of bemused interest on her face. Harry felt his own face glowing. For some reason, Jenny always seemed to find him a bit of a joke.

‘Have you ever heard of a secret way into this building, Jenny?’ he asked. ‘Maybe into the cellar beneath us? That local kids might know about?’

She shook her head. ‘Not to my knowledge,’ she said. ‘Why, has anything gone missing?’

‘No, nothing like that,’ said Harry quickly. ‘It’s just I was running through the sermon for tomorrow and I swear I heard someone repeating what I was saying.’

Jenny was wearing a pale-pink sweatshirt that suited her, and riding breeches tucked into black boots. ‘This building echoes in odd ways,’ she said after a moment. ‘It’s well known for it.’

‘It really didn’t sound like an echo,’ Harry replied. ‘It sounded like a child. In which case I need to find him before I lock up.’

Jenny had walked forward. Her eyes were moving slowly round the building. ‘Let me lock up for you tonight, Vicar,’ she said.

‘You?’

‘Yes,’ she nodded, a small, slightly sad smile on her face. ‘I came to have a quick word with you. And then I wanted to spend some time here on my own. Would that be OK, do you think? I promise to make sure there’s not a soul here when I leave.’

‘If you’re sure,’ he said.

‘No problem. Let me walk outside with you. It’s a beautiful evening.’

Harry collected his jacket and then the two of them walked into the vestry. Harry couldn’t resist a last look back around the nave. Empty.

‘Do you need to borrow my keys?’ he offered.

‘No, it’s OK, thank you,’ Jenny replied, as they walked outside. ‘Dad lent me his. He’ll probably pop back himself later, just to make sure I really did lock up and all the lights are out.’

A Land Rover pulling a long, low trailer had stopped outside Dick Grimes’s shop, near the church entrance. The driver jumped out, followed by a black and white collie. He went to the back of the trailer and unfastened the rear door. The dog ran up the ramp and a dozen sheep stumbled out. Harry and Jenny watched the dog herd them around the vehicle and towards the barn behind the butcher’s shop.

‘You’re not a countryman, are you, Vicar?’ she said to him.

They watched the sheep disappear into the barn, then the driver and collie reappeared and jumped back into the cab. As the vehicle drove off around the corner, a woman had to step close to the wall to avoid being hit. It was Gillian.

‘No,’ said Harry, turning back to Jenny. ‘But I’m learning fast.’

‘It’s all done humanely,’ she said. ‘And the animals don’t suffer the stress of a long journey.’

‘I don’t doubt that for a second.’ Harry glanced up the hill. Gillian was still there. ‘Don’t think I disapprove,’ he went on. ‘I just need to get used to it.’

‘The men all come up to our house afterwards,’ said Jenny. ‘We do a supper and the pub usually provides a keg or two. It would be great if you could join us.’ Jenny was twisting her car keys in her hands. Her fingers were long and slim but reddened and a little rough, maybe from riding horses in bad weather.

‘Thank you,’ said Harry, acutely conscious of Gillian just yards away but determined not to look at her again. ‘That’s very kind,’ he went on. ‘And next year I’d love to. But I have a big day tomorrow. I probably should get an early night.’

‘Next year then.’ Jenny had been working. Her short fingernails were dirty and there was straw on her sweatshirt.

‘I wish Gillian would go home,’ said Harry. ‘It’s getting cold and she never seems to wear a proper coat.’ Evi’s fingernails had been short too, but very clean and polished. Funny, the things you noticed.

Jenny glanced over Harry’s shoulder. ‘Gillian’s been looking a lot better lately,’ she said. ‘We’ve been worried about her for some time. She really didn’t seem to be coping.’

‘She suffered a terrible loss,’ said Harry.

Jenny took a deep breath. ‘I lost a daughter too, Vicar. Did you know that?’

‘I didn’t,’ he replied, turning away from Gillian to meet Jenny’s hazel eyes. ‘I’m so sorry. Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?’

‘In a way. It was ten years ago, so I’ve had more time, I suppose. But there’s not a day goes by when the pain isn’t there. When I don’t think, what would she have been doing today? How would she look, now that she’s eight, or nine, or ten?’

‘I do understand,’ Harry said, although he knew he didn’t, not really. No one could appreciate that sort of pain unless they’d lived through it.

‘Are you nervous about tomorrow?’ Jenny was asking him.

‘Of course,’ he replied truthfully. ‘I’ve led worship in my other two parishes and that went fine, but here’s different somehow. Probably because the church has been closed for so long. I haven’t managed to find out yet why that was.’

‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Can we sit down for a second?’

Harry found himself following Jenny to the old shepherds’ bench where he’d sat with Evi. She still hadn’t called him back.

Jenny was twisting her car keys in her hand. ‘It’ll be fine tomorrow,’ she said. ‘I think you’ll have a good turn-out. People are ready to start using the church again.’

‘Why did they stop?’ he asked, realizing she needed a direct question.

She wasn’t looking at him. ‘Out of respect,’ she said. ‘And also out of sadness. Lucy, my daughter, died in the church.’

And no one had thought to warn him? ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said.

‘She fell from the gallery. It was my fault. We weren’t even in the church, we were at Dad’s house and I was talking to someone – to Gillian and her mother, as it happened. They used to work for us. I didn’t see Lucy wander off.’

‘From the gallery?’ said Harry. ‘You mean like Millie Fletcher almost did the other week?’

Jenny nodded. ‘You can understand now why we were all so upset by that. It just seemed the most dreadful, stupid joke. Those boys, I don’t know what goes on in their heads…’

‘I’m so sorry,’ said Harry. ‘Please, tell me about Lucy. She just wandered away when you weren’t looking?’

‘We started searching, of course, but we looked in the house – it’s a big house – and then the garden, then the lane outside. It never occurred to us that she might have made her way into the church. And up all those steps. By the time we found her, she was cold. And her skull, her little skull was just…’

The blood was draining from Jenny’s face. Her whole body was shaking.

‘I’m so terribly sorry,’ repeated Harry. ‘I had no idea. All this… opening up the church again, it must be very distressing for you.’

‘No, it’s fine, I’m ready.’ Jenny was still pale, but the trembling seemed to be slowing down. ‘I asked Dad not to mention what happened,’ she was saying. ‘I wanted to tell you myself.’

‘That was very brave of you. Thank you.’ It certainly explained a lot. He’d been told that ten years ago the parishioners had suddenly stopped using the church. When the incumbent vicar retired, the diocese had formally closed the building. Only when the parish had been united with two others had the decision been taken to reopen. He’d had no idea what had really lain behind it all.

At the top of the lane, Gillian was still hovering. Jenny saw his eyes flicker and turned her head to look up the hill.

‘I was godmother to Gillian’s daughter,’ she said. ‘A couple of months before the fire, I gave her all Lucy’s old clothes, including some really precious ones that Christiana had made. It felt like a big step forward for me, like I was getting ready to move on. And then Hayley was dead too and all the clothes were burned. It was almost like I’d lost Lucy again.’

Harry couldn’t think of anything to say.

‘There was a little pyjama set. Christiana embroidered it herself with all the Beatrix Potter characters. It was so beautiful. I thought I was so brave giving it away.’

Again nothing to say. He was hopeless, in the presence of grief, completely hopeless.

‘You’re a good listener,’ said Jenny, getting to her feet. ‘I’m going back inside now. Good luck tomorrow.’

‘Would you like me to come with you?’ He stood up.

‘No, thank you,’ she said. ‘I’ll be fine. I’ve never been afraid of ghosts.’ She smiled at him and turned to walk back towards the church.

31

‘OH GOD,LISTEN TO IT, GARETH, IT’S STILL GOING ON.’

The gentle, rocking motion that had lulled Tom to sleep and kept him there had stopped. His dad had parked the car and his mum was talking in that low voice she used when she didn’t want him or Joe to hear what she was saying. Normally it was a signal to listen all the harder, but Tom really didn’t want to be any more awake than he already was. He just wanted to sleep.

He heard movement and thought perhaps his dad had turned round in his seat to look at the children. ‘They’re flat out,’ he said, whispering like their mother had done. ‘We’ll just carry them in. They won’t know anything about it.’

‘But listen to it. It’s making me feel sick.’

Tom didn’t want to hear anything. There was a dream somewhere, a good one, if he could only find his way back to it. But he was listening all the same. He couldn’t help it. What was that noise? Like someone was moaning. No, not just one person, lots of people, crying in dull, low voices. Were they people, though? They didn’t sound like people. Rooarrk, they were saying, over and over again, Rooaark. Tom couldn’t explain why, but it was making him feel guilty.

‘We’ll put them in bed and put some music on,’ said his father. ‘Come on, we won’t be able to hear it as much inside.’

The car door opened and Tom could feel cold air on his face. And the noise became louder. Not just Rooarrk but other sounds too. Naaaa! Naaaa! Somewhere close by, men were shouting, laughing, yelling instructions to each other. Tom really, really didn’t want to listen to it but the din was seeping its way into his head, like water through a sponge. Then someone was reaching over him and he could smell his mother’s lily-of-the-valley perfume. The soft wool of her sweater brushed his face and he thought perhaps he was reaching up a hand towards her, to pull her down closer. Then she moved away.

‘We can’t leave Tom out here,’ she said. ‘How are we going to do this?’

Leave Tom?

‘I’ll lock the car door,’ said his dad. ‘We’ll be thirty seconds. Come on, let’s get on with it.’

The scent of Tom’s mother faded. He heard the car door being closed softly, the beeping sound of the remote key and then the locks themselves clunking down. Tom opened his eyes. He was in the car, sitting by the window of the rear seat. Alone.

The car was parked in the driveway of their house. He could see lights in the downstairs rooms. The front door was open. His parents would be carrying Joe and Millie up to bed and then his dad would come back for him. The family often did this when they were out quite late, like tonight, when they’d been to Granny and Grandad Fletcher’s house for dinner. Tom closed his eyes and prepared to drift off again.

