Dark Waters Page 8

  Willem spied the punch, at least he said that was what the crimson liquid in a large plastic bucket with three or four bits of fruit floating on the top was meant to be, and ladled generous quantities into thick wine glasses. ‘Drink it,’ he told me. ‘Relax.’ I sniffed it, searching for the remains of disinfectant that was probably the last liquid to have been in the bucket.

  Then Willem dug into his pocket and brought out a couple of pills. Fluff was stuck to one of them. He swallowed one, handed me the fluff-covered pill. ‘Here. Take it.’ He grinned and pushed the hair away from his forehead. ‘Come on.’

  I took the pill and followed him out and into what I presume was the lounge – Willem liked to call these front rooms ‘drawing rooms’, I thought he was being pretentious – where the light came from candles and the furniture had been pushed back against the walls to give room for dancing. The air was redolent with sweat and weed and a musky scent. Every inch of floor space was taken up by bodies – couples intertwined, shuffling to the beat, single men, women, all pretending they were having a great time on their own. I saw the odd student from my college, but most I didn’t know at all. I smiled at everyone and no one.

  Willem pushed through the bodies. ‘Let me introduce you to the host.’

  Our host, so-called, I presumed, only because he was one of the people who rented the house, was sprawled on a sofa with his arms draped along its back, a girl one side of him, a boy the other, a cigarette dangling down from between his fleshy lips, a camera hanging round his neck. Louche was the word that came to mind.

  ‘This is Derek,’ Willem said to me, pushing me forward so I almost fell into the boy’s lap.

  ‘Hello, Derek,’ I said, watching Willem as he disappeared out of the room. Where was he going? I didn’t know anyone else.

  ‘Hi.’ He nodded towards his companions. ‘This is Jen, that’s Rog.’

  Jen and Rog nodded. Then Jen smiled at me and her face lit up, making her pretty. She had long, straight black hair and olive skin. She was wearing some sort of cotton shirt and a skirt of purple and yellow and black. Her lips were full. I smiled back.

  ‘So you’re Willem’s latest pet?’

  Derek’s breath was hot in my ear. I jerked my head away.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m Willem’s friend.’

  ‘Willem doesn’t have friends. He’s a collector. He collects people and shapes them in his own image.’

  ‘I’m not shaped in anyone’s image,’ I said, sharply.

  ‘That’s what you think.’ Derek threw his cigarette down on the floor and ground it under his heel. The suburban bit of me hoped it hadn’t marked the carpet. It probably had. ‘He monopolizes you, doesn’t he? Takes you out, teaches you things. Drugs, sex—’

  ‘Not sex.’

  Derek raised an eyebrow. ‘Really?’

  ‘I’ve got a girlfriend.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really.’ I peered around the room, hoping to see someone I knew. I was getting tired of Derek already.

  ‘And what does Willem think of that?’

  ‘I don’t care what Willem thinks about it.’

  ‘He won’t like it.’ This was from the girl, Jen.

  ‘No, he really won’t,’ said Derek.

  ‘It’s nothing to do with him,’ I said.

  ‘Where is he now?’ asked Derek. Kindly, I thought, which was odd.

  ‘Dunno,’ I said.

  Derek stood up and offered me his hand. ‘Come on.’

  Tentatively, I took it. It was warm and fleshy.

  He led me out of the room, along the hall and up the stairs where the carpet had worn through on the treads. I heard groaning and someone puking from behind one door. The bathroom, I surmised. Derek opened another door.

  This room was dimly lit by a lamp in the corner, a red scarf or maybe a bit of material flung over the shade to give an eerie glow. Like a brothel.

  Willem was lying face up upon the bed, arms flung out either side of him, naked from the waist down, his trousers round his ankles. A girl was sitting astride him, skirt hitched up around her hips, another was sitting on the edge of the bed, naked, with a cigarette in her mouth. She looked at us and smiled. ‘Come on in,’ she said.

  I stood frozen in the doorway. The girl on top of Willem turned her head towards me.

  Rachel. Her mouth was a round ‘o’.

