The Four Last Things Page 27

  ‘Look what I’ve done.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘But the owner –’

  ‘I’m the owner. You can drive into it as much as you like. It’s only a car.’

  Oliver led her towards the house. He took her into the kitchen and put the kettle on. Sally put down her handbag on the table. She picked up a tea towel and began to dry the mug on the draining board.

  ‘There’s no need,’ Oliver said after a while.

  ‘No need of what?’

  ‘No need to dry that. It’s been draining there since last night, and even if it were wet, you would have dried it four times over by now.’

  Sally stared at the mug and the towel in her hands. ‘I don’t know what I’m doing.’

  ‘That’s not surprising. Why don’t you sit down?’

  She watched Oliver making tea. He poured two mugs and added three spoonfuls of sugar to hers. He gestured towards the kitchen table.

  ‘We’ll sit there.’

  She sank into a chair, grateful to have the decision taken away from her. ‘We must do something about your car. Shouldn’t I ring the insurers? Or report it to the police?’

  ‘I told you: forget the car. Do you want to tell me what’s happened?’

  In the midst of everything, she noted his technique: asking questions rather than advancing propositions or making statements. In that respect, policemen were like priests and psychologists. She told him what Maxham had shown them in Paradise Gardens. Gradually, his questions prised out the rest: the meeting with Howell, David Byfield’s theory and the arrival of Sergeant Carlow.

  ‘So what does it add up to?’ Oliver said at last. ‘If I was Maxham, I’d be thinking that the blonde hair probably belongs to one of the victims. As for the rest, it’s largely speculative, isn’t it? But I suppose it supports the theory that there’s a religious crank behind this.’

  Sally wrapped her cold hands around the warm mug. ‘It does more than that. We’ve got two patterns now. One’s obvious – the geographical concentration in north-west London. The other’s religious, not just vaguely anti-religion but specifically tied to the Four Last Things.’

  Where hell is, there is Lucy.

  Oliver went out of the room. A moment later he came back with a London street atlas. He turned to the index.

  ‘Michael’s already looked,’ Sally said. ‘There’s a Hellings Street, but that’s in Wapping.’

  ‘Way out of your geographical frame.’ Oliver’s finger ran down the printed column. ‘But that’s the closest match to hell.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be that simple. The connection will probably be oblique, like using that church in Beauclerk Place to represent Judgement.’ Sally looked across the table at Oliver. ‘Michael’s trying to make Maxham take it seriously.’

  ‘You must admit, there’s not much to go on.’

  ‘What else have we got?’ With sudden violence, she pushed aside the mug. Tea slopped on to the table. Neither of them moved. ‘Time’s running out. Can’t you see the schedule? Friday, Lucy was taken. Saturday, the hand was found in Kilburn Cemetery. Sunday was St Michael’s, today was Paradise Gardens. So tomorrow –’

  ‘Why?’ Oliver interrupted. ‘What’s the purpose of it all? Have you thought of that?’

  There was a silence. Then Sally said, ‘Revenge, of course. Against the Church, authority, parents – who knows? But I think there’s something else as well.’ She shook her head, trying to clear it. ‘The Four Last Things – in theological terms they’re meant to represent what will happen to us all: death, then whatever lies beyond. And if there are four victims, each representing one of the stages, one part of the possible destinations of an individual soul…’ She looked at Oliver, trying to gauge his reaction.

  ‘Someone who wanted to be a priest but was turned down?’ he suggested. ‘This could be a way of –’

  ‘No, I don’t mean that, though you may be right.’ Sally sat up. ‘It’s as if the killer wants to die by proxy. His victims are dying for him.’

  ‘But what would be the point of that?’

  ‘To cheat death and be reborn? To have a second chance? To escape from a private hell?’

  His face had turned in on itself, like a house with curtained windows. ‘You may be right.’

  ‘I’m not sure. I’m not sure of anything.’ Sally shot another glance at him. ‘Anything at all.’

  Except that where hell is, there is Lucy.

  Oliver sipped tea and said nothing.

  In the silence high above her she felt rather than heard the sound of wings. It was vital not to stop talking to Oliver, and yet so tempting to surrender, to let the wings overwhelm her.

