He was in a constant state of dispute with the parish council because of the builders' supplies dumped in the front garden of his former council house, now his freehold property, behind the church. Anyone who could lay a hand on a Bible and say they would never have a rainwater leak or a slipped tile or the need for fast redecoration could call him a fraud, a bully, a botcher. There were not many. Small, powerful, his arms heavily tattooed, he was everybody's friend, and knew it and exploited it. What Vince believed in, above all else, was the quality of his humour. He had no doubt that his jokes made him a popular cornerstone in the village.
Meryl tittered nervously. The mortar was coming out of the brickwork on the chimney. It was just something to say.
"Surely you're not going up there?"
"Actually, I've come for my money."
"What money? Why?"
"What I'm owed."
"Frank paid you."
"He paid me two fifty down, but there was more materials I've got the bills." He was routing in his trouser pocket, dragging out small, crumpled sheets of paper.
"I'm owed nineteen pounds and forty-seven pence.~
"You said it was inclusive, for Stephen's bedroom, everything for two fifty."
"I got it wrong. You owe me."
"Then you'll get the extra when you come to do the chimney."
"If you're still here, if pigs fly, if-' "What does that mean?" He'd been in her kitchen. She made him four pots of tea each working day and gave him cake. She'd left him with the key when she'd gone out and he'd been working in the house. She'd trusted him.
"What on earth are you talking about?"
"If you haven't moonlighted going, aren't you? I'll be left, owed nineteen pounds and forty-seven pence, and you'll be gone. I've come for my money."
She choked.
"I can't believe this. Aren't you Frank's friend? We're not going anywhere."
"No? Well, you should be. You're not wanted."
She stuttered, "Go away."
"When I've got my money."
The detective moved without warning, stepping forward two, three paces. He caught at Vince's collar and had him up on to his toes. When the fist came up Davies caught it, as if he was handling a child. He twisted it hard against Vince's back, pivoted him round and marched him back down the path. She heard everything Davies said into Vince's ear.
"Listen, scumbag, don't come here to play the fucking bully. Go back to that godawful pub and tell them that these people aren't leaving. And don't ever bloody come back here."
With a jerk of his arm, the detective pushed Vince down on to his knees in the roadway, forced his face into the deepest and widest of the puddles and kept hold of him until he stopped struggling, lay still in submission. Davies released him, and stepped cleanly back to watch Vince crawl away.
She leaned against the wall beside the door. Davies came back in and closed it quietly behind him. She hadn't noticed it before but Frank's trousers were too short for him and his sweater was too tight. She put her hand on his arm.
"Thank you I don't suppose you should have done that."
"I don't suppose I should."
"Frank would have called him a friend he went up on the roof in a storm last winter."
Very gently he took her hand from the sleeve of the sweater. She didn't look into his face, didn't dare to. She looked down at his waist and the gun in the holster.
"What you have to understand, Mrs. Perry, it's all totally predictable. It's not peculiar to here, it would happen if you lived anywhere. It would be the same if you were in a suburb or a city street. It's what people do when they're frightened. Maybe you'll find someone out there who has the guts to stand in your corner, and maybe you won't. What you have to remember, they're ordinary people, people you'd find anywhere. You can't expect anything else from them."
The lavatory flushed upstairs.
"I'll get the ironing done. How long will it be till they come for Frank?"
"Thank you, the stuff's a bit tight on me.
He disappeared into the dining room. In the kitchen her Stephen was still doggedly writing in his exercise book even though he would have heard each word Vince had said to her. Outside, the night was coming and the curtains were tightly drawn against it. Vince had always been so good with Stephen, had made him laugh. Would they come that night for Frank, or the night after, or the night after that? She shook and tried to hold the iron steady.
In a vile temper, Fenton returned to Thames House from his lunch. It should have been lunch and shopping with his wife, if the wretched man had not cancelled lunch for Monday, and insisted his only opportunity was Saturday. Fenton had bartered with his wife: lunch with the academic and then shopping, with her having access to the full range of his plastic.
He came up to the third floor, was told there was nothing new of note, then went into his office to shed his coat and spill his micro tape-recorder on to the desk. The lunch had further confused him, and the expensive shopping had wounded him.
He had not used this source before, but the file said he was sound. The academic was white-haired and ginger-bearded, a professor of Islamic studies at a minor college at the university, had a face lined like a popular ski-run, from Sudan. The confusion, from the soft-voiced lecture, had fuelled Fenton's temper. He listened to the tape again.
"What distresses me is the hostility of the Western media and the Western "orientalists" towards the Islamic faith. They are servants of imperialism. They stigmatize, stereotype and categorize us, and any scholar of the Faith of Islam is labelled with the title of "fundamentalist". There's no denying it is a term used with hostility. If we judged Christianity by the excesses of the Inquisition, or if we took the Fascist elements in Zionism to reflect the faith of Judaism, you would be horrified. If we talked always about apartheid and Nazism as examples of Christian belief you would rightly criticize us but when a zealot hijacks an aircraft he is labelled an Islamic fundamentalist. If a lunatic shoots children in a school, do we call him a Christian fundamentalist? You live by a double standard. You follow slavishly the American need to have an enemy, and you plant that title, without the slightest reason, on the faithful of Islam."
They had been in the students' canteen, a dreary cavern of a building. They'd colleded salads and fruit juice from a self-service counter, not a bottle of wine in sight, and the academic had persistently questioned the woman at the till to be certain there was no alcohol in the vinegar that accompanied the salad.
"You distrust us in your midst, even those Muslims who are British citizens. Our colleges for converts in this country are monitored by the security forces why? Because we are different, because we live by other criteria? Is it that you fear believers and the standards to which they dedicate their lives? A Muslim will not steal from you, will not seduce your wife, will not go to prostitutes, and yet the strength of our decency is regarded as a threat so we are harassed by the political police. Everything you talk about involves this threat, but it is a figment of your imagination. We are not drunk in the street and looking for violence, we are not hooligans. Would a virtuous young woman, an Islamic convert, join in a criminal conspiracy of murder? The very idea is preposterous and shows the depths of your prejudice."
Fenton had listened and toyed unhappily with his lettuce leaves, probably left over from the previous week's catering. They had a table to themselves. He had attended the Royal Military Academy at Sandhurst, not university, and when his eyes wandered to the students sitting around them, he'd felt a sense of disgust.