But how could he sleep when something close by was miserable and frightened? Over and over again something was moaning. It had made his mother feel sick. It was making Tom want to cry. Then there was a scream. A loud, piercing scream and he was wide awake again.

Tom turned his head to look up the hill. Across the road, the buildings around the butcher’s shop were brightly lit. He could see movement, men walking around, carrying large bundles on their shoulders.

His seatbelt was still tight around him and he reached down to unfasten it. The car was locked and there were child locks on the rear doors, but he knew he could climb over the seats and open the front door. He could be in the house in five seconds. Five seconds between leaving the locked car and getting inside the house.

The shouting and screaming seemed to be getting closer. Maybe it was just louder. Either way, five seconds seemed too long. His dad would be back soon. He shrunk down in his seat, wanting to close his eyes again but not quite daring. He really wanted his dad back. He raised his hands to press them against his ears.

Was there something just outside the car? Something scraping softly against the paintwork? Tom held his breath. There was. Something was moving around outside. He could hear it. He could almost feel the vehicle rocking. Without daring to move his head, he glanced at the door. Still locked. No one could open it without the key. Could they?

He had to scream for his dad. Yell his head off. Except the night was full of screams. No one would hear his. The horn! His dad would hear that. He just had to lean forward, he could reach it from the back seat. His dad would hear and come running. Tom sat upright and got ready to spring.

A small hand appeared at the window, not six inches from his face.

Tom knew he’d cried out. He also knew no one had heard him. He tried again and nothing came out. He couldn’t move either. He just had to watch.

The hand was the wrong colour. Hands aren’t that colour. They aren’t red.

The hand began to move downwards, leaving a trail of something that looked like red slime. Tom could see the mark left behind by the base of the thumb and then five wavering lines as the thumb and fingers squeaked their way down the glass. He watched the arm and then the wrist disappear below the rim of the window. The palm had almost disappeared from view and then the fingers waggled at him, like a wave.

He was up, across the front seat, reaching for the horn. A face was staring in through the windscreen. Tom opened his mouth to yell but it was as though all the oxygen had been sucked out of the car. He couldn’t breathe, so he couldn’t shout.

What was it? What the hell was it? A girl, he thought, she had long hair. But her head was far too big. And her face was like the figures Joe sometimes made from plasticine. Her eyes were huge and her lips were full, red and damp. The worst thing, almost, was her skin. It was so pale. It hung loose on her bones as if it was too big for her and it really didn’t look like skin at all. It was like the stuff you get when wax runs off candles and then hardens and goes all white and wrinkly. She looked like someone had dipped her in melted candle wax. But her skin wasn’t the worst thing. The worst thing was the lump on her neck that pushed up against her face and pulled the neckline of her dress out of shape. As she stared at Tom through the windscreen, the lump almost seemed to be moving by itself and he had a sudden vision of the rest of her body below the neck of her dress: lumpy, putty-soft, and with veins standing out against wax-like skin.

He’d found the horn and was pressing with all his strength, terrifying himself with the sound but simply unable to take his hand off it. Then he was out of the car. He didn’t know how he’d done that. He only knew he was outside. The drive was hard through his slippers, the night was filled with the sound of torment and the creature from a nightmare was between him and the front door.

He realized he was screaming. Then he was running. Then he was screaming in his mother’s voice. And his dad’s voice. He was yelling ‘Tom, Tom, where are you?’ and she was chasing him, she was coming after him and run, it was all he could do, run, run, run.

And hide.

Everything was quiet. Cold. Wet. He had no idea where he was, but he knew he was somewhere dark and damp. He was lying down, but had no idea whether he’d fallen or just run out of breath. He was panting as if he’d never get enough air in his lungs ever again. Something hard was digging into his ribs but he didn’t dare move.

‘Tom!’

His dad’s voice. He was close by. Except… was it? Was it him?

‘Daddee.’ A soft voice, low and teasing, like a kid playing hide and seek. A voice that sounded – oh God – exactly like…

‘Tom, where are you?’ called his dad.

No, no, Dad, no. It’s not me!

‘Daddee…’

‘Really not funny, Tom. Come out now.’

‘Gareth, have you found him?’ His mother’s voice, from further away. She sounded as if she was crying. Was it her? It sounded like her, but…

Footsteps. Heavy footsteps close by. Too heavy to be…

Tom was on his feet. He was in the graveyard and his dad was ten feet away. He’d seen him, was coming towards him. Then Tom was being carried across the graveyard and suddenly there was his mum and they were inside and that horrible moaning noise was so loud in his head. He could see his mother’s face trying to talk to him but the noise was too loud. They were in the sitting room and his dad had put him down on one sofa and his mum was leaning over him, holding on to him and trying to say something, but he couldn’t hear because the sounds in his head were just too loud. Then she started to cry and Tom could see tears running down her face, but he couldn’t hear her crying because all he could hear, all he would ever hear again, was this horrible, horrible howling.

And then he realized who was howling.

‘Tom, angel, please stop crying, please stop.’

He had stopped. His mum just didn’t seem to have noticed. She was on the sofa too now and had pulled Tom on to her lap. He wasn’t much smaller than she was and he never sat on her knee any more, but he was so glad to be there with her arms wrapped tight around him. Then there were footsteps at the bottom of the stairs and his dad appeared in the doorway.

‘They’re fine,’ he said to Alice in a soft voice. ‘Both still asleep.’

Gareth crossed the room and knelt down on the rug in front of Tom. Then he reached up to stroke his son’s forehead.

‘What happened, matey?’ His dad asked, running his hand over Tom’s head.

He told them, of course. Why wouldn’t he? They were his parents, the people he trusted more than anyone else in the whole world. It hadn’t occurred to him that there are some things parents can’t bring themselves to believe.

32

11 October

‘All creatures of our God and King

Lift up your voice and with us sing.’

THE CHURCH WAS CLOSE TO FULL AND THE PEOPLE OF Heptonclough weren’t shy about using their voices. Harry scanned the congregation. Jenny Pickup was standing beside her husband, two rows from the front. Her face seemed composed.

One or two men in the congregation, on the other hand, looked as though they might be nursing hangovers, and he wondered how many of them had been involved in the festivities of the previous evening. Ritual slaughter on Saturday night; church the next morning. Ah well. He lived among farmers now.

He hadn’t spotted the Fletchers yet. Alice had assured him they would be well away from Heptonclough the night before but, even so, their house was just too close to the barn Dick Grimes used as the town abattoir. When he’d arrived an hour earlier, Harry had spent five minutes walking up and down the road. The street outside gets – how shall I put this? – a little messy, Tobias had said. Either it had rained in the night or the clean-up operation had been thorough. There was no trace of what had taken place the night before.

The hymn was drawing to an end. There was Gareth, halfway down on the left side of the aisle. Alice was by his side. One of her hands held a hymn book, the other was on Tom’s shoulder. Her eldest son seemed to be staring at his feet. None of them were singing.

‘I’ve been asked two questions rather frequently over the past three weeks,’ said Harry. He was in the pulpit and most faces were looking his way; always a good sign. ‘The first is: “ ’Ow’re you settlin’ in, Vicar?” The second: “You’re not a countryman, are you, lad?” ’

A few quiet titters around the church.

‘The answer to the first is: very well, thank you, everyone’s been very kind. To the second: no, I’m not. I’m not a countryman. But I’m starting to get it.’

In the crowded church, only three people were sitting in the front left-hand pew: Sinclair, his father Tobias and his elder daughter, Christiana. In the old days this would have been the Renshaw family pew. To all intents and purposes, it still was.

‘We can all get great comfort from the sense of living in an ordered universe,’ continued Harry. ‘Up here, among the hills, where the land plays such an important part in our lives and where the seasons govern so much of what we do, it’s perhaps easier to feel a sense of harmony with the world than we might do in our towns and cities.’

In the soft light of the church, Christiana Renshaw’s large, regular features looked almost beautiful, and very like those of her younger sister. She was looking not at Harry but at an apple in one of the window flower-arrangements. She was sitting several feet away from her grandfather.

‘There is a reason,’ said Harry, ‘why the passage I just read to you is so popular at harvest time, at christenings and weddings, even at funerals. At important times in our lives we like to be reminded that we are part of a great plan, that there is a purpose. And that everything has its place and its time. Our reading today, Ecclesiastes, chapter three, verses one to eight, conveys that better than just about any other biblical piece I can think of. ’

Gillian was sitting eight rows back, immediately behind the Fletcher family. Even from a distance, Harry could see that her hair had been washed and that she was wearing make-up.

‘So it’s rather strange then,’ he continued, ‘that the rest of Ecclesiastes should be the least understood book of the entire Bible.’

The service was almost over. The congregation was singing the offertory hymn, Dick and Selby Grimes, the church’s two sidesmen, were carrying round the collection plates and Harry was preparing for Holy Communion. He’d prepared everything the afternoon before, opening the wine and decanting it. All he needed to do now was pour the wine into the chalice. He took the stopper off the decanter, poured some wine into the cup and added water. He took the wafers of the host and placed them on the silver tray. He would carry them round and distribute them. Sinclair would follow him with the wine.

Harry raised the plate into the air. The priest is always the first to receive Holy Communion. Next would be Sinclair and the organist, then the rest of the congregation. Behind him he could hear the sidesmen marshalling people into place.

‘The body of our Lord Jesus Christ, which was given for you, preserve your body and soul unto everlasting life.’ He took a wafer from the plate. ‘Take and eat this in remembrance that Christ died for you, and feed on Him in your heart by faith with thanksgiving.’

Harry put the wafer into his mouth. The organist had finished playing and was crossing to take his place beside Sinclair. The church had fallen silent. Harry could hear the first row of communicants settling themselves at the chancel rail. He should phone Jenny and Mike later, make sure their first service hadn’t been too difficult. He’d pop round if necessary. He lifted the chalice. Could he smell something strange?

