by Jane Isaac
‘And you are?’
‘Emily Peters. I’m his help.’
‘Fine. We can wait,’ Beth said stepping forward. They hadn’t phoned ahead. The last thing they wanted was to warn the bishop of their visit and give him time to concoct a story. Plus, she wanted to watch his body language unfold as she delivered the news. There was often a lot more given away in the non-verbal communication.
The entrance lobby was an old-fashioned affair with black and white tiled flooring, a coat stand to their right. An oak staircase rose up from the centre, sweeping to a landing on the first floor. Around the edge of the lobby, doors leading to different rooms were closed.
Beth and Nick shrugged off their coats and Emily led them into a large room at the back of the property, with patio doors overlooking a long lawned garden. In the centre of the room, two leather sofas faced each other beside the fireplace, a colourful Persian rug covering the parquet floor between them.
Emily indicated for them to sit and clasped her hands together. ‘Can I get you some tea?’ She was clearly accustomed to greeting the bishop’s visitors.
‘Tea would be lovely, thank you,’ Nick said.
‘Could you let the bishop know we’re here please?’ Beth said. She watched the woman leave the room and raised a brow at Nick.
‘I’m gasping,’ he said, grinning. He sat back into the sofa. ‘This is plush.’
The room was large, light and airy. A wall to ceiling bookcase covered the far wall, filled with faded hardbacks that looked ancient. A painting of the Virgin Mary surveyed them from its position above the open fireplace. A corner dresser caught Beth’s eye. It was packed with bottles of wine and spirits. Her eyes lingered on an unopened bottle of white Chardonnay and she was reminded of Marie Russell’s admission.
The door juddered open. Emily re-entered with a circular silver tray mounted with floral cups and saucers, complete with matching teapot and milk jug. It reminded Beth of a tea set displayed in a glass cabinet in her godmother’s house when she was young. Her ‘wedding set’ she called it. Only used for ‘particular guests’. They must have been very particular because Beth never saw the set outside the cabinet.
‘Bishop won’t keep you long,’ Emily said as she set down the tray and left the room.
Nick sat forward and poured the tea and the milk, stirring it with a tiny silver spoon that chinked against the china, before passing it across to Beth and pouring himself another. Beth smiled to herself at the delicacy he lent to the task. If he made a cuppa at home it was usually strong tea in oversized mugs, it amused her to watch him take such care. The drink slipped down easily. Beth was about to ask for another when she heard voices in the hallway. Seconds later, a face appeared around the door.
Bishop Bryan was a tall man, with a thick head of grey hair and a Richard Gere type handsome face that seemed a lot younger than his sixty years. The dark shirt and trousers he wore, flattered his slender frame. His white clerical collar accentuated his naturally olive skin.
‘I’m so sorry to keep you waiting,’ he said, taking time to greet them individually with a warm smile and a handshake. Marie Russell had mentioned his charisma and Beth couldn’t help but agree. He’d been in the room less than a minute, yet he oozed natural, easy charm.
‘What can I do for you?’ he said, settling into the sofa opposite.
Beth took a breath. This was an historic allegation. They had no evidence and no witnesses, bar Marie’s account. She needed to word it carefully to gauge his reaction. ‘Do you keep a diary?’ she asked.
He looked taken aback. ‘Yes, of course. I couldn’t manage my day, let alone my working week without one. It’s on my computer.’ He flashed another dazzling smile. No questions. No probing.
‘We need to ask you some questions about an incident that occurred sixteen years ago. Would you still have a diary for that time?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Perhaps I should re-phrase the question. Can you tell me where you were on the 12th of September 2001?’
‘I’m afraid my memory isn’t that good. I’d need to look in the diary archives. I’m not sure if we go that far back, mind you. Why do you need to know?’
Beth ignored his answer. ‘Do you, or did you, know a Marie Owen?’
He paused a moment, his forehead furrowing. ‘Marie? Ah, yes. She was Annie McPherson’s granddaughter. Annie was one of my parishioners.’ A brief smile. ‘Lovely lady.’
