‘Are you making custard, darling?’ Lovatt asked, pushing his empty dinner plate away. ‘Do Paddy and I have time to go and sign a few boring papers?’
‘More improvements,’ said Tuft. ‘Instant custard. Cup-a-Soup. Gravy granules.’
She curled back round to the topic of my job while she was whisking. ‘The only thing about your appointment that troubles me, dear, is what you gave up to come to us. It struck me when the minister told me you’d accepted.’
‘Can I do anything to help, by the way?’
‘Hold my ciggie for me?’ She winked as I lit one.
‘I was only part-time in the last parish,’ I said. ‘This is actually a great move for the old CV.’ I was starting to talk like her. ‘Running a small deal single-handed is much better than being one cog in one wheel of a big one.’
‘CV, eh?’ said Tuft. ‘We’re but a stepping stone in your meteoric rise?’
‘I wouldn’t say that.’ She was pretty savvy for a volunteer. ‘I’m looking forward to it.’
‘I hope you’re looking forward to fundraising,’ she said, ‘because we’ve only got hard money for your post for a year and after that you’re self-supporting.’
‘Hard money?’ I said, trying not to smile.
‘I haven’t always been a dotty old lady in pearls.’ She took the cigarette and winked at me again. ‘I’m slightly engaged in bottom-covering, though, if I’m perfectly honest. I pressed pretty hard to divert St Angela’s money to you. You need to show a profit or it’s egg on my face.’
‘So … they’re funding my job? St Angela’s?’ The name had come up in my interview and I’d assumed they were the nearest Catholics, till a quick google had put me right.
‘They focus on the most difficult placements, the most challenging cases. Last-ditch efforts, you know. And it’s not getting any easier.’
Finally something sounded like it needed a deacon. Cases and placements.
‘I mean you do know,’ said Tuft. ‘Things are so tremendously much better these days in some respects, don’t you think? Morning-after pills and medical abortions have helped a lot. You’re not shocked to hear me cheering them, are you?’
I shrugged. She’d know better than me that the Church of Scotland took a practical view. I might have felt an ancestral twinge but I ignored it.
‘Although I’ll never approve – never! – of all the scans and genetic testing. Be that as it may, the pool … the available … I mean, the children who are still looking for homes need all the help they can get.’
‘So it’s not really Simmerton that needs a deacon,’ I said.
‘It’s Simmerton that needs fresh blood on the team. Paddy at Dudgeon and Dudgeon, and you at the kirk. Unstoppable! It eats money. As you can imagine. Simply devours it. Do you still have Canadian contacts you could squeeze?’
‘So Dudgeon and Dudgeon are their lawyers?’ I said, finally catching up. I had wondered how a country firm could specialise as much as Paddy seemed to think they did.
‘Pro bono, case by case,’ Tuft said. ‘All of this is very dear to Lovatt’s heart. Well, it would be.’
‘Was he adopted? You know Paddy was, right?’
‘That’s what gave him the edge,’ said Tuft. ‘But not Lovatt. No, no, no.’
‘Did he adopt?’
‘Oh, my good gracious, no.’
I waited, but she just handed me an unwrapped dishwasher tablet and went back to whisking. ‘That’s the main reason I didn’t just join the St Angela’s board and do the fundraising direct. Too incestuous. Instead, I joined the church, joined the fundraising committee, rose to be its chair and carried out a coup. Simmerton Kirk is not only a major direct sponsor through its own efforts, but we act as the launderer of all sorts of cash from elsewhere. Oh, yes, the compounding potential of Church connections is not to be sniffed at.’
‘Launderer?’ I said.
‘Clearing-house, if you prefer,’ said Tuft, with another wink at me.
I didn’t care that Paddy was crowing as we set off into the mouth of the drive again. The fog was even thicker and the temperature had plummeted. His torch app was picking up sparkles of frost on the ground but I was aglow.
