It had been no surprise to Harry Bowers to learn that someone was sleeping with his wife. He had known about it for several weeks. He even knew who the man was.
But it had come as a great shock to discover that the shameless creep had been bold enough to pay occasional visits to his wife at their family home. He’d learnt this through a chance remark made by his young daughter.
Tonight, for the first time since he learned of these visits, the two men were due to meet again. They could hardly avoid it. They sang beside each other in the church choir.
As he travelled home in his car from the railway station, Harry vowed to remain calm and see how the evening developed. For the present, he would say nothing to his wife. After twenty minutes following country roads, their imposing Georgian mansion loomed up before him in the twilight.
The black, two-metre-high gates to the estate, just outside the village of Norton Prior in Warwickshire, swung open. He put his white Audi into gear and the car swept up the driveway, past the tennis court and the pink rhododendron bushes. The neatly trimmed conifers stood like sentinels, casting eerie shadows across the gravel.
At last, he came to a halt by the stone steps that led to the red, colonial-style front door. The property tycoon, who was thirty-nine, strode past the two white gothic pillars standing on either side and turned the key.
‘Must get a move on,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Choir practice starts at seven fifteen and I was late last week.’
The house seemed quiet as he pushed open the door and walked in.
‘Maggie, are you here?’ he asked, his deep voice echoing round the vaulted reception hall.
‘Of course, I’m here. I’m always here,’ came the reply. Margaret Bowers strolled from the kitchen, looking as stern as a sultan’s mother.
‘I saw the credit card statement this morning,’ he announced.
‘I wondered when you were going to bring that up.’
‘You’ve gone a bit mad at the sales, haven’t you? We’ve hardly got Christmas out of the way.’
She rolled her eyes and adjusted the long blonde hair she’d tied behind her head. ‘I don’t have to account for my spending. I needed some new clothes.’
‘We should’ve discussed it first,’ he insisted.
She scowled. ‘You’ve never got time to talk about anything.’ She then climbed the oak stairs and disappeared from view.
Harry hurriedly cooked himself a microwave meal. The days of cosy family meals round the table had long since passed.
After bolting down his pasta, he raced upstairs and took off his grey suit. He pulled on his blue jeans before returning downstairs and snatching his hymn lyrics from the writing bureau in the living room. He looked at his watch. It was nearly a quarter to seven.
‘I’d better get moving,’ he told himself, glancing in the mirror to comb his short, dark hair. After slipping into his dark-blue trainers and pulling on his black overcoat, he rushed out into the bitterly cold January air.
It was a clear night with a slender crescent moon and stars visible in the sky. Leaves, brittle with frost, crunched beneath his feet as he made his way along the Worcester Road towards the church.
He passed two black-and-white cottages and then a row of trees, tall and thickly clumped together. He darted in and out of their shadows on the pavement as he walked. Above the rumble of the traffic, he heard the church bell in the distance toll seven times. He quickened his pace.
In his mind, he rehearsed the hymn they were due to perform at Candlemas in just over three weeks’ time: ‘Of the Father’s love begotten, Ere the worlds began to be, He is Alpha and Omega, He the source, the ending he, of the things that are, that have been, and that future years shall see, evermore and evermore!’
Within ten minutes, he had reached the churchyard, which stood on the corner of Oxford Lane, enclosed by a solid stone wall. Behind the monuments to the dead stood the floodlit Norman church of St John the Martyr, rising like a beacon in an ocean of darkness.
Harry turned into the lane, passing the pair of terraced cottages on his right, and was pleased to see the lights were still glowing at the village newsagent’s, Norton News, housed on the ground floor of an Edwardian villa.
‘Another cold one, isn’t it?’ he muttered to the shopkeeper as he climbed the three steps into the shop. Harry undid some of his coat buttons, reached into an inside pocket and handed over a pound coin.
Smiling, the proprietor passed him a packet of mints and his change. ‘Cold enough for snow,’ came the reply as Harry refastened his coat and left.
He had only gone a few steps when he noticed the very man who was sleeping with his wife, James Hockley, walking slowly up the pavement towards him.
Harry crossed the lane and waited by the dark, timber lychgate. Taller than Harry and with dark, ginger hair, Hockley glared when he noticed his fellow-tenor.
Harry had never intended to be confrontational. He had wanted his rival to admit to the affair and promise to end it. But now face-to-face with him, his anger erupted and dominated his emotions. There was something about his rival’s swagger that antagonised Harry.
‘You can wipe that smirk off your face!’ he bellowed.
Hockley, a PE teacher who kept himself extremely fit, quickened his pace as he approached, his face incandescent with rage. He was cursing Harry, calling him “an old drunk”.
‘Are you going to wipe it off for me?’ he hollered. ‘Come on then.’
He lunged at Harry, his punch engaging with his face. The blow sent him flying backwards so that he struck his head on the churchyard wall. He lay almost motionless on the frosty ground, moaning.
The teacher looked around to make sure there were no witnesses to the assault. Then he regained his composure and proceeded along the lane towards the church hall, acting as though the event had never happened. He hadn’t thought of the consequences of his actions until that moment. Now it occurred to him that Harry might recover and stumble into the hall, battered, bruised and berating him. What would happen then?
While the choir began rehearsing their fifth century hymn inside the small, brick-built hall, Hockley remained uneasy. He tried hard not to worry about Harry making a sudden appearance and concentrated on the lyrics. Nearly half an hour passed. Surely his fellow-tenor should have recovered by now and joined them?
He continued feeling unsettled and, when the practice was over at a quarter past eight, he didn’t linger to exchange gossip with other choristers. He was keen to return to the scene in Oxford Lane.
He was relieved to find the businessman was no longer lying by the lychgate. There was no blood by the wall or on the leaf-strewn ground. There was no sign that any skirmish had disturbed the peace of the night.
So where was Harry? Had he slunk off home? Had a passer-by attended to his wounded head? Had he been rushed to hospital? There was no clue and no one to ask.
He pulled out his mobile phone and dialled a familiar number. Within a minute, Margaret Bowers answered.
‘James. Is everything all right?’ she asked. She had not been expecting him to call.
‘I know this might sound strange but is your husband there?’ he wondered.
‘No. He goes to the church hall on a Tuesday.’
‘I know,’ said James. ‘I saw him in Oxford Lane before the choir practice started, but he didn’t show up at the hall. I’m just wondering what’s happened.’
‘Not like you to worry over Harry,’ she muttered.
‘I know, but this is a real mystery. Look, I may as well tell you. We had an argument…’
‘Oh, here we go…’
‘We had an argument just a few yards from the hall. I’m sorry to say I lost my temper and hit him.’
‘I’m sure he’s survived worst.’
‘I hit him probably a bit harder than I should’ve done. I left him on the ground.’ A sudden urgency crept into his voice. ‘He was all right. He was still moving. Just a little dazed. That’s all.’ He paused for breath before adding, ‘I can’t understand why he failed to show up for choir practice and there’s no sign of him in the lane. I’m wondering if he’s gone to hospital.’
‘Unlikely. They’d have phoned me if he’d been taken in. Look, don’t worry, James. He’ll turn up. He always does, more’s the pity. But I expect, when he does, he’ll be baying for your blood.’
