Sins of the Fathers

by Sally Spencer

  Fifteen

  Bob Rutter was the first member of the team to arrive at the Drum and Monkey for the early evening drink which had become a firmly established tradition during investigations, but Woodend and Beresford were not far behind him.

  ‘Where’s Monika?’ Rutter asked, looking over Woodend’s shoulder. ‘Will she be coming later?’

  ‘No,’ the chief inspector replied. ‘I don’t think she will.’

  Rutter looked troubled. ‘Any reason for that?’

  ‘No particular reason, no. She’s … er … well, I suppose she’s feelin’ a bit off-colour.’

  ‘She looked more than a bit off-colour earlier,’ Rutter said. ‘Do you have any idea why—’

  ‘Leave it, lad,’ Woodend interrupted – in a tone which made it clear that it was not so much a suggestion as an order.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—’

  ‘I said leave it!’

  The chief inspector picked up his freshly-pulled pint and took a healthy swig, though he did not look as if he were enjoying it much.

  ‘If you’d been tap-dancin’ on the table when we walked in, I’d have assumed you’d found the spot where Bradley Pine was killed,’ he said to Rutter. ‘But since you weren’t, I’m assumin’ you haven’t.’

  ‘And you assume right,’ Rutter agreed. ‘Are you getting anywhere from your end, sir?’

  ‘I think I’ve got a suspect,’ Woodend told him, ‘though Constable Beresford here is convinced that I’m way off the mark.’

  ‘Thelma Hawtrey?’ Rutter guessed.

  ‘Thelma Hawtrey,’ Woodend agreed.

  He glanced down at his watch, then up at the television which was mounted high on the wall – and only normally switched on when a major football match was being played.

  ‘The local news is just startin’,’ he called across to the landlord. ‘Would you mind if we watched it?’

  ‘Not at all, Mr Woodend.’

  The television warmed up just in time to catch the start of the interview that the chief constable had given to the press earlier in the day.

  ‘You have to admit, he does look good in that dress uniform,’ Rutter said grudgingly.

  ‘A tailor’s dummy would look good in it,’ Woodend replied sourly. ‘An’, come to think of it, a tailor’s dummy would probably make a much better chief constable.’

  Marlowe launched himself confidently into his prepared statement, but seemed to be instantly nonplussed by the off-screen female voice demanding to know if he’d resigned.

  ‘It’s a grand thing, is a free press,’ Woodend said.

  Marlowe was doing his best to cut the woman off, but was meeting with little success, and after a few more words had been exchanged, the camera swung round on to her.

  ‘Good God!’ Rutter exclaimed. ‘That’s Elizabeth Driver!’

  ‘I’m surprised that you’re surprised,’ Woodend told him. ‘This kind of case is meat an’ drink to our Liz.’

  ‘Yes, I will stake my reputation on it,’ Marlowe was saying, on screen.

  Woodend shook his head.

  ‘Silly, silly man,’ he said, though he did not look entirely distressed at having heard Marlowe make such a gaffe.

  The chief constable disappeared from the screen, and was replaced by a weather man promising a fine few days ahead.

  ‘I wish I’d been there,’ Woodend said. ‘It was entertainin’ enough on the telly, but it must have been real fun in the flesh.’

  Beresford drained his pint and stood up. ‘Would it be all right if I went now, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘Aye, get yourself home, lad,’ Woodend told him. ‘I’ll see you first thing in the mornin’.’

  The chief inspector watched the constable leave the bar, then turned to Rutter and said, ‘Given that it’s a well-known fact the quickest way to promotion is to stay up drinkin’ with your boss until the early hours of the mornin’, you’re probably wonderin’ why an ambitious bobby like young Beresford hasn’t availed himself of the opportunity when it was offered to him.’

  Rutter nodded, but said nothing.

  ‘It puzzled me for a while, an’ all,’ Woodend continued. ‘I was on the point of askin’ him about it directly, but then somethin’ inside me – a vague uneasy feelin’ – made me pull back at the last minute. So instead, I made a few discreet inquiries among the neighbours, an’ discovered that his mam was sufferin’ from Alzheimer’s disease. Well, then everythin’ fell into place, didn’t it? The reason he’s so keen to get home is that though the neighbours are more than willin’ to keep an eye on her when he’s not there, he feels obliged to spend as much time with her as he possibly can.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Rutter asked abstractly, as if his mind were not really on the subject in hand.

