The Cure of Souls (30 page)

‘He didn’t know the full circumstances.’

‘Nor wanted to, Merrily, nor wanted to. I tell you another thing – nobody who was at the Christmas Fair’s likely to forget that girl of Allan Henry’s. Jesus Christ, no…’ He looked suddenly appalled. ‘Oh, I
am
sorry. Easy to forget what you do, Reverend, when you’re out of uniform.’

‘Doesn’t offend
me
, Charlie, long as it’s not gratuitous. Keeps His name in circulation.’

Charlie Howe raised both eyebrows. The scones arrived. ‘Put plenty of jam on,’ Charlie said. ‘You’ll be needing the blood sugar.’

Then on to David Shelbone. ‘Got to admire him, really,’ Charlie said. ‘Sticks his neck out for what he believes. You know anything about listed buildings?’

‘I live in one.’

‘So you do.’

‘Frozen in the year 1576. I pray we never get an inspection, because my daughter’s created what she calls The Mondrian Walls in her attic… all the squares of nice white plaster and whatever between the beams are now painted different colours.’

‘Good example,’ Charlie said. ‘Most listed-buildings officers would let that one go, because you can always paint them over again in white. Brother Shelbone – forget it. A stickler. Told one of our lady councillors she had to take down a conservatory porch she’d put on her farmhouse. When the good councillor tries to square it with the department under the table, it gets leaked to the press. Red faces all round. That’s David Shelbone: staunch Christian, not for sale.’

‘And that’s bad, is it?’

Charlie grinned. ‘Oh, it’s not bad. It’s good, it’s remarkable – and that’s the point. In the world of local government, a very religious man who cannot tell a lie or condone dishonesty of any kind
is
remarkable.’

‘Meaning a pain in the bum.’

‘Correct. It was widely thought that when the councils were all reorganized, he’d get mislaid, as it were, in the changeover. But he survived.’

He looks after the old places, makes sure nobody knocks them down or tampers with them
. Hazel Shelbone in the church.
They offered him early retirement last year, but he said he wouldn’t know what to do with himself
.

Merrily licked jam from a finger. ‘His wife indicated he’d been under some pressure.’ Migraines, Hazel had explained. ‘Maybe that’s not been a happy household for a while.’

She didn’t look at Charlie Howe, helped herself to a second scone. Anything said to her by Mrs Shelbone ought to be treated as confidential; on the other hand, Charlie expected give and take. After forty years in the police and now local government, it would be how his mind worked.

‘Pressure,’ he said. ‘Oh, no question about that. Brother Shelbone’s under serious pressure. Over Barnchurch alone.’

‘The new trading estate, up past Belmont?’

‘Source of much weeping and gnashing of teeth,’ Charlie confirmed.

‘Well, it
looks
awful,’ Merrily said. ‘There was a time, not too many years ago, when Hereford used to resemble a country town. I mean, do we really need a supermarket every couple of hundred yards? DIY world? Computerland? It’s like some kind of commercial purgatory between rural paradise and traffic hell.’

‘My, my.’ Charlie added cream to his coffee.

‘Nothing personal.’

He leaned back, hands clasped behind his head. ‘What do you know about the origins of Barnchurch? The history of the site.’

‘Fields and woodland, home to little birds and animals.’

‘Gethyn Bonner? You know about him?’

‘Not a thing.’

‘Thought you’d know about Gethyn Bonner. He was a preacher. Came up from the Valleys in the 1890s, sometime like that.’

‘Ten a penny,’ Merrily said with a small smile.

‘Tell a few of my colleagues that. Tell English Heritage.’

‘I’m not following.’

‘Gethyn Bonner was an itinerant firebrand preacher with a big following, who came out of Merthyr Tydfil and decided Hereford was the land of milk and honey.’

‘As you do.’

Charlie drank some coffee. ‘Hadn’t got a chapel of his own, but a good Christian farmer, name of Leathem Baxter, had a barn to spare. A few local worthies, including a craftsman builder, all gathered round and they put a big Gothic window in the back wall, and in no time at all Leathem Baxter’s barn was a bona fide church.’

‘Barnchurch.’

‘Exactly. Well, in time, Gethyn Bonner falls out of favour, as these fellers are apt to do, and moves on up to Birmingham or back to the Valleys, I wouldn’t know which, and Leathem Baxter dies and the church becomes a barn again, and the Gothic window gets bricked up… and it’s all forgotten until the Third Millennium comes to pass.’