‘The blood of our lord Jesus Christ,’ he said, ‘preserve your body and soul unto everlasting life. Drink this in remembrance that Christ’s blood was shed for you and be thankful.’ Harry brought the chalice to his lips. The sun outside came streaming through the window above the altar. For a second the solid-silver chalice looked as crimson-red as its contents.

‘The blood of Christ,’ he whispered to himself. The cold of the silver met his lips.

Outside, rooks were flying around the roof. He could hear them calling to each other. Inside the church, all was still. The congregation was hushed, waiting for him to rise and begin the sacrament.

Slowly, very slowly, Harry put the cup back down on the altar.

There was a white linen napkin just within reach. He grasped it and clutched it to his mouth. He was going to gag, any second now. He picked up the cup again and walked as quickly as he could without spilling its contents to the vestry. He pushed the door open with his shoulder then kicked it shut behind him. He got to the sink just in time.

Red liquid splattered across white porcelain as Harry realized he was retching. And that the entire congregation could hear him. He turned on the cold tap and ran water over his hands. Then he raised them to his face.

‘Vicar, what’s wrong?’

Sinclair Renshaw had followed him into the vestry. Harry cupped his hands and allowed them to fill with water. He brought them up to his face and drank.

‘Vicar, are you ill? What can I do?’

Harry turned, lifted the chalice and held it out to his churchwarden. ‘Another tradition?’ he asked. His hand was shaking. He put the cup down again.

Sinclair glanced at the cup, then turned and walked swiftly away. He closed the door of the vestry and walked back until he was standing close to Harry.

‘Is this how it all ends?’ asked Harry. ‘You let the blood run freely on Saturday night and then the next day you drink it?’

‘What on earth’s the matter?’ asked Sinclair.

Harry was pointing at the cup. ‘That isn’t wine,’ he said, his hand still shaking. ‘It’s blood. Not the symbolic kind – the real thing.’

‘Surely not?’

‘Taste it yourself. I did.’

Sinclair took the cup and carried it to the light. He raised it to his face and took a deep breath through his nose. Then he dipped his forefinger into the liquid and examined it closely. Harry watched, unable to read the expression on the older man’s face. After a second or two, Sinclair rinsed his hand under the tap and then turned back to face him.

‘Have a drink of water,’ he said. ‘Take a moment to compose yourself.’

Then he turned again and crossed the room. On a shelf, he found a second chalice, an older, slightly tarnished one, and rinsed it out in the sink. Opening a cupboard door – Sinclair clearly knew his way around the vestry – he took out a new bottle of wine. Harry found a chair and watched as Sinclair found a corkscrew and opened the wine. He poured it into the chalice and sipped it.

‘This is fine,’ he said. ‘Are you able to continue?’

Harry couldn’t reply. The blood of Christ, shed for you. Blood harvest.

‘Vicar!’ Sinclair’s voice was still low, but he wasn’t standing for any nonsense. ‘I can tell everyone you’ve been taken ill. Would you prefer me to do that?’

Harry was on his feet again, shaking his head. ‘No. I’ll be fine,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’

‘Good man. Say the blessing here, just with me. It’ll help calm you.’

He was right. Harry took a deep breath and said the familiar words. He raised the cup to his lips before he had time to think about what he was doing and drank. Still wine.

‘Feeling better?’ asked Sinclair.

‘Yes, thank you. We should…’ He gestured towards the vestry door. He had no idea what everyone outside would be thinking by now.

‘One moment.’ Sinclair’s hand was on his arm. ‘After the service I’ll take care of that.’ He gestured towards the first cup, the one still filled with… ‘A stupid practical joke,’ he went on. ‘People had a lot to drink last night. Please accept my apologies.’

Harry nodded and the two men left the vestry. Harry picked up the plate of wafers and crossed the chancel to where the first communicant was still kneeling patiently.

‘The body of Christ,’ he said, placing a wafer on the outstretched hand before him. ‘The body of Christ… The body of Christ.’ He continued down the line and behind him could hear Sinclair administering the wine. ‘The blood of Christ,’ he was saying, ‘the blood of Christ.

Harry wondered if he’d ever be able to take pleasure in those words again.

33

“WINE, HARRY?’

‘Thanks. Do you have any white?’ Harry took off his coat and looked for somewhere to hang it.

Coat-hooks in the Fletcher house always seemed occupied.

‘Give me a minute.’ Gareth crouched down and opened the fridge.

‘Something smells good, Alice,’ said Harry, taking a large glass from Gareth. The kitchen table was set for Sunday lunch. Millie, in her high chair, nibbled on a breadstick. There was no sign of the boys.

The bowl of the glass felt very cold. The liquid inside was reassuringly pale in colour. He sipped it. Definitely wine. Millie offered him her breadstick. When he shook his head, she dropped it on the floor.

‘We’re having Southern Baked Chicken,’ replied Alice. ‘Crispin’ up nicely.’

‘What was the problem during Communion?’ asked Gareth, pouring a glass of the white wine for Alice and red for himself. ‘We wondered where you’d gone.’

‘Oh, the wine was corked,’ said Harry, as he and Sinclair had agreed he would. What had happened was best kept between the two of them. He bent down to find Millie’s breadstick. ‘Seriously nasty, vinegary stuff,’ he went on.

‘It all went pretty well, though,’ said Alice. ‘You had a full house and nobody went to sleep.’

‘And I’m sure they all found it a deeply fulfilling spiritual experience,’ said Gareth. ‘Ignore my wife. She’s American.’

‘Like you ever set foot in a church before you married me,’ retorted Alice. ‘Were you even baptized? Where’s your breadstick, poppet? Oh, did the vicar steal it? Bad vicar.’

‘I was dipped into Rawtenstall reservoir by my left ankle,’ said Gareth. ‘It made me invincible.’

Something was wrong here. Alice and Gareth were trying too hard. Something about the smiles and the banter felt forced. Come to think of it, neither looked like they’d had much sleep.

‘Can I do anything, Alice?’ Harry offered.

‘You could find the boys. It usually takes about ten minutes to get them to the table, so be firm.’

Taking his glass with him, Harry began a search of the house. The downstairs rooms were empty of children so he headed upstairs. ‘Boys,’ he called when he reached the top step. ‘Lunch is ready.’

There was no reply, so he walked towards two doors at the end of the landing. He knocked gently at the first and pushed it open. Joe sat in the middle of the carpet, surrounded by tiny toy soldiers.

‘Hey, buddy,’ said Harry. ‘Mum says lunch is ready.’

Joe looked back down and moved several of his soldiers to new positions.

‘I heard you being sick,’ he said. ‘In church. Everyone heard.’

Great, thought Harry. ‘Well, I hope it won’t put anyone off their lunch,’ he said. ‘Are you coming down?’ He stepped back to the doorway. The room next door must be Tom’s.

‘They died, didn’t they?’

Harry walked back into the room and crouched until his head was almost on a level with Joe’s. The child hadn’t taken his eyes off his game of soldiers. Time to die.

‘What do you mean, Joe?’ he asked. ‘Who died?’

Joe raised his head and looked back at Harry. There were dark shadows under his eyes.

‘Who died, Joe?’ he asked, keeping his voice as soft as he could.

‘The little girls in the church,’ replied Joe.

‘Joe, were you in church yesterday afternoon?’ asked Harry. ‘Did you hear me talking to Mrs Pickup?’

Joe shook his head. He didn’t look as though he was lying. In any case, Jenny had told him about her daughter when she and Harry had been outside.

‘Harry, boys, lunch,’ called Alice from the bottom of the stairs. Harry began to push himself to his feet.

‘Not that one,’ muttered Joe, talking to his soldiers this time. ‘Everybody knows about that one. I meant the other ones.’

Harry was back down on his knees again. ‘Which other ones?’ he asked. ‘Joe?’

Joe looked up at him again. He was the sweetest-looking boy Harry had ever seen, with his pale freckled face, blue eyes and red hair. But there was something in those eyes that didn’t look quite right.

‘Is nobody in this house hungry?’ yelled Alice.

Harry got to his feet. ‘We have to go, buddy,’ he said, pulling Joe to his feet and steering him towards the door. On the landing a noise behind them made them turn. The door to Tom’s room was pulled open. The room beyond was in darkness, the curtains drawn. Tom appeared in the doorway, crossed in front of them and walked heavily down the stairs. It was the first time he had ever ignored Harry.

‘Mummy, after lunch can we do the lanterns?’ said Joe.

Alice was leaning across the table, cutting Millie’s chicken into smaller pieces. She glanced at Tom and then at Harry. A frown line had appeared between her eyebrows. ‘I’m not sure, sweetie,’ she replied. ‘Not everybody likes Hallowe’en. We can’t upset the vicar.’

‘I’m fine with pumpkins,’ said Harry, watching Alice look nervously back at Tom. ‘I’ll give you a hand if you like, Joe,’ he went on. ‘Although, given how talented your mum and dad are, I’ll probably be a big disappointment.’

‘We do trick-or-treating on Hallowe’en,’ said Joe. ‘You can come with us if you like.’

‘Actually, Joe, I haven’t promised anything yet.’ Alice was looking at Tom again. Her eldest son’s plate hadn’t been touched. ‘What do you think, Harry?’ she said, turning to him again. ‘Is Heptonclough likely to celebrate Hallowe’en?’

‘Oh, I’d put money on it,’ Harry replied. ‘Everything OK, Tom?’

‘Tom has to go and see a special doctor,’ announced Joe. ‘Because he’s been making up stories about monsters and last night he was historical.’

‘What?’ said Harry.

‘Joe, that will do,’ said Gareth at the same time.

‘Tom had a bad dream,’ explained Alice quickly. ‘We got home late and the lane was very noisy. It was our fault for leaving him in the car.’ She turned to her eldest son and ran a finger along the back of his hand. ‘Sorry, angel,’ she said. Tom ignored her.

‘Come on, Tom,’ said Gareth, ‘eat some lunch.’

Tom’s chair clattered loudly on the wooden floor as he pushed it back and jumped to his feet. ‘It wasn’t a bad dream!’ he yelled. ‘She’s real and Joe knows who she is. He lets her into the house and when she kills us all it will be his fault and I bloody hate him!’

