Deadly Silence

by OMJ Ryan

  ‘Did you go to Father Donnelly’s funeral?’

  ‘Father Donnelly? I didn’t even know he was dead. When did that happen?’

  ‘A couple of months back. Pancreatic cancer,’ said Bovalino.

  It was Jones’s turn to lead the questions again, ‘Can I ask where you were each evening, on Monday the twentieth-eighth of January, Thursday the thirty-first and Tuesday the fifth of February?’

  Dempsey frowned. ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘Those are the dates the three women were killed.’

  ‘Am I suspect, Sergeant?’

  ‘It’s procedure. We’re ruling out all possibilities.’

  Dempsey pulled out his phone. ‘The twenty-eighth?’ He scrolled through a few screens as he searched for something. ‘Let me see…I was at the casino.’

  ‘Which one?’ asked Bovalino

  ‘Parrs Wood.’

  Bovalino tapped his notepad with his pen. ‘Wouldn’t Great Northern be closer to you?’

  ‘It’s six and two-threes, really. Plus, I like vibe in Parrs Wood. It’s less intense.’

  ‘And the other dates?’ asked Jones.

  ‘Same.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Some people go to the pub every night; I play poker. You can check the logs at the casino if you like. They use a swipe card system to get in and out.’

  ‘Are you any good?’ asked Bovalino.

  Dempsey chuckled. ‘I’m up overall. That’s the main thing.’

  ‘As a postman, I thought you’d have to be up early?’ said Jones.

  ‘I do; that’s why I get the last bus home. To be honest, I’m not a great sleeper. I’m lucky if I get four hours a night and a bit of a disco nap in the afternoon.’

  Jones nodded. ‘Have you noticed anyone hanging around the house lately?’

  ‘This house?’ Dempsey sounded surprised.

  ‘Yeah, anyone on the street you don’t know when you’ve come home from the casino?’

  ‘I can’t say I have. But then I’ve not really been looking. Besides, this is Fallowfield. I barely know my next-door neighbours. Why do you ask?’

  ‘The three women killed were all from the same church group, a group you used to be part of. We’re just being cautious.’

  ‘What, you think I could be next?’

  ‘I’m not saying that, but it doesn’t hurt to be careful.’

  Dempsey laughed. ‘Come on, seriously. Why would anyone want to kill me, Sergeant? I’m just a postie.’

  ‘What about Clarke, Gillespie and McNulty?’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘Can you think why anyone would want to kill them?’

  Dempsey shook his head. ‘No, but then I’ve not seen them for a long time. A lot can happen in life, I suppose.’

  ‘True enough,’ said Jones.

  ‘Maybe they were killed by a Vatican hitman,’ said Dempsey jovially.

  ‘What makes you say that?’ asked Bovalino, frowning.

  Dempsey raised his hands as if defending himself. ‘It was a joke. Bloody hell, I didn’t mean it.’

  Jones wasn’t amused either. He rose to his feet. ‘Looks like we have everything we need,’ he said icily. ‘No need to take up anymore of your time.’

  ‘I do hope I’ve been of use, although I’m not sure I have, Sergeant.’

  ‘It all helps, Mr Dempsey.’

  Dempsey showed them to the front door and opened it. ‘Do you have any ideas when the funerals will be taking place?’ he asked as the two men stepped outside.

  ‘We’re not sure at this stage,’ Bovalino replied. ‘If you contact Father Maguire at St Patrick’s, I believe all the families have instructed him to look after arrangements. He can update you when it’s all sorted.’

  ‘I’ll do that. I would happily break my church ban to say goodbye to the girls. Wonderful human beings, each one of them.’

  Jones handed Dempsey his card. ‘If you see anything suspicious, anything at all, call this number.’

  Dempsey smiled and tapped the card on the door. ‘I will, Sergeant. You can be sure of that.’

  Jones sensed he still wasn’t taking the threat seriously. ‘Right, well, I appreciate your help, sir.’

  Dempsey gently closed the door. ‘Anytime, Sergeant. Anytime.’

