The Silent Ones

by William Brodrick

  ‘And I said there was no story because no allegations had made it onto a charge sheet,’ said Crofty, raising his voice.

  Robert turned from the window, disorientated. ‘Sorry … what?’

  Crofty stepped off the decking and brushed some crumbs from his paunch. Abruptly confidential, he went towards the end of the garden, drawing Robert with him along the flags, repeating what he’d said about the priest who’d done nothing wrong.

  ‘Except run away,’ resumed Robert. He couldn’t bear to watch his mother in distress. In part it was because she’d never been one to show much feeling. She’d been absorbed in a world of her own, emptying the dishwasher, wiping the kitchen table. Doing something that should have been done yesterday. She can’t have meant it, but in Robert’s memory, her back was often turned. Seeing her distraught was a brutalising experience. ‘And if you run away,’ he said, reaching the trees, ‘the chances are you’ve got something to hide.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Crofty. ‘I remember everything. But why bring all that up now?’

  ‘Because I’m not the only one who thinks it’s wrong when a guilty man stays free just because a kid is too scared to open his mouth.’

  Robert took a letter out of the envelope and passed it to Crofty. When he retrieved the sheet of paper, Robert gave it another puzzled look:

  Why have you given up?

  Victims always need help to speak out.

  Otherwise they get silenced by private agreements.

  Don’t let that happen.

  The American is hiding at Larkwood Priory.

  Do not delay. If he leaves, you’ll never find him again.

  Crofty took the last sandwich off the plate and said, ‘Who the hell would write a letter like that?’

  ‘It has to be someone who knew I was there, in the station.’

  ‘The police?’

  ‘No. Why would they want me to track him down if they already knew where he was?’

  Crofty nodded. ‘Well, that leaves the priest himself. What was his name?’

  ‘Littlemore. But why would Littlemore want me to come and find him? It doesn’t make sense.’

  Robert looked at the misaligned print, because that was another anomaly. The author had used an old-fashioned typewriter. The ink was smudged and there were heavy indentations in the paper. No one used that kind of machine any more. Crofty broke the reverie:

  ‘What’s the postmark?’

  ‘Glasgow.’

  ‘Scotland?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Crofty drew a hand through his thick, rusty hair. ‘Forget the geography. Whoever it is knows the kid’s a victim even though he hasn’t made a statement. We’re talking about a member of his family.’

  ‘But they’d go to the police, not write to me. And anyway, how would they know that Littlemore was hiding in a monastery?’

  Crofty gave a conceding nod. ‘They wouldn’t.’

  ‘Exactly. The only people who’d know are the monks themselves.’

  ‘Only if he’s told them who he is … and what he’s done.’ Crofty sniffed. ‘You know who lives at Larkwood Priory? Father Anselm … that Sister Wendy in the world of crime.’

  Robert had heard of the name. ‘That’s too much of a coincidence. What’s Littlemore doing in the same building as a detective? That’s the last place he should hide.’

  ‘Go find out,’ said Crofty. ‘This might be a bigger story than you realised.’ He looked at the sandwich as if it was the last of its kind. ‘By the way, I’ve got a new hand on board. Andrew Taylor. A late starter. Interesting guy. Show him the ropes, will you? This might be a good story to break him in with.’

  A train rushed along the lines, thumping the air into the trees. By the time Robert and Crofty reached the house, the garden was quiet again. They went inside, wondering how to act out the grief you couldn’t yet feel.

  * * *

  When Robert went home that night to his flat in Tooting Bec there was something bothering him, but he couldn’t chase it to ground. He prowled round the likely territory finding nothing but pity: on entering the sitting room with Crofty, Robert had found his mother completely composed. You wouldn’t have known that, minutes before, she’d been on her feet, leaning towards Muriel, fists clenched like someone fighting her corner. Then, having calmed down, she’d been crouched on the edge of the settee, looking terribly alone. No one could reach her. She’d been contemplating the rest of her life, knowing that the greater part of it lay buried in Wimbledon Cemetery. It was only when Robert woke up next morning, head aching from the Chianti, that he knew at once what had been troubling him. As he had sat beside his mother, Muriel had moved towards Crofty as if to pat him on the back … a gesture that didn’t happen, but whose preamble disclosed a baffling certainty, only seen with the clarity bestowed by a hangover: when Crofty had turned up with that plate of sandwiches, his reason wasn’t to show compassion or chance his hand with a few fine words. And he hadn’t forgotten about the priest who’d run away. That was all playing for time. The magician’s trick had been to keep Robert in the garden.

