Later, after he’d said his goodbyes and checked in on the facility manager to make sure his mother was otherwise okay, Will stomped back to the car, lost in thought.
Somewhere safe. Back where it belonged.
Not the apartment, he mused. Amy must’ve known that Rossiter would have no qualms about paying someone to break in and tear the place apart to search for the bible – if that’s what he was after.
Not the newspaper offices, either. Notwithstanding the fact Amy hadn’t told him or Erin about the angle of her story, she wouldn’t risk one of her colleagues beating her to it.
And there had been nothing else in their shared post office box, or saved to the hard drive.
He groaned, and then banged his hands on the steering wheel in frustration. What if Amy had a second, private, post office box which she hadn’t told him about?
He shook his head to clear the thought. No – everything Amy had left for him so far had been similar to a trail of breadcrumbs. She was leading him to the story – he just had to figure it out.
Before Rossiter found him.
Before the whole story was covered up.
He emitted a growl of frustration, then started the car and drove away from the aged care facility, switching on the radio in time to catch the hourly headlines.
While the radio announcer intoned that day’s news, he realised he was running out of time.
The General Election was only a week away. And Rossiter wanted to win.
Badly.
At any cost.
Will glanced at his backpack on the passenger seat, the hard drive and his laptop safely tucked inside.
What the hell am I missing?
What aren’t I seeing?
And where the hell is that bible?
***
Will’s eyelids snapped open, his heart racing.
He squinted at the luminous dial of his wristwatch, then rolled over, reached out his hand and switched on the bedside lamp.
Three-thirty a.m.
He rubbed his eyes and desperately tried to recall the thought that had shaken him from his sleep.
In his dream, he’d been running after Amy, unable to catch up with her. Paper copies of her notes fluttered in his hands as he’d gasped for oxygen to feed his tired muscles.
In front, Amy raced through long grass, tossing more pages into the air. She had glanced over her shoulder at him, laughing. ‘Keep up Will – we’re almost there!’
He’d tripped then, and all the paper he held had flown up into the air, before floating to the ground. He’d stood, brushing dirt off his jeans, and had held out his hands as the large confetti fell around him, and then realised they were standing in a graveyard.
At which point, he’d woken.
Will swung his legs over the bed and padded into the bathroom for a glass of water.
Twisting the faucet, he glanced up at his reflection in the mirror, playing over the end of the dream in his mind. He shook his head in frustration, turned off the tap and took a deep gulp of the cool water.
And nearly choked.
His hand shaking, he placed the glass on the counter and tried to calm his jangled nerves.
That was it. The safe place.
Bibles belonged in churches.
Amy had put the bible in the church.
The one where Colin Avery was buried.
Will dashed back to the bedroom and switched on the laptop. He began to pull on his clothes as he waited for the computer to start up, then sank into the chair and began to sort through the files on the hard drive.
Somewhere, in one of the files, Amy had confirmed his suspicions and left him a clue, he was sure.
He just had to find it.
***
Will parked the car behind the Green Dragon pub and followed the faded signs for the church to a wooden stile built into a fence that straddled a meadow. A footpath led through the field, skirting a small copse of trees to the left. The church had its own parking area, but the opportunity to stretch his legs while he worked through what he had learned was tempting. So too was the thought of a quick pint at the pub on his return.
He’d stopped at a service station half a mile down the road from the motel, pausing only to buy a stale heated meat pie and an energy drink.
A truck driver had grinned at him as they waited in the queue at the counter and pointed at Will’s purchases.
‘Food of kings,’ he’d said.
Will had taken one look at the man’s large physique, wondered how long he had before having a heart attack, and smiled politely before handing over his money to the cashier and exiting the shop as quickly as possible.
Now, the hem of his jeans tugged at the long grass as he walked, and he kept a wary eye on the small herd of cows huddled near a stream that ran through the lower part of the meadow.
He couldn’t make up his mind about Rossiter’s niece. Was she really trying to destroy her uncle’s career, or was Rossiter using her to track his movements?
Why had she contacted Amy? What had made her turn against her father’s old friend?
