'Research is the quest for truth,' he said with a faraway look in his eyes that Ace found disturbing and yet rather pathetic. 'I can understand that. This way, young lady.'
He led her to the church, opening the main wooden door with a big iron key about as long as Ace's arm. Once inside, he tapped a code into an electronic pad. Ace found the mixture of old and new amusing.
'A shame we have to keep the house of God like a bank vault,' said Baber. 'But there are some valuable things in here. And young people are always so keen to desecrate.
Present company excepted, I'm sure.'
'Times change,' she said.
'Indeed,' nodded the man, switching on some lights. 'But God doesn't. And people think that makes him irrelevant, but actually that makes him more relevant than ever. It's old fools like me who get in the way.'
Ace couldn't believe that this was the same glacier-cold man as she had seen the day before. She followed Baber into the vestry, a musty, dank room than contained a single writing desk and a hard-backed wooden chair. 'Not a very comfortable place to do the Lord's work,' he said, with what passed for a smile. 'Many of the older parish records were destroyed in a fire during the 1830s,' the vicar continued, dragging a heavy oak chest towards the desk. 'The burning of stubble has always carried risks. However, some material was salvaged, and there are a great many other documents.
Some school records were donated to us during the 1960s.
They're all in here.' Baber opened the chest, and the damp smell hit Ace like a punch.
'Phew,' she said waving a hand under her nose. 'What a pong!'
The vicar departed with a smile, muttering something about lunch and the shipping forecast.
The chest was, indeed, a treasure trove. Had Ace's real purpose been straightforward historical research then she would have been busy. But since she was looking for something unusual, and she had no idea of what that might be, her search became a random trawl through registers, lists of landowners, and miscellaneous school records. She settled down to read a log of school punishments for the year 1907.
It seemed the village lads had been regularly caned for a bewildering range of 'crimes'. 'Bad boys'.' she exclaimed, her finger running over 'insolence', 'tampering with the school clock' and 'kicking a hedgehog'.
'Serves you right, Wally,' she said, noting that Walter Smith got two strokes for booting the defenceless creature. Then she thought of him, knee-deep in the mud of Passchendaele, screaming as shells exploded around him, and she dropped the book back into the chest.
Finally, Ace found something pertinent to her own interest in the village. It was an enormous ledger with rich, cream-coloured paper and thin, almost faded, gold edging. It crackled with imagined importance.
The book was some kind of census of the last few years of the nineteenth century and the first five decades of the twentieth. There was another volume beneath detailing the previous fifty years. As Ace read she found a year-by-year record of all of the people in the village, grouped together into families, with brackets indicating links that became more and more intertwined as the years rolled on. There were columns listing dates of birth, christenings, marriages, and deaths and, at the end of each yearly page, a note, in neat copperplate script, of the total village population. There were 506 people in 1894, 507 in 1895, 506 in 1896. Ace turned another handful of pages: 499 in 1917 (well, Wally and his mates were all away getting themselves shot in Europe, weren't they?), 504 in 1918, 507 in 1919 (wasn't there a great flu about then that should have made the population decline, not increase?). Ace reached the 1930s: 510 in 1936, 508 in 1937...
Ace heard the sound of footsteps moving quietly in her direction, and turned, startled.
'Oh, I'm sorry,' said Thomas Baber, almost dropping the tray and glasses he was carrying. 'I thought all this dusty work might be making you thirsty. Lemonade?'
Ace chuckled. 'Thank you,' she said. 'That's well thoughtful of you, Vicar.'
Baber came across to the desk and set the tray down, looking over Ace's shoulder at the ledger.
'Oh, I see you've found the parish population record.' He walked towards a small cupboard by the door and pulled out a similar-sized ledger, but this time the cover was newer, with fewer spots of mildew and damp. 'This is the most recent volume, begun by my late grandfather in 1954, continued by my father, and now by me. The record has much less relevance in these days of information superhighways and such technical nonsense, but I carry it on. I'm mindful of the importance of tradition, aren't you?'
'Sure,' said Ace, taking a grateful drink from her lemonade.
'Tell me, Vicar, what's the current population of the village?'
'About five hundred,' said Baber casually. Then he set the book down and checked on the most recent page, right towards the back. 'It was actually 513 on the thirty-first of December last year, but a couple of people have left the village since then. Why do you ask?'
'No reason,' said Ace quickly. 'Just curious. There was one other thing I was wondering.'
'Yes?'
'There are columns in these records for births, christenings, marriages and deaths. And there's also one other column. It hardly seems to be used, except every couple of years there's a date next to one of the names.' She pointed to the 1937 entry in her hand. Like here: Grace Partnoll, first of July 1937.What's all that about?'
