The Penze-Weedells were faffing around in their front garden when Jason arrived home a few minutes later. Maurice was standing on top of a precarious-looking stepladder, trying to reach one of the Christmas lights that was above him and clearly out of reach, while Claudette hung onto the base of the ladder, shouting instructions to her hapless husband.
If he’d been in a neighbourly mood, Jason would have gone over and offered to help, especially as he was the best part of a foot taller than the older man, but he did not want to get involved. He was just relieved that Emily’s van wasn’t in the drive, because he badly needed to collect his thoughts. He climbed out of his car and was just unlocking the front door when Matt Johns rang.
‘Jason, what’s your problem?’
Entering the house and hurrying up to his office, he told his computer guru about the numbers on his screen.
‘Can you fire up TeamViewer?’ Johns asked.
As soon as he was at his desk and logged in, Jason opened the app and gave Johns the ID numbers and password.
Moments later the cursor began to move across the screen, seemingly on its own, as Johns looked for the problem.
Putting the phone on loudspeaker, and letting him get on with it, Jason thought back to yesterday morning. When he had met Roland Fortinbrass, the vicar had reminded him of someone, but he couldn’t think who. A name suddenly sprang to mind.
Alan Rickman!
The actor who had died a while back. That was who the Reverend Roland Fortinbrass reminded him of – a little, anyway.
The tall, thin man in the Aran sweater, his dog collar just visible.
He opened Photos on his phone and scrolled through the pictures he had taken earlier. And in particular, the one of Roland Fortinbrass’s grave and headstone.
Next, he looked at the Harcourt family’s inscription.
21 September 2015.
The same day.
Coincidence? Sure, it could be. Or had they all been together in an accident?
Had the Harcourts lived in the village? They must have done, or in the area, in order to be buried in the village churchyard, surely – unless they had some other connection to the place.
Who the hell was the man who’d said he was the vicar? Why had he been here?
The media was rife with warnings about identify theft, internet fraudsters. It had to be that, didn’t it? The only possible explanation. Some creep, posing as Fortinbrass, intent on insinuating himself into their lives before, at the appropriate moment, starting to milk them of cash.
But a very stupid creep. Did he really think he wouldn’t get found out in this parish?
He paused in his thoughts.
What if phony Fortinbrass was behind all the strange shit that had been happening in their house? Somehow making it all happen, then lo and behold, he conveniently rocks up claiming to be able to produce a Minister of Deliverance who would clear away the malevolent spirits?
For a large cash sum, doubtless.
‘Nope!’ Matt Johns’ voice suddenly intruded into his thoughts.
Jason picked up the phone. ‘Hi.’
‘There’s nothing there,’ Johns said. ‘These numbers – I can’t see anything.’
‘But it’s been happening – I haven’t imagined it.’
‘Beats me. I suggest next time it happens, take a screenshot and send it to me immediately.’
‘Sure, OK, I will.’
Johns disconnected. Jason sat down in front of the screen, opened his browser, typed in ‘Roland Fortinbrass’, and hit return.
The first hit was a Church of England website listing vicars. He scrolled down, through the alphabet, until the Fs. The browser had highlighted the name: Reverend Roland Fortinbrass, MA.
He clicked on it. After some seconds he was taken to an obituary in the Church Times.
The Reverend Roland Michael Fortinbrass, of the parish of Cold Hill. Dearly beloved husband of Angela and father of Christopher and Lucinda. Tragically killed in a car accident on 21 September 2015.
Beneath was a photograph.
He double-clicked to enlarge it.
Instantly a familiar image appeared. A tall, lean man, in a jumper, dog collar just visible below a rather weak face. Floppy, thinning hair.
The man who had been in their house yesterday.
But who could not have been.