He’d left the room before either of his parents had time to react. Alice stood quietly and followed him. Gareth drained his glass and poured himself another. Joe was looking at Harry with big blue eyes.

Half an hour later, Harry left the Fletchers’ house. After sending Joe and Millie off to play, Gareth had told him about the previous evening. Neither he nor Alice had ever seen anything of the girl that Tom continually talked about. Alice was taking him to the doctor in the morning.

The sky was threatening rain again as Harry walked down the drive. He stopped as he reached the family car. Someone had washed part of it. The driver’s door and bonnet were dusty and mud-spattered, but the rear window and the panels immediately below it were clean as a whistle. There were even marks in the dust where someone might have run a cloth. There was also, in the top corner of the rear window, a faint mark that might just have been a fingerprint. A red one.

34

16 October

THE KNOCK ON THE DOOR STARTLED HIM, EVEN THOUGH he’d been expecting it. Harry got up and turned down the music. As he stepped into the hallway he could see two tall figures behind the glass of his front door.

Mike Pickup, Jenny’s husband and Sinclair Renshaw’s son-in-law, was dressed in a tweed jacket and cap in muted colours, brown corduroy trousers and a knitted green tie. The man at his side wore a dark-grey pin-stripe suit that looked as though it had been handmade. Neither was smiling.

‘Good evening, Vicar,’ said Mike Pickup. ‘This is Detective Chief Superintendent Rushton.’

The detective gave Harry a brief nod. ‘Brian Rushton,’ he said, ‘Lancashire Constabulary. Pennine Division.’

‘Good to meet you,’ said Harry. ‘Please, come in.’

His visitors followed him into the study. Harry bent to remove the slumbering ball of ginger fur from one of the armchairs and then waited until both his guests had taken seats. The study was the largest room in his house. It was where he worked, received visitors, and sometimes held small prayer meetings. Thanks to the presence of two large Edwardian radiators, it was also the warmest room in the house; and invariably, where he found the cat.

He put the animal on the floor and gave it a shove under the desk. ‘Can I get you both a drink?’ he offered. ‘I have Irish whiskey,’ he went on, indicating the bottle already open on his desk. ‘There’s beer in the fridge. Or I can put the kettle on.’

‘Thank you, no,’ said Pickup, answering for both. ‘But don’t let us stop you. We won’t take up too much of your time.’ He stopped, clearly waiting for Harry to sit down. The detective chief superintendent, who was in his late fifties and whose dominant features were his narrow, slate-coloured eyes and heavy dark eyebrows, was slowly looking around the room.

Harry took the chair nearest the desk. He wasn’t entirely surprised to see the cat reappear and leap on to the arm of the detective’s chair.

He started to get up again. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ll get rid of him.’

‘No, you’re fine, lad. I’m used to cats.’ Rushton held up one hand to keep Harry in his seat. ‘Wife has two at home,’ he said, switching his attention to the cat. ‘Siamese. Noisy little buggers.’ He reached up to stroke the cat behind its ears. The responding purr sounded like an engine being fired up.

‘I, on the other hand, am not used to cats,’ said Harry. ‘That one seems to have adopted me.’

Rushton raised his enormous eyebrows. Harry shrugged.

‘Maybe it’s part of the fixtures and fittings of the vicarage,’ he explained. ‘Or just an opportunist stray. Either way, it was waiting for me when I arrived and has been refusing to leave ever since. I haven’t fed it, not once, it just won’t go away.’

‘Does it have a name?’ asked Rushton.

‘That bloody cat,’ answered Harry truthfully.

Rushton’s lips twitched. Mike Pickup cleared his throat. ‘Vicar, thank you for seeing us at short notice,’ he said.

Harry inclined his head in his churchwarden’s direction.

‘The truth is I only heard from Brian less than an hour ago myself,’ Pickup continued. A glance was exchanged between the two men, then Pickup turned back to Harry. ‘Brian and I are old friends,’ he said, as Harry hid a smile. The tomcat was curled up on the officer’s lap, purring like a traction engine as Rushton’s large hand ran the length of his body.

‘Mike came to see me last Sunday evening,’ Rushton said. ‘After the incident during the harvest service.’

‘Jenny and I had lunch at her father’s house after the service,’ explained Mike. ‘I’m afraid we were curious about what happened during Communion. Sinclair obviously didn’t want to discuss it, but Jenny pressed and in the end he gave in and told us. He seemed to think it was just a stupid practical joke that we could all forget about, but after what nearly happened with the Fletcher child a couple of weeks ago, I really wasn’t happy. After lunch I went back to the vestry. Sinclair had poured the contents of the chalice away and washed it, but he’d forgotten about the decanter. I took it to Brian. He promised to have his lab look at it. Discreetly.’

‘I see,’ said Harry.

‘Brian phoned me this evening to tell me the results,’ continued Mike. ‘It was pig’s blood, which is pretty much what we expected. We slaughtered a number of animals on the Saturday and, as you may know, when a pig is killed the blood is drained and saved. It’s used for making black pudding. Someone must have got hold of some – it wouldn’t have been hard – and then found their way into the church.’

Rushton leaned forward in his seat. ‘Reverend Laycock,’ he said. ‘I understand you got everything ready for the harvest service late on Saturday afternoon. Who could have had access to the church between the time of your leaving it and the Sunday-morning service?’

Harry looked at Mike, reluctant to mention Jenny in front of her husband. Mike opened his mouth to speak.

‘My wife was in the church for about a quarter of an hour after Reverend Laycock left,’ he said. ‘Sinclair lent her his keys. I joined her at around four thirty and we both had a good look round the building. She told me you’d suspected children or someone of hiding in the church, Vicar. Is that right?’

‘It is,’ admitted Harry. ‘Someone was messing around in there. I probably shouldn’t have left Jenny on her own, but she did insist.’

‘Jenny was fine,’ said Mike. ‘It was good of you to allow her some time. And the church was empty when we left. We made sure of it.’

‘Who else has keys to the church?’ asked Rushton.

‘Normally, only the vicar and the churchwardens, possibly the cleaner, would have keys to a church building,’ replied Mike. ‘At present we don’t have a cleaner. To my knowledge, only the vicar, Sinclair and I have keys now.’

‘Reverend, I’m not a churchgoer myself,’ began Rushton.

‘Nobody’s perfect,’ said Harry automatically.

‘Quite,’ said Rushton. ‘But Michael here tells me it’s customary for the priest to take Communion first, is that right?’

Harry nodded. ‘Yes, always. The idea is I’m in a state of grace myself before I administer the bread and wine to the other communicants.’

‘Would most people know that, do you think?’

‘I guess so. People who attend Communion regularly, anyway.’

‘What’s on your mind, Brian?’ asked Mike.

‘Well, it seems to me we have two possibilities. Either someone has a personal grudge against the vicar, and he was the one meant to be upset by the incident. Or the culprit didn’t realize the Communion wine would be tasted by the vicar first. Because if you’d taken that cup straight to the congregation, I bet you’d have got to around half a dozen before the first two or three realized what was going on. Then you would have had a problem on your hands. Can you think of anyone who might have a reason to play this sort of trick?’

Harry thought for a moment, because he knew it was expected of him. ‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘I’ve been wondering if maybe someone didn’t want the church to be opened again. Or perhaps I’ve upset someone since I’ve been here without realizing it.’

‘You haven’t,’ said Mike. ‘Actually, people are rather taken with you.’

‘What we’d like you to do, Reverend,’ said Rushton, ‘is to let us take your fingerprints so that we can check the decanter for any that don’t match yours.’

‘I’m happy to do the same, if it helps,’ said Mike, before turning to Harry. ‘Vicar, we need to think about church security. I’ll arrange to have the locks changed first thing in the morning. Make sure there are just the three sets of keys available.’

‘Fair enough,’ agreed Harry.

‘Good. I can have the new keys ready for you the day after tomorrow. Come and have some lunch in the White Lion with me. Shall we say one o’clock?’

Taking fingerprints was the work of a few minutes and then the two men said goodnight and left. Harry returned to his study. He looked at the drinks cabinet. He’d had enough. He felt something warm moving between his ankles and looked down. The cat was rubbing its body against his jeans.

‘I hate cats,’ grumbled Harry. He bent to pick it up. It lay in his arms, purring, comfortingly warm.

Half an hour later the cat was fast asleep. Harry hadn’t moved.

35

19 October

EVI PARKED HER CAR IN THE ONEREMAINING SPACE. THE huge hangar-style building of Goodshaw Bridge fire station was twenty yards away. She got out of the car and found her stick.

‘I struggle with stairs, I’m afraid,’ she explained to the fire officer at the reception desk. ‘Is there a lift I could use? Sorry to be a nuisance.’

‘No problem, love. Give me a minute.’

The fireman led her along the corridor. She tried to keep up but her back had been giving her trouble for days. Constantly leaning on her stick was putting too much pressure on the muscles on one side of her body and they were pressing against nerves. She should be using her chair more. It was just…

They reached the lift and went up one floor, then back along the corridor. Maybe on her way out she could just slide down the pole.

Ahead, her guide stopped at a blue door and rapped on it. Without waiting for a response he pushed it open. ‘Lady to see you, chief,’ he announced before glancing back at Evi. ‘Dr… er?’

‘Evi Oliver,’ she managed through gritted teeth. ‘Thanks so much.’

Inside the room, two more firemen were standing, waiting for her.

‘Dr Oliver, good morning,’ said the taller, older of the two, holding out his hand. ‘I’m station chief Arnold Earnshaw. This is my deputy, Nigel Blake.’

‘It was very good of you to see me,’ said Evi.

‘No problem. If the fire bell goes, you won’t see us for dust. Until then, we’re all yours. Now then, how about a coffee?’ He raised his voice. ‘Where you going, Jack?’

Evi’s guide reappeared, double-checked that his two superiors still took their tea milky with three sugars each and happily agreed to make Evi a white coffee.

