‘Of course you will have. Isla won’t have been able to resist boasting about it to you, I bet.’
‘Aha, Pam as well. She says, maybe, we’ll get a bonspiel on the loch yet.’
‘Did Isla tell you the other news?’
On the pillow, the invalid rolled her head slightly from side to side, letting him know that she had not heard it.
‘That young woman in the hospice shop, the one you liked so much, Jill. She’s had her baby. Guess its weight? That sounds a bit like a competition, eh? Guess the weight of the baby and win …’ he hesitated, trying to think of an appropriate prize, ‘the baby! Or maybe not. Anyway, it was thirteen pounds. Imagine that! Luckily, they’re both fine.’
‘My Helen was just a wee thing,’ the old lady said, licking her cracked blue lips.
Her eyes remained shut, whether with weariness or sleep he could not tell, and so, expecting it to be the latter, he whispered her name several times to see if she would respond. Hearing nothing, he slipped his hand from hers, edged off the bed and knelt beside it, his head bowed, almost level with hers. But the second he murmured the words ‘Hail Mary full of grace,’ her eyes blinked open and she sat up, glaring at him indignantly.
‘I’m not that far gone! So you can get right up off your knees. You’re vultures, the lot of you. Helen’s every bit as bad.’
‘Doves, maybe, Jean, but not vultures.’
‘Well, you wait and see. I’ll be leaping out this bed yet, like a phoenix, and surprise the lot of you!’
Content that the danger was now over, she lay back, closed her dark eyelids and let out a long, rasping sigh. For another ten minutes he sat on her eiderdown, holding her hand and trying to think of things to say, passing on snippets of local news but getting no response to his efforts. As he was trying to extract his hand from hers once more, without waking her, she said, ‘You know something, Father …’
‘What?’
‘You’ve a lovely soothing voice. It’s as good as a lullaby … reminds me of my dad’s.’
Sleep, when it overcame her, was accompanied by an oddly powerful snore. The second it started up, her daughter put her head around the door and signalled for him to leave.
‘Thirteen pounds, eh? What a whopper,’ she said as they walked towards the front door.
‘How did you know?’ He had thought he was passing on a scoop.
‘Oh, I heard it all on the baby monitor. I always listen in. Calling you a vulture indeed! She may be dying, but there’s no excuse for that!’
That evening he sat down at his desk, determined to apply himself to the mound of untouched mail and impose some sort of order on it. With luck a fair bit would be circulars, free papers or other junk that he could safely ignore. Priority must be given to the red electricity bill, before all the lights in the parish house and the church were extinguished.
Taking a last draw on his cigarette, he opened his cheque book, biro at the ready, to find that it contained nothing but stubs. In one of the drawers there would be a new one, but in which one? Pulling out the first on the left-hand side of the desk he rummaged about in it and found, to his delight, his long-lost copy of Beasley’s Wines of the Côtes du Rhône. Why had he put it in there, he wondered?
Browsing through it, his attention caught by a column describing the involvement of seven successive Popes in the commune of Châteauneuf-du-Pape, the purpose of his search was quickly forgotten. Avignon, that would be a fine place to go on pilgrimage, to sample the wines of Bedarrides, Courthezon, Orange and Sorgues too. His euros from the last trip to France must be somewhere about in the house, or had he remembered to change them? The sound of the doorbell made him look up from his book and, unworried, but curious who it might be at this hour, he went to answer it.
The young man who he found facing him did not return his smile. A stubble of reddish bristles covered his broad skull, and his unblinking eyes were fringed with white lashes, giving him a pig-like appearance. His bomber jacket was unzipped to display a too-tight T-shirt and his jeans appeared to have been sprayed onto his fleshy thighs. Fixing his eyes on the priest, he looked boldly at him, letting him know that he was no humble parishioner seeking assistance.
At the stranger’s first words ‘Detective Sergeant Spearman’, the priest nodded. It was no surprise. He knew a policeman the instant he saw one. But always before, in his previous life, the ‘polis’ had been interested in his client, not in him.