  ‘Well?’ Derek said in my ear. He was smiling, and in the half-light I couldn’t make out whether it was with triumph or sorrow. Perhaps it was a bit of both. He took the camera from round his neck and snapped a picture of the tableau on the bed, the flash lighting the room for a second. ‘There you go, Willem, got you for posterity.’

  ‘Fuck off, Daley,’ said Willem with a languid wave of his hand.

  I shook my head, feeling sick and gullible and provincial. I didn’t know who I hated more – Willem, Rachel or myself.

  Willem came with a groan and a shudder. His eyes never left mine.

  I fled.

  11

  The trouble with moving out of London, thought Alex as she tried to manoeuvre her Peugeot 206 into a parking space only big enough for one of those tiny Smart cars, was you forgot pretty quickly how noisy, how dirty and how impossible it all was. At least she’d managed to find somewhere to park: that was a miracle in itself.

  She was taking a bit of a chance by not phoning ahead, she knew that. Apart from wanting to talk to her in person, she didn’t want Roger Fleet’s sister to tell her not to bother to come, that she didn’t want to see her. No, she was relying on human nature here – that Margaret Winwood would want to talk about her brother, about the sort of person he had been. If she could get her onside then it would really round out any sort of background colour story she did. Even so, Alex was nervous. Door-knocking someone who had been recently bereaved didn’t come easily to her.

  Roger Fleet’s sister lived in an unassuming terrace house on a road not too far from the station. Probably not too far from the rugby ground, either, and Alex wondered what the town was like on match days. Then she thought about Mrs Archer and tried to imagine her in the crowd at a match. But she couldn’t.

  She found the right number, opened the little gate, walked the two steps to the front door and knocked. It opened quickly, almost as if someone had been watching out for her.

  A tall woman with severe grey hair and a ramrod-straight back looked at her. ‘I saw you coming. If you’re a journalist, I’ve got nothing to say. All that was in the past anyway. I’m mourning my brother, so please leave me alone. And if you’re not a journalist, my brother has just died and I don’t want to speak to you.’ Margaret Winwood – for that must be who it was – made to close the door.

  ‘Please, just a minute.’

  There must have been enough pleading in her voice because Margaret Winwood didn’t slam the door in her face. Alex took a deep breath. ‘You’re right, about what you said earlier. I am a journalist and I live in Suffolk, not far from your brother—’

  ‘Did you know him?’

  Alex shook her head. ‘No, but—’

  ‘So why are you here, then? Which paper did you say you were with?’

  She hadn’t said. ‘The Post.’

  ‘And are you trying to rake up some muck about Roger?’

  ‘No, not at all. I’m trying to piece together what happened. The man who Mr Fleet – Roger – was with when he died was a friend of a friend, and that friend wants to know what went on. Why they died.’ She spoke quickly, wanting to gain the woman’s confidence. ‘I’m hoping to put together something for the paper. Talk about Roger’s life. Make him a real person, not merely a statistic.’

  Margaret Winwood pursed her lips. ‘You’re honest, I’ll give you that. You’d better come in, then.’

  A minute later and Alex was perching on a hard chair in what she took to be the main living room. She looked around. The room was oppressive, despite there being a large picture window looking out onto the street. Alex put it down
to the grey décor, and the brooding pictures on the wall. One was of Christ with his crown of thorns, blood dripping down his forehead, a hand held out beseechingly. The other, what looked like a snowy mountain scene; but the colours were a dirty yellow and grey and the picture would make anyone gloomy looking at it.

  Margaret Winwood came into the room carrying a tray with two cups of coffee and a plate of digestive biscuits.

  ‘They said Roger killed himself.’ She put the tray down on a round table with spindly legs.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘They also said he had contacted the other man on the Internet and they had agreed to kill themselves together. Apparently it’s easier that way. Give each other strength. I hope the coffee’s not too strong.’ She handed Alex a cup. Her hand shook imperceptibly.

  Alex sat motionless. Met on the Internet. A forum, presumably. Interesting. It was the first she had heard of that. Was that the only connection between the two men? It seemed an odd thing for two men in their sixties to do. Or maybe not. She kept quiet, wanting the other woman to fill the silence.

