The Chinese Takeout Page 3

  ‘You’re right: we need to make sure he doesn’t try to break out and run for it. For his sake.’

  ‘And ours, Josie.’

  ‘Because we mustn’t be seen to be aiding and abetting if it does turn out he’s a serial killer or a child-molester?’

  ‘Quite.’

  I looked at him from under my lashes. ‘I could always get some of my late husband’s mates to spring him. It’s nice and close to Dartmoor and I’m sure some would oblige.’

  He steadied me as I descended. ‘The less you refer to those connections the better, I suspect.’ He wrapped his arm round my shoulders, leading us back to the church, and asked, ‘Do you still miss him?’

  ‘I spent most of my life missing him when he was banged up. But I miss him even more now.’

  ‘So there’s no truth in the persistent rumour that you and our Food Standards Inspector friend, Nick Thomas, are an item?’

  ‘Absolutely not. He’s got too much baggage, has Nick.’ Not to mention that as an inspector with the West Midlands Police he was the man chiefly responsible for sending my beloved Tony down for the last time.

  ‘And that steely-eyed Devon detective? The one who helped sort out the bombing?’

  ‘We had our little moments,’ I conceded. ‘But he’s taken a promotion in Liverpool, and we hardly bother to email each other now. Brrrh. Let’s go in.’

  By the time it was dark, soon after five, Tang was equipped with a camp-bed, an arctic quality sleeping bag, food, chocolate, bottled water, several changes of clothing and a pile of books.

  Tim’s appearance in a full-length black clerical cloak – was that what was called a cope? – certainly impressed Tang, who seemed inclined to kiss the hem. Tim raised him quickly, however, with a smile I thought was forced.

  ‘You’ve heard from our church wardens?’ he asked me quietly.

  ‘Indeed. Can you possibly pre-empt them, Tim? Get the bishop out here to see the situation for himself?’

  ‘The bishop won’t overrule the rural dean responsible for our area. I’ve already phoned him, Dean Braithwaite. He’ll be working this evening, of course,’ he added, with a rueful smile that made him look about twelve.

  ‘I’d still prefer him – the bishop, anyone! – to see the situation himself before the terrible twins get at him. And that doesn’t give you much time: they’ve got an appointment at nine-thirty.’

  ‘I don’t have much time anyway. I’ve still got to take evensong in Kings Duncombe. Where you no longer worship, I see.’

  ‘It’s a good job, all things considered,’ I parried. ‘Off you go, Tim – I’ll hold the fort here till you come back, having had, I hope, a good supper first. Plenty of stodge to keep you warm.’

  ‘I shall need it if I’m staying overnight. No argument, Josie. You can see someone has to and that someone must be me.’

  ‘Well, if Tang needs an arctic sleeping bag, you’ll need one too. I mean it! Don’t play the martyr till you need to. And phone the rural dean again! Beg him to come out – think of the impact on him if he has to drive out here in the dark through the snow! Quite Biblical!’

  He managed a grin. ‘You know something, Josie? You remind me of my godmother.’

  ‘I shall take that as a compliment. And don’t forget that sack of clothes!’

  CHAPTER THREE

  Annie decided it was time to teach Tang more English, which was something she could manage very well without me. Better. While she saw the slowness of his progress as a challenge, I was dispirited. I didn’t want him to catch my despair, so, as the two heads, his black, hers white, bent over a child’s book she’d found somewhere, I looked round for something else to do. One possibility, and I must have been out of my mind to consider it, was to climb up the tower to see – well, just to see, really. I’m approaching the age when physically I shan’t be able to act on impulse, so occasionally I do things people consider plain daft. OK, things I consider afterwards, when all my muscles are screaming and my joints are on fire, plain daft.

  If I needed an excuse it was that mobile reception might be better higher up. We really did need to get hold of an interpreter I could trust. There were well-documented cases of police interpreters being distinctly bent. If one came via Nigel Ho, my fellow restaurateur, then I thought that might improve the odds in our favour.