‘You’ve got a crush on her!’ Paddy said. ‘You want to ki-iss her. You want to mar-ry her.’
‘Of course I do,’ I said, loud enough to echo, even with the fog and the baffle of trees all around us. ‘She’s fantastic. Can you imagine her hobbling through Florence with her knickers down, spraying piss everywhere? I adore her. He’s okay too.’
‘He is,’ Paddy said. He put an arm round me and cuddled in close for a bit of warmth. I couldn’t return the favour because I was carrying the leftover crumble and a bottle of sloe gin.
‘And she’s not just comic relief,’ I said. ‘She’s head of the church fundraising committee that’s single-handedly keeping St Angela’s afloat.’
‘St Angela’s,’ said Paddy. ‘It’s pretty amazing, Finnie. This sleepy little town.’
‘I thought I’d be able to swan in and wow everyone,’ I said ‘Turns out I’ll have to paddle hard to keep up.’
‘But that’s good, isn’t it?’ Paddy said. ‘It’s going to work out okay.’
‘It’s going to be great. Owls, deers, dogs, poachers and all!’
‘Drunken bum,’ said Paddy, squeezing me and dropping a kiss on my parting.
‘One thing bothers me,’ I said. And waited.
‘My mum,’ said Paddy.
Paddy’s mum. He’d warned me as we were walking up her path on my first visit. ‘Don’t mention adoption,’ he’d said. ‘We never talk about it.’
She didn’t hide it from him, he told me, but she didn’t discuss it with … ‘Outsiders,’ he said, screwing up his face at me. He knew how it sounded.
I shrugged.
Later, when we were engaged and I wasn’t an outsider any more, I thought it would change. Paddy screwed up his face in just the same way again. ‘She doesn’t want you judging.’
‘Judging what?’ I said. ‘That’s crazy.’ She’d hit the jackpot, as far as I could see. A single woman getting a healthy white infant in a closed placement. It’s horrible, but Tuft was right. Adoption’s a worse meat-market than dating. Those poor kids of fifteen and sixteen, smiling out so bravely from their photographs. Sibling groups, spina bifida, foetal alcohol syndrome. It would break your heart. Did break my heart when I was attached to a group home in the old parish and got to know them. Seven great kids, with their fat files and their care teams and their cautious progress plans.
‘Judge me, maybe,’ Paddy had said. ‘Coming out of care. No way I’m descended from dukes and earls, is there?’
‘Who cares?’
‘My mum. And she’s a bit scared of you. Because of the job. The Church. But you know that.’
I thought about it. I was used to ‘the job’ flummoxing people. The dog-collar especially. But it had never seemed like fear that got dished out to me in the neat little semi where Paddy’s mum, Elayne, lived alone with her knitting machine and her thriving eBay business. It had always seemed more like disapproval. I was too old for him at thirty-five. Too old for her, she meant, thinking of grand-children. I wasn’t a proper professional, probably after his money. My hair was too messy. I knew, from the way she looked at me, that she wondered where I’d got such tight corkscrew curls to go with my olive skin. And I smoked. She used to pull a tablecloth over the knitting machine and tuck it in tight underneath whenever I was there. ‘I advertise my products as coming from a smoke-and pet-free home, you see.’
And it definitely wasn’t fear she felt for my family.
But walking down the drive that Monday night, full of food and wine, still laughing about Tuft and her stories, Lovatt and his devotion, even Paddy’s mum couldn’t bring me down.
Then a thought struck me. ‘Pad? Why did you put it in your CV that you were adopted, if you didn’t find out about St Angela’s till after?’
Paddy grunted. There’s a grunt he makes, almost a laugh, when I’ve surprised him. ‘Sobering up, are you?’ he said. After a bit he went on, ‘I think I just wanted to make a fresh start. Coming down here, the job – both jobs really, the house and everything. I wanted to be less…’
‘Furtive?’ I suggested.
