‘Drip, drip, drip. ‘You don’t take my Ruby.’
They arrested Lena and Demi at Toddington Services on the M1. They’d been pocketing the money they got for fostering Ruby. Buying themselves nice things and saving for a holiday. A getaway. She had been starved, beaten and then sacrificed. That was Lena’s excuse.
‘The child was possessed,’ she later told the police. ‘I had to exorcize the demons. Now her soul will go to heaven.’
To this day, I don’t know whether she truly believed it or whether it was simply the basis of an insanity plea. Either way, the papers had a field day. Because of Lena’s ramblings, the church came under focus. I was held up as being the vicar who somehow let all of this happen on her watch. The community blamed me; the press blamed me. Most of all, I blamed myself. The vicar with blood on her hands.
Mike stares at me sympathetically.
‘But it wasn’t your fault. You did everything you could to help that little girl.’
‘It wasn’t enough.’
‘Sometimes, nothing is.’ He looks down into his coffee. ‘I suppose Simon and Clara have told you how Tara died.’
‘They told me it was an accident.’
He shakes his head. ‘An accident that wouldn’t have happened if it wasn’t for me. I should have picked her up from school that day. But I was drunk. I couldn’t drive. I asked Emma to look after her as a favour. Tara shouldn’t have even been at their house.’
‘But it could have happened on another day. You didn’t cause the accident. It just happened. Accepting there is no blame, no reason for a tragedy, is the hardest thing we can do. But we have to, or we never move on.’
‘And have you done that, with Ruby?’
‘Not yet.’ I smile thinly. ‘Like I said, it’s the hardest thing we can do.’
‘What if you can never accept it?’
‘Life goes on. It’s our choice whether we go with it.’
‘And if we can’t?’
‘Mike –’
My phone buzzes on the table. I glance at the screen. A number I don’t recognize. I frown. Only a few people have my number, and they’re all saved in my contacts. I don’t get calls from strange numbers.
Mike nods at the phone. ‘Do you want to get that?’
My hand hovers. And then I snatch the phone up and press accept.
‘Hello?’
Breathing on the other end of the line. I tense.
‘Mum?’
‘Flo? What’s going on. Whose phone is this?’
‘Wrigley’s.’
I try not to bristle at hearing his name. But there’s his name. Again.
‘Why are you calling from Wrigley’s phone?’
‘Long story. Look, Mum, can you come back?’
‘Why? What’s happened? Are you okay?’
‘Yes. I’m fine – well, I’ve hurt my leg a bit. But don’t worry. There’s something you need to see. In the chapel.’
Questions tumble on my tongue. How did she hurt her leg? Why is Wrigley there? What were they doing in the chapel so late at night? But I try to keep my tone calm and reasonable.
‘I’m on my way.’
I put the phone into my pocket. Mike looks at me quizzically.
‘Trouble?’
‘My daughter. I need to get home.’
‘I’ll give you a lift.’
‘Thank you.’
I stand, and realize that my legs are shaking. I grip the edge of the table. Just for a moment, when that strange number came up, I had a terrible premonition that it might be him. That, somehow, he had found me. Just like he did before.
The man who murdered my husband.
My brother. Jacob.
THIRTY-FIVE
He lays his head down on the straw. Stars glint through the mosaic of holes in the rusted iron roof. The barn is cold, dirty and smells of cow shit. He’s slept in worse places. And she is close; so close he can almost feel her.
It makes his predicament even more frustrating. His ankle throbs hotly. Sprained, not broken, he thinks. But still, a problem. His collar is dirty, and his suit torn. Another problem. And he has no money. She might be close, but she might as well be a million miles away. He feels the anger growing. He has come so far. Planned so well.
His train had arrived on time at St Pancras. He had disembarked, into a throng of bustling bodies. He’d thought Nottingham was busy. Here, it was all he could do not to climb straight back on board and huddle in his seat.
Prison was full of people, but most hours were spent in your cell. Even in the mess hall and recreation area, the flow of bodies was ordered. Physical contact was limited. Indeed, accidental contact could result in a broken nose or worse.
The station was chaos. So many people rushing forward. Suitcases rumbling along the platform. Voices echoing off the high, arched roof. The squeal of train brakes, the robotic echo of the tannoy announcements.
He gritted his teeth and forced himself to walk slowly and calmly through the crowd, towards the ticket barriers. Here, he was momentarily confused. The barriers had been open at Nottingham. What was he supposed to do?
‘Do you need some help, sir?’
He jumped. A small, dark-haired woman in a station uniform stared at him.
‘Err, yes, sorry. I don’t travel very often.’
‘Ticket?’ she asked kindly.
He fished out his ticket and handed it to her. She glanced at it and then opened the barrier. ‘There you go, Reverend.’
‘Thank you. God bless.’
He joined the throng of people heading down the escalator. A sign told him to stand to the right. He obeyed the instructions. Obeying instructions was something he was good at.
The people at the ticket office were helpful. Of course. A uniform – any uniform – gained you respect. The dog collar carried authority. Was that why his sister liked it? Or was it the anonymity? You weren’t really a person in a dog collar. You were a priest.
He wondered idly if they had found the dead priest yet.
It was late afternoon by the time he boarded the train to Sussex. A much smaller train, half empty. He sat back, staring out of the window, as it rattled out of the tightly packed conurbations of London, through the sprawling suburbs and then out into the open countryside. He felt a stab, a strange yearning. It was so long since he had seen fields, livestock, clear skies.
An hour and a half later the train pulled into Beechgate station. Little more than a shed and a narrow platform with one solitary bench. He was the only one to disembark. Sheep grazed in the field next to the tracks. If the bustle of London had been disorientating, this much space, this much quiet, was overwhelming in its own way. He looked around, breathing in the air, staring up at the sky. So much sky.
A white wooden sign outside the station informed him that it was ten miles to Chapel Croft. There was no bus stop and he only had about fifty pence left in cash anyway. He straightened his collar and started to walk.
The road was narrow and twisty. There wasn’t a proper pavement, so he walked on the tarmac and hopped on to the verge whenever he heard a car approaching. Fortunately, this wasn’t very often. The road was virtually deserted.
An hour into his journey, the sky had started to darken. He didn’t have a watch – he had never felt a need for one in prison – but he had become good at guessing the time. He thought it was probably about eight o’clock. He picked up his speed a little. He didn’t want to be out on the road in the dark.