Derek smiles at Joan. ‘Grady might have given the ring away, or had it stolen –’
She gives a derisive snort. I suppress a smile. Sometimes, I long to be old enough to be unapologetically rude.
He concedes, ‘It’s highly probable that the remains are those of Benjamin Grady. But, until the forensic team have had a chance to properly analyse the bones and clothing, we can’t say for sure.’
I glance out of the window. A uniformed police officer guards the entrance to the chapel, and another stands on the pavement, near the gate to the graveyard. A police cordon has been erected at the roadside. Earlier, I watched the forensic team march into the chapel, along with a photographer carrying portable lighting. I imagine them placing markers, snapping photos, gathering evidence. I doubt the chapel has seen this much activity since the days of the martyrs. Flo stands outside in the graveyard, watching everything that’s going on and taking surreptitious pictures on her phone.
‘Grady disappeared thirty years ago,’ Joan continues. ‘May 1990. Just after two local girls, Merry and Joy, also disappeared. Are you aware of that?’
‘I know the case.’
‘Are you looking for other remains in the chapel?’
‘The other skeletons in the vault appear to be historical.’
‘Will the case be reopened?’ she presses.
‘Unless we have new evidence –’
‘You’ve got a dead priest in a church vault. How much more evidence do you need?’
This time, it’s my turn to snort: coffee, out of my nose.
Derek’s smile is more strained. ‘Right now, it’s unhelpful to speculate. However, we will need the names of everyone who has worked here or had access to the chapel over the last thirty years.’
‘The church records are in a filing cabinet in the office,’ I say. ‘But I’m not sure they go back that far.’
‘Reverend Marsh was the vicar here from the eighties until five years ago,’ Joan says. ‘He’s very ill with Huntington’s, but he may have kept some paperwork.’
‘Aaron, his son, is the warden,’ I add. ‘He could help.’ I pause. ‘And Reverend Rushton has been a vicar at the neighbouring church in Warblers Green for almost thirty years.’
Derek writes all of this down. ‘Thank you. We’ll speak to them both.’ He closes his notebook and turns to me. ‘This must have been a shock.’
‘You could say that.’
‘Quite a first week for you!’
‘It’s certainly been … eventful.’
‘Well, anything else you think of, this is my card.’
He hands it to me and I slip it in my pocket. ‘Thank you.’
I walk him out of the cottage and watch as he strides back over to the chapel. I glance around the graveyard. And then I curse. The officer at the roadside seems to have been waylaid by a couple of curious villagers. Meanwhile, a battered MG has pulled up behind the police cars and a familiar figure is standing on the pavement snapping photos on his phone.
I march down the path towards Mike Sudduth. He smiles and waves.
‘What are you doing here?’ I ask brusquely.
The smile fades. ‘Err, my job. A body hidden in a church vault? Big news for the local paper.’
‘Who told you about the body?’ I ask. ‘No, wait, let me guess – Kirsty?’
He has the good grace to look sheepish. ‘She may have mentioned it. Sorry – she didn’t realize it was a secret.’
‘Right.’
He regards me curiously. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘You mean – aside from all this?’ I gesture towards the police cordon.
‘Sorry. Stupid question.’
I sigh. I’m being unfair. He is just doing his job. But police, the press. It’s bringing back bad memories.
‘Look – it’s just a bit much to take in at the moment.’
‘I imagine. Do they have any idea who the body is yet?’
‘No.’
‘So it isn’t Benjamin Grady, the curate who disappeared thirty years ago?’
I stare at him. ‘No comment.’
‘Was he murdered?’
‘Is this an interview?’
‘No. Well –’
I fold my arms. ‘I really don’t know anything. So perhaps you should just take your pictures and go. Okay?’
His face closes. ‘Okay.’
I turn and stomp back up the pathway and into the cottage. I handled that badly. I don’t care right now. Joan looks up as I enter the kitchen: ‘Is everything all right?’
‘Yes, fine.’ I manage a smile. ‘Would you like another coffee?’
She shakes her head. ‘No, I should be going. You’ve got enough to be dealing with here.’
‘You don’t have to –’
‘If I’ve learned one thing in eighty-five years, it’s not to outstay my welcome.’
She rises slowly, then glances out of the window.
‘I was wrong about Grady,’ she mutters.
‘How?’
‘All these years, I thought he had something do with the girls’ disappearance. But if he’s dead, then that rather rules him out, doesn’t it?’
‘I suppose so.’
She turns, her face troubled. ‘But someone knew Grady was down there. Quite possibly someone within the church.’ She rests one bony hand on mine. ‘Be careful, Jack.’
‘What d’you think happened to him?’
Flo stares at me over her bowl of pasta. It’s just gone 7 p.m. The police and forensic teams finished their work at the chapel over an hour ago. Crime scene tape is still strung across the door and I’ve been told to keep it locked.
I spear a piece of broccoli with my fork. ‘Who?’
A slow eye roll. ‘The body. In the vault. Grady?’
I take a moment to answer. ‘Well, I think that’s for the police to work out.’
‘Aren’t you curious?’
‘Of course.’
‘Was he murdered?’
‘Well, he didn’t climb in there by himself.’
‘I mean, who murders a vicar –’ She suddenly catches herself and looks at me with shocked eyes. ‘Sorry, Mum. I didn’t mean –’
I manage a faint smile. ‘It’s okay. And, in answer to your question, people kill for all kinds of reasons. Some we can comprehend. Some we can’t.’
A long pause. Flo pushes pasta around her bowl. ‘If someone does something bad, does it mean they’re always bad?’
‘Well, that’s the whole point Jesus makes about forgiveness.’
‘I’m not talking about Jesus or God. I’m asking what you think.’
I put my fork down. ‘I think that doing something bad is different from being bad. I think we all have the capability to do bad things, to do evil. It depends on the circumstances, how far we are pushed. But if you feel guilt, if you seek forgiveness and redemption, then that shows you’re not a bad person. We should all be given the opportunity to change. To make amends for our mistakes.’
‘Even the man who killed Dad?’
We’ve only talked about what happened to Jonathon once before, when she was seven. A friend’s mother had recently died from cancer. Flo wanted to know if her dad had been ill and died too. Tempting as it had been to lie and say yes, I had answered her questions as best I could, and that seemed to be the end of it. Flo was so young when Jonathon died she doesn’t really remember him and I suppose that has distanced her from his death. But I admit, I sometimes wondered – and yes, dreaded – the day when she might start asking more questions.