In his sitting room, he showed the man to his favourite armchair and sat, very upright, opposite his guest on the hard wooden desk chair.
The Sergeant looked around the room and then, in a tone which conveyed slight disdain, asked: ‘The parish provide you with this stuff, eh, sir?’
‘That’s right, they do.’
‘Have they not heard of IKEA then? No offence meant.’
‘None taken. I don’t need anything new’.
‘Right,’ the policeman said, ostentatiously surveying the room and then adding, ‘’spose not. ’Cause you lot take a vow of poverty, sir, don’t you?’
‘No,’ Father Vincent said. ‘Priests don’t. But it’s a common misconception.’
‘No? You’ll be telling me they can marry next, eh? Now, sir,’ the man said, changing his tone to signal that he was getting down to business, and returning his gaze to Father Vincent’s face, ‘a call was made from a mobile to the emergency services. Early yesterday morning, like. Did you make that call?’
‘I did make a call.’ The priest held a match to his cigarette and took a deep draw.
‘The caller we’re interested in reported a murder – a possible murder. The victim was named as the Bishop, the Bishop of Inchkeld. Was it you that made that call?’
‘I made a call, certainly.’
Smiling, but without any humour, the policeman leaned towards the priest as if about to confide in him.
‘We know that. Actually, we know you made that call. I heard a tape of it this afternoon. What I’d really like to know is how you knew, before anyone else I mean, what had happened to the Bishop?’
Father Vincent slowly exhaled his smoke, determined to gather his thoughts before replying. He must not, on pain of excommunication, betray the sinner in any way, ‘by word or in any other manner or for any reason’. To do so would be to break the seal of the confessional. But he would have to say something. Apart from anything else, for his own sake, he must be seen to be as co-operative as possible.
‘I just heard about it …’ He paused again, considering whether there was any more he could safely add.
‘Aha. You just heard about it?’ the policeman repeated, chivvying him on, prompting him to continue.
In response, Vincent said nothing, drawing on his cigarette again. As he pondered, the policeman, now sounding impatient, boomed at him, ‘Well? I do need an answer to that one, sir!’
‘I heard about it. That’s all I can tell you, Sergeant,’ he repeated, raising his eyes and meeting the fellow’s stare.
‘You heard about it? Yes, I’ve got that much. But what I need to know is where, who from, how? I need more than you just heard about it.’
For a few seconds, Vincent rubbed his face with both hands, blocking out the man and his insistent questions. Behind them, his mind was buzzing, trying to work out what he could say and what he could not. What was safe? What was allowed? Whatever happened to him, he must not betray the sinner. So what more could he say?
Another impatient-sounding ‘Well?’ was fired at him.
‘Sergeant,’ he began, looking into the man’s unlined face, ‘I’m a priest, a Catholic priest. There are certain things I can’t tell you. Some of the things told to me in the course of my job, I can’t tell anybody. They’re confidential. That’s just the way it is. I’m sorry. You know that I rang 999, you know what I said. I alerted you to what happened. I did all that I could, more than I should.’
‘Look, sir, a man was assaulted in his own house, do you understand that?’
�
�Of course I do,’ he shot back testily, irked by the predicament he found himself in and by the condescending tone of the question.
‘Right, you’ve got that. The man was hit hard, he might have died. Do you appreciate that, sir?’
‘Yes. That was why I phoned you, precisely to get help for him.’
‘Fine. So out there – in the big bad world outside, as you might say, a violent criminal is loose. This time, he – she, whatever, did not manage to kill. But what about the next time, eh? Has that crossed your mind, Sir? So, I’ll ask you one more time – how did you know about the assault?’
‘I told you. I can’t answer your question, officer.’