  ‘Pain is very dreary, you know,’ she said hurriedly. ‘I never realized that before. It’s like a desert. Nothing grows there.’ She hesitated. ‘You don’t go to church, do you?’

  ‘Not now. My mum and dad were chapel people. When I was sixteen, I decided all that wasn’t for me. Not just the chapel. The whole lot.’

  ‘Lucky you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It sounds so simple. So comfortable.’ She saw the disbelief in his face. ‘A lot of people think religion’s a prop. It isn’t. If you believe in God, it’s as if you’re facing a constant challenge. He’s always wanting you to do things. You can never relax and get on with your own life.’

  ‘And you still believe in him? Now?’

  ‘Oh yes. After a fashion. Not that it helps. Not in the slightest.’

  Oliver raised the teapot and held it out towards her. Sally shook her head.

  ‘I have dreams, too,’ she heard herself saying. ‘Waking dreams, sometimes. I wish I didn’t.’

  ‘That’s a common side-effect of stress,’ Oliver said briskly, topping up his own mug. ‘We know there’s a relationship between stress and suggestibility. That’s been clear since Pavlov. And there’s also a link between stress and the seeing of visions. If you apply the appropriate stimuli to the appropriate bits of the brain, you get hallucinations.’

  ‘And waking dreams?’

  ‘OK, and waking dreams.’ He shrugged, telling her without words that he personally did not see any distinction between a hallucination and a waking dream. ‘Stress is just another stimulus. It can cause the sort of electrical activity in the temporal lobe that makes you see things. It’s as simple as that. There’s nothing mysterious about it.’

  ‘Isn’t there?’

  He was instantly apologetic. ‘It’s a bit of a hobbyhorse, I’m afraid. Don’t take any notice. I’m reacting against all those sermons I had to listen to when I was a child.’

  ‘This is a watershed,’ Sally said. ‘Whatever happens, however it ends, this is a watershed. In Paradise Gardens, Michael said that nothing would ever be the same again, and he’s right. There will always be a gap between before and afterwards. It’s made a break in the pattern.’

  Oliver nodded as if he understood, which of course he couldn’t. But it was nice of him to go through the motions. She wasn’t sure why she found him so comfortable to be with, to talk to. If she talked like this to Michael, either he wouldn’t listen or, if he did, he would engage passionately with what she was saying, agreeing or disagreeing.

  He glanced up at the window. ‘Why don’t we drive down to Hampstead Heath and have a walk, and then have a pub lunch?’

  ‘Now? I couldn’t.’

  ‘Why not? It will do you a lot more good than moping around here.’

  ‘But what happens if –?’

  ‘I’ll let Maxham know where we are, and I’ll take my phone.’

  ‘I don’t know. I –’

  ‘Come on, the exercise will do you good. It’s a lovely day.’

  She lifted her head and stared out of the window. ‘It’s not.’

  ‘It’s better than yesterday. It’s not raining and the wind’s dropped.’

  ‘I don’t call it lovely.’

  He smiled, and for an instant the plainness of his face dissolved.
‘All right. But I still think we should go out.’

  She shrugged, suddenly tiring of the discussion; it was easier to give in, and safer to be with Oliver than by herself. It took her much longer than usual to get ready. Everything distracted her – not the fact of Lucy’s loss but little, unnecessary things. Twice she counted the money in her purse, but she still could not remember how much she had. She hesitated over which of two jerseys to wear, her mind swinging restlessly between them, before realizing that it didn’t matter because her coat would cover the jersey, and in any case, she wasn’t trying to impress anyone.

  At last she declared herself ready, not because she felt that she was but because she did not want to keep Oliver waiting any longer. He untangled the cars and they drove down to the Heath in the Citroen. They parked in Millfield Lane and walked south from Highgate Ponds towards Parliament Hill.

  There were a few other people scurrying along the paths; the weather wasn’t warm enough for sauntering. She eyed them warily as they passed, ready for hostility, ready to assume that they belonged to a different order of humanity from hers. In a world where they stole children, anything was possible.

