Last Rites Page 14

  Andrew Latham sat on one of the metal benches and watched impassively as a woman in her eighties trundled past pulling her shopping trolley. He gave appraising glance to the woman who caught his eye momentarily and tried to increase her pace. She didn’t like the look of Latham and his companions. She knew they were from Langley Hill, she’d seen them in the town before, dressed in their distinctive uniforms. With it being the weekend, they were attired in casual clothes. Jeans, trainers, T-shirts, tracksuits. All designer wear. All expensive. It was always that little group together, the woman mused. Always led by Latham, the oldest of them. He was tall and his skin was swarthy. His curly hair was jet black and hung as far as his shoulders. His eyes were heavy lidded but blazing when he turned the full measure of his stare on anyone.

  The woman didn’t care that the group attended an expensive private school, she wasn’t interested that their parents were millionaires and celebrities. She had a mistrust and a disdain for all teenagers and it didn’t matter whether or not they were the offspring of the rich or the guttersnipes who attended the local comprehensives. They were trouble as far as she was concerned, all of them.

  Latham tired of gazing at the woman and, instead, turned to face the girl who sat to his right.

  Sammi Bell ran a hand through her shoulder-length blonde hair and noticed that Latham was looking at her or, more particularly, her slim legs, encased as they were in skin-tight grey denim. She was unworried by his stare and met it with a coquettish smile.

  ‘Something on your mind?’ she asked.

  ‘This fucking place,’ Latham muttered. ‘The people who live here are peasants.’

  Sammi laughed and reached down to fasten the laces of one trainer.

  ‘You’re such a snob, Andrew,’ she told him.

  ‘I’m not a snob,’ Latham continued. ‘I’m just stating a fact. Look at them.’ He gestured around him with one hand, a movement designed to encompass everyone within the shopping centre. ‘They have no idea how to dress.’

  ‘That’s because they haven’t got any money,’ Precious Moore offered. She was a tall, ungainly girl with a lisp and front teeth that looked too big for her mouth. ‘They’ve got no class.’

  ‘You’re a fine one to talk about class,’ Latham reminded her. ‘Your father’s a pop star. What would you know about class?’

  ‘And your mother was a slut,’ Jude Hennessey added, his American accent cutting through the hubbub of conversation.

  Latham laughed and slapped palms with the American.

  ‘My mum was a TV presenter,’ Precious said, irritably.

  ‘Who slept with everyone she interviewed,’ Latham reminded her.

  ‘A slut,’ Hennessey chided.

  ‘At least I’ve still got a mum,’ Precious countered, glaring at Hennessey. ‘At least my mum didn’t run off with someone else.’

  ‘She didn’t have to. She just fucked them,’ the American snapped. ‘And my mother didn’t run off. She died.’ Hennessey scratched at his prominent jaw line with one index finger.

  ‘Death or divorce, it amounts to the same thing,’ Latham interjected. ‘I should know, my dad’s on his third marriage and the other two still have to be paid every month.’

  ‘My dad says that all men should have a turnstile at the bedroom door because one way or the other, you always pay to get in.’

  Latham and Hennessey laughed and looked at the speaker of the words. He was a short, heavily built youth with thin features and a pair of silver-framed glasses perched on his hooked nose. Felix Mackenzie pushed the spectacles back with one index finger and nodded to himself, happy with his contribution.

  ‘Where is your dad now, Felix?’ another member of the group asked. Jo Campbell was the youngest of the gathering. Willowy and with features so delicate it seemed that her face might crack like expensive china were it touched too hard. She crossed her slender legs and brushed some fluff from the right knee of her jeans.

  ‘He works in New York,’ Mackenzie replied.

  ‘New York’s a great place,’ Hennessey offered. ‘Better than this shit hole.’

  ‘If you don’t like our country then fuck off home,’ Latham snapped. ‘Fucking Yank.’

  Hennessey looked at his companion and saw that the older boy’s face was set in hard lines. But, even as he watched, Latham began to smile. Hennessey grinned too.

  ‘You can’t buy class, no matter how much money you’ve got,’ Sammi offered.

  Latham raised his eyebrows quizzically then looked at his watch.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘It’s almost time. Let’s get this over with.’

  The others followed dutifully.

  41

  Mason dumped the contents of the dustpan and brush into the bin and pushed open the back door for some fresh air.

  His unpacking was more or less complete and a more thorough cleaning of the cottage, he told himself, could wait until the following day. He filled a glass with water then wandered out into the back garden, inspecting the lawn, wondering if he might cut the grass too as part of his moving-in ritual. It was as high as his ankles and hadn’t been cut for well over a month as far as he could tell.The same was true of the privet hedge. It was untidy rather than overgrown. Neglected rather than forgotten. Mason wandered to the bottom of the garden and stood beside the stone wall, gazing out over the hills and the countryside in the direction of Walston itself.