‘And, lo, there came property developers…’ said Merrily.

‘Barnchurch Trading Estate Phase One. Should be completed in time for Christmas shopping. Phase Two, however… that’s the problem. Nothing in its way except a derelict agricultural building, not very old – Victorian brick – and falling to bits.’

‘I see.’ Merrily poured some spring water.

‘Well, even before work started on Phase One, the developers had been assured by the Hereford planners that there’d be no bar at all to flattening this unsightly structure – which, as it happens, also blocks the only practical entrance to the site of Phase Two. Reckoning, of course, without Brother Shelbone.’

‘Suddenly, I like him a lot.’

‘Who helpfully points out that, although the building itself is of limited architectural merit and not, in fact, very old, its historical curiosity value makes it a monument well meriting preservation.’

‘It’s fair enough,’ Merrily said. ‘They should’ve consulted him before they started.’

Charlie leaned forward. ‘Merrily, nobody in their right mind consults David Shelbone, they just pray he’s otherwise engaged at the time. Brother Shelbone gets involved, it’s gonner cost you: time and money. And the stress factor.’

‘So he’s put a preservation order on the Barnchurch. Can he do that on his own?’

‘What he does is gets it spot-listed. It then goes to the Council, with a report and a recommendation from Shelbone. Well, this is seen as a very significant project, with considerable economic benefits for the city, and the Council, by a small majority, goes against the advice of the Listed Buildings Officer and declares that the Barnchurch can be flattened.’

‘I don’t remember reading about this in the papers.’

Charlie smiled thinly. ‘The authority has a certain leeway these days to conduct business not considered to be in the public interest less publicly.’

‘Which stinks, of course.’

‘But is quite legitimate. Anyway, David Shelbone isn’t a man to be put off by petty local tyranny. He goes directly to the body responsible for conservation of historic buildings – English Heritage – and
they
step in. So then—’

‘Which way did you vote, Charlie? Just so we know where we are.’

Charlie Howe grinned, whipped cream on his teeth. ‘I abstained, of course.’

‘Ah.’

‘Didn’t really think I knew enough about the issue.’

‘Why do I find that hard to believe? So, can English Heritage overrule the Hereford Council?’

‘Not just like that. It’ll have to go to Central Government for a decision. Because what had happened, see, was that the developers had already lodged an appeal contesting the scheduling of an old heap of bricks as a building of historical merit. There’ll be a public inquiry before an inspector from the Department of Culture – or the Ministry of Arty-farty Time-wasters, as one of my colleagues likes to call them.’

‘Which will take time to organize, I suppose.’

‘Months and months – and then more months waiting for a decision. Even if they get the green light at the end of the day, it’s going to’ve cost the developers a vast amount of money, what with all the delays and their contracts with prestigious national chains on the line. In the meantime, some of those firms are bound to go elsewhere. The situation is that Barnchurch Phase Two’s already looking like a financial disaster on a serious scale.’

‘And all because of one man.’

‘You got it.’

‘Who are the developers?’ Merrily asked.

‘Firm called Arrow Valley Commercial Properties.’

Merrily shook her head. ‘Not heard of them.’

‘Subsidiary of Allan Henry Homes,’ said Charlie. ‘You with me, now?’

Merrily put down her scone.

Charlie Howe’s arms were folded. She studied his face, tanned the colour of lightly polished yew. She knew very little about him, either as a councillor or a former senior policeman, but if she had to guess why he was going out of his way to feed her controversial information, she wouldn’t get far beyond the fact that he clearly enjoyed causing trouble – stirring the pot.

‘Gosh,’ she said.

‘You talk for a bit and I’ll listen.’ Charlie glanced around. ‘You’re all right: no witnesses.’

‘Well… phew… where do we start? David Shelbone may well have got himself crossed off Allan Henry’s corporate Christmascard list.’

Charlie poured himself more coffee. ‘You ever actually come across Allan Henry, Merrily?’

‘He doesn’t go to
my
church.’

‘He’s an ambitious man, and a very lucky man. Things’ve fallen his way. Just a moderately successful small-time house-builder for quite a few years, then his horizons got rapidly wider. Took over Colin Connelly’s little workshop development
beyond Holmer when Colin had his accident. And then things started falling into his hands. A few slightly iffy Green Belt schemes, but he got them through. One way or another.’

