LITMIR.BIZ

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– perhaps she had not done this job before. The flail of memory slapped her again: baby-sitting, they might call it, or child minding. For the next few seconds Sally fought the urge to bring up her breakfast over Great Aunt Mary’s linen tablecloth.

      The telephone rang.

      ‘I’ll get it.’ Yvonne was already on her feet. She picked up the phone. She listened, then said, ‘I’m a police officer, sir … Yes, Mrs Appleyard is awake … I’ll ask her.’ She covered the mouthpiece of the handset. ‘Someone called Derek Cutter. Says he’s your boss. Do you want to talk to him? Or he says he’d be pleased to come over.’

      Sally opened her mouth to say that she didn’t want to see Derek, or talk to him; and if she never did either again, she for one would not waste any tears. Instantly she restrained herself. This wasn’t Derek’s fault. She had a duty both to him and to the parish. And, more selfishly, it was important to create the illusion that she was in control; otherwise they might starve her of information.

      ‘Ask him to come over if he can spare the time.’ Sally decided to kill two birds with one stone: Derek could take Miss Oliphant’s belongings.

      Yvonne relayed the message and put down the phone. ‘He won’t be long. He’s over at the community centre in Brondesbury Park.’

      ‘What’s that phone doing? It’s not ours.’

      ‘No. We’re taping and tracing all calls.’ Yvonne stiffened. ‘It’s standard procedure. Nothing to get worried –’

      Sally pushed back her chair and stood up. She was shaking so much that she had to support herself on the table. ‘You’re sure Lucy’s been kidnapped. Aren’t you? Aren’t you?’

      Derek took both Sally’s hands in his and said how very, very sorry he was. He had ridden over from Kensal Vale on the Yamaha. Sally thought he fancied himself in motorcycle leathers. As she introduced him to Yvonne, he loosened the white silk scarf around his neck, revealing the dog collar beneath.

      With unnecessary tact, Yvonne retreated to the kitchen, leaving Sally unwillingly alone to savour the experience of Derek in full pastoral mode.

      ‘We are all praying for you, my dear.’

      ‘Thank you.’ Sally didn’t want prayers, she wanted Lucy.

      Still holding her hands, Derek went on to say that there must be no question of her coming into work until Lucy was safe and sound. She need not worry, they could manage perfectly well.

      ‘Would you and Michael like to come to stay with us? Margaret and I would love to have you. The bed’s made up in the spare room.’

      Sally’s mind filled with an unwanted picture of Derek in his pyjamas. Would the hair of his chest be as white-blond as the hair on his head? Had he any hair on his chest at all, or just pink skin stretched over his bony ribcage, with the two nipples as the only points of interest to break the monotony? She wanted to giggle and she felt sick. She heard herself thanking Derek for his (and Margaret’s) kind offer, and promising to discuss it with Michael. Certainly, she said, they would bear it in mind.

      ‘Lots of people send their love. Stella in particular.’

      ‘Stella.’ It was little more than twenty-four hours since Sally had driven her to the hospital. ‘Has her daughter had her baby?’

      There was a pause. ‘Yes. Last night. It’s a girl. Mother and baby are doing fine, I gather.’

      Sally concentrated very hard on Stella’s joy. ‘Lovely. Tell Stella how pleased I am.’ She made an intense effort to blot out the rising hysteria and the knowledge that Lucy needed her. ‘Audrey Oliphant?’

      ‘Eh?’ Derek released her hands. ‘Who?’

      ‘The woman who tried to kill herself. You remember? You asked me to see her yesterday.’

      ‘I remember.’

      ‘She died before I reached the hospital.’

      ‘Was she one of ours?’

      ‘Yes. In a sense.’ Sally sat down. ‘She was the woman who made a disturbance when I preached my first sermon.’

      ‘Oh, yes. Poor woman. Where did she worship?’

      ‘I don’t know if she went anywhere. Her landlady thought not. But I think we should see she gets a proper burial.’

      ‘Better make sure it’s a man who conducts the service.’ Derek began to smile, then stopped, remembering why he was here.

      ‘Anglo-Catholic for choice. Her room was like an oratory. I’ve got a bag of her clothes.’ She looked wildly round the room, wondering where the bag was. ‘And also some books.’ Had she taken the books out last night? If so, why?

      ‘It doesn’t matter now. We’ll sort it out.’

      Derek’s voice was so soothing that Sally realized she must be sounding overwrought. She made an effort to turn the conversation back to the parish and the arrangements which needed to be made.

      Derek slipped from the pastoral mode to the managerial. Here he was in his element; his efficiency was a virtue. He had already arranged cover for her services. Margaret would see to the Mothers and Toddlers and the Single Mums for as long as needed. As he went through her responsibilities, Sally had a depressing vision of Derek rising unstoppably, committee by committee, preferment by preferment, up the promotional ladder of the Church. It wasn’t the meek that inherited the earth but people like Derek. She told herself that the Church needed the Dereks of this world, and that she had no reason to feel superior in any respect.

      ‘And if there’s anything that you or Michael need,’ he was saying when she pulled her mind back on course, ‘just phone us. Any time, Sally – you know that. Day or night.’

      He stood up, tied the silk scarf round his thin neck and slipped the strap of his helmet over his arm. In its way, it had been a polished performance, and part of Sally was able to admire its professionalism. It made her squirm. Yvonne had almost certainly been eavesdropping through the open door of the kitchen.

      ‘Look after yourself, my dear.’ He seized her hands again and pressed them between his. ‘And once more, if there’s anything I can do.’ Another, firmer squeeze, even the suggestion of a stroke. ‘You have only to ask. You know that.’

      Good God, Sally thought, as her skin crawled: I think he fancies me. With a wave of his hand, Derek called goodbye to Yvonne and left the flat. Too late, Sally remembered Miss Oliphant’s bag but could not bear to call him back.

      Yvonne came into the living room. ‘Quite a charmer.’

      ‘He does his best.’ Sally forgot about Derek. ‘Who’s in charge of the case?’

      ‘Mr Maxham. Do you know him?’

      Sally shook her head.

      ‘He’s very experienced. One of the old school.’

      ‘Shouldn’t he be asking me questions? Shouldn’t someone ask me something?’ She heard her voice growing louder, and was powerless to stop it. ‘Damn it, I’m Lucy’s mother.’

      ‘Don’t worry, love, they’ll send someone round soon. Maybe Mr Maxham will come himself. They’re doing everything that can be done. Why don’t you sit down for a bit? I’ll make us a nice hot drink, shall I?’

      ‘I don’t want a drink.’

      Sally sat down and started to cry. Yvonne dispensed paper handkerchiefs and impersonal sympathy. In a while the tears stopped. Sally went to the bathroom to wash her face. The reflection in the mirror showed a stranger with moist, red-rimmed eyes, pinched cheeks and lank hair. She went back to the living room. Being with Yvonne, with anyone, was better than being alone. Solitude was full of dangers.

      The minute hand crawled round the clock, each minute an hour, each hour a week. Everywhere Sally looked there were reminders of Lucy

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