didn’t mind the woman’s discomfort. He pushed further. ‘Ah yes, I remember Terrence mentioning him. Is his father not around any more?’
The woman’s eyes narrowed. ‘He was no father,’ she said, lowering her voice.
‘Did Terrence ever see him?’
‘He ceased being his father many years ago,’ said Vernon. Her voice came out as a screech as the colour in her cheeks deepened, her eyes narrowing once more.
Lambert poured himself some more tea. He tipped the clear brown liquid into Sandra Vernon’s cup. ‘Oh. I hadn’t realised. I’m sure I remember Terrence mentioning him. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. I just wanted to understand.’ Lambert kept his voice low and steady, focusing all his attention onto the flustered woman.
Vernon leant back in her chair. ‘His daddy was an evil man, Godless. Left us when Terrence was a child. Terrence never forgave him. It was his decision. He waited until he left University, but he didn’t want that man’s name sullying him any more.’
Vernon was over-protesting. ‘Despicable. Is he aware that Terrence has gone to a better place? I hope you’ll forgive my forwardness, but I could inform him if you had an address.’
The woman let out a small sound which sounded like a wounded animal. Her facial muscles tensed and Lambert watched, bemused, as her upper lip rose revealing the redness of her gums. ‘I don’t have his address. Who cares if he knows? He was nothing to Terrence, to us.’ she snarled.
Lambert stood. ‘No, you’re completely right. I’m really sorry to bother you. I should go. I was hoping to visit his church before I left for London. Thank you for the tea.’ He had what he’d wanted. Any sympathy he’d had for the woman had faded. He sensed the hatred in the woman, knew it wasn’t simply a reaction to her son’s death. It resonated within her, and he sighed with relief when he was out of the claustrophobic confines of her house. He had to speak to Terrence’s father, but first he had to see his church.
A white painted building, the result of two terraced houses knocked together, the church had a small sign nailed to the side wall announcing the occupants as Gracelife, Bristol. Minister, Neil Landsdale.
An elderly woman wrapped in a pink-check clothed apron opened the front door. ‘Yes?’
‘I’m here to see the minister,’ said Lambert.
The woman glared at him as if he’d said something incomprehensible. ‘Minister?’
‘Neil Landsdale.’
‘I’m just the cleaner,’ said the woman. ‘You can come in and check the offices if you want. There are some people moving about up there.’ She walked back inside, leaving the door open.
Apart from a giant wooden crucifix hanging from the far wall, little else suggested the interior was that of a church. It was more like a small dance studio. Stacks of plastic chairs and folded tables surrounded a polished wooden floor. Dull brown walls propped up the low ceiling.
‘Up there,’ said the cleaner, pointing to a panelled door which led to a flight of stairs.
Lambert heard talking as he moved up the dark staircase. One male, one female voice. He reached the office door and knocked. The voices stopped and the door was opened by a smiling woman, wearing a long-sleeved dress, patterned with large garish flowers, ‘Mr Lambert by any chance?’ she said, her face twitching.
Sandra Vernon had obviously called ahead. He kept his tone light. ‘Yes, you have me at a disadvantage, Miss…’
The woman kept the painted smile on her face but didn’t invite him to enter.
‘May I speak to Neil Landsdale?’ asked Lambert, when she didn’t answer.
‘I’m afraid he’s awfully busy at the moment,’ said the woman, her light voice lined with the trace of a West Country accent. ‘Would it be possible to come back later?’
Lambert stiffened. ‘Not really, I’m afraid. I’m only in Bristol for the day. It will only take a few minutes of his time.’ Lambert pictured the minister sitting at a desk behind the door. He had no idea why the man was avoiding him, but one thing was clear, he would not be leaving without first speaking to the minister.
‘Please wait here,’ said the woman, shutting the door behind her.
Lambert placed his ear to the door, but couldn’t hear the muffled conversation. He stepped back as the door opened.
‘Mr Landsdale will see you now,’ said the woman.
Two chrome-framed desks sat side by side in the office, each with an old box-style computer monitor on them. A grey-haired man stood in front of one of the desks. His hair fell to his shoulder, a week’s growth of stubble protruding from his face. His smile was as prominent and false as his colleague’s. ‘Mr Lambert, pleased to meet you. I am the minister of our humble little church. You can call me Neil.’
Lambert accepted the weak handshake. ‘Thank you, Neil.’
‘Please sit, how may I help?’
‘As I am sure Miss Vernon has informed you, I was Terrence’s friend at University. I’d come to pay my respect to Miss Vernon. Whilst here, I thought I’d see the church Terrence was so fond of.’
‘That he was, Mr Lambert. Terrence was an active parishioner, ever since he joined our congregation when he was at University. He will be sorely missed.’
‘You’ve been minister all that time?’
‘Yes,’ said Landsdale, holding his hands in front of him, his fingers interlocked. ‘It is my church.’
‘So you know Terrence’s father?’
‘I’m afraid not. Sandra and Terrence’s father had divorced some time before they moved here.’
‘Did Terrence ever speak of him?’
‘With all due respect, what business is it of yours? I thought you came to pay your respects.’ The smile was still there, but the humour had disappeared from the minister’s eyes.
‘I have, and I wanted to pay my respects to both parents,’ said Lambert, his voice rising, his patience fading.
Landsdale understood. He unlinked his fingers and sat back in his chair, as if trying to escape Lambert’s gaze. ‘Look, there’s not much I can tell you. Terrence’s parents were parishioners of our sister church in Neath, when Terrence was a child. The church had a different approach then. From what I heard, there was a bit of a nasty business when they separated. Terrence never mentioned him.’
‘Do you know where Mr Haydon is now?’ It would only take a minute to find the father’s address on The System, but Lambert wanted to hear the address from Landsdale. He tapped his knuckles on the minister’s desk, and waited.
‘Now how would I know that, Mr Lambert? Perhaps you should ask the police.’
Lambert continued tapping the desk, despite the threat. He inched closer to Landsdale who shifted in his chair, looking everywhere but back at him. ‘Okay. Thank you
