‘Because of the holes in the fence and the missing bollards.’ Like she had an itch, she repeated. ‘They said he was a trespasser.’
‘I suppose he was, then.’
‘Well, I don’t think so. And neither does Harold.’
A slow-moving HGV had snarled up the traffic. It crawled past, heaving a trailer with a huge shed on it, more like a fairy-tale doll’s house, painted red and white. There were two windows and a door in the middle. Someone’s moving home, joked Nancy to herself, her eyes smarting. The idea stung everywhere at once, as if she’d crunched a nest underfoot; wasps, angry and purposeful, swarmed around her.
Jennifer had said, ‘Where was the van fixed?’
‘On the spot.’
‘Who by?’
‘He does it himself … He keeps everything he needs in the back.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, it’s been breaking down a lot recently’
‘For how long?’
‘Six months.’
And he always does the work himself?’
‘Yes.’
At the side of the road?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you seen him do it?’
‘Once.’ She’d said it with a gusty success, as if she’d swatted a big one.
‘When?’
‘At home. About three months back.’
Jennifer had looked inside a wardrobe and checked the joints. ‘Does he always tell you when the van breaks down?’
‘Well, if he doesn’t tell me, there’s no way I’d find out, is there?’ These police. No wonder they didn’t catch anyone. ‘We’re man and wife, you know. That’s why we talk.’
‘Of course, Nancy … But there are people who say things … and your husband won’t help himself, you know that. That’s why I’ve come to you.’
‘Saying what sort of things?’
Babycham said, ‘We think it was deliberate.’
The doll’s house had gone, and Nancy hadn’t noticed. She hugged herself, gripping her elbows. ‘Deliberate? You mean the lad jumped in?’
‘No. I mean someone pushed him. Or let him fall. Got him out there. When it wasn’t safe.’
‘Why do that?’
‘I wonder.’
‘Who’d do a thing like that?’
‘There’s no knowing, is there?’ It was a real question. Nancy stepped back, away from the tickling hairs. ‘Then Mr Lawton should’ve fixed the fence.’
Babycham dug out the hankie and prodded the corners of her mouth. A matey tenderness from the yard made her voice suddenly hoary — like when they’d told Carmel Pilchard to get knotted, that she couldn’t join in — ‘You haven’t changed.’
‘Neither have you.’ For one brief, terrible moment they were both barelegged in knee-high socks, with bruises on their knees. Pilchard’s main had one eye and her dad was doing time. ‘Serves him right with a name like that,’ Babycham had said. Nancy had thought that a bit on the harsh side.
‘Best be off,’ said Babycham, checking her watch — it was small and gold with trinkets dangling off the strap: a horse, a pig and a penny ‘I’d stay but I’ve a plane to catch. Winter break.’
‘Very nice.’
‘Who’d’ve thought there’d be an airport between the King George and the Royal Albert. The place was dead.’
With a quite awful longing, Nancy wanted to go back to those days of heavy morning mists … when they’d first arrived at the docks, when she’d tramped up the iron stairs to the office with a view of the river. On some days, you wouldn’t be able to see it until lunchtime. As the sun burnt through the sodden cloud, the waves would appear, here and there, like silver chains. She wanted to wind back time some more, into the yard, by the toilets, when they’d changed their mind about Carmel. They’d felt sorry for her main. Exclusions weren’t so bad, then, although it had felt like it. She said, And who’d’ve thought you’d be cooking dinner for Mr Lawton.’
Babycham pressed a button on a key and a nice car winked. It was like magic.
Nancy said, ‘I’ll see you around, then.’
‘No. You won’t.’ She didn’t deal in returns, Babycham. And she always spoke her mind.
‘Ta-ra, then.’
‘Yes, ta-ra.’
When the bus pulled into the depot, Nancy changed numbers and followed another route, her face set against the window It was useless, but she kept looking for Mr Johnson, while her mind kept turning to Arnold. Her breath steamed up the glass. She gave it a rub with the sleeve of her coat … and out of nowhere, she remembered seeing her man at the top of their street at two in the morning Nancy knew it was him from his walk, and the way his arms swung like loose ropes.
