Matthew Mackie turns and looks back across the garden, squinting into the sun. On either side of the path are the gravestones, neat, ordered, symmetrical, stretching forward in time toward the iron gates. The oldest graves are nearest to Christ, with the newest joining the queue when their time had come. There are about two hundred bodies high on the hill, a spot sobeautiful, so peaceful, so perfect, Mackie thinks it could almost make him believe in God.
The first grave is dated 1874, a Sister Margaret Bernadette, and this is where Mackie eventually turns, starting his slow walk back.
The older gravestones are more ornate. The dates of death flick slowly forward as he walks. There are the Victorians all neatly in a line, probably furious about Palmerston or the Boers. Then it’s the women who sat in the convent and heard about the Wright brothers for the first time. Then the women who nursed the blind and the broken who flooded through their gates, as they prayed for brothers to return safely from Europe. Then there were doctors and voters and drivers, women who had seen both wars and still kept the faith, the inscriptions getting easier to read now. Then television, rock and roll, supermarkets, motorways, and moon landings. Father Mackie steps off the path sometime around the 1970s, the headstones clear and simple now. He walks along the row, looking at the names. The world was changing in the most extraordinary ways, but the rows are still neat and orderly, and the names are still the same. He reaches the side wall of the garden, waist-high and much older than the wall at the front. He takes in the view, which hasn’t changed since 1874. Trees, fields, birds, things that were permanent and unbroken. He walks back to the path, clearing a leaf off one of the headstones as he passes.
Father Mackie continues to walk until he reaches the final gravestone: Sister Mary Byrne, dated July 14, 2005. What a lot Mary Byrne could tell Sister Margaret Bernadette, just a hundred yards up the path. So much had changed, yet here at least, so much had stayed the same.
Behind Sister Mary Byrne there is room for many more graves, but they had not been needed. Sister Mary was the last of the line. So here they all lay, this sisterhood, with the walls still around them, the blue skies above them, and the leaves still falling on the headstones.
What could he do?
Exiting through the gates, Mackie turns back for a final look. He thenbegins the walk downhill, back through the avenue of trees toward Coopers Chase.
A man in a suit and tie is sitting on a bench set just off the path, enjoying the same view that Father Mackie had been enjoying. The view that never changed. Through wars and deaths, cars and planes, Wi-Fi, and whatever was in the papers this morning. There was something to be said for it.
“Father,” acknowledges the man, a folded copy of theDaily Expressby his side. Matthew Mackie nods back, keeps walking, and keeps thinking.
31.
Chris has his own chair and his own side table, and he now feels like the King of the World. He sometimes forgets the impact a police officer can have on members of the public. The gang in front of him are looking at him with something approaching awe. It’s nice to be taken seriously once in a while, and he is happily giving them the benefit of his wisdom.
“The whole house is wired up with cameras—pretty state-of-the-art stuff too—but we got nothing. On the blink. They often are.”
Elizabeth is nodding with interest. “Anyone you were expecting to see, though? Any suspects?” she asks.
“Well, listen, that’s not something I can really share,” says Chris.
“So you do have a suspect? How wonderful. What do you make of the coffee and walnut?” says Joyce.
Chris lifts a slice of coffee and walnut cake to his mouth and takes a bite. Also better than M&S. Joyce, you wizard. Also, it was a well-known fact that there were no calories in homemade cakes.
“It’s delicious, and look, I didn’t say we had a suspect, but we have persons of interest, and that’s normal.”
“Persons of interest,” says Joyce. “I love it when they say that.”
“More than one, then?” asks Elizabeth. “So not just Ian Ventham? I suppose you couldn’t possibly say?”
“He couldn’t say; you’re quite right,” says Donna, deciding enough is enough. “Now, leave the poor man alone, Elizabeth.”
Chris laughs. “I don’t think I need protecting here, Donna.”
Ibrahim turns to Donna. “DCI Hudson is a fine investigator, PC De Freitas. You are lucky to have such a good boss.”
“Oh, he’s a pro,” agrees Donna.
Elizabeth claps her hands. “Well, it feels like this meeting has been all give and no take. You’ve been very kind, Chris—if I can call you Chris?”
“Well, I’ve possibly shared more than I was intending, but I’m glad it’s been interesting,” says Chris.
“It has. And I think we owe you a favor in return. You might like to take a look at this.” Elizabeth hands Chris a bright blue file about six inches thick. “It’s a few financials on Ian Ventham. Details of this place, details of his relationship with Tony Curran. Probably all nonsense, but I’ll let you be the judge.”
There is a buzz on Joyce’s intercom, and she heads off to answer it, while Chris weighs up the file.
“Well, we can certainly take a look through this....”
“I’ll look through it, don’t panic,” says Donna, and gives Elizabeth a reassuring look.
The door swings open and Joyce walks in with Jason Ritchie himself. The tattoos, that nose, those forearms.