  ‘They said …’ Margaret Winwood paused, her cup halfway towards her lips. ‘They said they didn’t know each other. That they had met on this Internet thing and had decided to die together.’ She shook her head disbelievingly. ‘Have you ever heard of such a thing? Talking to someone over the Internet and then meeting up to die? They said it was all on his computer. Well, have you heard of that?’ She stared hard at Alex.

  ‘As a matter of fact, I have.’ She remembered reading about a couple who had mixed a lethal cocktail of chemicals and sealed themselves in a car parked down a country lane. They had met on an Internet suicide forum. They’d only been in their twenties.

  ‘They said they lit a barbecue and then when it was smouldering brought it inside. They closed all the doors and windows tight, then lay on their beds to die. I suppose they didn’t feel anything.’

  Alex didn’t know what to say to the other woman’s obvious pain.

  ‘I find it hard to believe that Roger would take his own life,’ Margaret Winwood went on. ‘It’s against his religion. We’re Roman Catholic,’ she explained. ‘And yes, the Church’s position has softened over the years by giving people the benefit of the doubt, but I’m sure Roger – no, I absolutely know – he wouldn’t do it.’ Her eyes were bright, though whether with unshed tears or fervour, Alex wasn’t sure. ‘He wouldn’t do it, in spite of …’ She stopped, rubbing her throat.

  ‘In spite of what?’ Alex asked, gently.

  Margaret Winwood shook her head, visibly upset now.

  Alex decided to change tack. ‘Did you see much of your brother?’ She sipped her coffee. It was surprisingly good and full of flavour.

  Margaret Winwood shook her head. ‘No. We had become estranged; I think that’s the word for it. He lived his life in Suffolk, and I lived mine here. I’m a widow, you see. No children. But I do have the Church. Father Michael is very supportive.’

  ‘Of course,’ murmured Alex. So much for a detailed family backgrounder. ‘So your brother was religious?’

  The woman worked her mouth, as if she was chewing something unpleasant. ‘That’s just it,’ she said. ‘He lost his faith.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘But once a Catholic, always a Catholic. That’s why he wouldn’t kill himself.’ She shook her head and stood, taking Alex’s cup out of her hand. ‘I really need to ask you to go now. I have to get on. You must understand, I have arrangements to make. Even though they haven’t yet released his …’ she hesitated, ‘mortal remains, there are things I must do. Paperwork to sort.’

  ‘Of course.’

  As Alex stood up, a framed photograph caught her eye. It had been taken in a garden. It must have been summer because there were pink roses in bloom, as well as geraniums and begonias in a flower bed. A man in a dark suit and a dog collar was in the centre of the photograph, his head thrown back, laughing. She picked it up to have a closer look.

  ‘That’s Roger.’ Margaret Winwood’s voice came from behind her. ‘In the good days.’ her voice was bitter.

  ‘He was a priest?’

  ‘He was for some years. I told you, he lost his faith. That’s when he decided to bury himself in East Anglia. Where no one knew him.’

  ‘He looks happy here.’

  Margaret Winwood smiled – a genuine, relaxed smile. ‘He was happy then, for quite a few years. We thought he was settled, had found his vocation. We didn’t know the turmoil he was in.’

  ‘Was there a reason? For him losing his faith, I mean?’ She put the photograph back.

  ‘There’s always a reason,’ said Margaret Winwood bitterly. ‘But he chose not to share it with me. He took himself off to Suffolk and only communicated with me once in a blue moon, and never with our mother. You wouldn’t believe that we had been quite close as children. Still. It happens. I think he knew I wanted him to seek help.’

  ‘When he was a priest, did he have his own parish?’