  The next morning Robert rang Sanjay Kumar, the officer who’d interviewed Littlemore. He said nothing of the letter. But he let Sanjay know he wasn’t the only one who was looking for the American. Mid-flow, Robert made a sudden request. Perhaps it was because they’d established a rapport; or, more likely, because the case was hopeless, but Sanjay agreed to a minor breach of protocol.

  6

  Anselm’s attempts to make contact with Father George Carrington, the Lambertine Provincial – the person responsible for the English Province of his Order – proved fruitless. He was never available when Anselm called and none of those calls had been returned. Not to be brushed aside so easily, Anselm took the train to London. By late morning, he was knocking on the door of a large Edwardian building in its own grounds ten minutes’ walk from Ealing Broadway Tube station.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  Anselm was dumbstruck. The man who opened the door was looking at him quizzically – if anything, with the slight irritation that comes from being disturbed when busy – showing no trace of recognition, while Anselm, unable to reply, instantly found himself back in the presence of the stranger who’d asked him to find Edmund Littlemore.

  ‘If you’ll forgive me I have a great deal to do and I can’t remain here wondering if you’ve lost your voice.’

  Anselm had to go along with the charade. He asked if he might have a brief interview. Carrington reluctantly agreed. But he didn’t invite Anselm into his study or offer coffee. He brought him into the hallway and no further. At the far end someone was on their hands and knees waxing the floor.

  ‘And you are?’

  Anselm, still bewildered by the pretence, introduced himself and then went straight to the point.

  ‘I’m trying to find Edmund Littlemore, I understand that—’

  ‘The matter is in the hands of the police and that is where it should stay.’

  Anselm nodded, wondering what the script ought to look like next. But he was also impressed by Carrington’s performance: it was magisterial.

  ‘Might I ask what’s prompted your interest?’

  Anselm did his best. ‘I was approached by an interested party.’

  Impatient with the wordplay, Carrington walked towards the door. ‘I appreciate your concern but I fear it’s misplaced. This is a deeply worrying and I must say private matter for our community. Might I suggest you return home and leave a delicate problem to be handled delicately?’

  The door was already open. Turning round, Anselm could see the cleaner at the end of the corridor. His head was down, one hand moving in a slow circle as he applied wax to the tiles with a large orange cloth. Anselm made one last-ditch attempt:

  ‘Could you tell me why he might have run away?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where he might have gone?’

  ‘I can’t tell you anything. And at the risk of offending you, this conver
sation is over. Forget about Father Littlemore. With the deepest respect, his circumstances are none of your concern.’

  The door clipped shut and Anselm began a slow walk back to Ealing Broadway. He couldn’t understand the conversation that had just unfolded. The man who’d come to Larkwood refusing to give his name was deadly serious; so was Father Carrington, this second, parallel personality. No one would behave in such a manner unless the issues at stake were serious … and so delicate that they required subterfuge to bring them into the open. Just then, he heard a voice call his name. Turning around, he saw the cleaner running towards him. He was still holding onto his orange cloth.

  ‘I haven’t got long,’ he said, panting. ‘But maybe I can help you.’

  7

  The cleaner was, in fact, a former mergers and acquisitions tax specialist with PwC, PricewaterhouseCoopers. In his late thirties, Kester Newman had joined the Lambertines two years previously and was still getting used to doing the sorts of job he’d forgotten existed. For him, floors were simply things you walked on. And he’d been on that tiled corridor for a week, now, what with the stripping and washing and the three coats of wax. But Kester couldn’t hang around. He’d slipped away and his absence would shortly be noted.

  ‘When I was an accountant I had to deal with people running companies who wanted to hide significant transactions. Not just from the taxman, but me, their adviser. You can feel it in the air. You can tell that behind an honest explanation there’s a strategy at work, and you just can’t imagine what it might be, or why the man across the table doesn’t want you to know what he’s really doing. And I’ve got that feeling now as regards Father Carrington. Something strange is happening.’

  By the time Kester had caught Anselm, he’d just reached the tennis courts in Lammas Park. They were standing by the fence watching a father and son practise their groundstrokes.

  ‘He’s genuinely concerned about Littlemore’s disappearance but he’s not cooperating with the police. He’s not giving them the kind of information they need.’

  Kester was leaning on the high fence with one arm, his fingers locked into the wire netting. Those years behind a desk had given a certain generosity to his frame, and he was no more used to running than he was to waxing floors. But his eyes were a sharp, bright brown. This man’s athleticism was intellectual and he’d lost none of his form. Anselm could imagine him chairing a conference, listening to his clients while preparing questions to make them squirm. Only, you couldn’t do that kind of thing to a reverend Provincial.

  ‘What sort of information?’ asked Anselm.

  ‘About Littlemore’s past. It’s not straightforward.’

