Fabric of Sin (34 page)

On the back seat, the wolfhound whimpered. He’d been kicked, Mrs Morningwood said. Trapped in the door and then kicked. They’d examined him between them. No bleeding, nothing broken.

Merrily said, ‘I don’t understand you, that’s all. There’s something about you I don’t understand.’

‘And have no need to,’ Mrs Morningwood said.

Before the shower, before the scrubbing and the burning, she’d said, ‘If you report this I shall deny it.’

‘Oh sure.’ Merrily starting to lose it too, by then. ‘That’ll work. People just won’t look at you. They’re tactful like that, especially in the country. Pride themselves on minding their own business. Are you
crazy
?’

‘I shall simply go out and run the Jeep off the road and leave it sticking
out of the hedge with my blood on the seat and the steering wheel. No-one will dispute it, and they won’t get close enough to be able to.’

‘Insane.’

‘I’ve done it before. Crashed the car, that is. Police find out, they’ll just think I was drunk. Police always like to think you were drunk.’

‘Why? Why are you doing this?

‘You have no need to know.’

‘I have an increasingly urgent need to know. In fact, seems to me that the only reason you could have for covering this up is because you recognized the man who attacked you and you don’t want him arrested, because … I don’t know. But
you
do.’

Rape, violence, it was usually the husband or partner. All those times when the police knew about it, urged the conspicuously injured party to give evidence, and the victim refused. It seemed unlikely that Mrs Morningwood had ever before been a victim.

She said, ‘You’re wrong. I do not know who it was.’

‘But you don’t think it was just a random thing, either, do you? Have you been followed? Stalked? Seen anybody hanging around the house?’

‘No.’

‘What are you not telling me?’

No reply.

‘What if I tell the police what I found?’

‘You wouldn’t do that. You’re implicated now. Cleaned up his mess.’

‘What if he does it to somebody else?’

‘He won’t.’

‘This man you don’t know. What if he comes back?’

Silence.

‘Either you tell me exactly what happened,’ Merrily had said, ‘or I ring my friend in the police, who knows me well enough by now to—’

‘All right. But you’ll be the first and last to hear this.’

Muriel Morningwood got up at first light, as usual, letting Roscoe and then the chickens out into the mist.

Her attacker had simply followed her back into the house, trapping the dog with the door, kicking him back out, slamming the door.

He wore camouflage clothing, no skin exposed, and what had been most frightening about him was not the hood with the eyeholes, but the flesh-coloured surgical gloves, one of them coming at her face as she turned and then there was an explosion in her left eye and she’d been thrown into the living room, punched repeatedly in the mouth, stomach, mouth again. Slammed to the floor, her scalp raked on a corner of the piano stool, hair filling up with blood, as he knelt astride her and put on the condom.

She was a strong woman, very fit. Self-sufficient. Prided herself on it, always thought she’d be able to defend herself. What you never accounted for was the effect of shock – the way the body, untrained, was shocked into a kind of inner collapse by sustained, unrelenting, extreme violence.

The sound of the car had stopped it. He’d lifted himself, listening and she’d managed to scream. He’d been kneeling over her, holding her down with both hands and when she opened her mouth, he’d slammed a hand across it, freeing one of her arms, and she’d punched him as hard as she could in the balls, and he’d uncoiled in agony, clutching himself with both hands, and she’d squirmed away, blinded by the blood, just as the footsteps had sounded on the path.

She’d thought he looked at her once, through his eyeholes, and then he wasn’t there, only the smell of his sweat, his fluids, her own blood.

It had been obvious to Merrily that if she hadn’t shown up when she did, Mrs Morningwood would, by now, have been waiting for Dr Grace, the pathologist. And something else was also clear.

‘You can’t stay here.’

‘Where would I go?’

‘I live in a big house.’

‘Oh, no.’

‘There’s no alternative, Mrs Morningwood.’

‘There’ll be other people.’

‘Only Jane. And, at the moment, a woman priest who’s standing in. I’ll need to tell her to go. Is there anyone who can look after things here?’

