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.Or maybe it was a friend: nothing seemed impossible just then.She had been raped; though signs of a struggle would surely have shown up in the post-mortem.And then the policemen’s favourite scenario: she had been entertaining a lover.And why not? If she was going to break the habit of a lifetime by sleeping naked, why not break every habit in the book? Take a lover, leave two glasses on the draining board, light a candle on the desk, leave it on the very edge ready to fall onto the sofa, open a window to fan the flames; choose this one night of the entire year to go completely against character, conviction, temperament, everything she’d ever believed in.How long he stood there he wasn’t sure.Eventually his phone rang.When he answered, his voice sounded strange to his own ears.‘Hi, Dad,’ came Lou’s voice.‘How are you doing?’‘All right, love.How about you?’‘Okay.You still at the house?’‘Yeah.The insurance people are taking their time.You know how it is.’‘I’m calling because Angela Parfitt from the Citizens Advice just dropped by and left a message about a Reverend John Emmanuel wanting to have a meeting with you.’Hugh had a moment of confusion.‘What about? The funeral?’‘No.Her message says’ – a pause while Lou browsed the note – ‘he worked with Mum and has something important to discuss with you and can you phone him, please.There’s a mobile number.’‘Okay,’ Hugh said, and took the number down.‘You be home for lunch, Dad?’‘Not sure yet.’‘Shall I bring a sandwich over?’‘No.’ He didn’t want her seeing what was happening, he didn’t want her getting worried.‘No, I’ll just come and grab something when I get the chance.’It was after two by the time Slater and his men had finished parcelling and labelling debris and sections of carpet, and begun to load their equipment into the van.While he waited to lock up, Hugh went through the drawers of Lizzie’s desk.Though everything on the flap had been reduced to congealed ash or charred, water-welded globs of paper, the contents of all but two of the drawers and compartments had survived, albeit with varying degrees of water damage.The day after her death he had found her passport and birth certificate, miraculously intact, in the drawer furthest from the flames.Now in a lower drawer he found some of her old diaries and notebooks, though nothing dated later than April.He was flicking through them for a second time when Lou’s voice startled him.‘Dad?’‘Lou!’She was standing inside the door with some cling-filmed sandwiches in her hand.‘I thought you might be hungry.’‘Sweetheart.Thank you.Yes, I’m hungry.’As she came forward she stared at the space where the sofa had been and the rectangle of bare floor where the carpet had been removed and the reference labels on the walls.‘They’re very thorough,’ Hugh explained.She nodded, her mouth flexing slightly.‘Are you coming home soon?’Where was home? Where the heart is.And my heart’s still here, he thought.‘No,’ he said, ‘I’m going to meet this vicar or pastor or whatever he calls himself.’‘You’ll be back for supper, though?’‘Yes.’‘Because Charlie and I need to have a talk with you.’ Before he could ask more she turned and walked out of the room.He called after her, but with a brief backward wave she was gone.Lowering clouds had brought an early dusk to the city; a few lingering bands of brightness lay in thick yellow streaks across the western sky.From a distance, silhouetted against the last of the light, the cluster of tower blocks had a deceptively elegant look, a suggestion of Manhattan, until Hugh had climbed the hill to the edge of the estate, when the towers loomed up directly in front of him, grey and forbidding, the corrugated concrete streaked with grime, and the strings of lights that had looked so enticing from the bottom of the hill revealed themselves to be the regimented illuminations of the stairwells.School was over for the day but few windows were lit and there were no kids playing on the concrete aprons beneath.The place had a deserted air.There were conflicting rumours about the Carstairs Estate: one that it was due for demolition any day, the other, surreal in its predictability, that the conservationists were applying for it to be preserved as a paradigm of late sixties estate architecture, but perhaps this proposal had died a death or local reaction had driven it underground because he didn’t remember reading anything about it recently.The church was on the far side of the estate, between a parade of shops and an electricity substation.Most of the shops looked closed for good, their shutters daubed with graffiti; only one blazed with light, a corner shop with a large handwritten sign in the window which, like some reactionary diatribe against single mothers, read ‘Only 2 children at same time’.The church was constructed in the ubiquitous corrugated concrete, as low-built as the towers were high, a wide, spindly, sixties take on flying buttresses giving it the appearance of a crouching spider.For a spire it had a metal spike with a light on top.Above the door was a brightly painted sign saying ‘All Welcome’.The interior was plain, the adornment minimal.There were four or five people scattered around the pews, sitting in silent contemplation.Hugh could see only one door that might belong to the vestry.He knocked and heard the sound of a chair scraping back, then the door was flung open by a tall man, broad and powerful as a boxer, with a large face, polished-ebony skin, and metal-rimmed spectacles that had the effect of magnifying his eyes.He was wearing a bright blue tracksuit and white trainers.He reached out a broad hand and shook Hugh’s solemnly.‘Mr Gwynne.Very good of you to come.Please.’ With a sweep of one arm the Reverend Emmanuel gestured Hugh inside.‘I’m sorry I’m late, Reverend.I hope I’m not delaying you.’‘By no means.And it’s John.’‘John,’ Hugh echoed obediently.Hugh was surprised to find someone else in the room, a strikingly beautiful woman with deep-coffee skin, wide features, and extravagantly braided hair.She was smartly dressed in a black suit and white shirt, and was standing very straight
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