  ‘Better than looking out onto a London street,’ he murmured, taking a sip of his water.

  Chloe would have loved this garden and this view, wouldn’t she?

  He took another swallow of his water.

  Only she’ll never see them, will she?

  Mason swallowed hard and tried to drive her image from his mind. He turned and looked at the cottage from the rear, happy with the dwelling and excited by the prospect of teaching at Langley Hill. He walked back towards the cottage, taking a slight diversion to inspect the disused greenhouse. He was peering at the piled-up wooden crates inside it when he was aware of movement behind him.

  ‘Settling in?’

  Mason turned to see Nigel Grant standing in the garden.

  ‘I was out for a walk and thought I’d see how your move was going,’ the older man continued. ‘Hope you don’t mind?’

  Despite it being the weekend, Grant was still wearing a suit and tie and Mason thought that the headmaster looked as if he was on his way to a wedding reception rather than taking a walk in the school grounds. Mason, standing before him in a pair of grubby jeans and a worn sweatshirt, felt suddenly scruffy. He wiped his right hand on his jeans and extended it towards the newcomer.

  Grant shook it happily.

  ‘I wasn’t sure whether or not to disturb you,’ the headmaster announced.

  ‘I thought you’d come to help me carry a few boxes,’ Mason grinned.

  ‘Not my forte I’m afraid. Is it too early to ask if the move’s going well?’

  ‘I’ll be sorted by tonight. It helps that my predecessor left so much furniture behind. He obviously didn’t want it.’

  Grant ignored the comment and wandered down the garden towards the stone wall. Mason followed and the two men both gazed out over the countryside.

  ‘My wife used to love country walks,’ Grant said, quietly. ‘Just ambling about in the fields, enjoying the views and the fresh air.We used to take picnics into the woods near here.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘I still take her out in the car, drive around but it’s pointless, to be honest.’

  ‘There’s no hope of recovery?’

  Grant shook his head.

  ‘I just feel that it’s so unfair,’ the headmaster intoned. ‘At the risk of sounding self-pitying. She was only fifty-two. Perhaps not in the prime of life but still too young to be struck down the way she was.’ He looked at Mason. ‘But then you’d know better than I what it’s like to suffer with the loss of someone close.’

  Mason nodded.

  ‘Do you have any religious belie
fs, Mr Mason?’ Grant wanted to know. ‘I believe that those who do can sometimes rationalise events such as illness or death when it strikes at someone close to them. I wondered if that was how you coped with your daughter’s death. If you don’t mind me asking.’

  ‘I don’t think I did ever cope with it,’ Mason admitted. ‘And, as for religious beliefs.’ He shrugged.

  ‘I tend to subscribe to the notion that God is a sadist but probably doesn’t even know it,’ said Grant. ‘I don’t know who said that but I’m sure it was someone infinitely more qualified to talk about suffering than myself.’

  ‘So you don’t believe in God?’ Mason asked.

  ‘When I look at my wife now, it’s a little difficult. The concept of a God of love is somewhat lost on me these days. We still uphold the ritual of the morning assembly at the school, naturally, but I find it all a little tiresome.’

  Grant turned and headed back towards the cottage. Mason kept pace with him and ushered the headmaster through the back door before him.

  ‘Has anyone been inside the cottage since Mr Usher left?’ Mason enquired, closing the back door behind them.

  ‘Why do you ask?’ Grant wanted to know.

  ‘I just wondered. I didn’t know if any of the kids . . .’

  ‘No one has broken in here, if that’s what you mean. They wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘How long ago did Usher leave? The cottage is in pretty good condition. It can’t have been long ago. What was it, about a month?’

  ‘Longer. Why?’

  ‘I was just curious.’

  ‘About what? I told you that Mr Usher wasn’t a favoured topic of conversation around here.’

  Mason held up his hands in supplication.

  ‘He left some of his things behind,’ he told Grant.

  ‘What kind of things?’ the headmaster snapped.

  ‘Books, mainly.’

  ‘Any other personal items?’

  Mason shook his head.

  ‘If he has I haven’t found them yet,’ he said.

  ‘He obviously didn’t want the books,’ Grant insisted.

  Mason saw that the headmaster’s cheeks were flushed by now, his lips clamped tightly together.

  ‘I’ll let you get on,’ he said, flatly, heading for the front door.

  Mason hurried after him.

  ‘Thanks for looking in,’ he said as Grant strode towards the gate that led out onto the main driveway. The headmaster didn’t look back. Mason closed the front door once again and decided to continue with his cleaning and unpacking. However, he promised himself, first he was going to have some lunch.