  She walked close to Oliver, partly because she was scared in this green wasteland and partly because she was terrified that they would not hear his mobile phone if and when it began to ring. At first they did not talk. Then Oliver said something which she had to ask him to repeat.

  ‘I had a letter from Sharon this morning. She’s met someone else.’

  ‘Do you mind?’ Sally heard herself saying.

  ‘I feel relieved. I think we both felt guilty when we separated: guilty because the marriage hadn’t worked. If she finds someone else, it means the marriage wasn’t one of those permanent mistakes that can’t be put right.’

  Like the death of a child.

  ‘So as soon as you find someone else, it will all be sorted out.’

  ‘That’s the theory. There’s a lot to be said for being able to start again, for second chances. But I suppose you wouldn’t condone that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Isn’t marriage meant to be for eternity?’

  ‘Yes. But you know very well that even committed Christians get divorced.’

  ‘Even clergy?’

  The question took her aback. For an instant, Oliver’s meaning – or rather a possible implication of what he was saying – penetrated the fog of unhappiness and fear in Sally’s mind. ‘These days even Anglican clergy get divorced. Their bishop may not like it, but it happens.’

  She glanced up at his face, and on the whole liked what she saw. He smiled down at her. It seemed bizarre and inappropriate that they should be having this conversation, that she should be thinking these thoughts at this time. Your will be done. It was too easy to drown in the mess of your own life. You had to cling to commitments, like spars, and hope they would keep you afloat.

  ‘Sally,’ Oliver said. ‘Have you ever –?’

  ‘Do you mind if we go back to Inkerman Street now?’ she interrupted.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  The fear flooded back. Oliver loomed over her, his face wooden, the features suddenly seeming exaggerated to the point of horror, like a gargoyle’s; she remembered thinking in that horrible little church in Beauclerk Place that David Byfield now looked like a gargoyle. David must have been a sexy man when he was younger. All her defences were down, she realized; she was vulnerable.

  She shivered. ‘We must get back. I think something’s happened.’

  12

  ‘I believe many are saved, who to man seem reprobated … There will appear at the Last day strange and unexpected examples both of his Justice and his Mercy; and therefore to define either, is folly in man, and insolency even in the Devils.’

  Religio Medici, I, 57

  No time. No time to lose. No time to wonder about consequences.

  Leaving Lucy asleep, Eddie ran upstairs to his bedroom and pulled open the wardrobe door. In the bottom was a brown canvas bag strengthened with imitation leather and fitted with a zip and lock plated to look like brass. It had belonged to Eddie’s father; every year Stanley would take it away with him on the Paladin camping holidays.

  Eddie pulled out the bag, which had been squashed almost flat under several pairs of shoes. He unzipped it and glanced wildly round the room. He pulled a shirt from the wardrobe and stuffed it into the bag. Socks and pants followed. He opened the drawer where he kept his papers and riffled through the contents. He couldn’t find his cheque book so he pulled out the entire drawer and upended it on his bed. His cheque book and wallet joined the clothes in the bag. As an afterthought, he also threw in his birth certificate and his building society passbook. He returned to the wardrobe and rummaged around until he found the thickest jersey he owned. All the time he listened for the sound of the van pulling up outside.

  On impulse, he took down the picture of the dark-haired girl from the wall, the picture his father had given his mother. He would have liked to have taken it but he knew it wouldn’t be practical. He tossed it on to the pillow. His aim was bad; the picture slipped off the end of the bed and fell to the floor; there was a sharp crack as the glass shattered in the frame.

  Eddie carried the bag into the bathroom and collected toothpaste, toothbrush and shaving things. His legs were so wobbly that he had to sit down on the side of the bath. It was so unfair that all this should have come together – that he should have to cope with this while he was ill. He would need a towel. His own was wet so he took Angel’s, which smelled faintly of her perfume. The smell made him feel nauseous, so in the end he fetched a clean towel from the airing cupboard.

  He went slowly downstairs and into the kitchen, where he opened cupboards at random. He might need food and drink. He added biscuits, two cans of Coke and a tin of baked beans to the contents of the bag. He checked his wallet and purse and, to his horror, discovered that he had only a few pence. He emptied out the jar of housekeeping money into the palm of his hand. There was less than five pounds, all in small change. He pushed the loose coins into the pocket of his jeans. He would need more than that, he was sure. He couldn’t rely on being able to get to a bank or a building society.