All three sat down. Evi would have liked a moment to get her breath back but both men were watching her, waiting for her to begin.

‘I explained on the phone that I was interested in finding out more about a fire that occurred in Heptonclough a few years ago,’ she began. ‘It’s in connection with a case of mine, but I’m sure you’ll understand I can’t give you details. It’s a matter of patient confidentiality.’

Chief Earnshaw nodded his head. His colleague, too, looked interested, happy to help. She wondered if firemen were bored a lot of the time, actually quite welcomed distractions.

‘The fire was in the late autumn, three years ago,’ said Evi. ‘In a cottage in Wite Lane, Heptonclough, did I mention that?’

Earnshaw nodded and patted a manila file on his desk. ‘It’s all in here,’ he said. ‘Not that we really needed to look it up. That was a bad one. A little lass died.’

‘Were you there?’

‘Both of us,’ said Earnshaw. ‘Every one of our regulars and a few of our volunteers as well. What can we tell you?’

‘I understand that once the fire is contained, there are two basic questions that you need to answer,’ said Evi. ‘Where the point of origin was and what was the cause of the fire?’ Gillian still hadn’t told her how the fire had started. If it had been due to negligence on her part, or her husband’s, it might go some way towards explaining her anger, or her guilt. Both men were nodding at her.

‘Is that a good place to start?’ she asked.

Blake leaned forward. ‘You need three things to make a fire, Dr Oliver,’ he said. ‘You need heat, a fuel source such as paper or gasoline, and you need oxygen. Without any one of those, no fire.

Do you understand?’

Evi nodded.

‘In most circumstances, we can take the oxygen bit for granted. So, what we’re looking for is a combination of heat and fuel. After that, fire travels sideways and upwards from its point of origin. If a fire occurs at the foot of a wall, you’ll see the burn patterns spreading up and away from it in a V shape. Are you with me?’

Evi nodded again.

‘Some things in a house, like synthetic materials or stairways, can distort this, but as a rule of thumb you track the fire damage back to the point at which it was greatest and then look for the heat-and-fuel combination. At the Wite Cottage fire, the point of origin was pretty clear, even though the upper floor eventually collapsed. It was the kitchen, the area around the cooker.’

‘And do you know how it started?’ asked Evi.

‘Largely guesswork,’ replied Blake, ‘because the damage in the area was so extensive. But we understand cooking oils were kept around the cooker, never a good idea. We suspect a pan was left with a gas flame underneath. It happens a lot with omelette pans. People make an omelette, concentrate on tipping it on to a plate without breaking it and they put the pan down, forgetting they’ve not turned the gas off. The pan gets hotter and hotter until the oil left in it catches light. If a plastic bottle of olive oil was close by, the plastic would melt and the oil run out. You can see how…’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Evi, making a mental note to move the bottles of cooking oil she kept close to her own hob.

‘In this case, though, the real problem was the Calor gas,’ said Earnshaw. ‘The cottage wasn’t connected up to the mains gas supply, so the family used a cooker that was powered by Calor gas. It’s not uncommon in rural areas, but in this case, the family had three spare canisters stored in a small room just to one side of the cooker. Once they caught fire…’

‘I see,’ said Evi, wondering if she really had the nerve to ask her next question. ‘I know this is a difficult question and please excuse me for asking it, but did you ever consider the possibility of arson?’

Earnshaw leaned back in his chair. Blake was frowning at her.

‘We always have to consider arson,’ said Earnshaw after a while.

‘But on this occasion, there was nothing to cause us any undue concern. The fire had an easily identifiable point of origin.’

‘One that could be readily explained,’ chipped in Blake.

‘Had it started in a wastepaper bin in a bedroom,’ said Earnshaw, ‘or if we’d found a trail of petrol around the house, it would have been a different matter.’

‘The house was rented, so there was no possibility of insurance fraud,’ said Blake.

‘And the couple lost their child,’ said Earnshaw, as though Evi should have thought of that herself. The arson-to-disguise-accidental-death theory wasn’t going anywhere. Evi began to think she might be outstaying her welcome.

‘I do understand that,’ she said. ‘I know I’m asking insensitive questions. I’m sorry I can’t explain why.’

‘Hiding evidence of arson really isn’t that simple,’ said Blake. ‘Arsonists often use matches and then just throw them away, thinking the fire will destroy them.’

‘And it doesn’t?’

Blake shook his head. ‘Match heads contain something called diatoms,’ he said. ‘Single-celled organisms containing a very tough compound called silica. Silica survives fires. Sometimes we can even identify the brand of match used.’

‘I see,’ said Evi. ‘I’ve got one last question, if I may, then I’ll leave you in peace. How soon after the fire was extinguished did you realize that the child’s body had been completely destroyed?’

The two men looked at each other. Blake’s frown had deepened.

‘The fire burned for several hours, I understand,’ Evi went on. ‘Even after it was extinguished, you would have had to be sure the structure was safe.’

‘The upper floor collapsed,’ said Blake.

‘Yes, exactly,’ said Evi. ‘So you would have had to search through the wreckage, it must have taken quite some time, before you were sure.’ And all that time, Gillian had been traipsing over the moors, willing herself to keep believing. ‘Before you were sure the fire had obliterated the child’s body.’

‘Dr Oliver, it’s very rare for bodies to be completely destroyed in fire. Very rare indeed,’ said Earnshaw.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t quite…’

‘People who imagine otherwise don’t know their chemistry,’ said Blake. ‘When bodies are cremated, they’re exposed to temperatures of around 1,500° Fahrenheit for at least a couple of hours. Even then, you’ll still find human remains among the ashes. Most structural fires, particularly in a residential house, don’t burn hot enough or long enough to destroy a body. The house itself just doesn’t provide enough fuel.’

‘In this case, of course, the fire did get very hot because of the Calor gas acting as a fuel supply,’ said Earnshaw.

‘And is that why the little girl’s remains…’

‘We found her the next day,’ said Blake. ‘Very little left, of course, but even so… What made you think her remains weren’t found?’

Evi’s hands had flown to her mouth. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she managed. ‘I’ve been completely misinformed.’

‘What we found was very similar to what we’d expect after a cremation,’ said Blake. ‘Ashes and bone fragments. They were identified as human. There wasn’t really any doubt that we’d found the child.’

‘And what happened to the remains?’

‘They were given to the family,’ said Earnshaw. ‘To the mother, from what I can remember.’

36

21 October

‘WHY DO YOU THINK YOUR PARENTS WANTED YOU TO see me, Tom?’ asked the doctor with sleek dark hair and thick black eyelashes. Evi, he’d been told to call her. She looked like one of his sister’s Russian dolls, with her pale, heart-shaped face and big blue eyes. She was even wearing the same colours as Millie’s dolls: a red blouse with a violet scarf.

Tom shrugged. Evi seemed nice, that was the worst thing, nice in a way that made him want to trust her. Trust her was something he really couldn’t do.

‘Has something been worrying you?’ she was asking him now. ‘Is anything making you anxious in any way?’

Tom shook his head.

Evi smiled at him. He waited for her to ask him another question. She didn’t, just kept looking and smiling at him. Behind her head, a large window showed a sky so dark it was almost black in places. Any minute now it was going to tip it down.

‘How are you getting on at your new school?’ she asked.

‘OK.’

‘Can you tell me the names of some of your new friends?’

She’d tricked him, she’d asked him the sort of question he couldn’t answer with a yes, no, OK or a shrug. Friends were OK, though, he could talk about friends. He could talk about Josh Cooper, he was OK.

‘Are any boys at school not your friends?’ she asked, when they’d talked about boys in Tom’s class for a few minutes.

‘Jake Knowles,’ Tom answered, without hesitation. Jake Knowles, his arch enemy, who had somehow found out that Tom was seeing a special doctor and had made his life extra miserable about it for days now. According to Jake, Tom was destined for the madhouse, where they tied you up and kept you in a padded cell and sent electric shocks through your brain. The special doctor would see he was nuts and send him away and he’d never see his mum and dad again. Worst of all, he wouldn’t be able to look after Millie. He wouldn’t be able to keep an eye on Joe.

‘Do you want to talk to me about what happened a week ago last Saturday?’ Evi was asking him now. ‘When something frightened you and you ran into the churchyard?’

‘It was a dream,’ said Tom. ‘Just a bad dream.’

37

M ILLIE HAD CLIMBED DOWN THE BACK STEPS INTO THE garden. She pushed herself upright and looked all around. When her eyes found the yew tree her little face lit up. She set off towards it.

‘Millie!’ Tom had appeared at the back door. ‘Millie, where are you going?’ He jumped down and crossed the garden to his sister in three strides, then bent to pick her up.

‘Millie shouldn’t be out on her own,’ he said, as she started to squirm and he carried her back to the door.

Millie looked back at the yew tree as she was carried indoors and the door was firmly closed behind the two children. She wasn’t allowed to be alone any more, not even for a minute.

38

23 October

‘SCHIZOPHRENIA IS QUITE RARE,’ SAID EVI. ‘ONLY AROUND 1 per cent of the population develop it, and it’s only in a very few of those cases that we see an onset of symptoms before the age of ten. Most importantly, neither you nor your husband have any family history of the illness.’

It was Evi’s first meeting alone with Alice Fletcher, in the family’s large, colourful sitting room. The two boys, both of whom she’d already met individually, were at school, Millie upstairs napping. So far, it was proving to be an unusual meeting. From the outset, Alice had almost seemed determined to charm her son’s psychiatrist. She’d shown an interest in Evi personally, which patients, normally rather self-obsessed, rarely did. She’d tried to make her laugh, had even succeeded a couple of times. And yet it was so clearly a facade, and a fragile one at that. Alice’s hands had shaken too much, her laughter had seemed forced and before the meeting was twenty minutes old she’d broken down and confided her fear that Tom was suffering from COS, or child-onset schizophrenia.

‘But these voices…’ she was saying.