He scowled and thrust his fists deeper into his pockets, his nails scratching his palms. Only three days ago, life had been near-perfect and the biggest worry he’d had was whether Russell was going to kick his arse at their next fencing match.
He sniffled, battled the stinging sensation behind his eyelids and stomped along the path.
It narrowed as it reached the trees, and the grass fell away to reveal a pale coloured mud, with puddles several inches deep in places. Branches hung over the footpath, creating a green tunnel pockmarked with blackberry bushes and rosehip brambles.
Will stopped and turned. A mile back, the thatched roof of the pub poked above the hedgerow that surrounded its boundary line. A crow cawed as it banked gently on the air, before it sank to the meadow with an effortless grace.
No one followed.
Will exhaled, only then realising that he’d been holding his breath, waiting. His heart raced, but he wasn’t sure if that was from the undulating walk across the field, or the fact that he was scared.
Very scared.
He wished Amy had told him more about the story that had been her obsession for the past few months. Maybe he could have suggested a way that she could pursue the political candidate without putting herself in danger.
He was out of his depth, and all too aware of it.
Here he was, chasing after clues Amy had left behind, on the trail of the same investigation that had surely led to her being shot.
He ignored the stinging sensation that pricked his eyes, loneliness washing over him, leaving him desolate.
He wished he could pick up the phone, call the police detective and tell him everything, but his conscience couldn’t let go of the fact that he simply didn’t have enough proof.
Of course, the police would carry out their own enquiries, but by the time they came to any useful conclusions, it would be too late.
Rossiter would, in all likelihood, be Prime Minister and he and Malcolm Gregory would create a smokescreen so complex that he and Amy would spend the rest of their lives looking over their shoulders.
If they lived that long.
He spun on his heel and continued towards the church. The sign by the stile had said it was only one and a half miles, and his pace increased. He pulled his hands from his pockets and swung his arms at his side, eager to test his theory.
If he’d interpreted his mother’s cryptic words about Amy’s visit, he was on the right track. If not –
A branch snapped in the woodland to his left. He froze.
Straining his ears, he tried to listen beyond the cacophony of crows that rose from the trees above him, wheeling and rising into the air in fright.
He cried out in terror as a blackbird tore from the brambles next to him, before steadying himself, and then fell silent as a small deer emerged from the woodland.
He held his breath, mesmerised by the sight of something moving with such precision and grace, and watched as she raised her head, twitched her ears, and then bounded across the meadow towards the stream and the safety of the copse of trees below.
He smiled, berated himself for reacting so badly, and continued his way along the path.
He’d never spent a lot of time in the countryside. He’d played in a park near his house as a kid, but the novelty of tearing around an enclosed green space at a weekend had worn off as he’d entered his teenage years and instead he’d been more comfortable amongst the concrete and brick buildings of cities.
He began to take more notice of his surroundings, enjoying the fresh air and sense of freedom that came from being outside – really outside – and began to make plans to bring Amy out of the city more often.
Then he frowned, as he remembered she’d already been here. Without him.
As the trees led the footpath round a left-hand curve, the church steeple appeared, rising majestically above a horizon of oak and yew trees. A second stile marked the boundary of the field and as he climbed over, he was relieved to see the footpath change from mud to gravel, which crunched under his feet.
The path widened and as he turned a corner and walked under the shadow of the eighteenth century building, he noted the empty visitor car parking spaces to the right of the door.
There was no sign of the vicar’s car in its allocated space.
He remembered as a child that churches were often left unlocked so that penitent parishioners and visitors could come and go as they pleased, but wondered if the vandalism of the twenty-first century had caught up with tradition and would dictate otherwise.
He raised his hand and pushed against the old wooden surface, and was relieved when it swung inwards under his touch.
He entered a small porch with wooden benches either side, coloured paper notices for garden parties, fund-raisers and community events fluttering in the breeze from the open door. The papers fell silent as he pushed the door shut, and then made his way through to the nave.
The building opened out into a large space, with vaulted ceilings towering above the stone slab floor. Dust motes drifted in the air between the stained glass windows. Light filtered through the coloured panes, pools of light breaking up the gloom as he wandered across the large flagstone floor.