9
As Nick drove through the pinks and thatch of Suffolk, he continued to brood upon the tall figure at the window of the Butterfly Room. Charles had been watching as Nick pulled away on yet another solitary jaunt in the Beetle.
Ironically since Nick had left Australia, a great distance had fallen between them. Nick had been making short expeditions: from Larkwood, to Mr Wyecliffe, to Dr Okoye, to Mrs Dixon and now, coming full circle, back to Larkwood again. And he had said nothing to his father — not since he’d concluded that the dear old buffer hadn’t the faintest idea what his wife had been up to. Driving through the monastery gates, Nick resolved to buy some red mullet and white Burgundy He would cook the meal that his father had planned on the day Elizabeth had died. And, when they were warm and tipsy he’d tell him all that had been happening while they’d both been far away on different continents.
Nick couldn’t take his eyes off his mother’s accomplice: a solemn man in a school blazer that was far too small for him. The white cuffs of an ample shirt stuck out from the sleeves. A blue-and-yellow-striped tie suggested membership of an exclusive cricket club. His eyes were dark, like rings in pale saucers.
Apart from Nick and Mr Bradshaw, seated round the table were Inspector Cartwright and three monks: the Prior of Larkwood, Father Anselm and Brother Cyril — a man whose pinned sleeve would have evoked Admiral Nelson, had it not been for his defining squareness. He seemed to have lost his neck, never mind an arm. They assembled in a cool room of thick white stone. Arched windows threw sunshine across the old flags like banners of yellow cloth.
‘It’s all very simple,’ said Brother Cyril, as if it were a complaint. ‘In a nutshell, it’s a scheme to sell information, but it’s hidden within a legitimate business. I became suspicious because if you look at the receipt numbers and the dates and the description, on one and the same day Mr Riley sometimes sells an object but then buys it back again. I’ll give you an example. Let’s take that ashtray Imagine it’s on Mr Riley’s stall. There’s a little sticker on it marked ‘£15’. But he sells it for £30. Then he buys it back again for £15. It’s a crazy way of accounting for the fact that he’s made £15 and the ashtray hasn’t left the table.’
‘But that isn’t what we’ve been told,’ said Inspector Cartwright. ‘Our understanding is that people arrive, give him money and then leave.’
‘Of course they do, because that’s exactly what happens: they buy some information.’ Brother Cyril scanned his audience. ‘The shenanigan with the receipts is done afterwards. It only occurs on paper. The ashtray doesn’t even move. But the receipts show that a different kind of sale has occurred. They prove that Riley pocketed £15.’
‘But why do you think he’s selling information?’ asked Father Anselm tentatively.
‘Because otherwise,’ snapped Brother Cyril, ‘someone’s giving him money for nowt.’
Nick was amazed. Neither of the other monks was in the least discomfited by the ill temper of their confrere.
‘And why go to such lengths?’ added the Prior. Each eyebrow was like a chewed toothbrush, and his glasses were lopsided, with a paperclip on one side for a screw He had received Nick with surprising warmth.
‘There’s only one explanation,’ said Brother Cyril, raising a thick index finger. ‘If he got rumbled, he could trace every transaction, just like I’ve done. He can account for every penny received. There’s no cash in hand. So he can show that when all’s said and done, he’s paid tax on the lot. In fact, he’s in breach of all manner of accounting rules because this is a completely separate business — and he wouldn’t pay any tax at all if he’d set it up properly And that brings me to the heart of this completely barmy system.’ He laid his arm flat on the table, fingers splayed. ‘On the one hand, he must think that what he’s doing is legal, because he could have sold his information over a pint of beer. Instead, he fills out all this paperwork to demonstrate what he’s doing. On the other hand’ — he shrugged the shoulder with the missing arm — ‘he’s obviously hiding something. And that suggests it’s an illegal activity.’