‘Hearing voices is just one symptom of schizophrenia,’ said Evi firmly. ‘There are quite a few others, none of which Tom appears to have.’

‘Like what?’ demanded Alice.

‘Well, for one thing, his emotional reactions seem quite normal. I’ve seen no evidence of what we call thought disorder. And other than his insistence on this little girl – who he still hasn’t mentioned to me, by the way – there’s no sign of any delusional behaviour.’

Alice Fletcher interested her, Evi decided. A long way from her own home, she, more than the rest of the family, might be expected to find it hard to settle in Heptonclough. The question was, how much of the children’s problems were the result of their picking up on the mother’s anxieties?

‘Even when schizophrenia is diagnosed in childhood,’ Evi continued quickly, ‘it’s nearly always preceded by other diagnoses.’ She started ticking them off on her fingers. ‘Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, Bipolar Mood Disorder, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Do you know what any of these conditions-’

‘Yes,’ interrupted Alice. ‘And the OCD, the obsessive compulsive thing, that fits too. Tom goes round the house every night, checking and re-checking the locks on all the doors and windows. He has a list. He ticks things off one by one and he won’t go to bed until he’s gone through it. Sometimes he gets up in the night and starts running through the list again. What’s that all about?’

‘I don’t know yet,’ said Evi. ‘But I have noticed Tom’s anxiety about his little sister. Joe shares it too, incidentally, although he may just be picking up on Tom’s fears. Have they seen something on the news, do you know, something to make them especially anxious about her right now?’

Alice thought for a moment, then shook her head. ‘I doubt it,’ she said. ‘They only watch children’s television. Several times I’ve found him asleep on Millie’s bedroom floor.’

Evi glanced down at her notes. ‘Just to come back to this little girl, for a while,’ she said. ‘Because from what you’ve told me, most of what’s bothering Tom seems to centre around her. Is it possible that there is someone in town who just looks a bit odd, maybe behaves in a strange way? Have you thought about that?’

Alice nodded. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘And I have asked a couple of people. Not many, I don’t want everyone to know what we’re going through, but I did have a quiet word with Jenny Pickup. And with her grandfather, Tobias. They’ve lived here all their lives. They’d never heard of anyone remotely fitting the description Tom gives.’

Alice paused for a moment.

‘Besides,’ she continued, ‘Tom talks about this little girl as though she’s barely human, the sort of thing we see in nightmares. This is a strange town, Evi, but harbouring monsters? How likely is that?’

39

27 October

HARRY WAS GETTING CLOSER TO THE TOWN. THE silhouettes of the great stone buildings were bigger every time he turned another bend in the road. Over his left shoulder a firework burst in the sky. He slowed the car a fraction more. He’d always loved fireworks. Maybe on 5 November he’d drive up the moor again, park the car and watch the fireworks exploding from a hundred different bonfire parties, stretching all the way across the Pennines.

The tarmac of the road gave way to cobbles and he turned the last corner that would bring him into town. Gold stars burst in the sky to his left and he was looking at them, not at the church, as he drew up and parked. He switched off the engine and got out of the car.

He’d been visiting one of his oldest parishioners. Mrs Cairns was in her nineties and almost bed-ridden. Afterwards, her daughter and husband had insisted he eat with them. By the time he left it was nearly nine o’clock and he still had to collect the church accounts from St Barnabas’s.

His feet had just made contact with the smooth stones of the church path when he knew something was wrong. He’d never considered himself a particularly sensitive man, but this feeling wasn’t one he could ignore. He knew he had to turn round and face the ruined church. And he really wasn’t sure he could bring himself to do it.

He had turned. He was looking. He just didn’t believe what he was seeing.

The ancient ruins of the abbey church were still there. The great arches still soared upwards, towards the purple sky. The tower, tall and forbidding, cast its shadow across the ground. Everything was just as it had been since the day he’d arrived. Pretty much as it had been for several hundred years. Only the figures were new. Sitting in window frames, leaning against pillars, sprawled along the top of arches, squeezed into every conceivable gap in the stonework were people. They sat, stood, leaned, sprawled, still as statues, mouths leering, eyes staring, surrounding him. Watching.

40

29 October

THE INTERMENT OF TWO-YEAR-OLD LUCY ELOISE PICKUP, only child of Michael Pickup and Jennifer Pickup née Renshaw, was the last entry in the burial register. Harry flicked back to the beginning. The first entry recorded the burial of Joshua Aspin in 1897. A church register had to be closed and taken to the diocesan record office when the oldest entry was 150 years ago. This one hadn’t got there yet. He was about to close the book when he spotted the Renshaw name again. Sophie Renshaw had died in 1908, aged eighteen. The words ‘An innocent Christian soul’ had been entered after the basic details. Harry glanced at his watch. It was eleven o’clock.

He turned the page and spotted names he recognized: Renshaw several times, Knowles and Grimes more than once. There it was again, halfway down the third page. Charles Perkins, aged fifteen, buried on 7 September 1932. An innocent Christian soul. He looked at his watch again. Three minutes past eleven. Harry leaned back in his chair and glanced round the room. No damp running socks drying on the radiator; the draining board was clear of used tea-bags.

A sudden noise from the nave made him jump and almost overbalance. He lowered his chair until all four legs were firmly on the ground. No one could be in the main body of the church. The building had been locked when he’d arrived, he’d opened just one door, to the vestry, and that was less than three yards away. No one could have entered without him seeing them. And yet what he’d just heard had been too loud to be the random creaking of old wood. It has sounded like… like scraping metal. He stood up, crossed the room and opened the door into the nave.

The church was empty, of course, he hadn’t expected anything else. It just didn’t feel empty. He stepped backwards towards the vestry, his eyes roaming the chancel, looking for movement. He was listening hard. It was almost a relief to close the door. He might as well admit it, he just didn’t like this church. There was something about it that made him feel uneasy.

Scared, you mean. This church scares you.

He looked at his watch again. It was ten minutes past eleven and his visitor was indisputably late. Could he wait outside? Not without looking a complete prat, he couldn’t. He picked up his mobile. No messages.

He jumped again as a knock sounded on the vestry door.

Evi pulled up behind Harry’s car. Using her stick as a lever she pushed herself out of her own. It was a long walk to the vestry door and using her chair was the only really sensible option. Her stick would fold up and slot along the back, the briefcase would sit on her lap, she’d be able to push herself across those smooth old flagstones in a matter of seconds. Faster than many people could run. And Harry would see her in a wheelchair.

She locked the car and began the slow walk up the path. She walked for two minutes, keeping her eyes firmly on the ground, wary of uneven stones. When she stopped for a breather a shadow caught her eye. The sun was throwing the outline of the ruined abbey on to the grass in front of her. She could make out the tower and the three arches that ran up one side of the nave. She could see the arched gap where a stained-glass window had once shone. What was left of the window ledge was fifteen feet above the ground. Should someone really be sitting on it?

Using the stick for balance, she turned and looked at the ruin. What in the name of…

Life-sized figures, wearing real clothes but with heads fashioned from turnips, pumpkins, even straw, filled the ruined church. Evi counted quickly. There had to be twenty or more of the things. They sat in empty window frames, lay across the top of arches, leaned against pillars; one had even been tied by its waist to the tower. It dangled, high above the ground. Unable to resist, Evi took a step closer, then another, taking herself almost within the confines of the church. They were guys, exceptionally well made from what she could see. None of them slumped, lifeless and flattened, the way guys normally did. Their bodies were solid, their limbs in proportion. They appeared remarkably human; until you looked at their faces, on each of which was carved a wide, jagged grin.

Not really liking to turn her back on them, Evi glanced towards the Fletcher house. At least two of the upstairs windows would get a pretty good view of the newly decorated abbey. Tom Fletcher and his brother would have to look out on this when they went to bed.

Her left leg was telling her she’d been still for long enough. She put her stick forward and, glancing back every few seconds, continued up the path.

She was flushed. There was a frown line running vertically down her forehead that he hadn’t noticed before. Her hair was different too, sleek and dark, just reaching her shoulders and so shiny it looked wet.

‘You should have phoned from the car,’ he said. ‘I’d have come out to help.’

Evi’s lips stretched into a smile but the frown line was still there. ‘And yet I managed,’ she said.

‘So you did. Come in.’

He stepped back and allowed her into the vestry. She made her way across to the two chairs he’d positioned close to the radiator and clutched the arm of the nearest one. She lowered herself slowly and then folded the stick and put it by her side. She was wearing a scarlet woollen jacket with a plain black top and trousers, and she’d brought a soft, spicy scent into the vestry with her. And something of the autumn morning too, a smell of leaves, of wood smoke, a crispness. He was staring.

‘I can make coffee,’ he offered, turning his back and moving to the sink. ‘Or tea. There’s even some Hobnobs somewhere. Alice never visits without bringing a packet over.’

‘Coffee would be great, thank you. No sugar. Milk, if you have it.’ He’d forgotten how sweet and low her voice was when she wasn’t annoyed with him. He glanced back. How could eyes be that blue? They were so blue they were almost violet, like pansies at twilight. He was staring again.

He made coffee for them both, listening to rustling behind him as she opened her case and took out papers. Once she dropped a pen, but when he jumped round to pick it up, she’d already found it. The pink in her cheeks was fading. His own face felt far too hot.

He handed her a mug, took his own seat and waited.

Harry looked every inch the priest this morning: neat black clothes, white clerical collar, shiny black brogues. There was even a pair of reading glasses on the desk.

‘Thank you for seeing me,’ she began. He said nothing, just inclined his head at her.

She held out a sheet of paper. ‘I need to give you this,’ she said. ‘Alice and Gareth Fletcher have authorized me to speak to you. To discuss as much of their case with you as seems appropriate.’ Harry took the paper from her and looked at it. The glasses stayed on the desk. He was far too young to need reading glasses anyway. They must just be for effect. After a second or so he put it down and picked up his mug.