  He remembered Carla’s green purse. It was in the basement, along with the Woolworth’s bag containing the conjuring set he had bought for Lucy on Saturday and had still not given to her.

  Eddie went into the hall and pulled on his coat. He stood hesitating by the open door to the basement. He had not wanted to go down there. He peered in. Lucy was still asleep. Both the conjuring set and the purse were on the top shelf of Angel’s bookcase, far above Lucy’s reach. Eddie tiptoed down the stairs. He reached the bottom safely and, still carrying the brown bag, crossed the room to the shelves. He had to stand on tiptoe to reach the top one.

  ‘Eddie.’

  In his surprise he dropped both the purse and the conjuring set. ‘What?’

  ‘Is it getting-up time?’

  ‘Well,’ said Eddie, answering a question of his own, ‘I don’t know.’ He bent down, picked up the purse and glanced inside the wallet section. There were at least three ten-pound notes.

  Lucy wriggled out of bed and stared at the purse. ‘That’s Carla’s.’

  ‘Yes.’ Eddie scooped up the conjuring set. He slipped it and the purse into the brown bag.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  Eddie stared at her. She looked enchanting in those pyjamas with the red stars on the deep yellow background; except that now the red stars made him think of splashes of blood. Everything was spoiled.

  ‘I have to go out for a bit.’

  ‘Stay with me,’ she wheedled.

  Eddie smiled at her. ‘I wish I could.’

  ‘I don’t want Angel. I like you.’

  ‘Angel’s not here,’ Eddie said, and then realized that this might be a mistake. ‘She’ll be back in a moment. She’s just popped out.’

  ‘Don’t leave me.’ Her face crumpled. ‘Want Mummy. Take
me to Mummy and Daddy.’

  Eddie’s legs gave way and he sank down on the bed. Lucy put her hand on his leg. He felt her warmth through the material of his jeans. None of the other little visitors had been so trusting.

  ‘Nice Eddie,’ she murmured encouragingly.

  He found that he was staring at the door to the room of the freezer and the microwave. If he left Lucy here, she wouldn’t be warm for much longer. In a very short time she would probably be as cold as ice. He couldn’t leave Lucy to Angel. Yet he could hardly take her back to her parents’ flat in Hercules Road or drop her in at the nearest police station. ‘Hello, my name’s Eddie Grace and this is a little girl called Lucy I kidnapped four days ago.’ There must be a way round the problem. But his head hurt too much for him to find it immediately. He and Lucy needed time. They needed a place where they could go and where they would be safe from Angel, safe from the police, safe from Lucy’s parents, safe from the whole world.

  ‘Don’t like Angel,’ Lucy confided. ‘I like you.’

  Automatically he patted her hand. ‘And I like you.’

  Angel might come back at any moment. There was no time to waste. Lucy, the little coquette, was peeping up at him through her eyelashes in a way that reminded him of Alison all those years ago in Carver’s.

  Alison in Carver’s. That was it: that was the answer, at least for the short term.

  ‘We’ve got to get you dressed quickly if we’re going out.’ Eddie opened the chest of drawers and began to pull out clothes at random: jeans, socks, pants, vests, jerseys. All of them were new, all of them bought over the last few months by himself and Angel. ‘Quick, quick. It will be cold outside so leave your pyjamas on.’

  Lucy’s surprise at this unorthodox way of getting dressed lasted only a few seconds. Then she decided to treat it as an exciting new game. The only problem was that there were no shoes. Eddie could not find the red leather boots which Lucy had been wearing when she came home with him. He had rather liked those boots. Then he remembered that in the cupboard in the basement there was a pair of lace-up shoes which had belonged to Suki. He got them out and tried them on Lucy. Lucy squealed excitedly at the idea of new shoes, partly because these were blue and decorated with green crocodiles. They were two or three sizes too large for her but she appeared not to mind. Eddie made up the difference with extra pairs of socks which would help to keep her warm.