No Help For The Dying

Chapter 10

For a fraction of a second Pastor de Haan’s genial expression wavered, and he appeared to adjust the way he was looking at her. Whether it was the mention of Henry’s name or the realisation that she was not about to dip her hand in her wallet and bestow a new wing on his elegant building, Riley wasn’t sure. But she had the feeling she was being deftly slotted into a different compartment to the one she might have occupied moments earlier.

‘I’m sorry — that’s not possible.’ The refusal came smoothly, the smile easing back into place. For the first time, Riley detected a slight American accent which had been buried earlier by something more overtly European. She had guessed Dutch, because of the name, but now she wasn’t so sure. ‘Not because I wouldn’t want to, Miss Gavin,’ he continued. ‘Far from it. It’s our policy never to divulge details of our members’ activities… or whereabouts.’

‘So you do know him, then?’ Alongside her rush of relief, Riley noticed a change of accent again, this time more American. She wondered which one was the original.

‘Yes. We know Henry. What seems to be the problem?’

‘I think he might be in danger.’

‘Danger? Surely not.’ De Haan’s eyes widened at the very idea. Riley couldn’t tell if it was meant to convey alarm or scepticism — it was a close call. ‘What makes you think that?’

‘We had a meeting planned. Henry didn’t make it.’ Riley told him about finding Henry’s bible in the hotel, and his sudden disappearance. She didn’t mention the police or crossing the crime scene tape. His eyes dropped to the bible again and he nodded. ‘I wondered about that.’ Before she could stop him, he reached out and plucked it deftly from her hand, flicking back the cover to check the inside. ‘Our senior members value these highly, Miss Gavin. None of them would willingly leave them lying around, I assure you.’ The way he said it sounded terse, as if the very crime was punishable by death.

‘Senior members?’

‘People we value highly for their hard work and efforts on behalf of the Church.’

‘Financial supporters, you mean?’ Riley put the question carefully, one half of her brain trying to analyse the crowd gathered here. She was already wondering how the church managed to maintain a building like Broadcote Hall. It would cost a fortune in maintenance and heating alone. Neither was possible by simply passing around a silver plate once a week among the faithful. Not, she thought, unless the faithful were all afflicted by huge wealth and stonking generosity.

De Haan gave a patient smile. ‘They are few, but nonetheless a solid core of blessed help. We rely solely on the charity and good works of others, you see.’ He beamed with what might have been gratitude, although to Riley’s cynical soul it looked more like an inner core burning with the heat of self-satisfaction.

‘And these people?’ She nodded towards the crowd. From what she could see, they matched the quality and opulent appearance of the vehicles in the car park. Of varying ages, but with a preponderance of middle years, there was an abundance of expensive jewellery on display and they all had the groomed appearance of people secure in themselves and their place in society. Among the smart suits and dresses she thought a couple of faces seemed vaguely familiar.

‘Indeed. Like these good people. But without supporters like Henry to focus on reaching out to the right quarters, we would have nothing and be nothing. Tell me, what is your… relationship with Henry?’

‘I used to work with him. We were friends, but haven’t seen each other in a while.’

This seemed to satisfy him. ‘Yes. We all need friends, don’t we? Did Henry tell you about us?’ He offered another coffee and Riley wondered if she was being shuffled back gently towards the box marked ‘potential donor’.

‘Henry didn’t talk much about his private life,’ she replied truthfully. ‘But then, neither do I.’

‘Very wise, too. All too often we become labelled by what we do, don’t we? It shouldn’t matter, of course, but it does. Being in business doesn’t preclude being charitable, after all.’ There it was again: the nudge towards the possibility of being one of the generous few. She decided to turn the conversation back to Henry.

‘Can you tell me if Henry is ok? I’m worried about him.’

‘Of course,’ de Haan replied. ‘In fact I’ll do better than that — I’ll get him to call you. I’m sure he didn’t mean to alarm anyone… he’ll be most upset at the idea.’ He studied a fingernail, tilting his hand to catch the light as if suddenly finding an unexpected blemish. ‘Although I can’t guarantee he’ll respond. He has been under a great deal of stress lately. But then, as a friend, you probably know about that?’ A raised eyebrow accompanied the questioning tone at the end of the sentence, a gentle signal meant to reassure her that she was among mutual friends and could safely unload all her secrets. Riley ignored it.

‘I didn’t. But I do know he left his job recently.’

‘So he did. It was all part of the… umm… problem. A difficult time for anyone — especially at his age. But I’m sure he’ll come through it with our — and God’s — help.’ He flicked a glance upwards in deference to the higher authority. ‘For sure we have plenty of work for Henry to do.’ He smiled again and by the briefest of gestures, managed to turn Riley back towards the door to reception, a clear signal that it was time for her to leave.

‘This work,’ Riley said, sensing she wasn’t about to get anywhere further with Henry’s whereabouts. ‘What do you do, exactly?’

The pastor seemed surprised by the question and appeared to relax slightly, relieved, perhaps, to be on more familiar ground. He held the door as though unwilling to pass through. ‘That’s right — you said Henry didn’t tell you. Well, among other things, Miss Gavin, we bring help and succour to those in need, in any way we can. A necessary result of our times, I’m afraid.’ He replaced his smile with a more sombre look. ‘We help the disaffected,’ he continued, with a sudden rising note in his voice, the energy if not the volume catching the attention of people nearby. A born showman. ‘The lost, the weak and the disadvantaged — we hold out a hand to the ones who can’t help themselves. To the ones who have been rejected, the ones who are unwanted, we offer the hand of friendship. After all, if we don’t, who will?’

