Within the space of a week every loose end came together: it was an embarrassment of riches. First Stuart Greene called, saying he’d traced the fax number; then Mr Bangura rang with details about Lambertine mission stations in Sierra Leone, making, in the process, an accidental disclosure; and then there was a lunchtime meeting with the news editor of the Guardian which began with the offer of a job before the waiter had even come back with the wine list. The last development was all the more significant because it meant Robert would be freed from having to see Andrew Taylor – at least for the time being. He wouldn’t have to contain himself, saying thanks for the coffee.
To celebrate, his mother organised a dinner at Raynes Park, aiming to kill two birds with one stone, because she’d already found a buyer for the house. In at least two respects (she’d said, sadly, though thrilled for Robert) it was the end of an era. Robert thought the chain of surprises had come to an end, but then, to top it all, he received a letter that very morning, the day of the meal, from the monk at Larkwood Priory.
‘Do you want to talk shop for the last time?’ said Robert to Crofty when Muriel had cornered his mother in the kitchen. The feast was over. At Robert’s insistence they’d had scottadito. ‘Burned fingers’. Everyone had made quick intakes of air, dropping the meaty bones on their plates. No one escaped without a flick of the wrist. Everyone had burned their fingertips. Robert’s dad had been there, watching. ‘I’ve got a new angle on the Littlemore case,’ explained Robert.
Crofty had wounded Robert deeply. It wasn’t the offer of a job to Taylor as such or even the longstanding complicity. The cutting edge was the deceit that comes with any pretence. The dissembling. And Robert had viewed the man as if he was a second father. Hadn’t even called him Uncle Alan. He’d been closer and more important than any nod towards attachment by blood. He’d confided in him, and received confidences in return. Knowing, then, that Crofty had kept silent on such an important matter – feigned ignorance, dodged questions, stalled with answers – Robert could only look at him if they talked business. He needed to suppress his disillusionment with the bonhomie of colleagues who didn’t really care about each other; professionals whose shared concern was the story. And so Robert opened the French windows and ambled down the flagging that led to his dad’s shed. Crofty followed with a bottle of limoncello and two glasses. A train careered along the lines hidden by trees. When the clatter was over, Robert said:
‘The fax came from Carrington. He’s the account holder.’ They sat down on a couple of white plastic chairs, garden furniture to be thrown in with the sale. ‘And if Taylor is right – that whoever sent the fax also wrote the letter – then that means Carrington persuaded Littlemore to go to Larkwood and six months later he tipped me off. He set up Littlemore to be caught … because Carrington knows he’s guilty.’
Crofty filled their glasses, holding them in one hand. ‘Which means that Littlemore must have made some sort of confession to his boss.’
‘Yep. After he ran from that station.’
‘But why admit anything?’
The question brought Robert to the new angle on the story: ‘Because he had to explain why he wouldn’t cooperate with the police. At the same time, he was silencing Carrington. I’m pretty sure he didn’t make any old admission … he went to confession. That way Carrington couldn’t repeat anything. You know, the Seal. It’s absolute. So Littlemore told him what he’d done, knowing that afterwards his boss couldn’t say a word that might lead the police to even suspect him. It’s incredible …’
‘And that explains how Carrington knew about you,’ said Crofty, revolted by the full, sordid picture. ‘Littlemore must have told him you were there, at the station … that you’d gone after him.’
‘Yep. Thing is, he misread Carrington. Didn’t imagine that he’d use me to expose him … that he wouldn’t let him get away with a crime just because he’d been gagged and the victim was too scared to speak.’
Carrington had evidently come up with a plan and it had worked brilliantly. As Taylor had correctly guessed, by persuading Littlemore to hide in a monastery he’d undermined any later denial of guilt; at the same time he’d sent a sort of message to the boy: with Littlemore out of the way you’re free to speak without fear … which is exactly what happened. Robert drained his glass and told Crofty about Mr Bangura at the Sierra Leone High Commission.