There was a couple, graphic artists from the village, reflexology patients who’d helped out once before when Mrs Morningwood had
had to go away. She’d got Merrily to phone them, explain that she had to travel to see a patient urgently, in Devon. No problem, they’d come and look after the chickens and anything else, morning and night, until further notice.

When Mrs Morningwood had brought down an old brown case, Merrily had one last try.

‘I know a good copper. A decent guy.’

Mrs Morningwood had held out her cigarette to Merrily’s lighter, both hands trembling.

‘Wasting your breath, darling.’

‘He was on foot,’ Merrily said. ‘Where could he have been going when I saw him?’

‘Anywhere.’ Watery blood soaking into the wobbling cigarette from lips failing to grip. ‘Over the hill and far away.’

O
N THE WAY
here, Lol had glimpsed a signpost and braked. At the next junction, he’d turned round and gone back. Sat in the cab of the truck, gazing at the three words on the sign. A name with only one meaning. A place of sorrowful pilgrimage.

He hadn’t realized that he was going to be so close. No time now, but there would be no excuse on the way back. He’d turned round again and driven on into the Warwickshire countryside, and now the Animal was in an off-road parking area a short way from the castle lodge.

A burger van was opening up at the far end. The big man in the long tan leather coat evidently knew the burger guy because he walked past him without a glance, directly to Lol’s truck, and Lol lowered his window.

Five times he’d attempted to call Merrily on her mobile. It was always switched off. He’d left two messages, the first one explaining he had a chance to talk to Lord Stourport and how far did she want him to go? The second one saying that if she didn’t call back within twenty minutes he was going to be late.

‘Yow got business here, pal?’ the man in the leather coat said.

Lol told him he had an appointment with Lord Stourport in – he looked at the dashboard clock – twelve minutes?

The man, who had gelled hair and chewed gum, asked for his name and Lol told him, and the man nodded and went back to the lodge. Lol sat back and waited and kept seeing the signpost in his mind’s eye.

He’d never been there. He’d spoken to dozens of people who
had
been, some travelling hundreds of miles. But, all these years, he’d avoided it. What good would it do now?

When his phone rang, he didn’t even look at the caller’s number.

‘Merrily.’

‘Uh, no. Lol, its me … it’s Eirion, it is.’

‘Oh,’ Lol said. ‘Hello, Eirion.’

‘I’m sorry to bother you, but I figured you’d probably be gigging at night. Saw a piece on you. In
Mojo
? They’d reviewed your gig in Oxford, did you know?’

‘No, I didn’t. Eirion, look—’

‘It was pretty good.’ Eirion’s South Wales accent kicking in, usually a sign of nerves. ‘It was this guy who’d seen you in Hazey Jane when he was young. He said Hazey Jane were never quite as good as they might have been. Or as good as they would be now if they’d had the quality of material you’re producing at the moment. Something like that.’

‘Well, that’s …’

‘Pretty positive.’

‘… Not really the reason for your call, is it?’

‘Er, no,’ Eirion said. ‘No, it isn’t.’

This would have to be about Jane who, according to Merrily, had not heard from Eirion for a couple of weeks and was thinking she’d been dumped. And he’d love to find out something that might help, but this really wasn’t a good time.

‘Eirion, could I call you back? I’m expecting—’

‘Lol,
please
… could you give me just two minutes?
One
minute.’

‘Well … yeah, OK. As long as it—’

‘Only I rang the vicarage, see, I was going to ask Mrs Watkins, but this other woman answered. Is there something wrong, Lol? Have they – you know –
gone
?’

‘Where?’

‘Gone. Left.’

‘Good God, no.’

‘Then why isn’t she returning my calls, Lol?’

‘Jane isn’t returning your calls?’

‘See, I didn’t want to bother you with this, it’s not like she’s your daughter or anything, but I’m going crazy here, man.’

‘Well, you know … this is difficult, but the impression we were given
was that, now you’re at university … your lives had kind of taken different paths?’