  And I could still do ladders – just. Actually, they were easier than narrow, steep staircases, because I could legitimately come down backwards, so I would risk this one. I couldn’t fault the church wardens’ attitude to health and safety: the steps had their own set of very bright lights, and the handrails didn’t even flinch at my weight. Perhaps they thought their responsibility ended there. The door at the top was magnificently warped, with half an inch or so in places between the door and the frame, which explained why even the fiercest heaters couldn’t conquer the chill. But, hinges well oiled, it opened outwards quite easily, and I stepped out into the night. Tony had always daydreamed about us taking up stargazing together, probably because when you were in jail you didn’t get much of the wide open sky, free from light pollution. Abbot’s Duncombe was too small a village, with not even a shop, for the county council to consider streetlighting. Most of the inhabitants eschewed security lights, and drew their curtains tightly, especially on a night as cold as this. If you wanted to walk between the scattered dwellings, you took a torch. I’d have to consider that before I put in a firm bid on the pub. No point in spending a lot of money on a building people wouldn’t feel safe reaching – after all, I wanted more than clients on wheels.

  Up on the tower, the air was icy, but pure: Tony’d have relished that, too. It would be nice to share things again, wouldn’t it? I didn’t mean just sex: there were a couple of men in my life who’d be more than happy to supply that side of my needs. I meant love – the sort of thing Tony and I had shared for all those years. Preferably without the enforced periods of celibacy. Near celibacy, in my case, if there is such a thing. While he was doing bird, Tony was prepared to accept the odd fling – I was young enough to be his granddaughter, really, and he thought that keeping me on too short a rein might cause problems. But if things threatened to get serious – well, so did he. And since he was so powerful, he had any number of minions still outside ready to change my mind. At last he and I both understood that things would never get serious with anyone else because he was truly the love of my life.

  That life, the old life.

  During the last few years I had changed so much, not just in appearance but also in achievements and now aspirations, that I wondered if our marriage would have survived. These days I certainly wouldn’t get involved with anyone I suspected of being a criminal, and not just from fear of retribution, either. To tell the truth, apart from when I was bored, I was beginning to want a nice, straightforward ordinary existence. Perhaps for a moment I might have considered embarking on a relationship with Nick Thomas. He’d drifted into my life in a most unpromising way, and now lived permanently at the White Hart, as a quasi-uncle to the brood of Gay children left orphaned by a horrible accident last autumn. But he had his quarters, and I had mine, and although we met all the time, it was never carnally.

  Nigel Ho was someone I had met carnally once or twice, but we were chiefly just fellow chefs and possibly becoming friends: hence I could happily ask him for a favour. I’d rather Tim didn’t know about our intermittent moments together, not because I was ashamed, but because I didn’t want to let down a man who’d compared me with his godmother. In any case, once something was pretty well over there was no point in shouting it from the rooftops – or even the church tower top.

  I left another message for Nigel but, despite the sting of what I supposed were snowflakes on the wind, I didn’t return immediately. After all, I was well wrapped up. Tang might be wearing my warmest smart outfit, but I still had my heavyweight walking gear: I had hunched myself into the thickest fleece and waterproof I could find, and was doing a fair imitation of a perambulating duve
t.

  Headlights were picking out the road from Kings Duncombe: could this be Tim returning? If it was, I’d better scuttle down again to unlock the door for him. The tower door opened beautifully, and closed equally sweetly. The steps gave not so much as a wobble under my weight. I set to and brewed some tea.

  As if he was playing the lead in Swallows and Amazons, Tim gave a cloak-and-daggerish drumroll on the door – three short knocks, three long, three more short. SOS? At last, for good measure, he identified himself.

  Tang was able to say ‘hallo’ and then, as I pressed mugs of tea into everyone’s hands, ‘thank you,’ an achievement Tim greeted with lavish praise. But his face became serious. Turning to Annie, he said, ‘I think you should push off as soon as you can. There’s already an inch of snow on some of the higher moors, and promise of more to come.’

  Annie nodded, gathering her things together and repeating the walking finger gesture Tang now clearly understood to mean au revoir. He smiled and bowed, and though my jacket was overlarge, and the fuchsia pink definitely not one he should pick out for his spring outfit, especially not combined with Aidan’s turquoise jogging suit, you could see that in other circumstances he might be a personable young man.