‘He called with a list of places where Littlemore might have worked.’
Crofty frowned. ‘I thought they refused to comment on whether he’d been granted a visa?’
‘They did. But Bangura doesn’t work in the visa section. He’s Public Information. Gives answers for a living. And he slipped up. Told me that Littlemore’s visa had been withdrawn while he was out there.’
‘Withdrawn? Why?’
‘A complaint was made.’
‘Regarding?’
‘He didn’t know, but it was short of a specific offence. My guess is that it’s got something to do with “a bad character can’t be hidden for long”. Thing is, they kicked him out of the country. This is the past he ran away from.’
Crofty nodded, unscrewing the bottle top. ‘So he comes back to the UK?’
‘Yep. And nine months later he attacks the kid.’ Robert held out his glass. ‘Carrington can’t do anything about what he knows. So he sets him up to be convicted. To be honest, I misread him. I thought he was trying to protect Littlemore. I hadn’t appreciated the difficulty of his position, how much he knew and how little he could do; that his hands were tied. But he found a way, with a little help from the Guardian.’
Crofty put the bottle on the ground and leaned back in his chair. ‘Why you, though?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Why write to you rather than the police? Why seek coverage in the press?’
It was a tantalising question. Robert didn’t have an answer, and he didn’t much care. Littlemore had been caught, and that was all that mattered. He raised his glass:
‘To the reverend George Carrington and his honourable machinations.’
A train rattled by, drowning the clink of cheap crystal. When the quiet returned, Robert looked over to the kitchen. His mother and Muriel were talking earnestly. They’d been looking at a flat together. There’d been talk of curtains and a new bathroom. Where had the grief gone? Had there been any? Or just impatience? Crofty licked his thumb and forefinger and said, with a raised voice, ‘Why involve Sister Wendy?’
This time Robert did have an answer. It had come that morning in the form of the letter from Father Anselm Duffy in relation to the pending trial of Edmund Littlemore. Robert’s article in the Guardian had been fair in spirit – the monk wrote – but wrong in substance as regards himself, but since it had been fair, he was entrusting him with the enclosed press release.
‘He’s going to represent him at trial,’ said Robert.
Crofty seemed to chew something bitter knowing that he was compelled by good manners to swallow it afterwards. ‘You’re joking.’
‘I’m not.’
‘This is the Church protecting their own.’ Crofty took a swig as if to wash his mouth out. ‘He’s not even bothered what things look like. Doesn’t he realise that impressions count?’
Robert nearly sputtered his drink all over Crofty’s face. Talk about ‘out of the mouths of little children’. His hypocrisy was awe-inspiring. ‘You’re missing the point,’ he said, mischievously. ‘This is all part of Carrington’s plan. He’ll have told Littlemore to get the monk to represent him, told him that his reputation for being the hombre on the side of the widow and the orphan will get him off.’
‘Will it?’
‘Of course not. Carrington knows that Littlemore will have to explain himself. He’ll have to make another kind of confession, because this Anselm was a lawyer. He won’t take silence for an answer. You watch. There’s going to be no trial. Littlemore will plead guilty and the boy will be spared giving evidence.’
Crofty stared into his glass. ‘What the hell did Littlemore say to the monk that would make him stick his head on the block?’ He reached for the bottle, the aftertaste still in his mouth. ‘What if Littlemore won’t plead?’
‘He’s stuffed either way. He’s got no defence.’
Another train swept by. The windows rattled in the shed and, for a brief moment, Robert caught the smell of his dad … a manly aroma of skin and aftershave … spice and surf. He saw his dad’s smooth, red cheeks, the whitening hair, those eyes like cups of blue water with flakes of broken glass at the bottom. He felt the brush of soft, worn tweed.
‘This Carrington’s got some imagination,’ said Crofty, checking the label. ‘And he’s ruthless. To get Littlemore he’s risked the good standing of the monk.’
