‘You’ve turned detective? Don’t the police do these things better? But then they might be suspects too?’
Tavanter tugged at his collar. ‘I was lucky. Lucky to the tune of seven hundred and fifty thousand. I bought some land in London. It was worthless then, except for a youth club. I sold it when developers moved in and the youth club needed it no longer. I gave the money to the diocese here, they asked for the details before accepting. I’m sure they can confirm if…’
Dryden raised his hand. He knew the story but would check it anyway. They stood and walked to the chapel doors, left open by the departing deputy chief constable. Out in the garden of remembrance the mayoress sat with her back to them on a cast-iron bench.
‘And then there’s jealousy,’ said Tavanter, smoothing down his ash-white cassock. ‘She could tell you about that’
Dryden’s golden rule: you can always ask one more question.
‘Did Roy Barnett know?’ The police file had been clear about Liz Barnett’s relationship with the young, handsome gypsy boy.
Tavanter shrugged. ‘They went away a lot, she had some money. But he may have guessed.’
‘If Tommy was on the run and needed help why do you think he didn’t come to you? Wasn’t Little Ouse the perfect place to hide? St John’s was remote, he was unknown.’
Tavanter’s grey eyes swam. ‘An astute question, Dryden. One I have asked myself many times. We’ve just consigned to God’s mercy the only soul on earth who could have given you an answer. Perhaps I don’t want that answer. Perhaps he used me. I gave him some money, not much, but some. God knows. We don’t.’
Dryden found Liz Barnett in the rose garden. The mayoress had recovered what little of her composure had been lost. She was smoking, sucking in lungfuls of nicotine in the bitter cold air. She wore a full-length suede coat, and a brilliantly coloured scarf, held fast by the jet stone. The make-up was applied with an audience in mind – circle rather than stalls. The hands, fine but muscular, were decked out in silver rings. On the whole the effect was diverting and worked a treat. She was angry still, and spitting self-justification.
She answered a question he hadn’t asked. ‘He wasn’t a bit like they said, you know.’
‘They?’
‘The police. Old Stubbs. He looks dreadful by the way, made my day. Pity Tommy wasn’t here to see it.’
She turned and walked down the snow-covered path between ranks of memorial urns. Above, thin white smoke from the crematorium chimney thickened to grey and drifted up into the low clouds.
‘Low-life, scum, that’s what Stubbs said. They showed me pictures of that poor woman from the Crossways. Made me sick in a bucket. Said they’d have to interview Roy. They said Tommy was an animal. But I tell you what he wasn’t, Dryden.’
They faced each other between two bare rose bushes. ‘He wasn’t at the Crossways.’
She fished inside the suede coat, produced a small leather snapshot holder and flipped it open. Inside was a picture of two people laughing, drenched in sunshine after a rainstorm. One was Liz Barnett, hair a bright red, twenty years old, no make-up, in a white linen blouse. She looked fabulous. High cheekbones, flashing green eyes, and a perfect wide smile revealing flawless white teeth.
The boy looked a lot younger than eighteen. The blue-black hair lay in rich curves over a fine narrow face. The eyes dominated the neat features, black and wide and slightly watery. He looked unsure, nervous even, but happy, his hair and shirt damped down from a shower, his bony shoulders showing through.
Dryden flipped the snapshot over. Newmarket. August 65. With Gypsy. She took the picture back and slipped it carefully into the holder.
‘Got one of Roy?’ It was a cheap shot but she laughed.
‘Just for the dartboard. We all make mistakes. Tragedy is when you make one that ruins your life.’
‘He’s a good socialist.’
She didn’t laugh. ‘Yes. Yes, he was. That must have been it.’ Her eyes searched the fen beyond the river.
‘But it wasn’t politics with Tommy?’
She gave him an old-fashioned look. ‘No, Dryden. It wasn’t politics. But it was a lot more than sex. All right?’ She looked back at the waiting car as if uncertain whether to go on. ‘He wasn’t at the Crossways. He was with me.’
Dryden considered this alibi. ‘Wouldn’t it have been helpful to have said that at the time? You might have saved his life.’
She took a step back and Dryden thought she’d decided to walk off but she rocked back on her heels and delivered a full-handed slap across his face before he’d even thought of ducking. His eyes swam for a second and he felt tears well.