A few weeks later, on a clear early summer Friday night in June, Cross found himself in the back seat of a car with Stephen. In the front was Raymond, with Christine driving. They were on their way to St Eustace’s Abbey. The father abbot had invited everyone who had worked on the organ to come and hear Peter, the abbey organist, give a short recital. Cross felt that his mother really had no place on this trip then realised she was the only one with a car so said nothing, despite the fact that the temptation to do so was huge. Cross was glad to be in a full car, though, with people who knew each other. It alleviated the need for him to contribute to the conversation. This was to be the first of two such excursions this quartet would make together in the coming weeks. They were going to go up to London to Tate Britain, for a party to unveil the new Lucien Freud the gallery had acquired. It had been bequeathed by Stephen in loving memory of his brother, Dominic Augustus, OSB.
The organ had been regulated by Harrison and Harrison of Durham, a world-renowned organ builder and restorer. Sir Patrick Murphy had paid for it. Unfortunately for Cross this had been done over a couple of weekdays and so he had been unable to observe. He also didn’t know how complimentary the people from Durham had been about his work on the organ. One of them had joked with the abbot that if Cross ever gave up being in the police there was a job for him with them.
As they walked to the church the night air was filled with the smells of early summer. Wild flowers added their scent to the pine trees that populated the abbey grounds. Again, the peace of it all struck Cross as such a rare commodity.
Ottey pulled up in her car. She got out with her girls, the younger of whom immediately ran over to Cross, throwing her arms around his waist in an enthusiastic hug.
‘George!’ she exclaimed to her victim who was now standing ramrod straight, arms held out sideways and paralysed with an inability to know how to respond.
‘Why are you here?’ was all he could come up with.
‘Nice to see you too, George,’ said Ottey who had had her fill of George Cross for that day. ‘Come on, girls,’ she said and led them away up the lane.
‘Oh, George,’ said his father, shaking his head wearily and walking away with Christine.
‘I think possibly I should have stayed at home,’ Cross said to Stephen who was now the only walking companion he had.
‘Nonsense. You did all the work,’ Stephen replied.
‘True. Maybe all of you should’ve stayed at home.’
Stephen laughed, which puzzled Cross who was being perfectly serious.
The gathering inside the church was small and intimate. Sir Patrick Murphy was there on his own. No Bates. Cross wondered whether he was still in Murphy’s employment or whether being indirectly involved with the case was too much for Murphy to stomach. He sat at the back in a pew on his own, as if unsure whether he belonged there and was welcome. He nodded at Cross as he passed. Cross had already emailed him to thank him for his contribution to the renovation. In truth it was a stiffly worded and formal email but Murphy was grateful, if a little surprised to have received it. Fred Savage and his builders were there, sitting uncomfortably in suits. They looked like they were at a funeral. Ursula Mead was there as well as Mackenzie and Swift. Cross was initially puzzled then remembered they’d spent a day working with him on the organ.
The four of them sat in the front pew.
‘Are you going to play?’ Stephen asked Cross.
‘Absolutely not.’
He had no intention of doing so, although the thought had crossed his mind. This wasn’t through any consideration about not treading on Peter’s toes, or spoiling his party. He simply hated performing in front of others. It was bad enough playing when Stephen and his mother were listening.
The recital was beautiful. Cross had to admit that while he had some reservations about Peter’s choice of music – the programme, as it were – he thought him a very accomplished organist. It was basically like a best hits album of classical organ music with some Bach, Widor and César Franck. The community of monks sat in their stalls to one side of the altar, presumably praying as they listened. In the middle of the recital Cross got up and moved to the centre of the church, halfway back in the pews. He wanted to get a different perspective on the acoustics and tone of the instrument. He was thrilled with it. The voice of the organ suited this small church perfectly. It sounded wonderful. As he sat there, he reflected how the chance to restore the organ and the opportunity to spend time at the abbey had been a real restorative during such an unpleasant case.
At the end of the recital Father Abbot Anselm stepped forward and thanked them all for their work on the organ. He then blessed them and followed the monks as they glided as one out of the side door.
Cross got his backpack out of the boot of his mother’s car. Murphy had slipped out unnoticed before the end of the recital and already left. Cross watched as Ottey walked her girls to the car. She was actually in a wonderful mood. She’d found buyers for both her and her mother’s flats and the offer she’d made on the house with the granny annexe, as she now called it, accepted. All was well with the world.
‘A nice text to her over the weekend wouldn’t go amiss,’ said Christine.
Cross was about to object and point out that not only did she not know him well enough, she certainly didn’t know Ottey at all. But he was stopped by his father and Stephen saying in unison, ‘She’s right.’
They said goodbye and drove off, leaving Cross. Mackenzie and Swift came over.
‘Been abandoned?’ asked Swift cheerily. ‘Was it something you said?’
‘No,’ Cross replied firmly.
‘Need a lift anywhere?’ asked Mackenzie.
‘No,’ he replied and walked away towards the abbey house.
Mackenzie turned to Swift.
‘Will you never learn?’ she joked.
‘I know. Mea culpa. Mea culpa,’ he replied.
‘Oh, let’s get out of here before you go full-on Benedictine.’
As Swift drove her out of the monastery Mackenzie turned to look at George walking towards the abbey house. She felt a huge pang. She didn’t know why. All she knew was that he often had this effect on her. Cross actually had this effect on most of the people who came to know him.
*
George Cross knocked on the door of the abbey house. After a minute or so it was opened by Father Magnus.
‘Ah, George. Welcome.’
Cross said nothing but went in. The monk closed the door. Their voices could be heard receding as they walked down the corridor.
‘Brother Benedict has prepared your room. Will you be joining us for supper?’
‘Of course!’ replied George as if the idea of not sharing a meal with nine monks was completely absurd.