‘It’s all right.’ In a brisk, unemotional voice she told him about the package in the porch of St Michael’s. ‘They’re keeping the details to themselves at present. And there was something else: there’s a pub round the corner, and the landlord thought he saw someone turning into Beauclerk Place just before midnight. Wearing a long coat – could have been a man or a woman.’
‘Is he trustworthy?’
‘How can you tell?’
‘You can’t. Or not easily. You get all sorts in an investigation like this: people so desperate to help that they invent things; people who want to feel important; even people who think it’s all a bit of a joke to waste police time.’ He smiled anxiously at her. ‘You must think me very insensitive. But in the long run it’s wise to be realistic, not pin your hopes on that sort of evidence.’
‘What hopes?’
He ignored the question. ‘There’s also the point that even if there was someone there, he might have had nothing to do with the case.’
‘Then who was it? Besides the church, I think there’s only offices in Beauclerk Place. No one should have been there on a Saturday night.’
‘As far as we know. People do work odd hours. Anyway, it could have been someone looking for somewhere to doss down. A drunk, a drug addict. One of the homeless, and God knows there are plenty of those. Or just someone who took a wrong turning.’
To her surprise and embarrassment, she found herself smiling. ‘You’re a great help.’
There was a glimmer of an answering smile. ‘The landlord’s vagueness is a good sign. It suggests he’s not making it up. And it was only last night, so he’s not likely to have got confused about the day. But where does that leave you? A man or a woman turning into Beauclerk Place.’
‘It has to be a man. A woman wouldn’t do that sort of thing, not to children.’
Oliver shook his head. ‘What about the Moors Murders? Myra Hindley was in it just as much as Ian Brady.’
The weight of the suffering, past and present, oppressed her. Sally stood up and walked to the window. She was aware that Oliver was watching from his armchair. She stared at the rows of parked cars and the blank windows of the houses opposite. No journalists here, not yet.
‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said all that.’
‘I wanted to hear.’ Sally turned back to the room. ‘How common is it?’
‘That women offer violence to children? It’s much more widespread than you might think. Some of it you can almost understand: it’s the product of circumstance.’
‘Mothers trapped with a small child in a bedsitter – that sort of thing?’
‘Exactly. Or under the influence of a man. But some of it isn’t like that. It’s willed.’
Willed. Someone had decided to take Lucy, decided to cut off the hand of another child, decided to chop off the legs of a third, decided to leave them where they would be found. How did you explain that? You couldn’t justify it, Sally thought, any more than you could pardon it.
‘Evil,’ she said quietly.
‘Evil? What do you mean?’ Oliver said sharply. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but that’s the trouble with clergy. Anything nasty they can’t understand – no problem, they just label it evil. The work of the devil. All part of the divine plan, eh? Ours is not to reason why.’
‘Maybe you’re right. Maybe we don’t try hard enough to understand. But right now I don’t want to try. I just want Lucy.’
‘Sally – I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to –’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
She sat down again and sipped her coffee. It was cold here, in this unloved room in an unloved house. For an instant she thought she heard the thrumming of wings. She caught herself glancing up at the ceiling, as if expecting to see a giant bird hovering above her head. I must not go mad. Lucy needs me. Oliver was still watching her. His concern irritated her.
‘You’re having a hell of a time at present,’ he told her in a low, sympathetic voice which brought her to the verge of screaming at him. ‘All this on top of Michael’s problems.’
‘Yes.’ Sally’s mind made an unexpected connection: Oliver’s phone call two weeks ago on that disastrous Saturday when Uncle David had come to lunch. She looked down, afraid her eyes would betray her. Suddenly cunning, she murmured, ‘Poor Michael.’
‘Don’t worry too much. Maybe they’ll drop the complaint.’
‘And if not?’
‘Hard to tell.’ This time he avoided her eyes. ‘Michael’s record is in his favour. And most people feel a lot of sympathy. We’re all tempted.’
‘But Michael didn’t resist.’ It was not quite a question: more an intelligent guess.
‘Obviously he acted on impulse and under great provocation.’ Oliver sounded like counsel for the defence. ‘It’s not as if he makes a habit of hitting people. And in the circumstances …’ His voice trailed into silence. Then: ‘I assumed he’d have told you.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Sally said. ‘I shouldn’t have tricked you. But will you tell me the rest? Who did he hit, and why?’
‘A man he’d just arrested.’
‘But why?’
‘Why the arrest? Handling stolen goods. Possession of a firearm. But that wasn’t why Michael hit him. This guy liked putting out cigarettes on a toddler’s arm. His own daughter. And he was acting as if it made him some kind of hero. A hard man doing what hard men do. So Michael punched him in the mouth: to shut him up, Michael said.’
Sally sat there, her head bowed, and tried to pray.
‘I’d have done the same.’ Oliver leaned forward in his chair. ‘It’s possible that the man was trying to provoke Michael into taking a swing at him. The lawyers on both sides are hoping for a deal. That was what the meeting on Friday morning was about.’
She remembered finding Michael in the flat at lunch time on Friday when he should have been at work; he had been drinking lager, which he never did on duty. Those and other signs had been there. She should have asked questions.
‘Don’t blame him,’ Oliver said. ‘He probably didn’t want to worry you.’
Sally shook her head. ‘It’s as much my fault as his.’ Now as then. It was abruptly clear to her that the kidnapping did not release her from other responsibilities.
‘It all seems irrelevant now,’ he went on.
She did not want to talk about it with Oliver. ‘Do you mind if I make a phone call? I ought to get in touch with my boss.’
Oliver took her to a room at the back of the house. The only furniture was a dark, ugly dining table and a set of matching chairs. On the table was a phone, a computer, files and books. She tapped in the number for St George’s. With luck, Derek and Margaret would still be in church. In her mind she composed a warmly impersonal message for the answering machine.
‘St George’s Vicarage. Derek Cutter speaking.’
‘Derek – it’s Sally.’
‘My dear, how are you? I tried ringing the flat before church, but –’
‘I – we had to go out.’
‘Any news?’
Sally hesitated. ‘Not really.’
‘We prayed for you today.’
Then it didn’t do much good. ‘Thank you. It’s