  ‘It is right,’ Woodend confirmed. ‘It’s quite refreshin’, in this day an’ age, to come across a young man who’s prepared to put his family obligations above his career, don’t you think?’

  ‘Hmm,’ Rutter replied.

  ‘You haven’t heard a single word I’ve just said, have you, Bob?’ Woodend asked.

  ‘What was that, sir?’

  ‘I thought not! What’s botherin’ you? Is it somethin’ to do with the investigation?’

  ‘Not really,’ Rutter admitted. ‘Did you notice that Elizabeth Driver has dyed her hair?’

  ‘I couldn’t very well have missed it. Although, strictly speakin’, it’s more of a case of her goin’ back to her natural colour than of her dyin’ it. If you remember, she was blonde the first time we crossed swords with her, when she was tryin’ to bugger up our investigation in the Westbury Manor murder.’

  ‘Don’t you think she looks a bit like Monika now?’ Rutter asked, and once again, it was clear he hadn’t been listening.

  ‘I can’t say I noticed the resemblance myself,’ Woodend confessed, ‘but then I wasn’t really lookin’ for it.’

  ‘I think she does,’ Rutter mused. ‘In fact, I think she looks a lot like Monika.’

  It was already dark when Monika Paniatowski reached St Mary’s Church, and she found herself wondering if she hadn’t – perhaps unconsciously – been waiting for just this cover of darkness before she made her move.

  ‘You can analyse yourself too much,’ she thought. ‘You can analyse yourself to the point of madness.’

  She checked over her shoulder to see if anyone was watching her, then pushed the door open and entered the church.

  Once inside, confronted by the vastness of the holy cavern, she was suddenly unsure what to do next.

  Perhaps she should just stay where she was, at the back of the church, and wait for something – anything – to happen. But was anything likely to happen?

  Perhaps she should go and sit down in one of the pews. But what would be the point of that? It wasn’t as if she was there to pray!

  ‘Hello,’ said a soft, welcoming voice.

  She turned. ‘Hello, Fred,’ she said.

  ‘What can we do for you this time?’ Father Taylor asked. ‘Do you want to interrogate us about poor Mr Pine again?’

  She hadn’t been thinking about the investigation at all, and so the question knocked her completely off-balance.

  ‘No, I … I …’ she began uncertainly. ‘I’m off-duty.’

  ‘Ah, so it’s not Sergeant Paniatowski I’m speaking to at the moment, but only Monika,’ the priest said. ‘Am I right?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose you are.’

  ‘And why is Monika here? Has she, perhaps, dropped in for no more than a nice friendly chat?’

  ‘A friendly chat would be nice, Father Fred,’ Paniatowski heard herself admitting.

  ‘Here? Or would you be more comfortable in the vestry?’

  ‘I think I’d be more comfortable in the vestry.’

  ‘Then the vestry it shall be.’

  They sat facing each other on two rickety chairs, in a room where the walls were draped with choirboys’ cassocks which smelled vaguely of adolescent uncer
tainty.

  ‘What’s the secret of happiness?’ Paniatowski asked.

  Father Taylor smiled. ‘I know just what you’re expecting me to say,’ he told her.

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘You’re expecting me to say that the key to true happiness is the love of God.’

  ‘And isn’t it – at least as far as you’re concerned?’

  ‘Of course it is. In the long term. Looking at the big picture. But we’re only human, Monika, and even though we know that God loves us as we should try to love Him, we still have our own little crises to deal with. And as much as we know that they are of no real significance at all, they can still hurt – they can still cause us to behave badly.’

  ‘Tell me about your crises,’ Paniatowski said.

  Father Taylor smiled again. ‘Is this some kind of test that you’re putting me through?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t honestly know,’ Paniatowski admitted. ‘Does it matter if it is?’

