The Chinese Takeout (25 page)

‘Mr Corbishley came to supper the other night,’ I said brightly, as I finished the last crisp. ‘One of a party. They didn’t half mess me about, changing their minds over this, that and the other. Poor Lorna could hardly keep up. At least they tipped her handsomely.’ I drained my drink and stood up.

Staring at a beer mat, he said something inaudible to my maturing ears.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘I said, please sit down again. I should have explained. Bishop Jonathan received a letter complaining I was neglecting my parish duties to jaunter round the countryside with you.’

‘From Corbishley? The bastard!’

‘I can’t tell you who from. All I can say is that Bishop Jonathan advised me to consider my position. My business is to serve the Lord, not the local police, he said.’

‘Nothing to do with Corinthians? Those chapters before the one you based your sermon on the other day? The ones with a lot of advice about celibacy?’

Startled rabbit didn’t come into it. His blush gave him away, but he ignored the point. ‘He told me – advised very strongly, which comes to the same thing – to spend what time I wasn’t doing my diocesan or parish work in quiet contemplation. He
actually used the word “retreat” but can see I simply don’t have time.’

‘Retreat in the military or religious sense?’

If anything, he looked more shamefaced. ‘Both, I suppose. And he asked me not to contact you again.’

‘And you forgot you’d invited me to evensong. OK. Anyway, time for me to be off.’ My smile was possibly compassionate. But my curiosity got the better of me. I pointed to the bracelet. ‘What on earth is that? Ecclesiastical electronic tagging?’

‘In a way. It’s fashionable amongst young Christians. Bishop Jonathan told me to wear it.’

‘So what do those letters stand for? I know AMGD, but not WWJD.’

‘“What would Jesus do?”’

What indeed? And what would his representative do?

Not, in the event, what he might have planned to do.

From the car park came a loud bang, followed by another. Voices were raised.

The lad now gathering glasses abandoned his haul and legged it after his boss, dodging back almost immediately. ‘Would the lady with the silver Focus come round the back, please?’

I grabbed my coat – I’d seen enough stolen in bars from people responding to such calls – and did as I was bidden.

There was a lot of broken glass and plastic around, including what looked like a red and orange
tail-light
cluster, but not much sign of anything else wrong. Something, however, had made Bob fume.

‘Bloody louts. Come here taking out my CCTV camera! And why should they do that, Mrs Welford? Unless they wanted to have a go at a car? And which car might that be?’ He pointed. Mine stood in solitary splendour, nursing, now I came to look more closely, a shattered windscreen. Bang had gone the fifty pounds excess.

I fumed. Not just the money: the inconvenience. The car hire people used their own repair team or the agreement was invalidated. Would they willingly come out to the back of beyond at this time of night?

Quite.

Over to Bob’s taxi friend, or, indeed, to Andy. WWJD?

Bob agreed to lock his car park with the poor invalid in it, opening it when the windscreen team
appeared. He was inclined to think that was enough, the loud bangs I’d heard having been bottles shattering on the retreating van and, he said, arms akimbo, ‘inflicting damage’. He nodded the point home with some satisfaction, grinding some of the coloured shards under his heel.

‘I suppose the camera didn’t pick up anything useful?’ Andy asked, materialising beside me like the Cheshire Cat minus its grin.

‘We can but look. But they were canny. One got busy with black spray paint while the other did for your motor, Josie. Tell you what,’ he said, checking his watch and not bothering to smother an enormous yawn, ‘tomorrow is another day. You look done in, if you don’t mind me saying so, Josie. How about you run the lady home, Vicar? Those lads won’t be after anyone in a hurry.’ What a load of interfering busybodies we publicans were.

‘I could wait at the vicarage for the taxi?’ I temporised.

‘Yes.’ Andy set us in motion.

‘You want me to give Bill another shout then?’ Bob sounded shocked.

‘If you wouldn’t mind,’ I smiled. ‘We’ll just hang on to see if he can make it. Finish our drinks.’

Following him quietly, we practically walked into him, stock still in the doorway to the bar. After a moment’s silence, he let rip a stream of expletives that would have lost him a week’s wages at the
White Hart. Or maybe not, given the justification.

All the squabs had been pulled from the bench seats and every easy chair. Nothing else. Just cushions everywhere.

‘One man for the camera, one for the car and one to search the bar,’ I said. ‘Is it time to call the police? In which case we should leave this as it is, I’m afraid.’

‘Bugger that for a game of soldiers. You talk to the police if you want, but not in my bar, thank you very much. And now, if you don’t mind, I’d prefer your room to your company.’

‘And who could blame you?’ I smiled ruefully. ‘I’m sorry I’ve brought this on you.’

‘Ah,’ he said, sucking his teeth with a fervour that made me fear for their future. ‘And if they can do this to mine, just think what they can do to your place, if they find out who you are. Best get her back there straightaway, Vicar, if you don’t mind me saying so.’

