tea like I do every bloody day I work there. What time it was I don’t know and I don’t care. I want a lawyer.’
‘Later,’ said Burden. ‘How well did you know the Reverend Hussain?’ Wexford would have winced or cringed at this usage but he wasn’t there to hear it. ‘Speak to her, did you? Pass the time of day?’
‘I never did. My old mum what passed away last year, Lord rest her, didn’t hold with females in pulpits, that’s what she called them, females in pulpits and no more do I. I wouldn’t have spoke to her if she’d spoke to me but she never did.’
‘Have you ever been in the Vicarage?’
‘No, I never. What would I go in there for? Two women living there, two Asiatics? Asians they call them now, but Asiatics is what they are. Coloured and got black hair, dressed up like in fancy dress. Now can I have a lawyer? How many times do I have to ask?’
‘Not any more,’ said Burden. ‘What do you want one for? I’m not going to arrest you. You can go. But,’ he added in a magisterial tone, ‘we shall talk again in the not too far distant future.’
Meanwhile, Lynn had spoken to Thora Kilmartin on the phone and been told that she was coming to Kingsmarkham in two days’ time to meet Clarissa at Georgina Bray’s. She had met Georgina in the past and it was Georgina who had been in touch with her. Reading between the lines or between the sentences, Lynn got the impression that Georgina was anxious that Clarissa should continue to stay with her.
‘Clarissa’s still at school. She’s at school now. And with her A levels next summer it would be very wrong for her to miss classes.’
Lynn had just terminated the call when another came in. This time it was from Wexford. Did Lynn know about the Congolese community living in Stowerton, members of which had apparently attended St Peter’s church services? Lynn did. She had heard from another source.
‘Wouldn’t you to have expected them to go to the Catholic church?’
Lynn said in a very apologetic tone that she didn’t know much about religion. ‘I don’t know anything about religion in Congo,’ Wexford said, ‘or the Democratic Republic of Congo, as I suppose I should say. A misnomer if ever there was one. But since it was once – notoriously – a Belgian colony I thought they’d be Catholic and French-speaking.’
‘There’s a woman in Oval Road I interviewed a few months back. Her name is Nardelie Mukamba – not the kind of name you’d forget, is it? She witnessed a burglary. I could talk to her. Would you like to come with me?’
‘I would,’ said Wexford.
The area had always been a poor one, the little houses, ranged in terraces, originally built in the late nineteenth century, to accommodate workers in the chalk quarries and their families. Now it was run-down, the small front gardens repositories of bicycles, a couple of worn-out motorbikes, no longer habitable rabbit hutches and birdcages and the local authority issue bins for recyclable paper and cardboard, glass and metal and a larger one for general rubbish. A woman in a tall turban and elaborately pleated red-and-pink dress was in the act of dropping a couple of lager cans into the appropriate bin.
Leaving Wexford in the car, Lynn went up to her. ‘Mrs Mukamba, do you remember me? I talked to you about a break-in at number 30.’
Nardelie Mukamba looked in her mid-twenties. Wexford saw that she was beautiful, her skin a deep smooth bronze, her eyes obsidian black. He got out of the car. Lynn didn’t introduce him but included him in her explanation. ‘We are inquiring about the murder of the vicar, Ms Hussain. Did you ever go to her church? Did you ever go to St Peter’s, Kingsmarkham?’
Her reply came in fluent English with that accent which most British people recognise as African as distinct from Caribbean.
‘Me and my children went there most Sundays.’
‘Did you ever speak to the Reverend Hussain?’
‘I shook hands with her. Everyone did.
‘Later,’ said Burden. ‘How well did you know the Reverend Hussain?’ Wexford would have winced or cringed at this usage but he wasn’t there to hear it. ‘Speak to her, did you? Pass the time of day?’
‘I never did. My old mum what passed away last year, Lord rest her, didn’t hold with females in pulpits, that’s what she called them, females in pulpits and no more do I. I wouldn’t have spoke to her if she’d spoke to me but she never did.’
‘Have you ever been in the Vicarage?’
‘No, I never. What would I go in there for? Two women living there, two Asiatics? Asians they call them now, but Asiatics is what they are. Coloured and got black hair, dressed up like in fancy dress. Now can I have a lawyer? How many times do I have to ask?’
‘Not any more,’ said Burden. ‘What do you want one for? I’m not going to arrest you. You can go. But,’ he added in a magisterial tone, ‘we shall talk again in the not too far distant future.’
Meanwhile, Lynn had spoken to Thora Kilmartin on the phone and been told that she was coming to Kingsmarkham in two days’ time to meet Clarissa at Georgina Bray’s. She had met Georgina in the past and it was Georgina who had been in touch with her. Reading between the lines or between the sentences, Lynn got the impression that Georgina was anxious that Clarissa should continue to stay with her.
‘Clarissa’s still at school. She’s at school now. And with her A levels next summer it would be very wrong for her to miss classes.’
Lynn had just terminated the call when another came in. This time it was from Wexford. Did Lynn know about the Congolese community living in Stowerton, members of which had apparently attended St Peter’s church services? Lynn did. She had heard from another source.
‘Wouldn’t you to have expected them to go to the Catholic church?’
Lynn said in a very apologetic tone that she didn’t know much about religion. ‘I don’t know anything about religion in Congo,’ Wexford said, ‘or the Democratic Republic of Congo, as I suppose I should say. A misnomer if ever there was one. But since it was once – notoriously – a Belgian colony I thought they’d be Catholic and French-speaking.’
‘There’s a woman in Oval Road I interviewed a few months back. Her name is Nardelie Mukamba – not the kind of name you’d forget, is it? She witnessed a burglary. I could talk to her. Would you like to come with me?’
‘I would,’ said Wexford.
The area had always been a poor one, the little houses, ranged in terraces, originally built in the late nineteenth century, to accommodate workers in the chalk quarries and their families. Now it was run-down, the small front gardens repositories of bicycles, a couple of worn-out motorbikes, no longer habitable rabbit hutches and birdcages and the local authority issue bins for recyclable paper and cardboard, glass and metal and a larger one for general rubbish. A woman in a tall turban and elaborately pleated red-and-pink dress was in the act of dropping a couple of lager cans into the appropriate bin.
Leaving Wexford in the car, Lynn went up to her. ‘Mrs Mukamba, do you remember me? I talked to you about a break-in at number 30.’
Nardelie Mukamba looked in her mid-twenties. Wexford saw that she was beautiful, her skin a deep smooth bronze, her eyes obsidian black. He got out of the car. Lynn didn’t introduce him but included him in her explanation. ‘We are inquiring about the murder of the vicar, Ms Hussain. Did you ever go to her church? Did you ever go to St Peter’s, Kingsmarkham?’
Her reply came in fluent English with that accent which most British people recognise as African as distinct from Caribbean.
‘Me and my children went there most Sundays.’
‘Did you ever speak to the Reverend Hussain?’
‘I shook hands with her. Everyone did.
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