A woman nearby clapped enthusiastically in appreciation, causing de Haan to raise a hand in modest acknowledgement. A tall, hawkish man beside her looked less impressed, while other listeners seemed poised to come nearer and join in. But a sudden crackling and thumping sound from the speaker system signalled that it was time to resume.

‘You go out looking for them?’ Riley asked, as the crowd shuffled back to their seats. The dewy-eyed woman cast a backward glance as if she would have preferred to stay and listen to de Haan rather than whatever discussion was on offer from the speaker. ‘That can’t be an easy task.’

‘We rarely need to do that, Miss Gavin.’ He placed a soft hand beneath her elbow and steered her through the door, letting it swing shut behind him. ‘They come to us. They seek us out, you see, and when they find us, they know they have found salvation. For we can give them something their families have been unable to.’ His grip hardened on her arm and she decided that whatever lard covered Pastor de Haan’s body was based on an ample foundation of muscle. ‘Or maybe unwilling.’

‘Love, you mean?’ This was ground she had trodden before, when she felt herself drawn into the cloying atmosphere surrounding the disappearance of Katie Pyle. The questions were invariably the same: was it lack of love that had caused her to leave? Had her parents and friends been negligent in some way? Could they have done more for her?

De Haan looked almost affronted. ‘We don’t offer love, Miss Gavin. That would be too simple… and in the end, meaningless. What we offer is something much more lasting.’

‘Really?’

‘Too often these unfortunates have had no place, no status, no meaning. They have been educated, it is true — sometimes very expensively. Clothed, of course, even indulged, if mere possessions can be termed an indulgence. But in the end they have been all too often rejected, ignored and, very often, treated with indifference… or worse.’ He blinked, his mouth curling in a faint expression of distaste at the idea. ‘Far worse, some of them, poor souls. What we seek to do is redress the balance, either by bringing them back to their families in a caring and beneficial way when they have strayed or, if they have chosen their own path, by giving them a place in another, wider family. It’s the least we can do.’

Riley wasn’t sure what to say. Position rather than love; status within a group instead of caring. It was certainly a different approach from the norm, and who was to say they weren’t right? But before she could comment there was a crackle of electronic feedback in the room they had just left, signalling the resumption of the conference. De Haan clapped his hands together with a smile, and what Riley could have sworn was relief.

‘I really must apologise,’ he said, ‘but I need to get back. We have a very busy programme to get through.’

A movement to one side made Riley turn her head. Mr Quine was standing just inside the entrance, hands clasped in front like a praetorian guard. Against the relative gloom of the wooden panelling, his dark clothing made him look even more like a bird of prey.

‘Thank you,’ Riley said. She wondered if knowing about de Haan’s organisation would have helped Katie Pyle. Something told her, maybe not. She extended her hand, but instead of taking it, de Haan stepped away. Clearly the audience was over.

Riley suddenly remembered Henry’s bible. She turned back and retrieved it from the pastor’s grasp. He looked dismayed for a moment, glancing quickly towards Quine, who began moving towards them. In that instant, Riley felt a sudden flicker of menace in the air. Then de Haan coughed and waved a quick hand, and Quine stopped in his tracks.

Riley had no idea what had just happened, nor why having the bible back was important. But she figured when Henry did turn up, she wanted to be the one to return it to him. If he turned up. Suddenly she was no longer sure that would ever happen.

She stopped in front of Quine and held out her hand. He stared at her without expression, then slowly handed back her car keys. She got the feeling he was imprinting her every facial detail on his mind for future reference, and the idea made her feel uncomfortable. She nodded coolly and walked past him out on to the drive.

She got back into the car and drove out to the main road, turning towards London. She felt unsettled by what had just happened; she’d been in the place little more than twenty minutes, and had learned precious little, save that pastor de Haan wasn’t quite what he pretended, and Quine was too spooky for words. What she had confirmed was that Henry belonged to a charity and had been under some stress lately. Or maybe it was just more of the stress he had carried with him all those years ago. It might explain his odd behaviour, such as leaving his job without telling anybody. But it still didn’t explain why he had wanted to see her so urgently, or how he came to know Katie Pyle’s name.

Odder still was that, in spite of doing good works, the charity wasn’t about to let her anywhere near him to find out. It was irritating but she could hardly force the issue; if Henry was one of them, it was presumably normal for the organisation to want to protect him. She mulled it over for a couple of miles, then pulled into a lay-by and took out her mobile. As she did so, a familiar car drove slowly by, the driver turning to give her a long look. It was the motorist she had seen staring into the engine compartment of his Nissan at the entrance to Broadcote Hall. Maybe he’d tried the power of prayer.

De Haan and the man called Quine stood in the doorway and watched Riley drive away. The pastor shook his head with a hiss of disapproval. When he spoke it was with a chilly tone of accusation.

‘It’s beginning to get out of hand. How did she get this far?’

Quine seemed unruffled. ‘Pearcy must have spoken to her after all.’

‘But you said he hadn’t!’ A bubble appeared at de Haan’s mouth. He checked himself, aware that anger achieved little. ‘If Friedman gets to her as well, everything will be ruined.’

‘He won’t.’ Quine casually re-arranged some pamphlets on a windowsill. One was slightly damaged. He tore it slowly in two, then put the two halves together and tore them again, before dropping the pieces in a waste bin. ‘I’ve got it covered.’

‘How?’

Quine smiled, his demeanour that of an equal. ‘He won’t get to her. That’s all you need to know.’