  27

  An icy wind was blowing strong enough to release a chunk of Phillips’s hair from the bobble that kept it tied neatly in place as she walked up to St Patrick’s. Pulling it back from her face, she tucked it behind her ear. When she reached the church entrance, she noticed the door was open. Stepping inside, she found it empty and stood for a moment, taking in the deafening silence. It was surprisingly warm inside, a welcome relief from the winter weather; and she felt her cheeks starting to flush almost immediately.

  A door in need of oil creaked loudly to her right and she spotted Father Maguire stepping out of a small wooden box. She recognised it as what the Catholic Church referred to as a confessional; two small rooms with an adjoining screen where parishioners confessed their sins and ask for God’s forgiveness.

  ‘Good afternoon, Inspector.’ His cheery voice echoed around the vast space as he approached.

  ‘Sorry to bother you, Father, but I wonder if you might be able to spare me five minutes?’

  ‘Of course. Please, follow me. We can nip to the house through the vestry.’

  Following him, Phillips could have been forgiven for thinking the priest was just a regular guy from behind. Aside from the usual black garb, he carried himself with confidence, his walk almost a swagger. She couldn’t imagine there were many priests who commanded such a physical presence.

  Maguire stepped through the vast oak door to one side of the sanctuary and into a large room with ornate chairs and a wall of mahogany closets. ‘This is where we get dressed and ready for action.’

  Phillips smiled politely, but there was something about the space that gave her an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach, as if it was the domain of ghosts of a past she was yet to uncover.

  Maguire opened the door at the far side of the room and Phillips recognised the kitchen up ahead.

  ‘Coffee?’ he asked brightly as they entered the room.

  ‘Yes please.’

  Phillips took a seat at the table, but this time sat where Maguire had positioned himself the previous time. It was an old trick that allowed her to get a different perspective on her surroundings. She liked to challenge herself to always look at situations from every possible angle. One thing remained the same, though; the chair, like the one she had used during her last visit, was almost impossibly hard and uncomfortable. The old, loosely tied cushion had long lost its usefulness.

  A short time later, Maguire placed a cafetière of steaming coffee on the table.

  ‘Come into some money, have you?’ Phillips pointed to the filter coffee.

  The priest laughed. ‘Hardly. We had a pound sale in the church hall the other day and I spotted this. Thought I’d give it a go instead of the instant. You know, a change is as good as a rest, as they say. You’re my first guinea pig.’ He poured the rich black liquid into Phillips’s cup. ‘So, how can I help, Inspector?’

  Phillips added milk to her cup, stirred the mixture and took a sip before speaking. ‘I need to ask you about some historical claims of abuse.’

  ‘Abuse, by whom?’

  ‘A Catholic priest from this parish. I have reason to suspect it could have been Father Donnelly.’

  Maguire looked surprised. ‘Father Donnelly? Really?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure I can be of much help, Inspector. This is the first I’ve heard of it.’

  Phillips took out her mobile phone, found what she was looking for and placed it on the table in front of Maguire. ‘Have you seen this photo before?’

  Maguire inspected it. ‘Yes, that looks like one of the church’s trips to Lourdes.’

  ‘Do you recognise anyone in the photo?’
/>   Maguire stared at the screen again. ‘Yes. That’s Father Donnelly, Betty Clarke on the right, Susan Gillespie and Deidre McNulty.’

  ‘Do you recognise the two boys?’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t.’ This time Maguire didn’t look at the screen.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Quite sure.’

  Phillips kept her eyes locked on the priest. ‘Have you ever heard of Matt Logan or Thomas Dempsey?’

  Maguire appeared deep in thought as he repeated the names quietly to himself. ‘I think they may have been part of the church group around the time I was here as a seminarian, but I can’t place them.’

  ‘They are the two boys in the photo.’

  Maguire glanced down at the phone again. ‘Oh yes, I think I do remember them. Not well, though.’

  Phillips pointed to the image. ‘This chap here is Matt Logan. As we understand it, he made a claim of sexual abuse against Father Donnelly not long after this photo was taken. In fact, we have reason to believe the abuse actually started on this trip to Lourdes.’

