The cleaner was, in fact, a former mergers and acquisitions tax specialist with PwC, PricewaterhouseCoopers. In his late thirties, Kester Newman had joined the Lambertines two years previously and was still getting used to doing the sorts of job he’d forgotten existed. For him, floors were simply things you walked on. And he’d been on that tiled corridor for a week, now, what with the stripping and washing and the three coats of wax. But Kester couldn’t hang around. He’d slipped away and his absence would shortly be noted.
‘When I was an accountant I had to deal with people running companies who wanted to hide significant transactions. Not just from the taxman, but me, their adviser. You can feel it in the air. You can tell that behind an honest explanation there’s a strategy at work, and you just can’t imagine what it might be, or why the man across the table doesn’t want you to know what he’s really doing. And I’ve got that feeling now as regards Father Carrington. Something strange is happening.’
By the time Kester had caught Anselm, he’d just reached the tennis courts in Lammas Park. They were standing by the fence watching a father and son practise their groundstrokes.
‘He’s genuinely concerned about Littlemore’s disappearance but he’s not cooperating with the police. He’s not giving them the kind of information they need.’
Kester was leaning on the high fence with one arm, his fingers locked into the wire netting. Those years behind a desk had given a certain generosity to his frame, and he was no more used to running than he was to waxing floors. But his eyes were a sharp, bright brown. This man’s athleticism was intellectual and he’d lost none of his form. Anselm could imagine him chairing a conference, listening to his clients while preparing questions to make them squirm. Only, you couldn’t do that kind of thing to a reverend Provincial.
‘What sort of information?’ asked Anselm.
‘About Littlemore’s past. It’s not straightforward.’
Strictly speaking, Littlemore and Kester were exact contemporaries. Littlemore had come to the Lambertines two years back, having already been ordained by the archdiocese of Boston. No clear reason had been given for his departure from the US, but he’d been accepted into the Order by Carrington’s predecessor, Owen Murphy, who’d sent him to Newcastle – Kester’s birthplace, as it happened. Carrington had been elected shortly afterwards, following Murphy’s death, and one of his first decisions was to move Littlemore to Freetown in Sierra Leone … that’s right, West Africa. A long way off. The rumour was that Littlemore had a serious ‘personal difficulty’, something ‘fundamental’, and Carrington was keeping trouble at arm’s length. The ploy, needless to say, didn’t work. Littlemore was summoned home after some sort of complaint.
‘I was here when he returned and Father Carrington grilled him for over three hours.’
Kester – draining a radiator in the room next door – couldn’t catch the words, but he’d caught the tone. Littlemore had been angry, hitting back it seemed at a reprimand.
‘What he’d done I don’t know, but I think we can work backwards from what happened next. He was sent to a parish in south London and that’s where things finally unravelled.’
The father had gone up to the net for a volley, carefully aiming his shot to compel his son to use a specific stroke. The boy dashed right, stretching on the run. Kester watched him enviously. Then he said:
‘None of this information has been given to the police. Because it’s sensitive. Because Littlemore has crossed a line … either in the States, here or in Sierra Leone. Maybe everywhere. I’ve felt compromised ever since. Which is why I’m speaking to you.’
Anselm was perplexed. ‘What line?’
‘It’s obvious, isn’t it?’
‘Not to me.’
Kester took Anselm’s avowed ignorance for diplomacy so, in a changed tone, he referred to the subject no one in the Order wanted to talk about: ‘Father Carrington said nothing to the police because it has to be linked to why Littlemore ran away in the first place. He doesn’t want the publicity and I imagine he doesn’t want to harm Littlemore’s defence, if he has one.’
Anselm came clean as the boy broke out of training and lobbed his father. The kid wanted to take control for once. ‘Kester, I’m looking for a man without knowing anything about him save his name.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘You don’t know why he vanished?’
‘Any more than you know why he left the States or why he was sent to Sierra Leone.’
Kester glanced at his watch. Stepping closer to Anselm he spoke as if he were dictating a minute to his former secretary that would blow the reputation of a major client. ‘Edmund Littlemore sexually attacked an eleven-year-old boy named Harry Brandwell. He’s the grandson of Martin and Maisie Brandwell, longstanding friends of the Order. When the police confronted him, he ran from the station.’
Anselm was stunned but he showed nothing. His eyes followed the ball from racket to racket. Despite that show of nerve from the son, the father knew what he was doing. He’d returned the lob and got his son back into the groove.
‘The day after the interview Littlemore came here,’ said Kester. ‘He had a conference with Father Carrington. I assume he owned up. What else could he do? Three days later he vanished. No one has any idea where he might have gone.’
Anselm reflected for a long time upon that last observation. But he still listened. Kester had his own worries.
‘I pity Father Carrington. He’s out of his depth … I mean, he reads Middle English for fun. He’s an academic. Eighteen months ago he gets elected only to find he’s got Littlemore on his hands. He’s a good guy trying to preserve an institution’s reputation. It’s what he’d call “a delicate matter that has to be handled delicately”. To be honest, I thought I’d left that kind of manoeuvring behind.’
Anselm noted the reply, watching the father and son. The father wouldn’t let up. He kept hitting the ball to his son’s weaker backhand. Anselm said, ‘What do you suggest I do now?’
‘If anyone knows anything, it’s Martin Brandwell. He was here shortly after Littlemore went missing. He was with Father Carrington for most of the afternoon. They had a row as well, only I didn’t catch anything. But it’s safe to assume he was angry because he’d found out about Littlemore’s past … that there’d been complaints or whatever in Boston and Freetown and, because nothing had been done to deal with this “personal difficulty”, his own grandson had been harmed. I’ve brought you his details. And now I really have to go.’
Kester handed over a piece of paper and then began his run back home with the uncertain vigour of someone committed to taxis. Insofar as Anselm could think clearly, given what he’d just learned, he felt sorry for him. Kester was young enough to retain strong ideals and old enough to think that he was – at long last – beyond the sort of disillusionment that plagues coming of age. The problem, however, was this: he’d yet to learn that those deeper, more costly ideals – the ones that can lead a man to abandon his professional career – are, in fact, the most brittle. It takes time to make them supple, able to bend with the otherwise shattering discovery that those who led you out of the desert haven’t always left it themselves.
Anselm turned back to the tennis court. Father and son were shaking hands over the net, smiling and chatting. The son had made all the right moves, executing each stroke with considerable talent. But – and this was no criticism, just a natural outcome of the balance of power – the boy had only done what his father had wanted. His father had made all the decisions from a commanding position at the net, determining the reactions of his trusting son.
Just like Father Carrington.