‘Did you visit Marie during the month of September 2001?’
‘I’ll need to check. I think that’s the year Annie died. If so, then, yes.’
‘Were you alone when you visited?’
‘I believe sometimes we were alone. Her husband wasn’t religious.’
‘Can you explain to me what your relationship with Marie Owen was?’
‘I was her priest. I visited her after her grandmother died, helped her to make the funeral arrangements and counselled her in her time of grief. Same as I would for any of my parishioners.’ His expression was relaxed, open. No tics or awkwardness. Not an ounce of guilt.
‘Did you have sex with Marie Owen?’
‘What?’ For the shortest of seconds his mouth gaped, incredulous. He quickly recovered. ‘This is preposterous.’ The word was tough but spoken calmly. ‘Who said that? Marie?’
‘If you could answer the question please.’
‘No, I did not have sex with Marie or anyone else.’ He was careful to keep his voice calm, even. His face slackened. ‘Detective, women sometimes form bonds with priests and manufacture things in their mind. They’re only human, after all.’
The gentleness of his voice, so practised, so controlled, rankled her. She flicked her gaze to the drinks cabinet, the bottle of Chardonnay. ‘Marie Owen was a married woman.’
‘I’m aware of that.’
‘I need to ask you to supply a DNA sample.’
‘You’re not serious?’
Beth raised a brow. ‘I have the pack here. It won’t take a minute. Do you consent?’
‘No, I don’t consent. And I really can’t see why you would ask me to.’
The measure of his tone was starting to grate. He must have heard about the discovery of the child’s body, the speculation about it being Alicia Owen. It was all over the news. Found in the neighbouring county of Northamptonshire, a child of one of his own parishioners when she disappeared. If Marie Russell was telling the truth, there could only be one reason why he’d refuse to offer a DNA sample.
Beth stood. ‘Bishop Bryan O’Connor, I’m arresting you on suspicion of rape.’
40
The interview room light glistened on Bishop Bryan’s forehead. Gone was the smiley face that welcomed them at his home earlier, the shiny eyes, the warm tone in his voice. It had taken almost an hour to transport him back to the custody block and take the prints and DNA samples – a mandatory process now that he’d been arrested. They then had to wait for his solicitor to arrive and, while still outwardly composed, it was obvious from his icy glare that resentment at how he was being treated now simmered beneath the surface.
It was nearly 6.15 p.m. They were three quarters of an hour into the interview with Beth leading the questioning, Pete beside her. Nick and Freeman were in the room next door, watching remotely. He’d confirmed he was at Marie Owen’s home in Gorse Close on the evening in question. He’d admitted they were alone. Nothing untoward there, he’d visited most Wednesdays during the months after Marie’s gran’s death. Not unexpectedly, he’d denied the rape allegation. But there was something about his demeanour that put her on edge. Why had he refused to give a DNA sample at the house? She couldn’t help wondering if the shame of fathering Alicia, the potential damage to his career, presented him with a motive for her murder.
It was also possible someone else knew about Bishop Bryan and Marie, and they’d done the maths and made the connection with Alicia’s birth. If so, it gave them cause to blackmail him.
‘How well do you know
the Owens?’ she asked.
‘I met Daniel a few times at their house. Can’t say I know the others.’
Beth narrowed her eyes. ‘What about Scott?’
‘The younger brother? I don’t think I met him.’
‘Bishop Bryan, can you tell me where you were on the 13th of August 2002.’
His solicitor lurched forward. ‘What is this? My client’s been arrested for an alleged incident in September 2001.’
Beth ignored him, watching recognition dawn on the priest’s face. He’d done the maths too. Knew the police had re-ignited the investigation into Alicia’s disappearance. Guessed they’d requested his DNA to check with hers.
The solicitor tapped his pen on the table to get Beth’s attention. ‘Detective, will you—’
The bishop placed a hand on his solicitor’s arm, silencing him. ‘You’re talking about the day Alicia Owen disappeared,’ he said softly.
‘You remember,’ Beth said.