Once more he held the youthful policeman’s sharp gaze, trying to get him to comprehend. Everyone knew about the seal of the confessional, didn’t they? It was not difficult to grasp. Policemen too had duties, including ones of confidentiality where necessary. Sanctions would apply to them, if they breached them. Their immortal souls might not be put in jeopardy, but their pensions could be vulnerable. However, the man gave no indication of understanding. Instead, shaking his head in exasperation and with a new note of menace creeping into his voice, Sergeant Spearman said, ‘I think you’ll find that you can, sir. Maybe not here, but down at the station instead? I can arrange for that to happen. Shall I send for a marked car, blue lights flashing and everything, to pick you up? Of course, the neighbours will wonder what’s going on, they’ll talk, won’t they? The whole town, I expect, because there’s no smoke without fire, is there, in a wee place like this? I expect you’ll be able to explain everything away, all right. A violent criminal running free … Dundee’s not that far away. All because you won’t help us. He might strike again. So, shall I arrange such a transfer for you, sir, or would you like to answer me here and now in the privacy of your own home?’
The Sergeant rubbed his hands together, revelling in the display of his power. Checkmate. He had, he was sure, struck the right note with this little man.
‘Here or there?’ he added chirpily, confident of his victory.
Father Vincent answered him by sitting back in his chair and folding his arms across his chest. The policeman had miscalculated.
‘Are you attempting to threaten me, Sergeant?’
‘Eh?’
‘Because where it is makes no difference to me whatsoever. I can tell you nothing. Here or there.’
‘There is,’ the Sergeant responded, shaking his head as if disappointed, and with a final change of tack, ‘such a thing, well, such an offence, such a crime, as obstructing the police in the course of their duty. You’ll be aware of that, sir, eh? Breaking the law. That’s what you’re doing right now. Right now. See, you could help us, and you’re refusing point-blank to do so. Tonight, tomorrow or the next day this man may strike again. He might kill this time. Do you want that, to be responsible for that?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Well then, help me.’
‘Believe me, I am doing all I can.’
‘For all I know, you may have done it – assaulted the man. That’s maybe how you knew. Because you done it.’
‘Are you expecting an answer to that ludicrous suggestion?’
‘Well, you know him, don’t you?’
‘So?’
‘He’s your boss, isn’t he? Perhaps you’d a grudge against him? Perhaps he’d blocked a promotion?’
The priest shook his head, nettled.
‘Sacked your … what shall we call her – housekeeper?’
‘This is pitiful. I don’t even have one. I never have had.’
‘Threatened you with exile to a backwater? Oops, sorry, what am I saying? This is a backwater – of a backwater.’
By way of reply, Father Vincent stubbed out his cigarette and rose to his feet to signal that the interview was now over. The heavily-built policeman didn’t move, settling deeper into his seat, glaring defiantly up at the priest. Consciously raising the stakes, Father Vincent crossed his sitting-room and held open the door for his visitor.
‘I’ve not finished yet,’ the Sergeant said, leaning back in his chair as if to suggest that he would have to be extracted from it by force, adding sarcastically, ‘sir.’
‘No. But I have – unless you have a warrant to arrest me, or intend to detain me under section 14 of the Criminal Procedure Act, 1995,’ Father Vincent said angrily.
‘Eh?’ the policeman sounded startled.
‘I wasn’t always a priest, Sergeant. There was a time when Gordon’s Criminal Law and Renton and Brown were my bedtime reading. I know about your right to question, but also about mine not to answer.’
‘Detective Chief Inspector Keegan is not going to like this, sir.’
‘In that case, he will, no doubt, have an opportunity to tell me so himself, at the station. Now, if you don’t mind, I have things to do.’
CHAPTER SIX
Less than a week later the priest stood queuing in the Clydesdale Bank, waiting his turn to be served. The Kinross branch was housed in a cream-coloured Georgian building on the High Street. The bank was set apart from its neighbouring shops; what was once a large garden tarmacked to transform it into a car park. From the outside it remained untouched, retaining its classical proportions Roman Doric doorpiece and astragalled windows, but its original architect would not have recognised its modernised interior. The entire ground floor had been turned into a banking hall, and a lowered ceiling hid the cornices and ceiling-roses that had once ornamented three separate rooms. Elegance had been sacrificed to utility and the deity now worshipped within was Pecunia.
