The Zig Zag Girl by Elly Griffiths Page B

‘By which time you’ll be on your way to France.’
    ‘Yes,’ said Max. ‘I must say, France is looking better by the second.’
    ‘When will you be back?’
    ‘In two weeks’ time. I’ve got a booking in Hastings for the first week of September.’
    ‘What about Ruby? Has she got another job to go to?’
    Max had said goodbye to Ruby after the second house last night. It had been rather an awkward moment. Ruby never allowed him to walk her home to her digs. She said that it was because her flatmate went to bed early and she didn’t want to disturb her, but Max thought that maybe she just didn’t want him to see where she lived. So they had said goodbye under the portico at the Theatre Royal.
    ‘I hope we meet again,’ he’d said.
    Ruby had smiled. Her hidden half-smile, instantly suppressed. ‘Maybe.’
    ‘Goodbye, Miss French.’ He had wanted to kiss her, but had kissed her hand instead. He wasn’t sure why he had hesitated. It wasn’t like him, but something seemed to stop him making the usual moves towards Ruby. Maybe it was just because she was so young.
    ‘Goodbye, Max,’ she’d said. He had walked away, leaving her standing there. He hadn’t looked round, but it had been a close thing.
    ‘I don’t know what she’s doing now,’ he said to Edgar.
    ‘I wonder if we should keep an eye on her, given what happened to Ethel. Do you have her address?’
    Max looked up sharply, but Edgar’s face showed only kindly, professional concern.
    ‘I don’t have her address,’ he said.
    Edgar pushed his plate away. ‘Do you fancy a walk?’ he said. ‘This place is depressing me.’
    ‘I think it’s going to rain,’ said Max.
    *
    They walked along the seafront. It was late morning and the promenade was almost deserted. The threatening clouds had descended even lower and the sky had a fractured, hazy look like a religious painting. Out at sea it was already raining.
    ‘We’re going to get soaked,’ said Max. He hadn’t brought an umbrella, but then he had his umbrellas professionally furled and rarely used them to keep off the rain.
    ‘Let’s head back towards the station.’
    They crossed the road and started to make their way through the streets of Kemp Town. At Black Rock Gardens, the first fat drops of rain began to fall. Soon they were fighting their way through what felt like a tropical downpour. The bushes in the gardens were flattened by the onslaught and shop awnings bent and swayed under the weight of water.
    ‘Let’s get out of this,’ said Max, raising his voice to be heard.
    ‘In here,’ shouted Edgar.
    Max shook the water out of his eyes but, even before he could see, he knew they were in a church. It was the smell. The heady scent of incense and candle wax. It was triggering a rare memory of his mother. A church, his mother holding his hand, someone bending over him, tweaking his cheek. The adult voices had a foreign, operatic quality. Were they talking Italian? Was this remembered church in Italy or just a gathering of Italians in England? Max had visited Italy several times as an adult but never, as far as he knew, as a child or with his mother. It wasn’t something he could ask his father.
    ‘There’s no service going on anyway,’ said Edgar.
    ‘Mass,’ said Max. ‘This is a Catholic church.’
    ‘How do you know?’
    Max gestured towards the Lady altar, the statue of the virgin mother with arms held out, the banks of candles guttering in front of it. A nun was kneeling at the altar rails.
    ‘Mary,’ he said. ‘Lots of pictures of dead saints, holywater, tabernacle on the high altar, light showing the sacrament is in residence. How much more evidence do you need?’ But he’d known immediately. He’d known by the smell.
    ‘Well let’s sit down for a moment,’ said Edgar. ‘It’s still pouring outside.’
    They could hear the rain battering against the roof. There was a dripping sound too, water falling into some metal container. The roof, like all