‘Who doesn’t? Most folk who lived in Kingsthorpe, or the whole of Northamptonshire at the time for that matter, know the date. Not to mention, it’s all over the news now, with the discovery of a child’s body.’ He closed his eyes briefly, shook his head. ‘Dreadful affair.’
Beth watched him carefully. They still hadn’t released the child’s identity to the press, although there’d been enough talk about the possibility of it being Alicia these past few days. ‘You were based in Kingsthorpe when she disappeared, were you not?’
‘I was.’
‘And?’
‘I’m sorry?’
Beth resisted the temptation to tut. Was he being deliberately obtuse? ‘Where were you on the 13th of August 2002?’
‘Oh, that’s easy. I don’t even need to check my diary. I go away for the middle two weeks of every August. To Caldey Island, off the Pembrokeshire Coast. It’s a regular retreat. Have done for the last twenty years. There’ll be records, even after all this time, I’m sure.’
The room fell quiet. Beth listened to Pete’s pen scratching the pad beside her as he made his notes.
‘Did you drink any alcohol with Marie Russell on the 12th of September 2001?’ she asked eventually.
If he was taken aback that she’d returned to the rape allegation, it didn’t show. ‘Quite possibly. I’m afraid I can’t remember.’
‘Possibly,’ she repeated. ‘Can you remember what you drank?’
‘No. But it isn’t a crime to drink a glass of wine.’
Beth ignored his statement. ‘A glass of wine. Like Chardonnay. That’s your tipple of choice, isn’t it?’
A light flashed behind his eyes. ‘You’ve been in my sitting room, Detective, and seen my drinks cabinet. You’ll know I keep Chardonnay.’
‘Did you drink more than you intended on that evening?’
‘No. I would have driven home. I’m sure I’d only have one glass.’
‘Bishop, I repeat, did you have sex with Marie Russell?’
‘And I repeat, I did not.’
Beth hooked his gaze, holding it for several seconds. The rape allegation was his word against Marie’s. He would be aware of that, and with a historical allegation they had no evidence to put to the bishop. No witnesses. He also knew they’d be checking his DNA against Alicia Owen’s. Was he hedging his bets, hoping Marie had slept around, that perhaps there was a chance there wouldn’t be a match? He certainly seemed confident, self-assured.
‘Okay, interview terminated—’ she checked her watch ‘—at 6.26 p.m. She slid back her chair. ‘Bishop, we’ll need a note of all your associations at the time. You’ll then be released tonight pending further enquiries.’
He said nothing.
It tormented her to let him go, but she had no valid reason to keep him. For now. ‘I need to remind you to stay away from Marie Russell,’ she added. ‘You are not to contact her, telephone her or visit her while the investigation is ongoing. Is that understood?’
Suddenly, Beth sensed a change. The bishop’s face hardened. He stood, lifting his chest, flexing his hands. Eyes like bullets. Being told what to do, wasn’t something he took kindly to.
Beth stilled, chin high, waiting for the explosion. Instead, he braced his hands against the desk and stayed quiet. Controlled to the end.
*
Beth yawned and checked the time in the corner of her computer screen. Almost 7.30 p.m.
The bishop had given them an alibi for the period encompassing Alicia’s disappearance and a quick phone call to the retreat confirmed he was booked in there for the dates given. It didn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t involved, but it meant he wasn’t personally responsible for taking her. Bishop Bryan had a clean record, they were no other allegations on file. They could only hold him in custody for twenty-four hours, and only then if they were carrying out relevant inquiries, and here there was nothing imminent. All they had was Marie’s account which he refuted.
If he’d fathered Alicia and worked through the dates, it might suit him to put her out of the way.
But Marie and Daniel had played happy families, and they clearly believed they were the child’s parents. The question of paternity had never been raised. They were going to have to dig a lot deeper into his background, his associations at the time, to find any potential evidence of guilt. They’d sent a team to search his house and seize his devices, belt and braces really, she didn’t expect to find much. People changed their computers every few years, phones more regularly. The chances of finding anything relating to Alicia or Marie after all this time were slim. Their best bet was to check his bank accounts for the period, to see if there were any improprieties that might suggest blackmail, which would take time, and with nothing else improper on his file, they had to let him go.
