Part 14 (2/2)

d.a.m.n him, thought Nicola Denman. She couldn't even escape from her father in the back of a cab.

She leaned forward. 'Would you mind turning that off?' she asked.

'Whatever you say, miss,' said the taxi driver. 'He's got a point, though, hasn't he? That copper. I think we've tried to understand them criminals for far too long. Should just lock 'em up, and throw away the key.'

'Yeah,' said Nicola, bored and irritated. Thankfully, the taxi driver seemed to want to talk about the latest spate of burglaries in his area, and Nicola was content to grunt at the appropriate moments. Five minutes later the vehicle came to a halt.

'The Catholic Cathedral, miss,' announced the driver grandly.

Nicola scooped the required money into the man's hand, and set off at a nervous run. The huge building, part crown of thorns, part concrete circus tent, dominated the skyline, and she pushed impatiently through the crowds milling about its entrance. There was a row of confessionals off a small side aisle, which the visitors seemed instinctively to avoid, and Nicola headed towards these, letting the silence and the cool air wash over her.

She found an unoccupied booth, and sat down in a flurry of tired limbs and exhaled breaths. 'I'm not really a Catholic, right,' she began immediately to the face half-obscured by the mesh. 'So don't give me any Hail Mary nonsense. I just want to talk.' She paused, and the fragility of her feelings welled like a wound. 'I really really need to talk to someone, OK?' need to talk to someone, OK?'

'I'm here to help in the name of G.o.d in whatever way I can,'

responded the priest. He sounded young, but he spoke slowly and deliberately, as if to emphasise that he had all the time in the world, and that Nicola was the sole object of his attention. 'What troubles you?'

'It's my dad,' Nicola blurted out. 'Or rather, it's all because of my mum. She's dead, you see.'

'I'm sorry.'

Nicola caught a flash of blue eyes framed by pale skin.

'Yeah. Well, Dad's always been very strict. You see, he's...'

Nicola paused, unsure of what to say. 'He works in the legal profession,' she lied. 'He's very upright, very moral.'

'Those aren't necessarily bad things.'

'No, of course not. But, before she died, his strictness went hand in hand with his love. I never doubted then that they both thought the world of me.'

'And now?'

'I think we both feel very empty. She died years ago, and you'd think the void we feel would have gone away by now, wouldn't you?'

'No,' said the priest firmly. 'There are some trials in life that we can never recover from. I believe that G.o.d's grace is sufficient for us, but that it would almost be... disrespectful to live on as if nothing had changed.'

'Oh, but everything everything has changed. That's the point. As I grew up, he wanted me to be more and more like her. I don't even know who I am any more.' has changed. That's the point. As I grew up, he wanted me to be more and more like her. I don't even know who I am any more.'

'But does your father still love you?'

Nicola was crying now, and she did not respond for some time, the priest waiting patiently, his lips moving, perhaps in prayer. When she finally did speak again, her voice was thick with emotion and suppressed hurt. 'Daddy's love... Daddy's love can be a very frightening thing.'

Phil Burridge was not especially talented, but one skill he did possess was the ability to break into a house with the minimum of fuss and bother. And the vicarage was a particularly easy target, a huge tree dominating the back and affording easy access to one of the bedrooms.

The window was ornate, and composed of many small panes of gla.s.s, and Burridge pushed at one with a folded penknife. It shattered easily. He reached inside to twist open the window. With surprising agility for a man of his frame, he manoeuvred himself into the room from the big, thick bough of the tree, and then pulled the window closed behind him.

He glanced at his watch. Just after two o'clock. The girl would still be at school, teaching, and her dad would be...

Doing vicary things in church, probably.

As he'd been led to believe, this was her room, all tasteful scatter cus.h.i.+ons and impressionist prints. The bed was enormous, and the duvet clearly had been pulled straight before the woman had left for school. Burridge sat on it for a moment, wondering what to do. Hatch had told him to find something incriminating, something to link her to the Proteus bombing.

Burridge wasn't surprised it had come to this. He'd been suspicious when Matty Hatch had first become involved with the teacher, and now it seemed she'd been s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g the poor bloke in every way imaginable.

There was something wonderfully voyeuristic about breaking into someone's room, like reading an intimate diary.

A woman's room, even more so. On an impulse, Burridge leaned across the bed and towards the pine chest of drawers to one side.

Rebecca Baber's knicker drawer was a delightful mess of scanty bits of brightly coloured silk and lace. Burridge thrust his hands into them.

He extracted a pair at random, pulling them over his face, thinking that he'd like to rob a bank like this one day, just to see if they'd dare put that that on on Crimewatch UK. Crimewatch UK. Then he rooted through the other drawers, finding paperbacks, scarves, ballpoint pens, sports socks, a calculator, a single black stocking, and what appeared to be a year's supply of antihistamines. Right at the bottom, under an angora sweater, he found a small pile of gay p.o.r.n mags, and a loaded handgun. Then he rooted through the other drawers, finding paperbacks, scarves, ballpoint pens, sports socks, a calculator, a single black stocking, and what appeared to be a year's supply of antihistamines. Right at the bottom, under an angora sweater, he found a small pile of gay p.o.r.n mags, and a loaded handgun.

Phil Burridge tutted to himself. 'Oh, bad! That's gotta be worth two years in Holloway for a kick-off.'

The pants still over his face like a mask, Burridge patrolled the room, half blinded by floral satin. He opened cupboards and rifled clumsily through shelves. After five minutes of intense searching, only the computer was left, and Burridge had no no intention of touching that. intention of touching that.

Thinking he'd drawn a blank, he turned for the window, ripping the knickers from his face.

One of the framed prints caught his eye. Phil Burridge didn't know his Matisse from his Magritte, but, in the context of this room, a crooked painting screamed screamed at him. at him.

He turned the picture over, and taped to the back with thick masking tape was a small sheaf of paper. They were the plans to Proteus's head office, and lists of pa.s.swords and security alarms.

'Oh dear,' he said. 'We have been a naughty naughty girl, Becky.' girl, Becky.'

CHAPTER 6.

CITY SICKNESS.

Nicola Denman took a deep breath, her hand resting against the pub door. She watched the sun creeping behind the smoke-grey clouds that peppered the horizon. Despite the noise that surged through open windows she felt more peaceful than she had in the cathedral. This was her world, for all its dirt. That other land, the place of forgiveness, was un.o.btainable.

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