Ashes to Ashes: An unputdownable thriller from the Sunday Times bestseller. Paul FinchЧитать онлайн книгу.
now a lumber room. You’ll have to find one of the shelters down in town.’
Heck was a little surprised. OK, he was wearing jeans, trainers and a hoodie top, but none of it was tatty. Perhaps, if he was so easily mistaken for a hobo, he shouldn’t have gone to all that trouble to dress down in Peckham.
‘I’m looking for Father Pat,’ he said. ‘I’d just like a quick word.’
‘He’s not in.’ She stepped out into the porch as she closed the door behind her. Its latch clunked home with an air of finality. ‘He’s making his evening rounds.’
These ‘evening rounds’ had been part of Heck’s uncle’s routine for as long as he remembered. Once the day’s Masses had been said, Father Pat would visit the hospitals and hospices, then the homeless centres, then the houses of the sick and the bereaved and the down-at-heart. That wasn’t the sort of thing you could wrap up in half an hour.
‘OK.’ Heck turned away. ‘Thanks.’
‘He might – just might – pop into The Coal Hole down on Shadwell Road,’ she called after him. ‘But only if he has a bit of time left.’
Heck glanced back and nodded. He knew where The Coal Hole was. Father Pat might be a priest, and a good one too, but he was occasionally partial to a small whiskey.
‘If he misses you tonight, I’ll be seeing him again in the morning. Who shall I say called?’
‘Mark – his nephew.’
There was a long, cool silence, the woman’s features inscrutable in the dimness. Finally, she said, ‘Well, well … you wouldn’t by any chance be in trouble again?’
Mrs O’Malley was another who’d disapproved of what Heck had done all those years ago. Descended from a long line of Irish Republicans, she’d disapproved of the British police in general, so she’d felt especially affronted by Heck taking up lodgings here.
‘No, I’m not in trouble, Mrs O’Malley,’ Heck replied. ‘But you guys may be.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘All of you.’ He walked on to the gate.
‘If Father Pat asks?’ she called again, now sounding a tad concerned.
‘Yep,’ Heck said over his shoulder. ‘Him too.’
Bradburn wasn’t just known for being a grim town up north. It had also produced several celebrated sons and daughters who’d made an impact in the entertainment industry.
One of the most controversial of these – at least in his time – was Terry Bayber, a knockabout northern comic whose heyday was the late 1940s and early 1950s, but who’d mainly been famous back then for being irreverent and even ‘subversive’ according to one daily newspaper. Bayber’s risqué routines were always aided and abetted by his busty, blonde and ever scantily clad girlfriend and business partner, Mavis Broom, ‘Our Mavis’, who was the recipient of endless light-hearted innuendo throughout his shows. Bayber’s death in 1954, at the age of 55, was very premature, but his memory lived on, certainly on his home patch, where campaigners had lobbied from an early stage for a permanent memorial to him. Only now had this dream finally become reality, with Bradburn Council coughing up, and further donations coming from local businesses, to produce a seven-foot-tall bronze figure mounted on a plinth in the town’s central Plaza.
But this was Bradburn, so things had not gone entirely smoothly.
There’d been considerable debate about the proposed grand unveiling, some officials expressing concern that on a rainy midweek evening there’d be a relatively low attendance. Others, however, argued that the recent gangland violence had frightened and depressed everyone, making them feel that they lived in a no-go zone, and that it could only be good for Bradburn to host some kind of event in the town centre, something lively and fun, something that would cheer people up and distract from the painful present by injecting it with a touch of nostalgia. As for the weather – that was a moot point. A bit of rain was easily tolerable for the average Bradburner, especially if they hired their woman-of-the-moment, Shelley Harper, to do the bouncy, blonde Our Mavis thing while she unveiled the statue.
Shelley Harper.
She’d been the town’s official doe-eyed beauty for as long as most Bradburn residents could remember. A pageant winner from way back, and a mainstay of high-profile charity events, where she’d parachuted in wearing basque and suspenders or had run marathons in a thong and baby-doll nightie, the latter turning ever more suggestively transparent the hotter and sweatier she got, Shelley had always been one to catch the eye. But a recent television appearance had raised her profile dramatically, and on a national scale, even earning her the much-sought moniker ‘reality TV star’.
Ever the willing lass, Shelley had signed up for the unveiling without hesitation, even though she’d never heard of Terry Bayber. Reflecting her recent TV success, the money would be marginally better than it used to be for events for this, though it still wasn’t up to much. But, on the positive side, it wouldn’t take long and would be easy enough work. All she had to do was pull some cord and a sheet would fall down, and if it was a little bit demeaning that yet again she’d be posing and preening while wearing next to nothing in the midst of goggling spectators, well … that was Shelley’s stock-in-trade.
So she was there bang on time at the Town Hall that damp Thursday night of April 5, and, suited and booted, found herself ushered out into the middle of the Plaza, where, swathed in a heavy blue cloak, she was confronted by a lively crowd, mainly male, milling around behind the red velvet ropes and, though easily marshalled by a handful of uniformed bobbies in hi-vis doublets, so eager for the unveiling to commence – the unveiling of Shelley Harper as much as the unveiling of the statue – that they were shouting and hooting with impatience.
The mayoral party lined up alongside her in their overcoats and waterproofs, though Bradburn’s actual Mayor, Councillor Jim Croakwell, who was currently at the microphone making a rather ponderous speech, was wearing his robes and chain of office, plus his tricorn, which, given his porcine shape, triple chins, roseate cheeks and gruff northern voice, made him look like some kind of Victorian beadle.
At least he isn’t standing next to me any more, Shelley thought.
Several times already that evening he’d allowed his arm to steal around her waist under the pretence of fatherly protectiveness.
It wasn’t very respectful, but there was nothing new in it.
In truth, she was under no illusions about her status here: she was no real VIP, and everyone in the Plaza knew it. She was little more than a bit-part actress and wannabe model. Shelley’s glorious looks and figure and her flowing blonde hair were all for real. She was a natural-born stunner. But a variety of ill-advised career moves had served to limit her life’s ambitions at an early stage. For example, an appearance on Page Three back when she was nineteen had led on to a much more explicit role as a centrefold in a less than classy girlie mag a couple of years later, and even if both those adventures had paid her well at the time, they’d detracted from her marketability in later years. So, on approaching her late twenties and fearing her star was waning, she’d embarked on several well-publicised affairs with other, somewhat less minor celebrities from the Northwest – one a locally born TV writer, whose married life was subsequently ruined, the other a Premiership footballer whose fabulous wealth had ensured that his wasn’t – none of which had done her long-term reputation any good. This had been her career’s last gasp, or so she’d thought at the time – fame for all the wrong reasons – yet now, ten years later (after doing a few other things she was even more ashamed of, though thankfully they remained private), she was suddenly in the midst of a personal renaissance thanks to Bond or Break, a satellite TV talent show in which the Z-list contestants had to endure extreme hardships