‘Jeez, you had that all ready and waiting! Less uptight, I was going to say.’
‘Mission accomplished. Signing papers after all that whisky,’ I said. ‘Man, they can drink! Tell me you read them first. Because I didn’t.’
I hadn’t had the chance. Paddy had brought a cascade of them through, with just the signature lines showing, and said, ‘Paw-print, Finn!’ holding out a Bic.
‘Have we met?’ he said now. ‘First I read them, then I signed them, and then I put them in your bag. Oh, wait! Dammit, I meant to put them in your ba— What?’
I had stopped walking. ‘I’ve left it behind. I got distracted, with the crumble and gin to carry. I’ve left my bag in the kitchen.’
‘It’s only been five minutes,’ Paddy said. ‘They won’t be in bed yet. Let’s go back.’
‘No choice. It’s got the lodge key in it.’
I didn’t think there was enough space between the banks of pine trees to let a wind blow through, but it got colder as we turned and retraced our steps. The glow faded until my face was stinging and my eyes watering.
‘They’re definitely still up, then,’ said Paddy. Even more lights were on in the house now, upstairs as well as down. It shone out into the spangling fog, looking like an advent calendar with Christmas only days away.
‘I still don’t think it’s a nice house,’ I said. ‘But it’s got something.’
‘Straight out of Agatha Christie,’ said Paddy. ‘Like Tuft said.’
I laughed. ‘I know! Porters, for God’s sake.’
‘Shame they wrecked the kitchen, though.’
I glanced at him. It wasn’t like Paddy to notice décor.
‘Catch Tuft muddling through with a scrubbed table-top and a dresser!’ I said. ‘She had that dishwasher stacked and her cloths in bleach before we’d finished chewing. I reckon she only gave us the leftover crumble so it didn’t clutter the fridge.’
‘We’ll definitely have to have a bit of a wipe round before we ask them back.’ Paddy had dropped his voice since we were nearly on the doorstep.
The front door was still open and the vestibule light was on. And there sat my handbag on the letter-shelf of the hat stand.
‘Bingo,’ said Paddy. ‘We won’t need to disturb them.’
‘They’re a bit laid back security-wise,’ I said, ‘after what they said about the dog-walkers.’
‘City slicker! Is everything still there? Phone? Wallet? No one’s nicked your Tic-Tacs?’
‘There’s no papers, though,’ I said, checking all the side pockets. ‘Are you sure you put them in here?’
‘No,’ said Paddy. ‘Like I said, I meant to. That’s weird, though. Why wouldn’t Lovatt have left them here too?’
‘Typical lawyer,’ I said. ‘Handbags are one thing. But papers? He’s probably put them in a safe.’ I looked around, then pushed the bell that was half hidden by ivy at the side of the doorway.
‘Finnie!’
‘They’re still up. Where’s the harm?’
‘Put the bag back. Quick. Pretend you haven’t seen it. Pretend you rang to ask about it.’
‘You’re a partner,’ I said. ‘As per the papers. Stop acting like Bob Cratchit.’ I rang the bell again.
‘Maybe they’re both in the loo,’ said Paddy, after a minute. ‘I hope Tuft doesn’t do her Florence routine.’
I rang a third time. We looked at one another as the silence from inside the house seemed to grow and grow. ‘Do you think they’re okay?’ I said at last.
‘Maybe they’re at it,’ Paddy said, but neither of us managed a smile.
I stepped across the vestibule and knocked on the inner door. Then I put my ear to it. From inside the house I could hear the swish of the dishwasher, but nothing else. I tried the handle.
‘Finnie! You can’t just—’
It opened. ‘Tuft?’ I called. ‘Lovatt?’
Paddy was standing beside me now. ‘Maybe they went out the back to look at the … I was going to say stars.’
‘They haven’t got a dog, have they?’ I stepped into the hall and looked around at the half-open doors, the long corridor towards the kitchen. The fire had died down to ashes but no one had put the guard over it. ‘Or chickens or anything that needs to be shut up at night?’