  Maguire looked appalled. ‘Oh dear God, really? I knew nothing about that.’

  ‘Not many people did. In fact, Logan reported the abuse to his parents, who took the claim direct to Donnelly.’

  ‘And what happened?’

  ‘He dismissed it. Said the boy was a fantasist who made up the claim to avoid getting into trouble for an indiscretion that took place on the Lourdes trip.’

  ‘An indiscretion? I’m not following you.’

  ‘Father Donnelly allegedly caught Logan masturbating in France and threatened to tell his parents. The claims were supposedly Logan’s way of getting in first to discredit him.’

  Maguire pursed his lips. ‘Well, I have to say, in spite of the teachings, it’s not uncommon for young men to experiment sexually. It sounds a plausible explanation.’

  ‘True, but claiming a priest had molested you to stop your parents finding out seems a bit extreme, doesn’t it?’

  A wry smile crossed Maguire’s face. ‘You’re not a Catholic are you, Inspector?’

  ‘No, agnostic.’

  ‘Thought as much. Well, in the world of Catholicism, there are varying degrees of…how can I put it? Intensity. Some families come to church once a week, say their prayers and go about their business under the wider umbrella of Catholic doctrine. Others, however, take it a whole lot more seriously. In many of those cases, it’s feasible to believe a young boy would pretty much do anything rather than admit to his parents he was masturbating.’

  Phillips took another swig of coffee. ‘I understand. Still, I think it’s a big claim to make in order to avoid being chastised.’

  ‘Inspector, a lot of the older generation in our community come from rural Ireland, where punishment was delivered indiscriminately with a belt. That behaviour travelled with them, and we’re not talking a couple of strokes of the leather either; more like the buckle across the back repeatedly. Nowadays it would be classed as child abuse. Maybe that’s what Logan was trying to avoid by making the claims against Father Donnelly? Maybe his parents were the real abusers in this case?’

  Phillips took a moment to process Maguire’s theory before returning to the image on her phone. ‘Father, do you know why anyone would want to kill the three women in this photo?’

  Maguire shook this head. ‘It’s a question I’ve prayed on a lot this last week, but I’m afraid I don’t have an answer.’

  ‘Could it be something to do with the trip itself?’

  ‘Perhaps, but I can’t think what that could be.’ Maguire drained his cup. ‘I wish I could tell you more, but I wasn’t there. Sorry I can’t be much more help.’ He glanced at the plastic clock on the wall above the crucifix. ‘Look at the time! I’m due to start confession in five minutes. Would you excuse me, Inspector?’

  ‘Of course.’

  The two stood. ‘And I’m sorry to ask, but would you mind going out through the side door. I’m worried what the old dears might think if I walk out of the vestry with a woman in tow.’ Maguire smiled. ‘They’ll be calling the Bishop’s hotline within the hour.’

  Despite never having been religious, Phillips knew gossip was a key currency in all church communities. She returned his smile. ‘I understand. I should be getting back anyway.’

  ‘Thank you, Inspector,’ Maguire said warmly as he turned and walked back towards the main church.

  Phillips called after him. ‘Father, there is just one thing…’

  Maguire stopped and turned to face her, a quizzical look on his face.

  ‘If anything does come back to you about Logan’s claims, or the trip to Lourdes, please get in touch, won’t you?’

  Maguire nodded. ‘Of course, but I really don’t think there’s anything else to tell you. Goodbye, Inspector.’

  Phillips watched him walk away until he disappeared into the vestry and closed the door behind him. With one last look around the kitchen, she made her way out through the side door and headed back to her car.

  28

  Phillips had already paid the taxi driver via the Uber app by the time the car stopped. Jumping out of the cab, she rushed to Thomas Dempsey’s front door in the pouring rain, chastising herself for forgetting her umbrella. Earlier that evening, she had fallen sleep on the couch again after another bottle of Pinot, waking only when Jones called her mobile. He’d relayed the details of the panicked conversation he’d just had with Dempsey, who believed he’d been followed home from the casino by the Cheadle murderer. His Fallowfield address no more than ten minutes from her home, she’d agreed to deal with it rather than have Jones come all the way from the other side of the city. He’d covered for her on many an occasion over the last six months, and she was happy to return the favour. Besides, she was keen to hear exactly what Dempsey had seen.

