‘I think … she must have slipped and ended up on the floor. Anyway, then she ran away, and you know the rest …’ He looks at me. ‘You have no idea how bad I feel, but it’s a farm. It’s what we do.’
I feel a small sliver of sympathy. I rinse the cloth out and use it to wipe the last of the blood from Poppy’s face. Then I fish in the pocket of my jeans for a hair bobble and wind Poppy’s sticky hair up into a ponytail.
I smile at her. ‘I knew there was a little girl in there somewhere.’
Still nothing. It’s a little disconcerting. But then, trauma can do that. I’ve seen it happen before. Being a vicar in an inner city is not all cake bakes and jumble sales. You meet a lot of troubled people, old and young. But abuse is not confined to city streets. I know that too.
I turn to Simon. ‘Has Poppy got any other pets?’
‘We have some working dogs, but they’re kept in kennels.’
‘Perhaps it would be a good idea for Poppy to have a pet of her own. Something small, like a hamster, she could care for?’
For a moment I think he might accept my suggestion. Then his face closes again.
‘Thank you, Reverend, but I think I know how to deal with my own daughter.’
I’m on the verge of pointing out that the evidence would suggest otherwise when Flo reappears in the kitchen, holding baby wipes and a sweatshirt with a picture of Jack Skellington on it.
‘Will this do?’
I nod, feeling suddenly tired. ‘Fine.’
We stand at the door and watch as father and daughter – Flo’s sweatshirt flapping around Poppy’s knees – climb into the four-by-four and drive off.
I sling an arm around Flo’s shoulders. ‘So much for the peace of the countryside.’
‘Yeah. Perhaps it will be fun here after all.’
I chuckle and then I spot a ghostly figure in black walking towards the cottage holding a large rectangular box. Aaron. I’d completely forgotten about him. What on earth has he been doing all this time?
‘I presume the police are on their way?’ I ask.
‘Oh, no. I saw Simon Harper pull up and thought it wasn’t necessary.’
Did you now? Simon Harper obviously wields influence here. In many small communities, there’s a family who others defer to. Out of tradition. Or fear. Or both.
‘And then I remembered,’ Aaron continues. ‘I was supposed to give you this when you arrived.’
He holds out the box. My name is printed neatly in bold type on the front.
‘What is it?’
‘I don’t know. It was left for you at the chapel yesterday.’
‘By whom?’
‘I didn’t see. I thought perhaps it might be a welcome gift.’
‘Maybe the last vicar left it?’ Flo suggests.
‘I doubt it,’ I say. ‘He’s dead.’ I glance at Aaron, realizing that might have sounded insensitive. ‘I was sorry to hear about Reverend Fletcher. It must have been a shock.’
‘It was.’
‘Had he been ill?’
‘Ill?’ He looks at me oddly. ‘Didn’t they tell you?’
‘I heard his death was sudden.’
‘It was. He killed himself.’
FOUR
‘You should have told me.’
Durkin’s voice is barely audible at the other end. ‘Delicate … —ation … best not … details.’
‘I don’t care – I should have known.’
‘I didn’t … personal … sorry.’
‘Who does know?’
‘Few people … church warden … found him … the parish council.’
Which probably means pretty much everyone in the village. Durkin is talking again. I hang further out of the upstairs bedroom window – the only place I can get a workable signal on my phone – and gain a magical third bar.
‘Reverend Fletcher … mental health issues. Fortunately, he had already agreed to resign before it happened, so officially he wasn’t the residing vicar any more …’
So, in other words, not the Church’s problem. Durkin’s lack of empathy verges on pathological. I often think his skills would be better put to use in politics rather than the Church, but then, perhaps there isn’t so much difference. We both preach to the converted.
‘I should have known. It affects how I run things here. It affects people’s perception of the chapel and the vicar.’
‘Of course. I’m sorry. It was an oversight.’
It bloody well wasn’t. He just didn’t want to give me another reason not to come.
‘Is that all, Jack?’
‘Actually, there’s one more thing –’
It shouldn’t matter. If death is simply a release to a higher plane, the circumstances should not be an issue. But they are.
‘How did he do it?’
A pause, long enough for me to know – having known Durkin a long time – that he is wondering whether to lie. Then he sighs.
‘He hanged himself, in the chapel.’
Flo is kneeling on the floor in the living room, taking things out of boxes. Fortunately, there aren’t that many. When the removal van eventually arrived, it took the two tattooed young men all of twenty minutes to unload our worldly possessions. Not much to show for half a lifetime’s work.
I flop on to the worn sofa, which only just fits in the cramped living room. Everything in the cottage is tiny, low and wonky. None of the windows open properly, making it unbearably warm, and I have to keep remembering to duck through the doorway between the kitchen and the living room (and I’m not exactly Amazonian).
The bathroom is olive green and speckled with mould. There’s no shower. Heating is provided by an oil-fired boiler and an ancient-looking log burner, which probably needs a safety check or we’ll gas ourselves come winter.
In the spirit of counting our blessings, the house is rent free. We can do our best to make it our own. Just not right now. Right now, I want to eat, watch some TV and sleep.
Flo looks up. ‘I hope today’s events haven’t blinded you to what a dump this place is.’
‘No, but tonight I’m too tired and hungry to feel depressed about it. I don’t suppose there’s such a thing as a takeaway nearby?’
‘Actually, there’s a Domino’s in the next town. I googled it on the way here.’
‘Hallelujah. Civilization. Shall we see what’s on Netflix?’
‘I thought BT hadn’t connected the broadband yet?’
Bugger.
‘Stuck with normal TV, then.’
‘You’ll be lucky.’
‘What? Why?’
She gets up and sits on the sofa next to me, slipping an arm around my shoulders.
‘What’s wrong with this picture, Michael?’
I smile at the Lost Boys reference. At least some of my cultural influences have rubbed off.
‘No TV aerial. Do you know what it means when there’s no TV aerial?’
‘Oh God.’ I throw my head back. ‘Really?’
‘Yup …’
‘What have we got ourselves into?’
‘Hopefully not the murder capital of the world.’