  An inspection of the cellar could wait until later.

  42

  Kate Wheeler saw them enter the Cottage Loaf bakery and she took a hasty swallow of her tea. Her mouth was a little dry and she didn’t want to appear tongue-tied when she spoke to them. She didn’t want them to see that she was a little nervous.

  Andrew Latham led the way to the table where she sat and the others pulled chairs with them so that they could gather around her at the polished wood table where she sat with her tea and the remains of a sandwich. A waitress ambled over to them, order pad at the ready.

  ‘We don’t want anything,’ Latham said, without looking at her.

  ‘Any drinks?’ the waitress ventured.

  ‘Go away,’ Felix Mackenzie instructed, flicking his hand towards her dismissively. ‘He’s told you. We don’t want anything.’

  ‘I know you,’ the waitress said. ‘You’ve been in here before.You’re from Langley Hill,aren’t you?You were friends with Amy. Amy Coulson. She used to work here.’

  ‘We’re not friends with anyone in this fucking place,’ Latham sneered, still not deigning to grace her with his glance.

  ‘You heard what happened to her?’ the waitress went on.

  ‘We’re not interested,’ Precious Moore informed her.

  The waitress hesitated for a moment then turned irritably from them.

  ‘No, actually, wait a minute,’ Latham called, still not looking at her.‘We’ll have six teas.And don’t be too long.’

  Precious Moore giggled.

  Jude Hennessey smiled.

  The waitress regarded him balefully then scribbled the order on her pad and retreated.

  ‘Hello, Miss Wheeler,’ Latham said, quietly, pulling his chair closer to the table and edging nearer to Kate.‘Sorry if we’re a bit late. Things to do, you know.’

  ‘Do you want another cup of tea, Miss Wheeler?’ Sammi Bell asked, noticing that the teacher was slowly turning an empty cup between her palms. ‘We’ll buy it for you.’

  ‘In case you can’t afford it,’ added Jude Hennessey.

  The others laughed.

  ‘I don’t want anything,’ Kate Wheeler told them.

  ‘You want something or you wouldn’t have asked us to meet you here today,’ Latham reminded her. ‘How’s Daddy?’ There was a sneering derision in his tone and it was reflected in his eyes when she looked at him. ‘Any improvement?’

  Kate shook her head.

  ‘Well,’ Latham chided. ‘If you want to help him, you know what you’ve got to do.’

  Kate looked away from his piercing gaze, glancing instead at the bottom of her cup.

  ‘How much do you know about this new guy?’ Latham continued. ‘Mason. The history teacher.’

  ‘I’ve only met him once,’ Kate said, softly, aware that the stares of Latham and his companions were trained on her like searchlights. ‘He’s moving into the cottage today.’

  ‘Perhaps you should go and say hello,’ Latham told her, getting to his feet. The others around the table followed his example. Then, led by Latham, they all filed towards the door of the café, halting only when the waitress struggled towards the table with their tea-cups perched precariously on a large wooden tray.

  ‘What about your drinks?’ she asked.

  ‘You have them,’ Latham grunted, dismissively. He pulled a ten-pound note from his pocket and flicked it in the direction of the waitress. ‘And keep the change.’

  Precious Moore giggled. Jude Hennessey grinned.

  They left watched by Kate and the other occupants of the café.

  The waitress set the tray down on Kate’s table and retrieved the ten-pound note from the floor.

  ‘Arrogant bastards,’ she snapped. ‘Who do they think they are?’

  Kate didn’t answer.

  Sarah Tindall

  She’d expected to be nervous.

  Sarah Tindall had only passed her driving test two weeks earlier, two months after her eighteenth birthday, but she had shown confidence beyond her years behind the wheel and her brother had allowed her to borrow his car with far less protest than she’d expected.

  Now, returning from her latest outing, guiding the car along one of the main roads into Walston, she adjusted the volume on the car stereo until the bass shook the vehicle.

  Her brother had rung her twice to find out where she was. How long she was going to be and if she’d damaged the car. He’d asked lots of other questions too but she’d merely laughed at his exaggerated concern, promising finally to put a few pounds’ worth of fuel in the tank before she returned it. He worried too much. For a man of twenty-two, Sarah felt that he should lighten up a bit, take life a little less seriously. But, for all his worrying, she appreciated his concern. Since the death of their father a year earlier, her brother had taken on the role of man of the house.

  Like Sarah, he still lived at home with their mother, even more reluctant to move out now because of the devastating effect their father’s passing had had on their mother. Sarah had spoken to him on a number of occasions about what the future might hold. She had also told him that he would one day have to put his own needs ahead of those of their mother but he had merely nodded sagely and told her he couldn’t yet leave their mother alone. Not with Sarah about to embark on a university course in Durham.