Will closed his eyes and inhaled the musty air, childhood memories flooding into his mind. A hush filled the room, cocooning him from the outside world. He opened his eyes, sneezed twice, and then turned towards the altar at the far right of the church.
He approached the front pew to the left of the altar, running his hand over the polished wooden surface.
Small posies of flowers adorned the outside of the pew facing the aisle, hanging in wire mesh display sconces. Prayer cushions were neatly propped up behind the front of each pew, their covers displaying the colours and emblems of the local Girl Guides, Women’s Institute and every other community group that had banded together to weave the tapestry covers.
Finally, in front of each place and without regard to any dwindling size of the congregation, a bible lay.
The brown mock-leather covers held a dull sheen in the subdued light, and Will realised Amy had recognised the books as being similar in style to his mother’s bible. He sighed, and began to methodically work his way to the back of the church, craning his neck as he passed each pew, occasionally shuffling his way down a pew to inspect an opened book, before returning to his search.
He growled in frustration as he reached the back of the church, crossed the nave, and resumed his search from the back of the right-hand row.
He stopped halfway, the need to stretch his neck from the strange angle he’d been holding it at slowing him for a moment. He breathed out, and gazed across the room to the vestry, and the stairs beyond it that led up towards a balcony, and more pews.
Will thought twice about cursing, lowered his gaze and returned to the task in hand. As he progressed from the row back towards the altar, he realised if he didn’t find his mother’s bible here, he’d have no idea where to look next. Amy’s research and the way she’d catalogued the details, were filed in such a way, it could take him days to find out what she’d discovered.
He approached the penultimate pew, resigned to the fact that he’d have to start on the balcony next, when something caught his eye. He back-tracked until he was level with the pew again.
His heart twitched excitedly, and he forced the sensation aside. He slid onto the pew, grateful for the excuse to sit for a moment, and then reached out for the book.
As his palms slid over the smooth surface, memories engulfed him.
His mother reaching to her sewing table on a Sunday, picking up the bible to return to the dining table, insistent that her children pray before eating their lunch.
Or the times she quietly read the book while his father watched the six o’clock news in the evening, finding comfort between the pages as the world’s troubles filled the screen.
He blinked, pulled the book towards him, and tucked it into the inside of his jacket.
A car’s engine roared outside, jerking him back to the present.
He rose from the pew, the crunch of gravel beneath tyres unmistakable.
He swallowed, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end, while goose bumps prickled his skin.
Will moved, fast. He jogged towards the back of the church, deciding that regardless of whose car had turned up, he wasn’t going to hang around to introduce himself.
He pushed through the door to the vestry, closed it behind him and ran to the plain window set high in the wall. Standing on tiptoe, he peered through a yellowed net curtain to the car park.
Outside, an old silver sedan had stopped outside the porch, and two men were climbing out.
The driver wore a three-quarter length black wool coat, his greying hair swept back off his face. He squinted as he peered up at the church spire, then lowered his gaze to turn to the passenger who was leaning on the car roof, his hands folded, a quizzical expression crossing his brow.
The man’s mouth moved, but the words were lost to Will as he held his breath, waiting, unsure what to do.
Then, the car doors slammed, and the driver flicked his coat off his hip, turned, and extracted a gun before walking to the front door of the church, closely followed by his accomplice.
Will emitted a small yelp, and quickly assessed his surroundings. He needed to get away – quickly, before the two men discovered him, and the bible.
The room was full of detritus – props from a past Nativity play jostled for space with stocks of candles, flower arranging tools and chairs stacked against one wall.
Will spun in the centre of the vestry, his mind racing.
The front door to the church slammed shut with a loud crash, and the men’s footsteps reverberated across the flagstones as they began to prowl.
‘Come on, come on,’ muttered Will as he raced towards one of the doors in the opposite wall, carefully threading between the paraphernalia cluttering the way.
He wrenched open the first door, ready to run out of the building and away to his car, then swore.
He’d discovered a wardrobe instead.