  ‘Not really.’ The priest cupped both his hands tightly around his left knee. ‘I sometimes find it hard to love other people as I know God loves them,’ he said. ‘Unworthy as I am, in my own self, I still find myself sitting in judgement on them. And though God has forgiven them, I’m not sure that I’ll ever be able to do the same. Do you understand that?’

  Oh yes, she understood that all right. Understood that she would never forgive her stepfather and the priest who went drinking with him – and that Bob Rutter would never forgive her.

  ‘But these feelings do eventually pass,’ Father Taylor continued. ‘Over time, I come to understand that I have no right to judge, and eventually I find myself seeing these fellow sinners of mine just a little as they must appear in the light of God’s all-forgiving eyes.’

  ‘Is there anything else you sometimes have a crisis about?’ Paniatowski asked.

  ‘I have just confessed to you the depths of my own unworthiness. Isn’t that enough for you?’

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ Paniatowski said. ‘I don’t know why it shouldn’t be, but it just isn’t.’

  The priest released his grip on his left knee, and cupped his right one just as tightly.

  ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘I’ll tell you more. Though I believe that my role in life has been chosen for me by God, and though I am usually grateful beyond words that He has selected me, there are times when I’m angry about it, too – when I feel not so much picked out as picked on.’

  ‘I … I don’t think I’ve ever heard a priest talk like this before,’ Paniatowski said.

  ‘And perhaps you should not be hearing one talk like it now,’ Father Taylor replied.

  ‘When do you feel angry in that way?’ Paniatowski asked, urgently.

  ‘I really do think I’ve said enough.’

  ‘Please! Tell me!’

  The priest shrugged, helplessly.

  ‘A young couple came to see me the other day,’ he said. ‘The wife had just given birth to a baby boy, and they wanted to arrange a christening. They brought their daughter with them – a beautiful little girl of four. She was holding on to her father’s hand, and at one point, I saw her looking up at him. And what a look it was – so full of trust, so full of love. And I knew at that moment – though, at a deeper level I must always have known it – that I was doomed never to have a child look at me in quite that way.’

  And neither will I, Paniatowski thought bitterly. I can never have children – this defective body of mine makes that impossible – so I won’t experience it, either.

  ‘There’s another look I miss,’ the priest said, guiltily. ‘The look that a woman like you might give to a man like me, if we were entirely different people in an entirely different place.’ He paused for a moment. ‘You seem shocked by what I’ve just said, Monika.’

  ‘No, I—’

  ‘What did you think? That a priest was above such thoughts and yearnings? Did you imagine that the holy oil with which we are anointed was some kind of magic potion which took away our sex drives completely?’

  ‘No, I—’

  ‘It doesn’t work like that. If sacrifice involves no pain, then it is no real sacrifice at all. And if we have no weaknesses of our own to battle against, how will we ever understand the struggles against weakness that must be endured by those whom God has put into our care?’

  Paniatowski stood up.

  ‘Are you leaving?’ Father Taylor asked. ‘Have I scandalized you – or merely bored you?’

  ‘No, I’m … I haven’t … it’s not either of those things. I’m nervous. That’s all. And when I’m nervous, I need to smoke. So that’s what I’m doing. I’m going outside for a smoke.’

  ‘You may smoke in here, if you wish, Monika. As you already know, Father Kenyon does.’

  ‘No, I’ll … I’d prefer to smoke in the open air.’

  ‘And will you be coming back when you’ve finished your cigarette, Monika?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  Father Taylor shook his head. ‘Which means “no”,’ he said. ‘I think that’s the right decision for you to make. I don’t think you should come back tonight. But you will come back another time, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes … No … I think so, but I’m not making any promises.’

  ‘It doesn’t have to be me who you come and see,’ Father Taylor said. ‘Perhaps it shouldn’t be me. Come and see Father Kenyon. Or see a priest in another parish, if you’d feel more at ease with that. But please don’t stop now, having begun the journey back.’

  ‘There is no journey back!’ Paniatowski protested. ‘As I told you earlier, I just dropped in for a friendly chat.’

  ‘If you prefer to think of the steps you take as “friendly chats”, then there can be no harm in that,’ Father Taylor told her. ‘But keep on having these chats, Monika, I beg you.’

