The Secrets of Pain

82

When she got back to the vicarage, nobody was home but Ethel.

The phone was ringing.

She’d have to be back in church in less than half an hour. She’d agreed to give Byron Jones ten minutes to walk away – like just another Easter hiker – before she called the police.

She picked up the phone. It was Dick Willis, minister in charge of the Credenhill cluster.

‘I do rather wish you’d given me a hint of this, Merrily.’ There was no anger in his voice. ‘Might even’ve been able to help you.’

‘Dick, it all moved too…’

And was still moving. Gomer had known as soon as he saw the name on the document. She’d told him it was all right. Byron had stood in the farthest corner of the room looking as unthreatening as a man like Byron could ever look. No fear in Gomer, only concern.

She’d firmly squeezed his hand and said it was OK. OK.

‘Don’t suppose they’ve got him yet,’ Dick Willis said.

‘Not as far as I know.’

‘Frightening,’ Dick said. ‘Merrily, look, I’m sitting here on a chancel pew, waiting to take a service and I… I think I’d rather go into it with a clean conscience. Especially on Good Friday. When I told you that Colin Jones hadn’t been in Brinsop Church during a service, that was a blatant and unforgivable lie. He came once. Memorably. Though I wasn’t there.’

‘When was this?’

The ten minutes were up. She should be ringing Annie Howe. And if she was late for the service, Gomer Parry, who’d signed on the dotted line and then walked out with her and a murderer and rapist, would start raising hell.

‘About a year ago,’ Dick Willis said. ‘I was approached by Colin Jones and asked if he and some other “army colleagues” might borrow St George’s for an evening service. He offered what I can only describe as a remarkably generous donation towards the maintenance of the church. Remarkably generous.’

‘What kind of service?’

‘He didn’t explain in detail. He just called it a service of thanksgiving, which could mean anything, as you know. I presumed some of the chaps had come through a fairly dicey situation abroad and it was something they couldn’t talk about. I put it to the churchwarden and also ran it past the Bishop’s office. No objections – SAS, you know?’

‘Mmm.’

‘They also said they’d be bringing their own minister. A chap called, if I remember correctly, Adrian Barclay turned up. I’d never seen him before. Said he was from London. And then it was made clear that I was not required in any capacity. Then the congregation arrived in their cars. All men. About twenty of them.’

‘How long were they in there?’

‘Couple of hours. When the churchwarden thought he’d better check that everything was all right, he found the door locked from the inside. We never found out what that service was about. And, you know, some of the chaps in that congregation… most of them didn’t look like SAS men at all. You can tell a Regiment man, somehow – seldom huge muscular chaps, but there’s a look… somehow.’

‘But you kept quiet for the, erm…’

‘For the money, Merrily. You know how things are. What I did do afterwards was to check on the Reverend Barclay. Rang the church he said he was from.’

‘Which church was it?’

‘St Stephen, Walbrook, in London. The minister there said they’d never had an Adrian Barclay there, but when I described him – tall, shaven-headed chap in his early forties – he fitted the description of a curate who’d lasted six months before he was asked to leave. Wouldn’t explain why. Curious, wouldn’t you say?’

‘But you didn’t ask any questions… locally.’

‘It didn’t seem appropriate,’ Dick Willis said. ‘Locally.’

Merrily phoned Gaol Street, asked for Annie Howe.

Not available. She spoke to DC Vaynor and explained briefly. She said she’d last seen Colin Jones walking from the square into the alley which led to a stile which led to a footpath into the remains of the old Powell orchard.

What happened now would be an exercise for Byron. A discipline.

DC Vaynor told her not, on any account, to go anywhere, but she told him she had to be in church in twenty-five minutes and could not be disturbed. Not for anything.

She changed quickly into a black skirt, black cashmere jumper, pectoral cross, then sat down and Googled St Stephen Walbrook.

Never been, but she’d heard of it.

There was a colour photo of an angular City church with a campanile. Built by Sir Christopher Wren, it said, to replace one destroyed in the Great Fire of London. The first recorded church on the site near the River Walbrook, now underground, had dated back to the seventh century.

According to Wikipedia, the banks of the River Walbrook had yielded spectacular Roman remains, the best known of which was an impressively well-preserved monument now moved to Temple Court from its original site and open for public viewing. The London Mithraeum.

Its original site, apparently, had been close to the foundations of the Bank of England.

Merrily switched off the computer as if it was about to explode.

She couldn’t think about any of this until after the meditation.

Or Easter.

The vestry was locked now, but she didn’t know whether the pistol remained at the centre of the pile of prayer books.

She looked up at a movement in the window, saw Lol coming past towards the back door, in an actual jacket.

Flitting in and out of one another’s energy fields.

She felt warmth, relief, guilt, a touch of shame… folding the Power of Attorney document and sliding it inside her copy of Revelations of Divine Love.