Lenny Sambourne had gone down the line. It was as though Robert had been left behind. He felt stranded in the middle of nowhere. There was no going back to the world as it had once been. And even if he could go back, he wouldn’t, because Andrew Taylor was there now. His gaze drifted across the darkness towards the kitchen window. Muriel was laughing, two burned fingers zipping shut her lips. They had a girly secret. Robert blinked and swallowed:
‘Maybe the monk will find out he was cheated by those he trusted most.’
‘And then what? What can he do except go down with the ship?’
‘Nothing, I suppose.’ Robert smashed his glass against the wall, making Crofty jump for cover. ‘Let’s go in. I fancy a sing-song.’
* * *
Robert fished out his dad’s recording of The Mikado, Gilbert and Sullivan’s comic take on a fad for things Japanese. When everyone’s glasses had been filled, he went straight to the best track, urging all present to sing along. Robert was the only one smiling. Shortly, Donald Adams was making his celebrated, blood-curdling screech before swinging into the jaunty refrain:
My object all sublime
I shall achieve in time –
To let the punishment fit the crime –
The punishment fit the crime;
And make each prisoner pent
Unwillingly represent
A source of innocent merriment!
Of innocent merriment!
Robert sang a fraction too loud and he let his eyes rest a little too long on each of his captives. But everyone joined in, tipsy and mock-cheery … until Robert’s mother began to cry. Only a short while ago the sight of her tears would have distressed him – coming, as they often did, by surprise from behind a shopping list – but not now. With knowledge came confusion. He’d discovered a new and toxic emotion, a mix of guilt and pleasure upon inflicting pain, a pain he felt, too; a binding pain that brought everyone together in a chorus of brute sincerity. Muriel turned off the music, nearly falling off her red high heels. Her eyes were alight with rage, something old, suppressed for God knows how long, but it was coming out now. She pulled Robert into the corridor by an earlobe, whispering.
‘You don’t know the half of it.’
‘Of what?’
‘What your mother’s been through. Now give her a break. You’ve had your fun, though God knows why you’re making her suffer. Your father would turn in his grave if he could see you now. You owe her everything and yet you treat her like some kind of criminal. He’s dead, Robert. It’s no one’s fault.’
Robert felt like a boy who’d killed a sparrow. He could feel the warmth of departed life in his hands. Muriel stomped away, her ankles weak on their narrow stands:
‘Let her turn the page, will you?’
Crofty waddled past, carrying a tray of tinkling glasses. His mother followed, going upstairs. When she came down again, she was carrying the one item of personal property that Robert had left behind when he’d come to collect his stuff: a large wooden ship, painted white.
‘I can’t look at it, Robert,’ she said, her eyeliner smudged into black wounds. ‘It makes me think of your father. And even if you have to remember to move on … I have to try and forget. Is that so bad? Can’t I grieve in my own way?’
Robert went home, his arms around the boat. On the Northern Line a little boy stared in wonder at the rows of tiny windows, the yellow funnel in the middle with a black domed top, and the coloured bunting hung from bow to stern. He turned to his dad asking for one just like that, pointing excitedly, but his dad said you couldn’t buy such things. They weren’t for sale. Even at Harrods. On reaching Tooting Bec, Robert rose from his seat and knelt down, placing the ship in the boy’s hands. The high seas were in his wide, unbelieving eyes.
‘She’s yours, Cap’n.’
And then – as if an alarm had sounded – Robert ran onto the platform, sliding through the corridor and leaping up the escalator. He fled just in case he changed his mind; just in case the father came after him wondering if the thing had been stolen from a museum. On reaching street level, Robert stumbled onto the pavement. His lungs were pumping air and sweat burned his eyes. That thumb was on his throat again, pressing hard. Tearing at his collar, Robert suddenly made a loud, guttural sob. And then he finally broke down, crying like he’d never cried before, crying like he’d never thought was possible, one hand reaching out to his dad who was gone and would never come back.