Real life isn’t like that. I know from pastoral visits to prison that real crimes aren’t clever or complicated. They’re opportunistic and poorly thought out. Murderers very rarely ‘get away with it’ and, if they do, it’s usually because of luck rather than planning. Killing someone is almost always a desperate act, with no thought of the consequences. For your life, or your soul.
I accelerate up to thirty. I’m so preoccupied I almost drive straight past the wooden sign for Harper’s Farm.
‘Bugger.’
I brake hard, reverse and pull on to a long gravel track. It winds up between fields to a handsome red-brick, slate-roofed farmhouse perched at the top of a hill. The house has been extended and modernized, with a huge double-height window and large conservatory offering views across the countryside all the way to the Downs. It’s breathtaking.
I park up next to a battered truck and Simon Harper’s Range Rover and climb out of the car. My nostrils are immediately assaulted by the smell of manure and something slightly rotten. A herd of brown cows graze in one field and sheep are dotted around another.
Close by, another area has been turned into a paddock for two glossy brown horses. To the left of the farm, along a muddy track, I can see more barns and a modern warehouse-type building which, I presume, is the slaughterhouse.
I’m not sentimental about animals. I abhor cruelty, but I eat meat and I understand that it doesn’t just drop down from heaven, or Tesco. An animal has to die and the best we can do is ensure the animal has a good life and a swift, painless death. In many ways, the fact that the slaughterhouse is on site is good. But the thought of a little girl stumbling inside still makes me feel uncomfortable. And how exactly did she just ‘stumble’ inside? I think again about Poppy’s blank stare, Simon’s aggressive bluster. Embarrassment? Or guilt?
I crunch across gravel to the farmhouse’s front door. This is exactly the type of thing Bishop Durkin would advise me against doing. Poking my nose in. Making a nuisance of myself. On the other hand, this is why I became a priest. To protect the innocent. There are things that people will tell a priest that they won’t confess to the police, or even a social worker. Also, a white collar gives you access that other people don’t get. It’s almost as good as a warrant card.
I raise my hand and knock briskly. I can hear voices and then the door swings open. A willowy teenage girl leans against the doorframe, nonchalant in cropped jeans and a vest top, blonde hair pulled carelessly back into a loose ponytail.
She has an older sister, Rosie.
‘Yes?’
‘Hello, I’m Jack Brooks – the new priest in charge at Chapel Croft.’
She continues to regard me silently.
‘There was an incident with your sister yesterday. I just thought I’d drop by and check she’s okay.’
She sighs, steps back from the door and calls out: ‘Mu-um?’
‘What is it?’ A female voice echoes down the stairs.
‘Vicar. About Poppy.’
‘Tell her I’m just coming.’
She flashes me a quick, insincere smile. ‘She’s just coming.’ And then she turns on one pedicured foot and slinks off back down the hall, no invite in, nothing. Fine. I step inside.
The hall is huge and the massive window bathes the room in light. A wooden staircase winds around to a balconied landing on the first floor. I guess the business must be doing well.
‘Hello?’
Another willowy blonde descends the staircase. For a moment, I wonder if there’s a third sister. As the figure gets closer, I reprise my opinion. The woman is older and, despite what looks like some subtle cosmetic work, you can never really defeat the ageing process. She’s probably in her forties, like me. Still, the resemblance to her elder daughter is startling.
‘Hi,’ I say. ‘I’m Reverend Brooks. Jack.’
The woman glides across the quarry floor. I feel immediately lumpen and scruffy in her presence.
‘Emma Harper. Nice to meet you. I heard all about the little misunderstanding yesterday.’ She smiles. ‘I’m so sorry you got caught up in it.’
‘No problem. I was happy to help. I just wanted to see if Poppy is okay.’
‘Of course, she’s fine. Come on through. I’m sure she’d like to say hello. Coffee?’
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘That would be lovely.’
Emma is gracious and nice … and yet? Is she a little too gracious and nice? Or am I just judging her because of her husband?
I follow her through to the kitchen, which is straight out of Grand Designs. Huge island, granite worktops, shiny appliances. The whole caboodle. It blends into the glass conservatory which houses a long table and benches, comfy sofas and a hanging egg chair.
I feel a stab of envy. I’ll never live somewhere like this. I’ll probably never even own my own home. If I’m lucky, the Church will let me continue to live in the house I end up in, in exchange for occasional help with services and administration. If I’m unlucky, I’ll be out on my ear, forced into the rental market with no savings or equity.
Such is the life of a vicar. Of course, we live in our accommodation rent and mortgage free. If you’re savvy, you can save a modest deposit. But vicars earn around half the average wage in the UK and, with a teenage daughter, money does not go far. At present, my savings might buy me a Portakabin near a rubbish tip.
‘You have a beautiful home,’ I say.
‘Oh.’ Emma glances around as if noticing it for the first time. ‘Yes, thank you.’
She walks over to a sleek-looking coffee machine that probably cost more than my car. The green-eyed monster grumbles.
‘Cappuccino, latte, espresso?’
I fight the urge to say, Nescafé.
‘Just black, thanks. No sugar.’
‘No problem.’
As the coffee machine gurgles, I walk across to the trifold doors and peer out. Part of the field has been fenced off into a garden area with a wooden climbing frame, slide and a trampoline, upon which Poppy is bouncing. Up, down, up, down, hair flying. Yet her face, when she turns, is blank. No smile or expression of pleasure. The sight is slightly disconcerting.
‘She’ll do that for hours.’ Emma pads over and hands me a mug of coffee.
‘She must enjoy it.’
‘It’s hard to say. Often with Poppy, it’s hard to say how she feels about things.’ She turns to me. ‘Do you have children, Reverend?’
‘Just the one. Florence, Flo – she’s fifteen.’
‘Ah, the same age as my older daughter, Rosie. Is Florence going to Warblers Green Community College?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, good. We should get them together.’
‘That would be nice.’
I can’t see the pair getting on. But you never know.
‘So, is your husband a vicar too?’
‘He was.’ I swallow. ‘He died when Flo was very young.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You’ve brought Flo up all on your own? That must have been tough.’
‘Being a parent is tough full stop.’
‘Tell me about it. If I’d known what hard work Poppy would be compared to Rosie, I might have stuck at one –’ She catches herself. ‘Not that I’d be without her. Shall we sit down?’