The calefactory door swung open with a bang. Anselm bristled — a common enough experience in monastic life, for sensibilities were always colliding, especially on the little things, like how to open a door — and there, standing like a slot machine, was Brother Cyril.
At last,’ said the cellarer. ‘I’ve been looking all over.’
‘I’m sorry.’ That was another aspect of existence in a habit. With some people you had to apologise when you’d done nothing wrong. Guessing Cyril’s mission, Anselm said, ‘I’ve put all unspent money — with receipts — in your pigeon-hole.’
‘I know,’ he snapped, ‘That’s not why I’m here.’
Anselm prepared himself for a harangue on the theology of internal audit. ‘Do continue, he said wearily.
‘I’ve worked out what this Riley man is up to.’ Cyril’s one arm swung proudly.
‘Already?’ asked Anselm, astonished.
‘Yes.’
‘You’d better tell Inspector Cartwright.’
‘I have done. She’s coming here tomorrow afternoon.’
Anselm stood up, distracted by all that must now be done. He would have to tell George; and, instinctively he knew that this was the moment to draw Nicholas more closely into his mother’s doings.
‘Shall I explain the trick now?’ asked Cyril impatiently.
‘No, I’ll wait, thanks.’
‘Pah!’
Anselm almost ran down the trail that led to a narrow bridge over the Lark. The sky was clean and shining like metal — as it was, no doubt, over Marble Arch or King’s Cross. Anselm sensed he’d be going back to those bustling streets, but for now he wanted to be alone, to enter the far wood and pray among the acorns and conkers.
8
‘Nancy is that you?’
It was Babycham. She hadn’t changed. Well, she had, because of the hair extensions and a fur coat. And her lashes were false. And ten years had made a difference. Those pink cheeks had fallen a bit and the powder looked like bruises; or maybe it was the cold.
‘It’s been ages …’ The fur ruffled magically leaving windy paths like those corn circles. It was the real thing. You could tell.
Nancy had just got off the bus. With worked-up hope, she’d gone east this time, into West Ham, hoping for a glimpse of Mr Johnson. She’d sat by the buzzer, her eyes latching on to every uncertain step among the flow of jackets and prams; she’d checked a bench by a newspaper kiosk and a heap outside Currys. He was blind. He couldn’t have gone that far. She’d stepped out to buy some Polos, when that voice had made her jump.
Nervously Babycham said, ‘Lovely hat.’
Riley had found it in a drawer at a clearance. It was yellow polyester with black spots.
‘How’s things?’ asked Nancy When they’d last met, she’d told her she was full of wind and bubbles.
‘Altogether nice,’ said Babycham. She turned to a newsagent’s, to the paints and pens and toys with stickers on. The glossy mags were on display — happy faces, baring their teeth. Woman’s World had a couple of answers. ‘Take Controclass="underline"
Tell Him What You Want in Bed’; and, in bigger letters, ‘How to Stop a Yorkshire Pudding Falling Flat.’
Nancy admitted, ‘I didn’t mean what I said.’
‘Course you didn’t.’
Nancy waited, but Babycham didn’t reciprocate. It was to be expected. She never dealt in returns or cast-offs. She’d always gone top drawer. Knew her mind. She’d told Nancy to run. They’d had a meeting.
Babycham looked hard into the window again. The glare from the shop made her cheeks redder. Forty-denier tights. All you had to do was tear a number off the bottom and ring up whomever it was. Only one had been taken.
Nancy said, ‘So what’s been up, then?’
Babycham pulled out a hankie. It had a blue ‘B’ on one corner and lace round the edge. ‘Well … I ended up with Harold … You know, the boss.’
‘Mr Lawton?’ Nancy’s surprise made it sound ridiculous.
‘Yes.’ She carefully touched the corner of one eye.
‘So it’s easy street for you then, Babs.’ Mr Lawton must have made a packet, what with the development of the docklands.
‘Well, he held on to his turf, so he could negotiate, sort of thing. That was the idea. And you?’
‘Antiques.’ Nancy felt a punch of self-hatred for the lie, for the lack of pride in what she did, for who she was.
‘Oh, very nice.’
‘Well, you know, second-hand. I’ve a small shop.’ Before Babycham could ask whereabouts, Nancy said, ‘I suppose you’ve got tons of kids?’
‘Three. And you?’
‘None.’
‘Sorry.’ She dabbed the other eye. ‘It’s arctic.’
Riley had said, ‘No children. No talk of it. It’s just the two of us.’ He’d spoken like it was a deal before they hit the sand. They’d make it out of this hell together. Confident and romantic, he’d ducked like John Wayne on Iwo Jima. Nancy had agreed, not knowing that Riley never changed, that he’d come out of the packaging ready made and complete, all the screws in place. There was nothing to add on, no expensive extras. Whereas she’d been incomplete, with gaps, so many gaps. She’d always wanted to be a mother, and the nearest she’d got was Arnold. Shame and a kind of hatred — again, of herself —twisted in her stomach, like when she’d been starving after a day on grapefruit, part of a diet that was meant to transform her shape in two weeks. It hadn’t worked.
Babycham said, ‘Harold didn’t sell up when he wanted, you know.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘He had to. After he got fined.’
‘What for?’
‘Health and safety.’ The hankie went up a sleeve. Her eyes were fine now, and her cheeks not so red. ‘Did you not hear? A lad drowned off E Section.’
‘No.’ Nancy shuddered as something fell inside her — like one of those metal shutters that could stop a car, never mind a smash and grab. Her voice failed.
Years back a woman had come to the shop and handled a mirror — checked her lower teeth and a spot on her chin. She’d been sociable and asked how business was going. Then she’d shocked her by using her name: ‘Nancy I’m not a customer. I’m a copper.
Feeling sick, she’d said, ‘What have I done?’
‘Nothing. Can we have a talk, just us two, going no further?’
‘Well, I suppose so.’
She’d tried to win her round, with talk of the poor mother, and that man Bradshaw, the father, who’d walked out of the court. Cartwright, that was her name. Jennifer. She’d made insinuations. It was like being trapped in Wyecliffe’s office all over again.
‘Where was he last Saturday?’
‘The car-boot fair at Barking.’
‘It rained.’
‘He went.’
‘What time did he get back?’
‘I was asleep.’ That hadn’t been true. But lying awake was her secret.
‘What time did you go to bed?’
‘Elevenish’
‘The fair would have wound up by six or seven?’
‘Yes, but his van broke down.’
‘Where?’
‘How would I know?’ These police and their daft questions.
Babycham said, A lad went through some of the planks. Harold had put up a notice, a fence, bollards, but they’d all been moved. Dumped in the river.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. He’d checked them on the Friday at seven o’clock, but they’d gone by Saturday night.’
Nancy said nothing. Babycham stepped closer. Fur tickled Nancy’s wrist.
‘And that was when the lad drowned, the Saturday They said he was a trespasser.’
‘And Mr Lawton got fined?’