To my surprise, Andy grinned. ‘I give enough advice to other people not to mind a bit coming my way. See you, Bob. Josie, your chariot awaits.’

I hung back in the doorway. ‘Bob, they’ll know I’m lurking somewhere: do lock up securely behind me, won’t you?’

‘And that,’ I continued to Andy as we scurried up the vicarage drive, ‘is what worries me now. They won’t have gone far. Not unless Bob did real damage to their van, so much they’ll want to limp
it home. I do rather wonder whether calling the police might not be the best move, best friends though we’re not.’

He shot a look at me. ‘I understand you were very good friends, with one of them at least.’

‘At least? At least! Do you “understand” I shagged my way through the entire Somerset Constabulary? You understand wrong, my friend. And just supposing I had,’ I continued, grabbing his wrist, and turning it painfully, I hope, ‘what does that say? WWJD? I rather think He’d have said something to the effect of “Go and sin no more”.’ Releasing him, I dug in my pocket for my mobile. Hell’s bells! No bloody signal! It took me all the will of which I was capable not to fling it down and jump on it. That and the realisation that I was so tired I could hardly stand, unsurprising with just half an hour’s sleep and all the evening’s excitement. As I steadied myself against a porch support, I managed a self-deprecating smile, adding, by way of explanation, ‘Endless prison chaplains, remember.’

‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ Perhaps Bob’s observations were just sinking in.

‘Fine,’ I lied. ‘I’d murder for a coffee, though.’

In the streetlight he pulled a disapproving face. ‘This time of night?’

‘There may be quite a bit of it left,’ I said, ‘if we call the police.’

The vicarage was a cheerless place, cold and still stacked with boxes. It reminded me for a weird minute of Nick’s caravan when he’d first settled in Kings Duncombe. Floods had washed away both caravan and contents, which is how he’d originally come to take up residence in the White Hart. Part of the deal with Social Services had been that he’d stay on as a surrogate father to the Gay kids, something he took quite seriously, with the boys especially. My theory was that he was hoping to do a better job than he had as real father to Phiz. Perhaps his illness up in Brum would provide an opportunity for the two to be reconciled, but just at the moment I could have wished him fit and well and down here. Ex-DIs might antagonise one Somerset police officer, but surely not all.

‘I’ve not worked out how to override the
central-heating
timer yet,’ Andy said.

‘Lead me to it.’

He winced. ‘You’re a very practical woman, Josie.’

‘When you’ve spent as much of your life on your own as I have, you learn to be self-sufficient.’ I let him infer all he might want. ‘So where’s this control unit? And by the way, you need to do it, not me. Give a man a fish or teach him how to fish?’

Soon we were shivering less, but I had no intention of removing my jacket. ‘They were after my camera, I should say,’ I observed, applying myself to the sinful drinking chocolate he’d substituted at my behest for coffee. Biscuits too, but
supermarket basics, so I stuck at one.

‘I told you you should have got a phone like mine,’ he said, perching on the second kitchen stool.

‘You’re right. I just didn’t get round to it.’

‘But you had time to get your hair done.’

Was that appreciation or accusation? It was safer to ignore it, even if it meant reaching for another biscuit. At the last minute I switched on my willpower. Conversationally, I continued, ‘The camera’s in your car, by the way. Where did you put the film for safe-keeping?’

I’d never seen him impish before, but that was his expression now. ‘Guess!’

My yawn was too big to suppress. ‘Indulge me.’

‘In a plastic box in a polythene bag in the upstairs loo cistern.’

‘Well done.’ I hadn’t the heart to tell him that was one of the first places professional burglars looked.

I had no memory of reaching the sofa in a cavernous living room better suited to PCC meetings than a family evening, still less of being swathed in a duvet with a purple cover – did Andy have aspirations of bishophood? But that was where I was when a couple of teenage police officers loomed over me. I felt for all the world like an invalid receiving the family doctor: they must have unearthed a long dead memory of measles or mumps.

They took solemn details, and looked distinctly more interested when I referred them to DCI Burford and the MIT. But not in a spirit of cooperation, I suspected: rivalry seemed more accurate. Tony had always stressed that he never took rural forces for granted. They might lack
day-to-day
experience of the worst crimes, but the officers were all multi-skilled and anxious to be bigger fish in the still small pond.

Their profound advice was to stay where I was until the morning, by which time they’d have had time to run a check on the vehicles possibly involved. They agreed that another hire car might be a sensible option. Mentally I added one for Andy, too.

‘Look out for a Mercedes van with the
number-plate
looking like FOWL. Or,’ I added, by way of valediction, ‘one with a cracked driver’s door mirror.’ In addition, of course, to the one Bob had trashed, and another with possible damage caused by its attempt at a rally special stage.