‘Erm… would you say he found success in ways that might have interested you in your former occupation?’

Charlie Howe said, very slowly, ‘I am saying nothing that might incriminate any of my colleagues on the council.’

‘I see,’ said Merrily.

Charlie drank the rest of his second cup of coffee.

‘So David Shelbone could be getting in quite a few people’s hair.’

‘I think I said as much earlier.’

‘Why are you telling
me
all this?’

He cupped his hands over his eyes and nose, rubbed for a moment before bringing them down in the praying position.

‘Got nobody else to tell any more,’ he said. ‘Last thing Annie wants is the old man on her back. Most of the people I mix with… well, you never know quite who you’re talking to, do you?’

‘What happened to your… to Annie’s mother?’

‘Oh, it was a police marriage. Average life expectancy five years. Better nowadays, actually. Now there are plenty of professional women around, so you can take up with one who understands all about funny shifts and late-night callouts and having to cancel your fortnight in Ibiza because you’re giving evidence at Worcester Crown Court. Back then, it was this huge majority of full-time housewives and mothers who didn’t understand at all.’

‘I’m sorry.’

He grinned. ‘Don’t be bloody sorry, vicar. I’ve had a lot more fun in twenty-five unencumbered years than I had with her. Anyway… I met you there at the school and I liked your attitude and I thought we were likely to be on the same wavelength on certain matters. And then that little girl taking the overdose – that rather clinched it.’

‘Well… thanks.’

‘I don’t much like Brother Henry,’ he said. ‘I don’t like him as a businessman or as… as a man.’

‘Because?’

‘Because… well, he’s ruthless and he’s vindictive, for starters. The rest I’d need to think about.’

‘And Layla Riddock’s not even his daughter.’

‘He brought her up, though,’ Charlie said, ‘didn’t he?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Me neither, really. I don’t know how long he and Shirley Riddock have been together. But it makes you think, don’t it just?’

‘He must’ve been very disappointed when certain people failed to persuade David Shelbone to take early retirement.’ Merrily broke off a small piece of scone and then put it back on the plate. ‘Oh hell, this is getting ridiculous.’

‘Nothing’s ridiculous,’ said Charlie Howe. ‘Hello…?’

Merrily looked up. A man had come in through reception and was walking directly towards their table.

‘Well, well,’ Charlie said.

Merrily recognized Andy Mumford, Hereford Division CID. Being promoted to Detective Sergeant in the twilight of his career must have given him new heart, because he’d lost weight. Sadly, it had made him look even more lugubrious.

‘Andrew Mumford, as I live and breathe.’ Charlie beamed but didn’t stand up. ‘This your local now then, boy, in keeping with your new-found status?’

‘Hello, boss,’ Mumford said heavily.

‘Dropped in for some career advice, is it? Stick it as long as you can, I’d say. Half these so-called security jobs, you’re just a glorified caretaker. Have a seat.’

‘I won’t, thank you, boss. In fact, it was actually Mrs Watkins I was looking for.’

‘Well… you can study for the ministry up to the age of sixty,’ Merrily told him, ‘but at the end of it, caretakers still earn more money.’

Mumford didn’t smile. ‘Mrs Watkins, Mr Howe’s daughter
and my, er, governor would like it a lot if you could come to her office for a discussion.’

‘Oh.’ She sat up, surprised. ‘OK. I mean… Just give me half an hour. Because I do need to pop over to
my
office first.’

‘No, Mrs Watkins,’ Mumford said. ‘If you could come with me
now
…’

‘Only somebody’s going to be waiting for me, you see.’

‘If it’s Mr Robinson you mean,’ Mumford said, ‘we’ve already collected him at the gatehouse.’

Mumford’s unmarked car was parked in one of the disabled-driver spaces at the top of Broad Street. He drove Merrily across town and entered the police car park, from the Gaol Street side.

It was the pleasantest time of day, layered in shades of summer blue. Mumford didn’t have much to say. He’d evidently been warned not to spoil the surprise. But he’d said enough.

Annie Howe had been given a new office. Merrily couldn’t remember how they reached it. She didn’t notice what colours the walls were. She didn’t remember if they’d taken the stairs or the lift. She felt like she was walking on foam rubber through some bare, grey forest in the wintry hinterland of hell.