The sole bank-teller’s attention was focused on a difficult customer. A squat woman, she was wearing a short leather jacket, tight black skirt with red fishnet tights and patent leather boots ornamented by gold spurs. Both her elbows rested on the counter, supporting her heavily made-up face, and one wide hip jutted out, as if she had settled in for a good chinwag. She was talking and laughing noisily, oblivious to the six people behind her. As soon as her latest anecdote had come to an end, she would straighten up as if she was about to leave, and the rest of the queue would relax, getting ready to move forwards. Then another query would occur to her and she would settle down on her elbows once more. After this had happened a couple of times, glances began to be exchanged between those behind her, and the boldest amongst them, the local undertaker, cleared his throat theatrically, attempting to draw her attention to the other customers who were waiting. It had no effect. An elderly woman, catching Father Vincent’s eye, made a few loud tutting sounds for her benefit. This too had no effect. However, as if in response to these signs of impatience, the anxious, bespectacled face of the manageress appeared at a vacant teller’s position. She smiled at the restive throat-clearer to let him know that she would attend to him now.
When Father Vincent reached the head of the queue, the lady in the high-heeled boots turned to depart, still talking, apparently blithely unaware of the hostility that she had engendered amongst a group of strangers. As she passed by one of them, a lanky youth with his hair tied back in a ponytail, cheeks flushed with anger, he said, in a loud whisper, ‘Rich bitch!’
‘Is my little pony in a hurry? Guilty as charged, Rick, I’m delighted to admit.’ She cackled throatily, adding in a louder voice as she slipped out of the door, ‘Loser!’
Further incensed, the youth abandoned his place in the queue and strode after her.
As the priest handed over his faded money bag to the assistant, she beamed broadly at him as if to acknowledge his long wait, and thank him for his good-mannered patience. She was a member of his parish, and sometimes stood in for the regular organist.
‘Sorry about that,’ she said. ‘Is this the collection money?’
‘That lad looked as if he’d explode. Who is he?’
‘Don’t know. His dad’s got the new antique shop in Milnathort. The woman used to be his dad’s bidie-in for a wee while, I think.’
‘Really? Yes, it’s the c
ollection money,’ he replied. ‘Would you put it in the usual account for me, please, Patricia?’
‘Certainly will.’
Her fair-haired head was bowed as she counted the coins, her hands moving skilfully from pile to pile. Looking up at him for a second, she said: ‘Good that they caught that fellow, eh, Father?’
‘Caught who? That boy?’ he answered, preoccupied, his eyes resting on an advertisement for a loan. Most of it was taken up by a large photograph which showed a small, palm-fringed island surrounded by pale sands and an aquamarine sea. Across a cloudless blue sky flew a single, fork-tailed white bird. It looked like the sort of place where white rum would be served in a half-coconut, he mused.
‘No, no, not him. You know, Raymond Meehan. The police have caught him.’
‘I didn’t know they were looking. What has he done?’ Father Vincent asked, now giving her his full attention.
‘The Bishop … he’s the one who attacked the Bishop. Did you not see the article in the Courier? It was on the front page.’
‘No. I must have missed it. Raymond? Are you sure? They’ve got him in custody, have they?’
Father Vincent was familiar with the man. Five years earlier he had lived in the Montgomery Road council estate and was well known within the town. He was the youngest of a family of ten and would once have been described as ‘soft’. An albino, he lived for country and western music, had been teased at school for not being able to remember his brothers and sisters’ names and was rumoured to live on a diet consisting solely of fish fingers. Like the rest of his clan he had a strong Glasgow accent, but unlike the rest of them, when talking, he honked adenoidally through his nose, sounding permanently surprised. Father Vincent had been instrumental in finding him a job as a cleaner in the Bishop’s office, and over time he had acquired two further cleaning posts in Dundee, both early morning shifts, one in a shop and one in an old folks’ home.
‘No,’ Patricia said, stacking a column of ten-pence pieces ‘that’s what I’m saying. He’s dead. He hung himself, but he left a note. That’s how the police know he did it. He confessed.’
The Good Priest Page 6