There seemed no sign of Andy, ready to usher them out. I’d better do the honours, especially as after all that drinking chocolate I needed a loo. Not necessarily the loo with my film. As for that, some deep taboo operated against handing over such sensitive material to anyone so low in the pecking order, so I waved them off empty-handed. I didn’t really want to entrust it to anyone in the police, to be honest. Mrs T used to say,
There is no 
alternative
. And I didn’t see one now. What about Burford? He wouldn’t exactly be putty in my hands, but show me a vain man who always thought with his brain, never lower down. Especially when he already fancied a woman. None of this need Andy know, however.

In search of the cloakroom, I pushed gently on all the downstairs doors. At last one gave, but not the one I wanted. This was Andy’s office, though he probably called it a study. He was kneeling with his back to the door, his hand clasped on his desk. The knuckles were white in the light of a solitary standard lamp.

I didn’t disturb him. I’d done enough damage already.

If this was his standard breakfast fare, no wonder he liked my food. Stale bran cereal and skimmed milk, rounded off by ordinary tea or Fairtrade decaff – not at all bad, as it happened, and something to research further. If the White Hart was green, maybe it ought to be ethical, too.

The hire car people responded to my request for pub-side assistance with complete disinterest, though that might change if the Focus were returned to them before I’d put it through a carwash. ‘No racing, no rallying’ indeed: did the exclusions cover running for your life?

The team they sent even brought their own little vac to suck up smashed glass. I was so impressed
with their thoroughness I gave them a handwritten note promising them a free White Hart main course each. With some amusement, they also pointed out that carwashes didn’t exactly grow on trees round here, and since they didn’t have another shout they’d give the Focus a going over with Bob’s hosepipe. A bottle of house wine was added to their IOU.

I still had to get back to Taunton to change the now spruce vehicle, of course. I took possession of the camera and the film, none the worse for its spell in the cistern; I would be dropping the film off at a Supersnap or whatever.

‘Shall I drive along behind?’ Andy asked, without enthusiasm.

I shook my head emphatically. ‘You’ve got work to do. You did what was right last night,’ and, judging by his pallor and the bags under his eyes, had spent a long time doing it ‘but now you must do what your boss tells you.’ I didn’t specify a capital letter or not. ‘Just remember to keep the doors locked: use that peep-hole before you open.’

He was certainly acting on my advice when I next saw him. I waved encouragingly at the eye peering at me.

‘What the—?’

‘Your new transport of delight, Andy. A bit down market, but it has the virtue of being nothing like yours.’

An exchange of cash had found Sean, the brightest of the lads at the car hire depot, all too happy to follow me back here driving a pea green Nissan. Mine was a pretty blue Fiesta. No suggestion of His and Hers to offend him or the bishop.

And then home.

Which was mercifully all in one piece. And smelt richly of home-baking.

I’d probably had just enough sleep not to worry the lads with my appearance at our daily meeting. Pix went off for the morning shop with instructions to bring home as many samples of Fairtrade products as he thought relevant.

When Annie presented herself at the back door for today’s scones, I asked her in. It wasn’t just news of Abby I wanted. It was any fears or suspicions she might have. I prompted her with a highly edited account of my doings the previous night, stressing Andy’s positive role as clergyman offering hospitality, rather than any carnal temptations he might be prey to.

‘Such a decent man. But the ladies of his parish – let’s just say they’re not like us, Josie. They all seem to spend all their time having their nails fixed. Have you seen the strange designs on some of their claws? They all think they’re Victoria Beckham, far too posh to turn out and clean the vicarage.’

‘Which reminds me,’ I agreed, ‘we need a working party to make the rectory habitable for the next incumbent. We can’t leave it as it is. If we
could get some ex-display kitchen units and bathroom fixtures, it shouldn’t cost too much.’

She tipped her head on one side. ‘I know you, Josie. You’ll say they’re ex-display, but somehow top of the range stuff will appear, beautifully fitted. You can shake your head all day, but I know you. Anyone who saw you hand over that exquisite coat jacket of yours to poor Tang without so much as a wistful sigh will know too. Generous to a fault. But if an old lady can give you advice, take care.’ Grinning, I looked round ostentatiously for one. ‘People can get jealous of anything, even someone else’s generosity. Make sure there are at least some fund-raising activities, even if you go on to cook the books as well as you cook these scones.’

‘Those are Robin’s this morning. We all take it in turns. Lovely boys.’

She laid a kind hand on my arm. ‘They couldn’t do you more credit if they were your own, Josie. Now, I must be off. We’ve got a nursery to paint before the teashop opens. I got Mr Trowbridge on it, and Mrs Walker’s stocktaking in the shop. And before you say you ought to be down there too, I tell you we fall over each other enough as it is!’

‘So long as it’s only each other you fall over. You’re sure, absolutely positive, there’ve been no suspicious visitors? And you promise to dial 999 if there’s so much as a frisson of fear? Annie, don’t smile at me like that! Think what happened to Tim!’