'That column refers to people who have left the village for one reason or another. If you look at the next page you'll see it says that Miss Partnoll is no longer part of the village list.'
'Oh yes,' said Ace, flicking over the page. 'So it does...' She stood to give the vicar back his glass, glancing at the newer volume that he held. 'Has somebody just left?' she said, pointing to that day's date on the page, partly obscured by Baber's thumb.
'Yes indeed,' said the vicar. 'Mr and Mrs Tyley informed me just this morning that young William has left the village to go to London.' He sighed. 'Such a debauched place.'
'I come from London,' said Ace sharply, not sure if she was being insulted or not. She pointed to the small wooden cupboard which had contained the up-to-date register. 'I noticed when you got the new ledger out, it looked like there were some old photographs in there, too. May I have a look?'
'No, you may not,' said Baber, suddenly stiffening. 'I'm afraid that I really haven't the time to show you those.
Anyway, they're family heirlooms, and have no relevance to your researches. And now...' He looked at his watch. 'I must ask you if you would be so good as to allow me to lock up.'
Ace shrugged, and closed the ledger, placing it carefully back in the chest. 'Thanks for your time,' she said.
'I hope you found what you were looking for,' said Baber, seemingly torn between hustling Ace from the church and maintaining a show of being the genial host.
'I've certainly got a few leads worth pursuing,' said Ace with a wicked grin, trying to remember the last time she had broken into a church.
The radio was turned up much too loud, but at least it rendered the taxi driver almost inaudible.
'Many people have accused you of pursuing vendettas, of concentrating on individual troublemakers at the expense of wider police work.' The female interviewer's voice was breathy and forward, obviously used to chasing after the stray morsels dropped by politicians and film stars.
'No, no,' responded the man, his slow, deliberate voice oozing cool authority. 'That would be unfair. You see, what you've got to realise, especially in Liverpool, is that one or two people do do account for ninety per cent of the crime. It's a proven fact. To call them "troublemakers" makes it sound like they're teenagers who play their music too loud. In actual fact, I want to pursue the ringleaders, the kingpins, the drug barons, all the way into prison. And, if you've heard complaints, let me suggest to you that they're from the families of these thugs, not from the decent, law-abiding people of Merseyside.' account for ninety per cent of the crime. It's a proven fact. To call them "troublemakers" makes it sound like they're teenagers who play their music too loud. In actual fact, I want to pursue the ringleaders, the kingpins, the drug barons, all the way into prison. And, if you've heard complaints, let me suggest to you that they're from the families of these thugs, not from the decent, law-abiding people of Merseyside.'
'If I can put another commonly expressed concern to you,'
continued the interviewer, 'it's that you enjoy a high public profile, and -'
'Enjoy is not the right word,' interrupted the guest. 'I've never sought the interest of the media, but I've always been happy to respond honestly when asked about any subject.'
Damn him, thought Nicola Denman. She couldn't even escape from her father in the back of a cab.
She leaned forward. 'Would you mind turning that off?' she asked.
'Whatever you say, miss,' said the taxi driver. 'He's got a point, though, hasn't he? That copper. I think we've tried to understand them criminals for far too long. Should just lock 'em up, and throw away the key.'
'Yeah,' said Nicola, bored and irritated. Thankfully, the taxi driver seemed to want to talk about the latest spate of burglaries in his area, and Nicola was content to grunt at the appropriate moments. Five minutes later the vehicle came to a halt.
'The Catholic Cathedral, miss,' announced the driver grandly.
Nicola scooped the required money into the man's hand, and set off at a nervous run. The huge building, part crown of thorns, part concrete circus tent, dominated the skyline, and she pushed impatiently through the crowds milling about its entrance. There was a row of confessionals off a small side aisle, which the visitors seemed instinctively to avoid, and Nicola headed towards these, letting the silence and the cool air wash over her.
She found an unoccupied booth, and sat down in a flurry of tired limbs and exhaled breaths. 'I'm not really a Catholic, right,' she began immediately to the face half-obscured by the mesh. 'So don't give me any Hail Mary nonsense. I just want to talk.' She paused, and the fragility of her feelings welled like a wound. 'I really really need to talk to someone, OK?' need to talk to someone, OK?'
'I'm here to help in the name of God in whatever way I can,'
responded the priest. He sounded young, but he spoke slowly and deliberately, as if to emphasise that he had all the time in the world, and that Nicola was the sole object of his attention. 'What troubles you?'
'It's my dad,' Nicola blurted out. 'Or rather, it's all because of my mum. She's dead, you see.'