‘I’m also speaking to several teachers at Tom and Joe’s school,’ she continued. ‘To the headmaster of Tom’s old school. And to their GP. It’s normal practice when treating a child.’

She waited for Harry to respond. He didn’t. ‘Children are so affected by their environments that we have to know as much as we can about their surroundings,’ she went on. ‘About what impacts on their lives.’

‘I’ve become fond of the Fletchers,’ said Harry. ‘I hope you can help them.’

So different, this morning. So completely unlike the man she’d met.

‘I’ll certainly do my best,’ she said. ‘But it’s very early days. This is really just a fact-finding mission.’

Harry put his mug down on the desk behind him. ‘Anything I can do,’ he said, as he turned back.

So cold. A different man. Just wearing the same face. Still, she had a job to do.

‘Tom was referred to me by his GP two weeks ago,’ she said. ‘He was presenting with extreme anxiety, difficulties at school, trouble sleeping, aggressive behaviour – both at school and at home – and even the possibility of psychotic episodes. Taken together, these are all very troubling symptoms in a ten-year-old boy.’

‘I know his parents have been very concerned,’ said Harry. ‘As have I.’

‘I don’t know how much you know about psychiatry, but-’

‘Next to nothing.’

Jesus, would it kill him to smile? Did he think this was easy for her?

‘The normal procedure is to see the child first, to establish some sort of rapport – even trust, if possible. If the child is old enough, which Tom is, I try to get them to talk about what their problems are. To tell me why they think they’ve been referred to me, what’s worrying them, how they think it might be addressed.’

She stopped. Harry’s eyes hadn’t left her face but she could read nothing from his expression.

‘It hasn’t worked too well with Tom yet,’ she said. ‘He’s really quite skilled at saying the minimum he can get away with. When I try and steer him towards talking about the various incidents – with this odd little girl, for example – he just clams up. Claims it was all a bad dream.’

She paused. Harry nodded at her to continue.

‘Then I try to bring in the rest of the family,’ she went on. ‘I observe how they interact with each other, try to spot any tensions, any sign of discord. I also take a full family history, medical and social. The aim is to get as complete a picture as possible of the family’s life.’

She stopped. This was proving even harder than she’d expected. ‘I’m following,’ said Harry. ‘Please go on.’

‘There’s always a physical examination,’ said Evi. ‘Of the referred child and any siblings. I don’t carry it out myself, I find it interferes with the rapport I try to create with them, but Tom, Joe and Millie have all been examined by the GP.’

Harry was frowning. ‘Are you allowed to tell me what he found?’ he asked.

Evi shrugged. ‘They’re fine,’ she said. ‘Physically, they’re all healthy children, with no significant medical issues, all developing normally. I’ve carried out a couple of evaluation tests myself with them. If anything, in terms of speech, cognitive functioning and general knowledge, Tom and Joe seem particularly well developed for their ages. Both would seem to be of above average intelligence. Does that accord with what you’ve observed?’

‘Completely,’ said Harry, without pausing to think. ‘When I met them they were bright, funny, normal kids. I liked them a lot. Still do.’

The Fletchers were his friends. He wouldn’t be able to be entirely objective. She’d have to win his trust too.

‘It might also be worth mentioning that the GP found no evidence of abuse with any of the children. Either physical or sexual. Of course, we still can’t rule it out entirely, but…’

He was glaring at her. Maybe he needed a reality check.

‘When a child is as disturbed as Tom appears to be, it would be irresponsible to ignore the possibility,’ she said, knowing her voice had hardened. Something in Harry’s eyes flickered back at her.

‘The most significant feature of their case, for me,’ continued Evi, consciously trying to lower and soften her voice, even though he was starting to piss her off, ‘is that the family’s troubles seem to date from their moving here.’

Definitely something in his eyes.

‘Tom’s record at his old school was exemplary,’ she said. ‘I’ve spoken to his former GP, his old football coach, even his old scout master. They all report a normal, well-adjusted, happy child. Yet the family moves here and it all goes wrong.’

Harry had dropped his gaze. He was staring at the floor now. He looked sullen. Did he imagine she thought he was to blame?

‘Mental illness in children rarely has a single identifiable cause,’ she said. ‘Anything pertaining to the Fletchers’ new environment could have acted as a trigger, woken up some dormant condition inside Tom. It would be really helpful to know what that trigger was.’

‘Is this where I come in?’ he asked her, glancing up.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You’re new here too. You’re probably in a better position than anyone to spot a possible catalyst. Can you think of anything?’

Harry took his time. Could he think of anything? The Fletcher family had moved to a town that hadn’t welcomed newcomers for over ten years and where ritual slaughter was an excuse for a good night out. Where whispers came scurrying out of nowhere. And where someone poured pig’s blood into a Communion chalice. Could he think of anything? Would he know when to stop?

‘This is an unusual town,’ he said at last. ‘People here have a way of doing things that’s all their own.’

‘Can you give me any examples?’ Evi had opened a small notepad and held a pencil between the fingers of her left hand. The hair on the right side of her head had been tucked behind one ear. Such a tiny ear. With a ruby stud.

‘The first day I came here I saw the two boys being menaced by a local gang,’ he said. ‘Slightly older boys. Some of them teenagers.’

‘On bikes?’ she asked quickly.

Puzzled, Harry shook his head. ‘Not at the time. Although I have since seen one or two of them riding around on bikes. They can certainly move at speed when they put their mind to it. And they’re agile. I’m sure I’ve seen figures climbing around among the abbey ruins, even on the church roof. We haven’t been able to prove it but we’re pretty certain they were responsible for what happened to Millie Fletcher a couple of weeks ago.’

‘And they were threatening Tom and Joe, that first day?’

Harry nodded. ‘They broke a church window, tried to put the blame on the boys.’

‘It wouldn’t be the first time a close-knit community turned on outsiders,’ said Evi. ‘How have people here been with you?’

Harry thought about it for a second. ‘Well, on the face of it, quite friendly. There are some nice people here. But there have been strange things happening.’ He stopped. Did he want to tell Evi about the whispers he heard in the church? About what someone had tricked him into drinking? That a house of God scared him? ‘Nothing I really want to go into,’ he went on, ‘but it wouldn’t surprise me to hear that someone with a rather malicious sense of humour had been trying to frighten the boys.’

‘That’s it.’ Evi was leaning forward in her chair. ‘That’s what I sense from Tom. Fear.’

A silver chain around her neck was glinting in the soft light of the vestry.

‘What’s he afraid of?’ Harry asked.

‘Normally when a child is afraid, we look close to home for the source,’ replied Evi, ‘but there’s no indication that Tom is afraid of his family.’

She was wearing make-up, which she hadn’t been when he’d met her previously. He hadn’t realized quite how beautiful she was.

‘We have a test,’ she was saying. ‘We call it the desert-island test. We ask the child to imagine he’s on a desert island, way out in the middle of the sea, miles away from everything and completely safe. And we ask him to choose one person to be on the island with him. Who would he choose, out of all the people in the world?’

You, thought Harry, I think I might just choose you. ‘What did Tom say?’ he asked.

‘He said Millie. His little sister. When he was asked to choose a second person he chose his mum. Then his dad.’

‘Not Joe?’

‘Joe was his fourth choice. I did the same test with Joe. He said the same thing. Millie first, his mum and dad next, then Tom.’

‘Interesting that they both picked Millie.’

Evi dropped her eyes and turned a page of her notebook. Her dark hair swung down, covering her face. She turned another page and found what she was looking for. ‘Then Joe said something that really puzzled me,’ she continued, glancing back up at Harry. ‘He said, would there be a church on the island, because if there was, he didn’t think Millie should go.’

The radiator didn’t seem to be working as well as it had been. Harry felt his fingers growing cold. They died, didn’t they? The little girls in the church.

‘I’m fine, really. I can manage,’ said Evi.

Harry was holding open the vestry door. She stepped out and he allowed it to close behind her. ‘I don’t doubt that for a minute,’ he said. ‘But I see all my visitors to the gates. Can I…’

He was holding out his right elbow. She shook her head. ‘I’m fine, thank you,’ she said again.

They set off and Evi was acutely conscious of her stick tapping on the path between them. It took almost a minute to walk the length of the church. They turned the corner and she heard herself take a sharp breath. She’d forgotten that the ruined abbey had a new congregation. She stopped moving, glad of the excuse to rest for a moment.

‘What on earth are they, Harry?’ she asked, realizing she’d used his name for the first time that morning. ‘I can’t tell you the shock I had when I arrived.’

‘Be glad you’re not seeing them in the dead of night,’ said Harry. ‘I did. Came back to collect the church accounts and nearly had heart failure.’

Evi looked from one bizarre figure to the next. Some male, some female, one – oh cripes, that was the worst, the size of a small child. Then, conscious of Harry waiting patiently by her side, she started moving again.

‘I know it’s nearly Bonfire Night,’ she said, ‘but why so many guys? I’ve never seen such a collection.’

‘They’re not guys,’ said Harry. ‘They’re bone men.’

Evi’s head flicked from the ruins to the man at her side and then back again. ‘Bone men? As in rag-and-bone men?’ she asked.

Harry shook his head. ‘Oh, it’s more literal than that. They’re called bone men, apparently, because a large part of their make-up is exactly that.’

She stopped again. ‘You’re going to have to explain.’

‘Well, it’s another Heptonclough tradition. They have a lot of them up here. This one dates back to the Middle Ages, when there was a charnel house adjoining the church. Every thirty years or so, graves would be opened, the bones dug up and placed in the charnel house. When it was full, they were burned. On a bone fire, which later became known as a bonfire. I had the full history the other day from my churchwarden’s father, whom I’d like to describe as a delightful old man, but that would be pushing it. So I can tell you as much as you want to know about our friends over there, and probably more. For example, they’re all made following the same pattern that old Mr Tobias devised himself fifty years ago.’

