The Bell Ringers by Henry Porter Read Free Book Online Page A

been hit with the hat. ‘I can vouch for Mrs Kidd.’
    â€˜And you are . . . ?’ said a plainclothes officer in his thirties with razor burns on his neck.
    She gave her name.
    â€˜Local?’
    â€˜No, I’m from London. I’m staying at the Bailey Hotel for a few days. But I do know Mrs Kidd.’
    â€˜Well, I am afraid she’s in some trouble.’
    â€˜In what way? Surely she simply failed to observe the parking restrictions, an understandable error given she’s attending the funeral of a close friend?’
    â€˜She struck a police officer. She failed to account for her intentions in a designated area and refused to let us search her bag.’
    â€˜I’m sure she didn’t mean it, did you, Mrs Kidd?’ She touched her lightly on the arm. Diana Kidd shook her head and revolved the hat in her hand trying to compose herself. Kate suddenly had a sense of the universe of uncertainty in the woman.
    â€˜If she agrees to park her car somewhere else, can you overlook the matter? You can see that she’s very upset.’
    Mrs Kidd stared at the ground and nodded pathetically.
    There was an older man in a short, grey coat, standing a little distance away – hands shoved into diagonal pockets below his ribcage, a gaze that contemplated the castle’s battlements and a manner that radiated contempt. Without looking at her he said, ‘Sergeant, you can let Mrs Kidd go.’
    The police moved back, allowing Mrs Kidd to pass to her car.
    Kate thanked him. ‘A designated area?’ she said incredulously. ‘Designated as what? By whom?’
    â€˜I’m not at liberty to say,’ said the officer. ‘We’re just here to ensure that everything passes without incident.’
    His eyes moved to her and scanned her face, trying to place her in the same way that Mrs Kidd had done during the inquest. ‘Got your ID?’ he asked.
    â€˜My passport’s back at the hotel: will an American driver’s licence do?’ She did not move to open her bag.
    â€˜Are you a UK resident?’
    â€˜I am a British citizen. I have just come back from a long period in America.’
    â€˜You will have to sort out an ID card to live here. Immigration should have notified you when you landed.’
    â€˜I read the note,’ she said in a manner that gave no ground.
    He studied her hard and then waved a hand in front of him as though fanning smoke from his face.
    â€˜Now, please move on, madam; we’ve got a job to do here.’
    â€˜There was something else, which is why I came over.’ She turned and scanned the stalls. ‘You see that woman over there – the one in the trousers – I believe she was trying to steal from one of the market stalls.’
    He nodded and said to a uniformed officer, ‘Have a look into it, Mike.’
    Kate thanked him again, swept the circle of officers with one of her client smiles, turned and took a few paces. Then the wind came and tore the blossom from a line of almond trees along the top of the square and tossed it in the air like confetti, adding to the indecent surge of spirit in old provincial England.
    Later she perched on the arm of a bench on some open ground beside a churchyard smoking a cigarette and watching Eyam’s remains being transferred from a hearse through the side entrance into St Luke’s Parish Church. At first she turned away from the open door, as though there was something private about the operation, but then she forced herself to look on. Four pallbearers lowered the coffin, placed wreaths on top and at each end, straightened the velvet drape covering the trestle, bowed and retreated. The earthly remains of David Eyam – the mere fragments of a man – had come home and were at last being accorded respect. Shipped from Colombia in a battered aluminium box to Heathrow, there to be tested for cocaine, they had mistakenly been forwarded to the coroner’s