Point on Monday afternoon. We think he had coffee in here on Monday morning.’
Now she did take her glasses from a pocket in her apron to look more carefully. ‘What time?’
‘About ten thirty. Maybe a bit later. We think he was with a woman wearing a green coat.’
‘I don’t remember. You know what it’s like here in the mornings. Pretty manic and people move through really quickly.’
‘He had coffee and a bacon sandwich and she had herbal tea, nothing to eat.’
‘Yeah, I do remember them.’ She was triumphant. ‘At least not them, but the order. I can’t give you any more than you’ve already got, though. I can’t describe them.’ She took off the glasses. ‘You know what I’m like without these.’
‘Did they pay by card or cash?’
‘I’m not sure. Want me to check?’ Without waiting for an answer, she went to the machine and stuck her specs on her nose again. ‘Sorry, it must have been a cash transaction.’
‘No worries. Can you ask the other staff? They might remember something useful.’ He pushed across his card. ‘Give me a shout if you remember anything.’
* * *
In his office at the station, someone had left a note on his desk. The writing was rather beautiful and he spent a moment wondering which of his team might have written it. Then he read the contents: Your mother rang. Can you visit her at home? She says it’s urgent.
Chapter Fourteen
HIS MOTHER LIVED IN A NEAT little bungalow on a tidy estate of seventies houses at the edge of the town. It was set on a hill and there was a view all the way down to the estuary. The bungalow looked as if it belonged to an older person, but the family had lived there even when Matthew was a boy. His parents had bought it when they were first married. Matthew wouldn’t have been surprised if his mother hadn’t already been planning ahead for the time when they might not be able to manage the stairs. She’d never discovered the knack of living in the present.
Matthew sat outside in the car for a moment, worrying. His mother had said it was urgent that she see him, but if there had been some medical emergency, she would have called a friend from the Brethren and not him. He’d only found out that his father was ill through a third person. Now he was nervous, wondering how he would react to her if she let rip again, if that was why she had phoned him: to accuse him again of killing his father.
He wondered how it had come to this, replayed again the moment when faith had been replaced by a different kind of certainty and his life had fractured. It had been his first year at university and he’d come home for the Easter holidays. His parents had taken him to a meeting on his second night home, wanting to show him off. The bright boy who’d got into Bristol University, who was a credit to them all. But things had already started falling apart, his confidence unravelling, anxiety taking hold. He might have been considered bright in a comprehensive school in Barnstaple, but there’d been gaps in his knowledge and understanding. He’d struggled to make friends in Bristol, knew people laughed at him behind his back, felt ill at ease, not right in his own skin. And he’d been forced to think for himself, to challenge the belief system he’d grown up with.
The meeting had been held in a hired village hall, somewhere on the edge of Exmoor. It had felt damp and dusty, and there was a smell of paraffin from the heaters. There’d been quite a crowd, perhaps fifty people. Brethren from all over the county were there, not to see him, but because it was one of the quarterly sessions when decisions were made. He’d sat near the back with his parents. Dennis Salter, who had conducted his father’s funeral, had been taking the service. He’d been younger then, of course, but still the acknowledged leader. Dennis had welcomed them as they came into the hall, had taken Matthew into his arms and held him for a moment. ‘I couldn’t be more proud, son.’ As if he wished Matthew really was his son.
Looking at the assembled group, the families and the ardent young converts, Matthew had had a sudden understanding, as the early evening sunshine shone through the dusty glass, a vision close to a religious experience: this