He turned the page and spotted names he recognized: Renshaw several times, Knowles and Grimes more than once. There it was again, halfway down the third page. Charles Perkins, aged fifteen, buried on 7 September 1932. An innocent Christian soul. He looked at his watch again. Three minutes past eleven. Harry leaned back in his chair and glanced round the room. No damp running socks drying on the radiator; the draining board was clear of used tea-bags.
A sudden noise from the nave made him jump and almost overbalance. He lowered his chair until all four legs were firmly on the ground. No one could be in the main body of the church. The building had been locked when he’d arrived, he’d opened just one door, to the vestry, and that was less than three yards away. No one could have entered without him seeing them. And yet what he’d just heard had been too loud to be the random creaking of old wood. It has sounded like… like scraping metal. He stood up, crossed the room and opened the door into the nave.
The church was empty, of course, he hadn’t expected anything else. It just didn’t feel empty. He stepped backwards towards the vestry, his eyes roaming the chancel, looking for movement. He was listening hard. It was almost a relief to close the door. He might as well admit it, he just didn’t like this church. There was something about it that made him feel uneasy.
Scared, you mean. This church scares you.
He looked at his watch again. It was ten minutes past eleven and his visitor was indisputably late. Could he wait outside? Not without looking a complete prat, he couldn’t. He picked up his mobile. No messages.
He jumped again as a knock sounded on the vestry door.
Evi pulled up behind Harry’s car. Using her stick as a lever she pushed herself out of her own. It was a long walk to the vestry door and using her chair was the only really sensible option. Her stick would fold up and slot along the back, the briefcase would sit on her lap, she’d be able to push herself across those smooth old flagstones in a matter of seconds. Faster than many people could run. And Harry would see her in a wheelchair.
She locked the car and began the slow walk up the path. She walked for two minutes, keeping her eyes firmly on the ground, wary of uneven stones. When she stopped for a breather a shadow caught her eye. The sun was throwing the outline of the ruined abbey on to the grass in front of her. She could make out the tower and the three arches that ran up one side of the nave. She could see the arched gap where a stained-glass window had once shone. What was left of the window ledge was fifteen feet above the ground. Should someone really be sitting on it?
Using the stick for balance, she turned and looked at the ruin. What in the name of…
Life-sized figures, wearing real clothes but with heads fashioned from turnips, pumpkins, even straw, filled the ruined church. Evi counted quickly. There had to be twenty or more of the things. They sat in empty window frames, lay across the top of arches, leaned against pillars; one had even been tied by its waist to the tower. It dangled, high above the ground. Unable to resist, Evi took a step closer, then another, taking herself almost within the confines of the church. They were guys, exceptionally well made from what she could see. None of them slumped, lifeless and flattened, the way guys normally did. Their bodies were solid, their limbs in proportion. They appeared remarkably human; until you looked at their faces, on each of which was carved a wide, jagged grin.
Not really liking to turn her back on them, Evi glanced towards the Fletcher house. At least two of the upstairs windows would get a pretty good view of the newly decorated abbey. Tom Fletcher and his brother would have to look out on this when they went to bed.
Her left leg was telling her she’d been still for long enough. She put her stick forward and, glancing back every few seconds, continued up the path.
She was flushed. There was a frown line running vertically down her forehead that he hadn’t noticed before. Her hair was different too, sleek and dark, just reaching her shoulders and so shiny it looked wet.
‘You should have phoned from the car,’ he said. ‘I’d have come out to help.’
Evi’s lips stretched into a smile but the frown line was still there. ‘And yet I managed,’ she said.
‘So you did. Come in.’
He stepped back and allowed her into the vestry. She made her way across to the two chairs he’d positioned close to the radiator and clutched the arm of the nearest one. She lowered herself slowly and then folded the stick and put it by her side. She was wearing a scarlet woollen jacket with a plain black top and trousers, and she’d brought a soft, spicy scent into the vestry with her. And something of the autumn morning too, a smell of leaves, of wood smoke, a crispness. He was staring.
‘I can make coffee,’ he offered, turning his back and moving to the sink. ‘Or tea. There’s even some Hobnobs somewhere. Alice never visits without bringing a packet over.’
‘Coffee would be great, thank you. No sugar. Milk, if you have it.’ He’d forgotten how sweet and low her voice was when she wasn’t annoyed with him. He glanced back. How could eyes be that blue? They were so blue they were almost violet, like pansies at twilight. He was staring again.
He made coffee for them both, listening to rustling behind him as she opened her case and took out papers. Once she dropped a pen, but when he jumped round to pick it up, she’d already found it. The pink in her cheeks was fading. His own face felt far too hot.
He handed her a mug, took his own seat and waited.
Harry looked every inch the priest this morning: neat black clothes, white clerical collar, shiny black brogues. There was even a pair of reading glasses on the desk.
‘Thank you for seeing me,’ she began. He said nothing, just inclined his head at her.
She held out a sheet of paper. ‘I need to give you this,’ she said. ‘Alice and Gareth Fletcher have authorized me to speak to you. To discuss as much of their case with you as seems appropriate.’ Harry took the paper from her and looked at it. The glasses stayed on the desk. He was far too young to need reading glasses anyway. They must just be for effect. After a second or so he put it down and picked up his mug.
‘I’m also speaking to several teachers at Tom and Joe’s school,’ she continued. ‘To the headmaster of Tom’s old school. And to their GP. It’s normal practice when treating a child.’
She waited for Harry to respond. He didn’t. ‘Children are so affected by their environments that we have to know as much as we can about their surroundings,’ she went on. ‘About what impacts on their lives.’
‘I’ve become fond of the Fletchers,’ said Harry. ‘I hope you can help them.’
So different, this morning. So completely unlike the man she’d met.
‘I’ll certainly do my best,’ she said. ‘But it’s very early days. This is really just a fact-finding mission.’
Harry put his mug down on the desk behind him. ‘Anything I can do,’ he said, as he turned back.
So cold. A different man. Just wearing the same face. Still, she had a job to do.
‘Tom was referred to me by his GP two weeks ago,’ she said. ‘He was presenting with extreme anxiety, difficulties at school, trouble sleeping, aggressive behaviour – both at school and at home – and even the possibility of psychotic episodes. Taken together, these are all very troubling symptoms in a ten-year-old boy.’