  ‘No. After he was ordained in the mid-eighties, he went to Rome to the university there for some years. He came back to England in the mid-nineties, I think it was, and taught at a college in London, where that photograph was taken. Parish life would not have suited him – he was more of an intellectual. He didn’t get on in the community or with people as a whole. Sometimes he would become very withdrawn, not want to speak to anyone, and that’s no good if you’re supposed to be their shepherd in a parish, is it? That’s when it was suggested he go into teaching, and for a while that worked. As you can see, he was happy. But then …’ Her shoulders slumped. ‘Who knows? I’m just glad our father wasn’t alive when he decided to leave the priesthood. It would have killed him.’ She must have noticed the doubt on Alex’s face. ‘You don’t believe me? I tell you, it’s a big thing to have a priest in the family, even these days. Perhaps especially these days. Anyway, I won’t keep you any longer.’

  ‘One thing I don’t understand.’ Alex spoke carefully. ‘Roger said he was going on a retreat to the Catholic priory in Penstone. I think he might have been there before he went on the boat. If he had lost his faith, why do you think he’d do that? Go on a retreat?’

  Margaret Winwood stared at her. ‘A retreat? Roger?’ She shrugged. ‘Perhaps he was finding his path back to the Lord. Perhaps his guilt at the harm he’d done to his family was becoming overwhelming. Catholics are very good at guilt. I hope that’s the case. It would make his death easier to bear if I thought he was close to God again.’

  Alex fleetingly thought she would have made a good Catholic.

  ‘Anyway—’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Alex. ‘Thank you for seeing me, Mrs Winwood. And if you need to talk to me anymore about Roger—’

  ‘Why should I want to do that?’ Her astonishment was genuine.

  ‘Because it can help,’ she said gently. ‘To talk about your loved one. Here, take my card.’

  Margaret Winwood didn’t look at the business card Alex had put in her hand. ‘Thank you. But I won’t be needing it.’

  ‘Mrs Winwood, the college where Roger was teaching – what was it called?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. There’s no need for you to go poking around there.’ And before Alex could say anything else, she closed the door. Firmly.

  Why, Alex mused as she walked away from the sad little house, did Roger Fleet leave the priesthood? And, if he’d lost his faith, why had he gone on a retreat?

  She looked at her watch. Just about enough time to go and visit Goldhay College where Roger Fleet had once been a teacher. Luckily she had seen the name of the college on the back of the photograph frame, and it wouldn’t take much to find the number.

  12

  Alex couldn’t be sure, but she thought she saw DI Berry’s car as she drove away from Margaret Winwood’s house. If so, he was bound to find out about Goldhay College, so she wanted to get there first. Once a copper had told someone not to talk to the press, they usually didn’t, so she probably
wouldn’t get much more out of Fleet’s sister. Mrs Archer, on the other hand, was not likely to be intimidated by the likes of DI Berry. She smiled at the thought of Mrs Archer in conversation with Berry and Logan. That would be something to witness.

  Goldhay College was an ugly Victorian building on the outskirts of Buckhurst Hill in Essex. Alex knew it was a college of the University of London specializing in Theology and Philosophy. The principal was Father Paul Hayes, and she had phoned ahead for an appointment.

  Her footsteps crunched on gravel as she made her way round to the door marked ‘Reception’, where she was greeted by a friendly looking woman who directed her into the college gardens.

  ‘Father Paul likes to be in the gardens when he can; he treats it as his second office,’ she told Alex with a smile. ‘Says he feels relaxed there, says it’s less intimidating than the mahogany and leather of his room. Follow the corridor down to the bottom, go through the double doors, turn left then right and that will bring you to the gardens.’

  ‘I’ll try to remember that,’ said Alex, not at all sure she would.

  But she found the gardens at first try – lawns and hedges and mature trees, some borders coming to colourful life under the sun – and looked around for Father Paul. There was more than one man in a dog collar, and three in the whole flowing robes ensemble. She thought their offices must be a bit miserable if they were all out here. There were some younger people, too; students perhaps.

  A priest sitting on a bench put down the weighty book he was reading and beckoned her over.

  ‘Sit here, my dear.’ He patted the bench beside him. ‘Alex Devlin, I presume?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Alex, already warming to this avuncular man with his ready smile and laughter lines. He looked so ordinary, it was hard to believe he had written a number of books on subjects like the theology of Jewish-Christian relationships, and spirituality and imagination. She could hardly understand the titles, never mind what they might be about. ‘Father Paul Hayes?’