  ‘I don’t need your religion,’ Paniatowski said fiercely.

  ‘You’re wrong about that,’ Father Taylor said, with absolute conviction. ‘I see a lot of very unhappy people in my role as parish priest, Monika – but I have to tell you, in all honesty, that you’re more in need of spiritual comfort than any of them.’

  Sixteen

  It was seven thirty-five in the morning, and Henry Marlowe sat in the hospitality suite of the BBC’s Manchester studios, preparing himself for a radio interview. He was not alone. Bill Hawes, his constituency agent, was by his side, as he intended to be – especially after the fiasco on police headquarters’ steps the previous afternoon – for every waking minute of every day until the election was over.

  ‘Now remember, Henry, old chap, this is national radio you’re going on,’ Hawes cautioned.

  ‘I know that,’ Marlowe said, with some irritation.

  ‘The Party bosses in London will be listening to your performance with keen interest,’ Hawes pressed on, ‘and how well you do may affect whether you’re welcomed to Westminster as a cabinet minister in the making or as mere cannon fodder for the voting lobbies.’

  ‘If I ever do arrive in Westminster,’ Marlowe said bitterly. ‘If I’m ever elected.’

  ‘You’ll be elected,’ Hawes said.

  His tone was confident and reassuring, but Marlowe took no comfort from that. He was perfectly well aware that Bill Hawes was a professional fixer – a political manipulator – and sounding confident was what he did, whether his candidate of the moment was an easy shoo-in for the seat or didn’t have a cat in hell’s chance of winning it.

  ‘I don’t want to be wrong-footed like I was yesterday,’ Marlowe said.

  ‘And you won’t be,’ Hawes promised. ‘I’ve already thrashed out the ground rules with the man who’ll be interviewing you, and he’s given me his word that there’ll be no mention of the fact that you’ve left your post in the middle of an important murder inquiry.’

  ‘There shouldn’t have been any mention of it at the press conference, either,’ Marlowe said, making it sound as if it had all been Hawes’ fault.

  ‘But even though you
should skirt around the question of the murder investigation, you should still pay tribute to Bradley Pine as your predecessor,’ Hawes advised.

  ‘Should I?’ Marlowe asked peevishly. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it would seem mean-spirited of you not to.’

  Marlowe sighed heavily. ‘All right, I’ll talk about what a hero Bradley was, and how he—’

  ‘Not that, for Christ’s sake!’ Hawes said, in a panic. ‘Whatever you do, don’t talk about what happened on that bloody mountain!’

  ‘But if I’m supposed to be paying tribute to him—’

  ‘Find another way to do it. Any other way. Talk about his commitment to the Boy Scouts or old people’s homes. Tell lies, if you have to – we can always find some way to gloss over them afterwards – but whatever else you do, don’t so much as mention Alec Hawtrey’s death.’

  ‘Can I ask why?’ Marlowe asked, with a show of petulance.

  It was Hawes turn to sigh. ‘I should have thought it was bloody obvious,’ he said.

  ‘Well, it isn’t to me,’ Marlowe counted. ‘Alec Hawtrey was cremated, remember. Nobody can prove anything one way or the other now.’

  ‘Nobody has to prove anything,’ Hawes said, talking slowly and carefully, as if addressing a particularly slow learner. ‘Even a hint of what happened could sink you. Besides, the people involved in the cover-up haven’t been cremated, have they? They’re still around, with their memories fully intact. And we know exactly who they are, don’t we, Henry?’

  Marlowe shuddered. ‘Yes,’ he agreed, ‘We know who they are.’

  When Joan Woodend had been in the early stages of recovering from her heart attack, she’d commented on the irony of the fact that she – who’d always scrupulously eaten her greens – should have been struck down with such an affliction, whilst Charlie – who had lived on a diet of cigarettes, beer and fried food for as long as she’d known him – should still be glowing with health.

  Joan being Joan, of course, she hadn’t actually used a fancy word like ‘irony’.

  What she’d said was that it was ‘bloody funny, and she didn’t mean funny ha-ha’, that she was the one who was lying in the hospital bed.