Martin and Maisie Brandwell lived in Leyborne Park near Kew Gardens. When Anselm dialled he got Maisie not Martin, and she suggested a meeting early that afternoon, to be followed by another with her son Dominic in Clapham. ‘He’ll want to see you,’ she insisted, promising to make the arrangements. ‘He’ll be so pleased. We feel completely abandoned by the police. They’re doing nothing.’ And so, near the appointed time, Anselm rounded a corner and practically walked into a man standing in the middle of the pavement. Anselm tried to step past him twice but the man just mirrored Anselm’s movements.
‘You’re going nowhere near my wife. Now listen to me.’
There was something silver about Martin Brandwell. His hair was silver, his glasses were silver and his eyebrows were silver. He was dressed formally: a white shirt, a red silk tie, a light brown and maroon checked jacket. There was perspiration on the high, lined forehead.
‘This is our affair not yours,’ he said. ‘I’ve had enough of priests. But you can do me a favour. You can do our family a favour. You can make up for some of the harm. You’re looking for that American, Littlemore?’
Anselm felt caged. This wasn’t the place to explain that John Joe Collins was an employee of Larkwood Priory.
‘Well, when you find him, give him a message.’
Anselm opened his mouth to speak but Martin Brandwell had no interest in discussion.
‘You tell him to stay hidden, do you understand me?’
Anselm frowned. He seemed to hear Kester. 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 …
‘Hidden?’ echoed Anselm.
‘That’s right. Tell him to keep out of our lives.’
‘But—’
‘I’ll pay him if need be. But I want him out of circulation for good. It’s the only way we’ll ever get to the other side of this hell.’
‘What do you mean?’ Anselm flinched at Martin Brandwell’s eyes. They were raw, like flesh when you peel back the epidermis.
‘Don’t you know? Have you forgotten what happens when these things end up in court? Harry will be pulled to pieces.’
‘Not if—’
‘I’m not asking your advice, right? I’m telling you what to do. My grandson’s beginning to get over what happened to him. I don’t want policemen and lawyers opening it up again. They don’t have to live with the memory. He does.’
Anselm didn’t know how to handle the transferred hostility. He opened his mouth to try and calm him, but again, Martin Brandwell intervened:
‘Look beyond the crime. Isn’t that your special gift? Try and understand that sometimes the right decision is a horrible decision. If Littlemore is arrested he’ll only deny what he did, and then things will only get worse … far, far worse. For Harry. For Maisie. For everyone. Now go and give him that message. You’ll have a father’s blessing.’
Martin Brandwell waited. He wasn’t going to leave until Anselm had turned round and gone. Obediently, Anselm backed away, finally retracing his steps beneath the shade of tall trees.
Anselm went to Clapham Common by bus. The route was tortuous but it gave him time to think. In principle – given Martin Brandwell’s instructions – he ought to have simply not turned up at his son’s home. But an appointment had been made by Maisie. They’d felt let down by the police and he didn’t want to add to their disillusionment. More to the point, he didn’t want to be controlled by Martin Brandwell: given his unthinkable request, Anselm thought he ought to meet Harry’s parents, if only to demonstrate his refusal to cooperate with the boy’s grandfather. It would be a delicate meeting and he didn’t know how best to handle it. Hopping from bus to bus, seemingly on the run from Kester Newman’s disclosure, Anselm let his mind play upon trivia: why had Martin Brandwell isolated Maisie from the long list of people who’d only be harmed by a future trial? Why had he made that slip of the tongue about a father’s blessing?
He’d meant a grandfather’s, surely? Unless he meant himself in relation to one of his own children.