But Beth wasn’t about to let him waltz back into his old life without alerting the right people. If he was guilty, others might be at risk. And if he was Alicia’s father, Bishop Bryan had broken his vows and lied.
As soon as they’d finished interviewing, Nick spoke with the bishop’s cardinal, making the church aware that an allegation had been made, and requested Bishop Bryan was either chaperoned or removed from frontline duties while under investigation.
He also requested details of his postings since he’d joined the priesthood in his early twenties and sat with Freeman to establish a strategy forward. Their team would look into the priest’s associations around the time Alicia disappeared, check his bank accounts and ensure he wasn’t being blackmailed and there wasn’t an impropriety that put him in the frame for Alicia’s murder. Investigating him – talking to the people he’d come into contact with, checking his conduct during his career to make sure other women weren’t attacked – was a larger and more time-consuming task. Too big for a homicide team with a case on; their focus remained on whether he’d fathered Alicia. Freeman was now liaising with colleagues to set up a sub team to look into the priest’s background.
Beth finished her report and shut down her laptop. Tomorrow she’d phone Marie Russell and update her.
41
Marie Russell took her time to feed her son and put him to bed that evening. She wanted to make sure he was okay after the altercation at school yesterday, though she needn’t have worried. He might be mild-mannered, but he showed a remarkable resilience for one so young. But there was another reason for drawing out Zac’s bedtime routine, giving him a long bath and reading him an extra bedtime story. It bought her time, giving her longer to work out what the hell she was going to say to Vic.
Should she tell him about Father Bryan? The detective said not, although Marie couldn’t see a way of avoiding it. He was her husband. If it came out later and he didn’t know, he’d never forgive her. He was also Daniel’s best friend. He’d adored Alicia, was there for them both when she went missing. All those late nights consoling her. The visits he’d made after the separation. The unyielding support. And all the time, Alicia belonged to another man.
She’d trusted Father Bryan implicitly and he
’d abused her trust. Rape. The word made her shiver. It sounded so horrid, so heinous. And it was horrid… Daniel’s old remarks floated into her head. Bishop Bryan was charming. She’d been flattered by his interest, grateful for his support. Had she flirted with the priest? If Daniel thought so, maybe others did too. They’d certainly spent a lot of time together after her gran died.
She finished the book and looked across at her son. His eyes were closed, his head gently resting to the side. Her gut knotted as she tucked the duvet around him and turned off the light. They’d all grown up together: Daniel, Vic, Cara and Scottie. Gone through the same schools. Vic had rescued her after Alicia’s disappearance, given her support and friendship when she needed it most. Taught her how to love again. He believed she’d only ever had one partner other than him, her childhood sweetheart. How the hell could she shatter his illusions of her now?
By the time she’d descended the stairs, Vic was draining a pan of pasta over the sink. The soft under-cupboard lighting created a dull hue in the room. A candle burned on the table. The curtains were undrawn, darkness peering in from outside. It was a family scene, a couple having their dinner together after they’d put their young son to bed. The knot in her gut tightened.
The minute she entered the kitchen, he cast the pan aside and encased her in a hug. He pulled back, cupped her chin in his hand, kissed the end of her nose. The tenderness of the gesture brought a tear to her eye.
‘It’s going to be okay,’ he said, his eyes searching hers. ‘I know you’ve had a tough day. We will get through this. Together.’
The knot tightened again, this time suffocating her breaths.
He made to guide her to a chair, but she freed herself up, waved him away. His attentiveness, his care was too much. She didn’t deserve it. For years, she’d kept a secret from him, buried it deep. It wasn’t fair.
She pulled out a chair and watched him mix the drained pasta with vegetables in a pan, add sauce and slowly stir, every minute or so eyes flitting to her, checking she was okay. It was heart-wrenching.
