One of Us Is Dead

14 Tuesday 27 September 2022

James Taylor, still shaken by what he had seen at the wake, had been unable to follow up on his sighting — or rather possible sighting — of Rufus Rorke at the funeral, over the weekend. On Saturday he’d had to fly his employer’s Pilatus to the Aéroport du Golfe de Saint-Tropez, in the South of France, to collect Mr and Mrs Towne from one of their many summer sojourns at their villa in Gassin, in the hills above Saint-Tropez, and drop them back at Jersey airport, before flying on to Shoreham in Sussex, where the Pilatus had a hangar.

Sunday, he knew, was not a good day to trouble a God-botherer, and then yesterday he’d had to fly the Pilatus to Biggin Hill for its annual service and check. Finally, at what he considered a respectable time, 9.30 a.m. on this Tuesday morning, he parked his cherished black MGB GT in the street, and presented himself at the handsome — if a little in need of some TLC — rural vicarage, a Georgian house that was set back a short distance from the High Street, a few miles north-west of Brighton. He stood outside the porch and pressed the doorbell. And heard no sound. After a few moments he pressed again. And again heard no sound. He then rapped the corroded brass lion-head knocker.

Almost before he had finished striking, the door flew open and the tall Reverend Ian Parry-Jones was standing in front of him, wearing a dog collar partially visible beneath the neck of a ragged jumper, black trousers and leather slippers. Unlike at the funeral, his expression was now more of irritation than piety, his hair looking as bad tempered as he was. ‘Yes?’ he said.

‘I’m sorry to trouble you,’ Taylor said. ‘I was at Barnie Wallace’s funeral on Friday. We were at school together.’

The vicar’s expression softened a little but not much. ‘Ah yes, so sad, taken so young. He was clearly a popular fellow — it’s not often I see our church so packed these days. Very comforting for his loved ones.’ Then he gave Taylor a hard stare. After a few moments of awkward silence he asked, ‘What exactly can I do for you?’

Taylor, who had been expecting a somewhat warmer greeting, hesitated before ploughing on. ‘This may seem an odd request. Do you happen to have CCTV cameras at the church? I looked around as I was leaving but couldn’t spot any.’

Parry-Jones frowned. ‘No, you wouldn’t, because they are concealed. Unfortunately we do. Why are you asking?’

‘It’s a bit of a long story. Do you have a few minutes or can we arrange another time?’

‘Now’s fine. Come in — can I offer you some tea or coffee?’

‘A coffee would be very welcome, thank you.’

Taylor entered a hallway that was more spartan and shabby than the rather grand exterior had indicated, and followed the vicar through into an even more spartan room, badly in need of redecoration and with mismatched furniture that all looked tired. He perched on a busted sofa and the vicar went out. Taylor looked around. There were some invitations on the mantelpiece, one from the Bishop of Chichester, a photograph of a young man in a graduation gown, wearing a mortar board, and another of a young woman, similarly attired. Hanging above was a cheaply framed, poor-quality print of the famous El Greco painting Christ Carrying the Cross. A window looked out onto a lawn that looked as though it was still waiting for its first cut of the year; in contrast it was lined by well-tended flower beds.

The vicar returned with a tray on which were two cups of coffee and a plate of chocolate digestive biscuits, setting them down on a nondescript coffee table that was too young to be an antique and too old to be IKEA.

‘So what exactly is your interest in our CCTV, Mr...?’

‘Taylor. James Taylor.’ He took a cup and, out of politeness, a biscuit, although, borderline fanatical about keeping in shape, he didn’t really want one.

‘You’ve got a friend, have you?’ The vicar said it with a cheeky smile, perching himself on the battered leather armchair opposite.

Taylor grinned.

‘My wife’s a big fan of James Taylor,’ the vicar said, becoming a tad more jovial. ‘She loves all his work. You’ve got a friend. Amazing, right? I’m assuming you are not him?’

Taylor nodded. ‘I wish I could claim to be him, but I’m not — and, besides, he’s in his seventies. No, I’m just a humble pilot.’

‘Ah, who do you fly for?’

‘Well, it used to be easyJet but I got made redundant early on during Covid lockdown. But I was lucky, I got a job flying a private jet for a wealthy man in Jersey.’

‘Is that better than working for an airline? It sounds like it might be?’

‘I miss the camaraderie — it’s just me — but on the plus side, most of the time he only ever uses the plane once every couple of weeks.’

‘Which gives you more time at home with your family?’ The vicar, clocking his wedding ring, looked at him expectantly.

Taylor did not want to go there. So he nodded and smiled politely. ‘Indeed.’

There was a moment of awkward silence. The vicar stirred his coffee noisily, a distant, beatific smile on his face, the spoon making a ting-ting-ting of which he seemed unaware. Taylor ate some of the biscuit, trying to stop any crumbs from falling onto the threadbare carpet. A grey Burmese cat wandered in, made a screeching miaow sound and walked back out.

‘We call him Willy-Two-Breakfasts,’ Parry-Jones said. ‘He’s telling me it’s time for his second one.’ He smiled again and stirred his coffee once more. Ting-ting-ting. ‘So — um — ah — how exactly can I help you, Mr Taylor?’ He wrung his hands together as if unsure what else he might do with them.

‘Well, the thing is, at the funeral on Friday I saw someone I was sure I knew, sitting a few rows in front of me, and have lost contact with. I really wanted to catch him, but by the time I got to the door of the church at the end of the funeral, he had gone. I just wondered if there was any possibility I could view the CCTV footage, if you had any, to see if it was actually him?’

The vicar was looking at him strangely. ‘Did you attend the wake?’

‘I did, yes. But he wasn’t there.’

‘Can you describe him? I was at the door, shaking hands with everyone — with the collection plate, of course. I might remember him.’

‘He’s tall, over six foot. He was wearing glasses, a black baseball cap and a scarf covering his face.’

The vicar frowned. ‘A baseball cap, in my church, during the service?’

‘Yes, he had it on the whole time.’

He shook his head. ‘Are you quite sure? I would have noticed. I don’t approve of men wearing hats in my church — unless it’s for their own religion.’

Taylor hesitated for a moment. Was he quite sure? Could this all have been a figment of his imagination? He pressed on. ‘I’m sure your CCTV would show us.’

Parry-Jones frowned, took a sip of his coffee then set the cup down in the saucer. ‘I’m not really sure under all these new GDPR regulations I can show you the footage, I’m afraid. I think it might be a breach of the Data Protection Act.’

‘It’s only for my personal interest,’ Taylor said. ‘It won’t go beyond me.’

The vicar looked pensive. ‘I really don’t know.’

‘I saw you have an appeal for repairs to your church roof,’ Taylor said.

‘We do indeed. It’s a desperate situation — and hard to raise money in these current times.’

‘If I were to pledge a hundred pounds — might that ease your way to letting me see that CCTV footage?’

The vicar looked at him, then swept his hands through his mane of hair. ‘One hundred pounds?’

Taylor nodded.

‘That’s a very generous offer. I think we could come to an arrangement on that. An equitable one. So long as I have your assurance that what you see would go no further?’

‘It will go no further.’ Taylor pulled out his wallet.