'I'm sorry.'
Nicola caught a flash of blue eyes framed by pale skin.
'Yeah. Well, Dad's always been very strict. You see, he's...'
Nicola paused, unsure of what to say. 'He works in the legal profession,' she lied. 'He's very upright, very moral.'
'Those aren't necessarily bad things.'
'No, of course not. But, before she died, his strictness went hand in hand with his love. I never doubted then that they both thought the world of me.'
'And now?'
'I think we both feel very empty. She died years ago, and you'd think the void we feel would have gone away by now, wouldn't you?'
'No,' said the priest firmly. 'There are some trials in life that we can never recover from. I believe that God's grace is sufficient for us, but that it would almost be... disrespectful to live on as if nothing had changed.'
'Oh, but everything everything has changed. That's the point. As I grew up, he wanted me to be more and more like her. I don't even know who I am any more.' has changed. That's the point. As I grew up, he wanted me to be more and more like her. I don't even know who I am any more.'
'But does your father still love you?'
Nicola was crying now, and she did not respond for some time, the priest waiting patiently, his lips moving, perhaps in prayer. When she finally did speak again, her voice was thick with emotion and suppressed hurt. 'Daddy's love... Daddy's love can be a very frightening thing.'
Phil Burridge was not especially talented, but one skill he did possess was the ability to break into a house with the minimum of fuss and bother. And the vicarage was a particularly easy target, a huge tree dominating the back and affording easy access to one of the bedrooms.
The window was ornate, and composed of many small panes of glass, and Burridge pushed at one with a folded penknife. It shattered easily. He reached inside to twist open the window. With surprising agility for a man of his frame, he manoeuvred himself into the room from the big, thick bough of the tree, and then pulled the window closed behind him.
He glanced at his watch. Just after two o'clock. The girl would still be at school, teaching, and her dad would be...
Doing vicary things in church, probably.
As he'd been led to believe, this was her room, all tasteful scatter cushions and impressionist prints. The bed was enormous, and the duvet clearly had been pulled straight before the woman had left for school. Burridge sat on it for a moment, wondering what to do. Hatch had told him to find something incriminating, something to link her to the Proteus bombing.
Burridge wasn't surprised it had come to this. He'd been suspicious when Matty Hatch had first become involved with the teacher, and now it seemed she'd been screwing the poor bloke in every way imaginable.
There was something wonderfully voyeuristic about breaking into someone's room, like reading an intimate diary.
A woman's room, even more so. On an impulse, Burridge leaned across the bed and towards the pine chest of drawers to one side.
Rebecca Baber's knicker drawer was a delightful mess of scanty bits of brightly coloured silk and lace. Burridge thrust his hands into them.
He extracted a pair at random, pulling them over his face, thinking that he'd like to rob a bank like this one day, just to see if they'd dare put that that on on Crimewatch UK. Crimewatch UK. Then he rooted through the other drawers, finding paperbacks, scarves, ballpoint pens, sports socks, a calculator, a single black stocking, and what appeared to be a year's supply of antihistamines. Right at the bottom, under an angora sweater, he found a small pile of gay porn mags, and a loaded handgun. Then he rooted through the other drawers, finding paperbacks, scarves, ballpoint pens, sports socks, a calculator, a single black stocking, and what appeared to be a year's supply of antihistamines. Right at the bottom, under an angora sweater, he found a small pile of gay porn mags, and a loaded handgun.
Phil Burridge tutted to himself. 'Oh, bad! That's gotta be worth two years in Holloway for a kick-off.'
The pants still over his face like a mask, Burridge patrolled the room, half blinded by floral satin. He opened cupboards and rifled clumsily through shelves. After five minutes of intense searching, only the computer was left, and Burridge had no no intention of touching that. intention of touching that.
Thinking he'd drawn a blank, he turned for the window, ripping the knickers from his face.
One of the framed prints caught his eye. Phil Burridge didn't know his Matisse from his Magritte, but, in the context of this room, a crooked painting screamed screamed at him. at him.
He turned the picture over, and taped to the back with thick masking tape was a small sheaf of paper. They were the plans to Proteus's head office, and lists of passwords and security alarms.
'Oh dear,' he said. 'We have been a naughty naughty girl, Becky.' girl, Becky.'
CHAPTER 6.
CITY SICKNESS.
Nicola Denman took a deep breath, her hand resting against the pub door. She watched the sun creeping behind the smoke-grey clouds that peppered the horizon. Despite the noise that surged through open windows she felt more peaceful than she had in the cathedral. This was her world, for all its dirt. That other land, the place of forgiveness, was unobtainable.