‘I’m at Cardiff! It’s less than an hour and a quarter away. I come back every weekend. I mean, you know, I could’ve gone to Oxford.’

‘You
could
have?’

‘They’d accepted me. It was a bit borderline, but they said yes.’

‘You turned down Oxford so you could be nearer to Jane?’

‘My old man’s still fuming. Weeks before he’d even talk to me.’

‘I didn’t know,’ Lol said.

‘No, you wouldn’t.’

‘Does Jane know?’

‘I told her … I said they’d turned me down.’

‘Eirion!’

‘Don’t say anything, will you?’

‘I don’t— How many calls have you made?’

‘To Jane? Bloody dozens. Her phones’s always switched off, and I leave messages and she doesn’t call back.’

‘I didn’t know.’

‘She’s with someone else, right? It’s this bloody archaeologist, isn’t it?’

‘I … I don’t know.’

‘You know he’s married, don’t you?
And
he’s nearly thirty. I mean, he’s
married
. All right, Jane, she can be … you know … I mean, you know what she can be …’

‘Yeah.’

‘And yet … you know what I mean?’

‘Oh yes,’ Lol said.

‘Sorry, I shouldn’t be hanging this on you.’

‘I’ll talk to her, OK? I’ll find out something. Look, I’ll call you back … maybe tomorrow?’

The man in the leather coat was standing outside the lodge, beckoning, pointing to the gates. Telling Lol it was time.

The vicarage was immaculately tidy, and Siân had made a coal fire in the parlour and banked it up. This was thoughtful; Merrily rarely lit a fire before evening.

Upstairs, the guest room looked like Siân had never been there. It was at the rear of the house, overlooking the old Powell orchard. The sun had come out and ripe apples gleamed like baubles. Roscoe plodded around on the oak boards, and Merrily’s move to replace the duvet cover with a fresh one got a dismissive wave of the hand from Mrs Morningwood.

‘Don’t bother, it’ll only be stinking of this stuff by morning.’

Jars and bottles, some labelled, were set out on the pine dresser with a glass and a spoon. She’d accepted a cup of weak tea, declined food. Merrily sat on the edge of the bed.

‘At the risk of—’

‘
No
.’

‘I’m thinking, primarily, of the head injuries. The doctor here, he’s not exactly a fan of alternative remedies, but he could at least put your mind at rest.’

‘You mean
your
mind. It’s not necessary. I don’t have a skull fracture, and even if I
did
—’

‘He doesn’t need to know what happened to you.’

Knowing, as she said it, that she was wrong. Kent Asprey
would
need to know and, while Mrs Morningwood might get away with her story about the head injury, how many people emerged from car crashes with strangulation marks?

‘Sooner or later this is going to hit you, Muriel.’

‘Is that supposed to be a joke?’

‘No, I wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry. You get some rest, I’ll pace around for a couple of hours.’

When she turned at the door, Mrs Morningwood was standing by the window, a wounded smile on damaged lips. Or maybe not a smile at all, just the wound. It just
had
to be someone she knew.

‘And no, you won’t wake up to find police at the bedside,’ Merrily said.

‘Thank you.’

‘You need anything, just—’

‘I won’t. Equally, if you need to go out to attend to your parish affairs, go ahead.’

‘Right.’

Merrily went unhappily downstairs and through the kitchen to the scullery. Sat down and stared at the blotter on the desk, trying to be impressed by Mrs Morningwood’s resilience, but becoming only more mystified, not to say horrified by the bloody woman’s ability to contain the rage and the pain which ought to be taking her apart.

Merrily felt useless, ineffectual and – Jane had been right – some kind of doormat. She’d … for God’s sake, she’d just
cleaned up a crime scene
. This monster was out there, and she’d mopped up his mess, destroyed any usable traces of his DNA, and she …

… needed to pray and couldn’t.

Her palms were moist with sweat and she couldn’t summon the will even to put them together. A kind of barren coldness in her chest. A sense of desertion, as if something had vanished from her life.