he
phoned Bishop Atkins. Maryam was quite content with this; she was
using all her energies in restoring her own sense of belonging to
herself and herself alone. It wouldn’t do to alarm Father Jacob
further and she happily accepted some tea from him and let him sit
with her and prattle away whilst they waited out the good Bishop’s
arrival.
When he did arrive a scant half an hour
later, which led Maryam to wonder if Father Scott had gained
tickets for speeding on their way, Wyn Jones arrived with them. She
was a little shocked by this, given the police request, but it was
clear he’d been alarmed to hear of her fall and had wanted to see
she was fine for himself. She accepted this, but asked them to send
a message to Scotland Yard advising them that he had returned to
the parish. Andy Scott phoned Iqbal’s mobile phone number whilst
Maryam discovered something wonderful about Wyn Jones: he could
make excellent coffee. He was clearly a man taking his own
territory back as he marshalled together the water, ground beans,
and a cafetiere that she hadn’t known the kitchen held. Although he
almost swore in frustration when it took him five minutes to find
which cupboard it was in.
‘The parishioners have been busy.’
‘Mrs Olagbegi has been rather frustrated by
Pete’s refusal to let her ‘take over’, as he put it.’
‘When did you lose your housekeeper?’
‘Oh, many years ago. The old one died and
parish funds could not afford a new one.’
‘Was Father Edwards here then?’
‘He’s been here thirty-five years.’ He
stopped and looked at her. ‘Mrs Fisher, the housekeeper, had been
here for twenty years when she passed. I think he still misses
her.’
Fred returned from the Church, where he’d
popped in his head as he’d walked Father Jacob back up. With Andy
off the phone, they took their coffee through to the parlour and
firmly closed the door. Andy drew a chair up against it as a
precaution against a parishioner walking in at the wrong
moment.
Maryam described what had occurred, although
she did so as a light sketch, not in detail. Some things you didn’t
tell priests. Or anyone, actually. She did describe the scent of
the old books even as she omitted the detail about the jerk
chicken, and she described the man in full.
‘That is Keith Pargiter.’
They all stared blankly at Father Jones.
‘You know him?’
‘Well, yes, he’s a stalwart of the parish.
He’s an altar server and does some ground work in the graveyard. He
runs an antiquarian book shop on Rye Road, although it does most of
its business online, I believe. He joined the parish about three
years ago I think, when he bought the shop. You’d have to ask Pete
when exactly.’
‘And he’s a regular parishioner?’ Andy spoke
first.
‘Oh yes, one of the faithful, as I said, can
always be trusted to help out if we need it. He’s also been very
good at donating bibles and religious texts to us if they are of no
commercial value. We have a lot of things that Keith has passed
on.’
‘Does he have keys to the Church?’ Maryam
asked.
‘Well, not as such, no, but he’s on the
cleaning rota with the others, why?’
‘I’m not sure how to tell you this, Father
Jones, but the man I saw was Geoffrey Embleton.’
Gatto and Iqbal turned up about twenty
minutes later. They asked Wyn if it would be all right if he went
for a walk or went up to his room... or really, wasn’t he sure he
wouldn’t be happier at the Cathedral?’
Father Jones had capitulated with a sigh and
declared he was going to go and clear his head and walk back over
to the other side of the river. He’d been cooped up for days
between the police station and the cloister, and so he was off to
get some fresh air.
‘Well, some London rain, I suppose,’ he said
as he opened the door to discover the heavens had opened once
more.
He took his overcoat and a brolly from the
hallway and departed. Iqbal followed him out to make sure he went
past the
phoned Bishop Atkins. Maryam was quite content with this; she was
using all her energies in restoring her own sense of belonging to
herself and herself alone. It wouldn’t do to alarm Father Jacob
further and she happily accepted some tea from him and let him sit
with her and prattle away whilst they waited out the good Bishop’s
arrival.
When he did arrive a scant half an hour
later, which led Maryam to wonder if Father Scott had gained
tickets for speeding on their way, Wyn Jones arrived with them. She
was a little shocked by this, given the police request, but it was
clear he’d been alarmed to hear of her fall and had wanted to see
she was fine for himself. She accepted this, but asked them to send
a message to Scotland Yard advising them that he had returned to
the parish. Andy Scott phoned Iqbal’s mobile phone number whilst
Maryam discovered something wonderful about Wyn Jones: he could
make excellent coffee. He was clearly a man taking his own
territory back as he marshalled together the water, ground beans,
and a cafetiere that she hadn’t known the kitchen held. Although he
almost swore in frustration when it took him five minutes to find
which cupboard it was in.
‘The parishioners have been busy.’
‘Mrs Olagbegi has been rather frustrated by
Pete’s refusal to let her ‘take over’, as he put it.’
‘When did you lose your housekeeper?’
‘Oh, many years ago. The old one died and
parish funds could not afford a new one.’
‘Was Father Edwards here then?’
‘He’s been here thirty-five years.’ He
stopped and looked at her. ‘Mrs Fisher, the housekeeper, had been
here for twenty years when she passed. I think he still misses
her.’
Fred returned from the Church, where he’d
popped in his head as he’d walked Father Jacob back up. With Andy
off the phone, they took their coffee through to the parlour and
firmly closed the door. Andy drew a chair up against it as a
precaution against a parishioner walking in at the wrong
moment.
Maryam described what had occurred, although
she did so as a light sketch, not in detail. Some things you didn’t
tell priests. Or anyone, actually. She did describe the scent of
the old books even as she omitted the detail about the jerk
chicken, and she described the man in full.
‘That is Keith Pargiter.’
They all stared blankly at Father Jones.
‘You know him?’
‘Well, yes, he’s a stalwart of the parish.
He’s an altar server and does some ground work in the graveyard. He
runs an antiquarian book shop on Rye Road, although it does most of
its business online, I believe. He joined the parish about three
years ago I think, when he bought the shop. You’d have to ask Pete
when exactly.’
‘And he’s a regular parishioner?’ Andy spoke
first.
‘Oh yes, one of the faithful, as I said, can
always be trusted to help out if we need it. He’s also been very
good at donating bibles and religious texts to us if they are of no
commercial value. We have a lot of things that Keith has passed
on.’
‘Does he have keys to the Church?’ Maryam
asked.
‘Well, not as such, no, but he’s on the
cleaning rota with the others, why?’
‘I’m not sure how to tell you this, Father
Jones, but the man I saw was Geoffrey Embleton.’
Gatto and Iqbal turned up about twenty
minutes later. They asked Wyn if it would be all right if he went
for a walk or went up to his room... or really, wasn’t he sure he
wouldn’t be happier at the Cathedral?’
Father Jones had capitulated with a sigh and
declared he was going to go and clear his head and walk back over
to the other side of the river. He’d been cooped up for days
between the police station and the cloister, and so he was off to
get some fresh air.
‘Well, some London rain, I suppose,’ he said
as he opened the door to discover the heavens had opened once
more.
He took his overcoat and a brolly from the
hallway and departed. Iqbal followed him out to make sure he went
past the
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