‘Lovatt!’ Paddy shouted. ‘It’s us again. Is everything okay?’
The dishwasher stopped and there was absolute silence. I put my bag down on the carpet and began to walk towards the kitchen. My palms were sweating.
The kitchen door was half open too and all the lights were still on. The freshly wiped counter tops shone, clear and empty. Tuft didn’t have so much as a fruit bowl messing the place up. The hob set into the island was white ceramic and chrome and it glittered under the light in the hood above it. There was just one dark mark towards the back. Gravy or pasta sauce or something. Except we hadn’t had gravy or pasta sauce. We hadn’t had anything that colour.
Paddy took another step into the room, moving past me. ‘No,’ he said.
I walked up to the island and looked over.
Tuft Dudgeon lay on her back on the floor, with Lovatt sprawled diagonally over her. Her eyes were open. Her mouth was open too and full of blood. It had stained her teeth in patches. And the lipstick that had seemed such a pure true scarlet looked nothing of the kind. Not now that so much real red was all around. I looked away from her face. Her arms were thrown wide and there was blood on her hands, seeping from deep gashes crisscrossed on her palms. There was blood underneath her, in a smear to one side and a splat to the other. It was creeping down her stockinged legs, revealed because her pleated blue skirt had kicked up in a cow-lick on the floor under her skinny hips.
Lovatt’s face was hidden against her collarbone, as if he was seeking comfort there. You might have thought that, if he was moving. If he was breathing. But the back of his tweedy jacket was stone still, and in the middle of it, right on the seam, a knife handle stood poking up out of a stain so dark it looked black, even in the bright lights beating down. Another knife, dull with blood, lay under his hand. He was still half gripping it. At least, his fingers were curled around the handle. As we watched, a single bead of blood ran the length of the blade and dropped, with a tiny shimmer, into the pool of red on the floor.
‘My phone,’ I said, surprised by the croak of my own voice. I patted my pockets, searching for its comforting weight. ‘Nine nine nine.’
‘No!’ Paddy’s voice was another toad’s croak, just like mine. He turned and looked at me, his face so white I could see every little iron-filing speck of his stubble, so white his eyes looked yellow and his teeth grey, as he grimaced. ‘No,’ he said again. ‘No police. I can’t. We need to get out of here, Finn. I can explain everything. I will explain everything. But we need to get out of here now. We need to go.’
I felt as if I was floating up out of my body. There was a rushing sound in my ears, like the sea in a shell. It was deafening me. I saw Paddy’s mouth move but couldn’t hear the words. Too good to be true. I’d said that, hadn’t I? There’s a reason things look too good to be true.
‘What?’ I said at last, shaking the sea-sound and the memory out of my head.
‘I should have told you,’ Paddy was saying. ‘I’m sorry. But we really, really need to get out of here.’
‘Should have told me what?’
‘Not now. We need to go. Trust me. I’ll explain. I should have told you before. I’ll tell you now, I promise. But please, Finnie.’
‘Should have told me before,’ I repeated. I stared at him for a long moment, then plucked my cuff down over my knuckles and wiped where I had put my hand on the edge of the island.
‘Thank God, thank God,’ he said. He made it sound like one word, speaking on a massive breath he was letting go. ThankGodthankGod.
He took my arm and pulled me out of the kitchen, along the corridor, swiping up my bag from where it sat on the carpet, and out through the half-glass door.
‘It doesn’t change anything,’ he said. His words were still tumbling over each other. ‘I’m sorry. I should have told you.’
I wiped the door handle with the end of my scarf and we started walking.
‘Tell me now,’ I said. ‘Start at least.’
‘I’ve never been to Canada.’
I have no idea if the sound I made was a gasp or some kind of twisted laugh. ‘Me neither,’ I said.
We walked in silence the rest of the way.