‘This is all rather gross. What sort of bones. Surely not hu-’

‘Well, let’s hope not. Although I wouldn’t be entirely surprised. They’re fashioned mainly from natural materials. Most of the framework is willow and they’re stuffed with straw, hay, corn, old vegetables. Each family in the village provides at least one. It’s their way of getting rid of the year’s rubbish – old clothes, paper, bits of wood, anything organic, especially bones. Which they have rather a lot of at this time of year because they’ve just finished slaughtering livestock for the winter. They freeze, dry and salt the meat, boil up the bones for soup and jelly, and then, well I guess they just don’t have enough dogs. If you’d phoned me when you got here like you promised I could have met you and spared you the shock.’

Evi was still looking round the ruin. ‘It must be one hell of a bonfire,’ she said.

‘I think they are the bonfire. Must be quite a sight, although I think I might give it a miss. And don’t worry about saying “hell” on sacred ground. I’m becoming surprisingly open-minded.’

Was she imagining it or was that a glimpse of the old Harry? ‘I’ll bet you are,’ she said. ‘Is the fire here? On church property?’

‘Over my dead… although maybe I should be careful what I say. No, it’s in a field not too far away. You’d have ridden past it the day we met. It’s where they held a sort of harvest ceremony a few weeks ago.’ He stopped.

‘The one you asked me to?’ she said softly.

‘Yes, the night of our aborted first date.’

She had nothing to say. She had to start walking again. She had to get in the car and drive off. Before…

‘You look lovely, by the way,’ he said.

… before he said something like that.

‘Thank you,’ she managed, letting her eyes fall to his feet and then rise back up to his face. ‘You look like a vicar.’

He laughed briefly and seemed to pull away from her. ‘Well, what you see is what you get, I suppose,’ he said. He set off walking again, a little ahead of her this time. Then he stopped and turned back. ‘Was that the problem?’ he asked.

‘Problem?’ she stalled. No, Harry, that hadn’t been the problem.

‘Is that why you changed your mind?’ he said.

She hadn’t changed her mind. ‘It’s complicated,’ she said. What could she possibly tell him? ‘I can’t even explain.’

The smile that had been dancing around at the corners of his mouth faded. ‘There’s really no need,’ he said. He was holding his arm out again. She took it. ‘If you change it back again, you know where I am.’

She really hadn’t changed it in the first place. They were almost at the churchyard entrance. Two or three minutes away from saying goodbye. The sudden appearance of the woman took them both by surprise.

‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded, glaring at Evi.

Harry was startled. He’d been engrossed with the woman at his side. He hadn’t noticed the other one standing just beyond the church wall.

‘Hello, Gillian,’ he said, cursing his luck. He’d wanted to take his time saying goodbye to Evi, to see if maybe… ‘Did you need to see me?’ he went on. ‘The vestry’s open. Actually, it shouldn’t be. I’m supposed to be locking it up every time I leave the building. I guess I was distracted.’ He smiled down at Evi. She wasn’t looking at him any more. Her eyes were fixed on Gillian. He felt the pressure of her hand on his arm lighten. He pressed his own arm closer to his ribcage and laid his free hand on top of hers.

‘Why are you here?’ demanded Gillian again, taking her eyes off Evi’s face only to glare at her hand, now trapped on Harry’s arm. ‘What were you saying?’

‘Gillian, why don’t you wait…’ he began.

Gillian’s head jerked up. ‘What was she saying? She’s not supposed to-’

‘No, I’m not,’ interrupted Evi. ‘I’m not allowed to talk about my patients – ever – without their permission. So I don’t do it. I came here to see Reverend Laycock about something else entirely.’

‘We weren’t talking about you,’ said Harry, feeling the need to be perfectly clear. He looked from Gillian to Evi. The younger woman looked angry and bewildered. Evi just looked sad. A sudden thought struck him. Oh good grief.

‘Actually, Gillian, I have a meeting at one of my other churches in fifteen minutes,’ he said. ‘Sorry, clean forgot. If you need to talk, you could phone me at home this afternoon. Excuse us now. I have to see Dr Oliver to her car.’

Gillian walked up the path away from them and stopped, just out of earshot. Harry walked Evi out of the churchyard and the few yards to her car. ‘This problem we have,’ he said, keeping his voice low. ‘You know, the one that’s getting in the way of our first date.’

Evi was fumbling in her bag. She didn’t answer him.

‘Did we just encounter it?’ he asked.

She’d found her keys. She pressed the remote control and the car unlocked. He released her arm and moved in front of her to open the car door. She still wasn’t looking at him but had turned back to the abbey ruins.

‘It’s not really any of my business, I know,’ she said, folding up her stick and dropping it on the passenger seat. ‘But is it not odd, to have all these figures on church property?’ Her briefcase went in the car too. She seemed determined not to look at him. ‘I’m just thinking about the Fletcher boys,’ she went on. ‘I imagine this is a pretty scary sight when it’s dark.’

‘Oh, trust me on that one,’ said Harry. Well, if she was refusing to look at him, he could stare all he liked. There was a tiny freckle just below her right ear.

She’d turned – and caught him. ‘So can’t you…’ She left the question hanging.

‘Evi, I’ve only been here a few weeks. If I start throwing my weight around now it could be disastrous for my tenure here.’

She opened her mouth, but he stopped her. ‘Yes, I know. I’m putting my career before the welfare of two young children and I really feel quite bad about that, but the fact is I am not solely in charge of this property. I can talk to my churchwardens, see if the figures can’t be taken down sooner than planned. I can speak to my archdeacon. If he supports me I can probably stop it happening next year.’

The fingers of her right hand had closed on top of his on the driver door. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I don’t mean to give you a hard time. But they’ll be here for another seven days.’

‘No. They’ll be here for four.’ Did she realize she was touching him?

‘Bonfire Night’s on-’

‘The good folks round here don’t light their bone fire on November the fifth,’ he answered. ‘Apparently they don’t set much store by defeating the Catholic plot to blow up parliament. They party on the second of November.’

‘All Souls’ Day?’ she asked him.

‘I thought you weren’t a churchgoer? But you’re right. November the second is All Souls’ Day, when we pray for the departed who may not yet have reached God’s kingdom. Only up here they call it something else. They call it Day of the Dead.’

41

31 October

THERE OUGHT TO BE A BIG MOON ON HALLOWE’EN.IT FELT right somehow. The moon Tom was looking at now, rising so quickly he could almost see the trail of silver light it left behind, wasn’t quite full but looked huge in the sky all the same. It was the ghostly galleon of poems, gleaming down at him from just above the tallest archway in the abbey ruin.

Hallowe’en was usually a pretty big thing in the Fletcher house, probably due to Tom’s mother being American. Not this year, though. Nobody celebrated Hallowe’en in Heptonclough; everyone was too busy getting ready for the Day of the Dead celebrations on the second of November. So the Fletcher children had one solitary jack-o-lantern sitting on the sitting-room window ledge, facing the garden where no one but them could see it.

Tom was sitting at the window in his room, hidden behind the curtain. When he did that, nobody could see him. Just lately, it was proving a useful way of finding out all sorts of things he wasn’t supposed to know.

Like, for instance, that his mother had been trying hard to get all the bone men taken down from the ruins. Joe and he had counted twenty-four of them that morning, five more than when they first appeared. His mother absolutely hated them and had been on the phone to Harry just ten minutes ago. She’d come very close to falling out with him.

Twenty-six. He’d just counted twenty-six bone men around the abbey ruins. There’d only been twenty-four this morning. Sometime during the day two more had been added. Excellent!

That morning, at breakfast, Joe had asked if they could make one of their own. Their mother had said a very firm no, glancing at Tom nervously, but he honestly wouldn’t have minded. He thought they were quite cool, even funny in their way. There was one with jodhpurs, a pair of old wellies and a riding hat. One of its hands held a stick that was supposed to be a riding crop and it had a kid’s stuffed fox, like Basil Brush, under one arm.

Oh shit. Oh Jesus. One of them just moved. Tom blinked, rubbed his eyes, looked harder. One of the bone men – made up of nothing but clothes and old rubbish – was crawling along one of the walls. He got ready to jump down, to run and fetch his parents. Then stopped. It was gone. Had he imagined it?

If he had, he was still doing it, because there was another one, climbing through the lowest window of the tower. It was the one Joe thought was the funniest, the one wearing a lady’s flowered dress and a big straw hat. Tom could see the hat, almost as clear as daylight, wobble on the figure’s head. Then it jumped into the shadows and disappeared.

What the hell was going on? Were they all going to get up and move? Tom was kneeling upright now, not caring if someone saw him, actually hoping they would. Another movement, over by the outside wall. Then two of them, moving together – or was one carrying the other?

‘Dad!’ he called, as loudly as he dared, knowing Millie was asleep across the hall. ‘Dad, come here.’

Then a hand touched him and he almost leaped through the glass. Thank God, someone was here, someone else could see. He tugged the curtain aside to see who had come into his room.

Joe. Tom reached down a hand, pulled Joe up beside him and tugged the curtain round them both again. ‘Look at the abbey,’ he told his brother. ‘The bone men are alive.’

Joe pressed his face to the glass and looked. The two boys watched one of the bone men run across the grassed area that used to be the nave. It disappeared behind a pile of stones. Tom turned to Joe. Who didn’t look in the least bit surprised. Tom felt the excitement in his ribcage plummet.

‘It’s her, isn’t it?’ he said in a low voice. ‘The bone men aren’t moving by themselves. She’s moving them.’

Joe turned away from his brother, getting ready to climb down from the ledge. Tom stopped him, holding so tightly to his arm he knew it had to hurt. Joe muttered something his older brother didn’t catch. Tom didn’t think. He just shoved him hard. Joe’s head cracked against the glass and then he fell on to the carpet.

Later, when Joe had been declared out of danger of dying, more’s the pity, and was tucked up in bed with hot chocolate and stories and a huge great fuss on the part of his mother, and Tom had been told to stay in his room for the rest of the decade, he finally worked out what Joe had said, just before he’d been clobbered.

‘Not posed tell,’ he’d muttered. Which in Joe-speak meant: not supposed to tell.