  She rang the bell and sheltered from the rain under the tiny porch. A moment later, she heard the deadbolt release before the front door opened on its chain. Dempsey peered out.

  ‘Hello, Mr Dempsey, I’m Detective Inspector Jane Phillips.’ She held up her ID close enough for him to read it. ‘DS Jones sent me. May I come in?’

  Dempsey scrutinised it closely a moment, then closed the door. He released the chain and opened it fully to let her in. When she stepped inside, he closed it and secured the deadbolts once more.

  ‘I’m having a brandy to settle my nerves,’ he said, bringing her into the kitchen at the rear of the house. ‘Do you want one?’

  Phillips was sorely tempted. ‘Better not. I’m on duty.’

  She took a seat at the small breakfast table in the middle of the room while Dempsey poured himself a large tumbler of a brandy, then placed the supermarket-labelled bottle on the table in front of him, next to a large carving knife.

  ‘How are you feeling, Mr Dempsey?’ she asked, staring at the knife.

  ‘Please, call me Tom.’

  Phillips smiled briefly. ‘Tom.’

  Dempsey ran a hand through his hair. ‘I’ve got to be honest, I’m a little shaken up. After what happened to the girls in Cheadle, I seriously thought I was next.’

  ‘I can imagine. Look, I know you’ve already explained this to DS Jones, but it’d really help to hear what happened directly from you. Especially now you’ve had time to process it.’

  ‘Of course. Where do I start…?’ Dempsey took a mouthful of brandy, pausing a moment to reflect. ‘Well, I went to the casino again tonight.’

  ‘DS Jones said you go quite a lot.’

  ‘Three or four times a week, depending on work shifts. I tend to avoid the weekends, as it’s full of stag-dos and hen-parties. It’s much quieter during the week.’

  ‘Ok, so what happened at the casino?’

  ‘Nothing, the casino was absolutely fine. I had a good night, actually. I walked out two hundred quid up. It was after that. I was planning on using some of my winnings to get a taxi home, but managed to catch the last bus back into town. I get free travel on my post office pa
ss, you see. So, I jumped on at Parrs Wood Interchange and headed back here.’

  ‘What time was that?’

  ‘It was the last bus, so it would have been just before midnight.’

  ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘It’s only a short journey, around ten minutes. I was back in Fallowfield before I knew it. I jumped off at the stop there by Victoria Road and began walking home.’

  ‘Did anyone else get off at that stop?’

  ‘Nope, just me.’

  ‘And did you see anyone around when you got off?’

  ‘That’s just it. There was literally no one around. Not a soul. I’ve rarely seen it like that round here.’

  ‘So, when did you notice you were being followed?’

  ‘It was just as I was coming up to the junction between Victoria and Wellington Road. I stopped to make sure there was no traffic coming before I crossed, and heard footsteps behind me. I paid no attention to them at first, but then I started to think about the girls and what happened to them, and what Sergeant Jones had said about being careful, and I panicked. I wasn’t far from home, so I hurried as fast as I could – almost running at the end. I was petrified he was coming for me.’

  ‘And you’re sure it was a man?’

  ‘I think so. To be honest, it was hard to tell from that distance and whoever it was was wearing a thick coat with the hood up.’

  ‘So you managed to get inside. Then what happened?’

  ‘The house was in darkness and I sat for a moment behind the door. I needed to get my heart rate down before I dared look through the security spy-hole. When I did finally pluck up the courage, there was no-one there. I checked the back door was locked, as well as all the windows downstairs. I stood in the dark for about five minutes, peering out from behind the net curtains at the front and then the back. I couldn’t see anything, so I grabbed that knife and headed up to bed. I was in the bathroom brushing my teeth when I heard an almighty bang in the alley behind. God, I almost shat myself.’

  ‘Did you recognise the noise?’

  ‘Not really. Maybe it was bins falling over or something like that.’

  ‘So what did you do?’