  ‘I’ll be back in the morning,’ she said, waving as I locked the door after her.

  ‘So will I,’ I said, preparing to get my things together and follow.

  Tim’s throat bobbled. ‘Er, actually, I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind waiting a bit. I did talk to the rural dean again. He’s coming down in about half an hour.’

  ‘That’s excellent!’

  He shook his head sadly. ‘I’m not so sure. He said there should be two people with Tang all the time, so that if he tried to escape he could be intercepted. A belt and braces man.’

  I said bracingly, ‘At least he’s going to see how things are before he listens to your dear church wardens.’

  ‘I think he’s had an earful already. He wasn’t best pleased, Josie.’

  I hugged him. ‘You couldn’t have done anything else, Tim. Could you?’ I demanded.

  ‘No. Not at the time. But I suppose I could have insisted on taking him to the police and stuck to him like glue to make sure nothing went wrong. Maybe I should have done.’

  It would certainly, I reflected, have made for a much less stressful Sunday afternoon. On the other hand, a lot of people had had the opportunity to show how generous they were. But he was waiting for reassurance. ‘Maybe you still can. If that’s your boss’s advice, then we’ll both go.’

  ‘The trouble is, Josie, which boss?’ He didn’t need to look skywards to make sure I understood.

  ‘Look, Tang realises there’s something worrying you. Just go and do your best with him while I heat up some soup. Did you eat?’

  ‘I thought my place was back here.’

  ‘Tim!’ I sighed. ‘All right. There’s enough food here for three. Enough for an army, actually. And bread and cheese and cakes and home made jam and a wonderful looking treacle-tart.’ It was like Ratty and Mole’s first picnic, except that that hadn’t come with a microwave and a proper four-burner camping stove. ‘I’d say the vast majority of your little flock are behind you here.’

  He raised an eyebrow, not quite cynical but certainly questioning. ‘What proportion of my “flock” comes to church, ever? What proportion comes when it suits them? What proportion happened to be here today? And with the church wardens against my decision, how can I say I have majority backing?’ On the last question his voice cracked.

  ‘People from St Faith and St Lawrence were among those who gave.’ I wasn’t ready to concede. ‘And folk from other churches within the benefice.’

  ‘Stop being kind, Josie. Please. Let’s face it, I’m out of my depth. If not now, when the church hierarchy start arguing, when the media get hold of it, when the lychgate holds back satellite vans and reporters stand on graves and police spokesmen with loud-hailers give out warning messages. Where will I be then?’

  Tang was now very agitated, pulling on Tim’s cloak. Absently, Tim patted his newly clean and manicured hand, as one might pat a fretting puppy.

  ‘Look,’ I said, going into my inevitable bossy mode again, ‘you can’t talk to each other but there’s one way you can both at least pass the time.’ I produced a Sainsbury’s carrier someone had donated full of things to while away vast stretches of hours: cards, jigsaws, chess, draughts, Monopoly. ‘What do you fancy?’

  Tang grabbed the chess set, grinning happily. I hoped Tim was a better player than I expected him to be or that his ego was more resilient.

  Perhaps I wouldn’t have made such a bad mother. While the young men played, I sorted through the bags of clothing people like Aidan had donated, suitable stuff going into one pile, the bizarre going into some spare black sacks for Oxfam. Surprisingly – he was such a fey man, always claiming to be incompetent in all practical skills – Aidan had made the best choice, including, as he’d said, new underwear and socks. He must have made a special trip into Taunton for them. He’d also brought along the flip-flops Tang was now wearing, but another carrier produced something more practical for the chilly church, a pair of leather-soled slippers with bright knitted tops that covered the calves too. I tiptoed over and placed them by Tang’s feet. He nodded absently to acknowledge them, then realised they were worth more than that, and, even as he removed Tim’s bishop from the board, slipped them on. He got up and did a little shuffling dance. Without prompting, he said something that might have been ‘thanks’. Well done, Annie. And then, still dancing, he took the pawn Tim had just moved.

  So when would the dreaded dean get here? We’d been waiting well over half an hour. Had he been fobbing us off, or was he delayed by the snow I should be trying to avoid? Opening the door an inch, I peered out. It was inky black out there now, of course, since the clouds had moved in. I couldn’t even see my car.

  To save Tim’s face, I insisted that the boys eat before Tang submitted Tim to another ritual humiliation, the whole game being over in less than half an hour. They were just clearing their soup bowls when someone rapped on the door, in the Morse code Tim had used. Another boy hero, no doubt, enjoying a pre-arranged signal.

  Tim dragged at the door, flushing like a schoolboy and breaking into a stammer of welcome, not to an elderly ogre, but to a man in his earlier fifties sporting one of those wide-brimmed waterproof hats. To my disappointment, he didn’t wear a cloak, in which he’d have looked really striking, but a Barbour. And I was surprised he didn’t even wear a dog-collar, just a fine-knit polo-neck sweater under a leather jacket.

  ‘Dean, this is Mrs Welford, and our friend Tang.’

  The dean gave a smile that lit up his whole face. I’d never seen eyes so dark a blue and so piercing. His glance round the church encompassed everything from the makeshift boudoir to my Michelin woman outdoor gear. I’d rather he’d seen me in what was now Tang’s jacket, but he smiled gravely at Tang and took in the direction of the buttoning and flicked a glance at me, so maybe he’d got a fair idea of what had gone on. Possibly Tim had poured out an account of the whole incident over the phone.

  ‘Josie,’ I said shoving out a hand at the end of the giant sausage of my sleeve.

  ‘Andy,’ he responded, with what I’d describe as a professional smile, the sort I use for new customers. Andy, not Andrew. Now, that was interesting for a start. And how on earth did he contrive to have warm hands on a night like this?

  ‘Andy, Tim’s been heroic and organised all this support. And food. Would you like some? There’s plenty left.’ There: Mary would have been proud of me. Or was it Martha? I stirred the fragrant saucepan to demonstrate.

  ‘Please.’ He pulled up another chair to our little circle and took the bowl and spoon. ‘Let me get this straight, Tim: you don’t need my permission or the bishop’s to go ahead with this. Not so long as you’re convinced your guest is innocent.’

  ‘Innocent of what? We don’t even know what he’s suppos
ed to have done!’

  I got the impression the dean didn’t like being interrupted.

  ‘When and if you come to suspect he’s guilty, you become an accessory after the fact, and might well see the inside of a jail yourself.’

  Tim paled. ‘But how do I know he’s innocent if I can’t communicate?’

  ‘Talking to the police might help,’ I said. ‘But I’d go with a solicitor – someone who’d know what questions to ask.’

  ‘And, moreover, someone who would know Tang’s rights – and yours.’

  I couldn’t recall ever having heard anyone use the word ‘moreover’ in conversation. It sounded very classy. But then, I’d never met anyone as senior as a dean. Prison chaplains – oh, I could almost have written a Rough Guide to them. I’d met unctuous replicas of Obadiah Slope; red hot evangelicals rolling the word ‘sin’ round their mouths as if it were a particularly toothsome Belgian praline; ordinary decent men and women who did their best to control floods of despair with practical kindness. None of them was quite like this dean.

  ‘Not many solicitors would be qualified for something like this, would they?’ I asked. Come to think of it, I’d come across even more solicitors than chaplains, half of whom I’d have trusted no further than I could have thrown the altar.

  ‘I know a couple who might make a decent fist of it, if Tim wanted me to ask them.’

  ‘We want more than “might”, Andy,’ I said firmly.

  He turned those blue eyes on me. ‘You’re as convinced as Tim of Tang’s innocence, are you?’

  Half of me wanted to jump up and down yelling, ‘Yes, yes, yes!’ The other asked coolly, ‘How can I be convinced of anything when we can’t exchange more than two words? All I know is that I saw a very frightened boy asking for sanctuary this morning, and, like a lot of people there, I simply responded to his plight.’ I gestured round the church.

  ‘Josie’s trying to find an interpreter. She’s got a friend who runs a Chinese restaurant. She’s asked him. Any news yet, Josie?’