  Strictly speaking, Littlemore and Kester were exact contemporaries. Littlemore had come to the Lambertines two years back, having already been ordained by the archdiocese of Boston. No clear reason had been given for his departure from the US, but he’d been accepted into the Order by Carrington’s predecessor, Owen Murphy, who’d sent him to Newcastle – Kester’s birthplace, as it happened. Carrington had been elected shortly afterwards, following Murphy’s death, and one of his first decisions was to move Littlemore to Freetown in Sierra Leone … that’s right, West Africa. A long way off. The rumour was that Littlemore had a serious ‘personal difficulty’, something ‘fundamental’, and Carrington was keeping trouble at arm’s length. The ploy, needless to say, didn’t work. Littlemore was summoned home after some sort of complaint.

  ‘I was here when he returned and Father Carrington grilled him for over three hours.’

  Kester – draining a radiator in the room next door – couldn’t catch the words, but he’d caught the tone. Littlemore had been angry, hitting back it seemed at a reprimand.

  ‘What he’d done I don’t know, but I think we can work backwards from what happened next. He was sent to a parish in south London and that’s where things finally unravelled.’

  The father had gone up to the net for a volley, carefully aiming his shot to compel his son to use a specific stroke. The boy dashed right, stretching on the run. Kester watched him enviously. Then he said:

  ‘None of this information has been given to the police. Because it’s sensitive. Because Littlemore has crossed a line … either in the States, here or in Sierra Leone. Maybe everywhere. I’ve felt compromised ever since. Which is why I’m speaking to you.’

  Anselm was perplexed. ‘What line?’

  ‘It’s obvious, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not to me.’

  Kester took Anselm’s avowed ignorance for diplomacy so, in a changed tone, he referred to the subject no one in the Order wanted to talk about: ‘Father Carrington said nothing to the police because it has to be linked to why Littlemore ran away in the first place. He doesn’t want the publicity and I imagine he doesn’t want to harm Littlemore’s defence, if he has one.’

  Anselm came clean as the boy broke out of training and lobbed his father. The kid wanted to take control for once. ‘Kester, I’m looking for a man without knowing anything about him save his name.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘You don’t know why he vanished?’

  ‘Any more than you know why he left the States or why he was sent to Sierra Leone.’

  Kester glanced at his watch. Stepping closer to Anselm he spoke as if he were dictating a minute to his former secretary that would blow the reputation of a major client. ‘Edmund Littlemore sexually attacked an eleven-year-old boy named Harry Brandwell. He’s the grandson of Martin and Maisie Brandwell, longstanding friends of the Order. When the police confronted him, he ran from the station.’

  Anselm was stunned but he showed nothing. His eyes followed the ball from racket to racket. Despite that show of nerve from the son, the father knew what he was doing. He’d returned the lob and got his son back into the groove.

  ‘The day after the interview Littlemore came here,’ said Kester. ‘He had a conference with Father Carrington. I assume he owned up. What else could he do? Three days later he vanished. No one has any idea where he might have gone.’

  Anselm reflected for a long time upon that last observation. But he still listened. Kester had his own worries.

  ‘I pity Father Carrington. He’s out of his depth … I mean, he reads Middle English for fun. He’s an academic. Eighteen months ago he gets elected only to find he’s got Littlemore on his hands. He’s a good guy trying to preserve an institution’s reputation. It’s what he’d call “a delicate matter that has to be handled delicately”. To be honest, I thought I’d left that kind of manoeuvring behind.’

  Anselm noted the reply, watching the father and son. The father wouldn’t let up. He kept hitting the ball to his son’s weaker backhand. Anselm said, ‘What do you suggest I do now?’

  ‘If anyone knows anything, it’s Martin Brandwell. He was here shortly after Littlemore went missing. He was with Father Carrington for most of the afternoon. They had a row as well, only I didn’t catch anything. But it’s safe to assume he was angry because he’d found out about Littlemore’s past … that there’d been complaints or whatever in Boston and Freetown and, because nothing had been done to deal with this “personal difficulty”, his own grandson had been harmed. I’ve brought you his details. And now I really have to go.’

  Kester handed over a piece of paper and then began his run back home with the uncertain vigour of someone committed to taxis. Insofar as Anselm could think clearly, given what he’d just learned, he felt sorry for him. Kester was young enough to retain strong ideals and old enough to think that he was – at long last – beyond the sort of disillusionment that plagues coming of age. The problem, however, was this: he’d yet to learn that those deeper, more costly ideals – the ones that can lead a man to abandon his professional career – are, in fact, the most brittle. It takes time to make them supple, able to bend with the otherwise shattering discovery that those who led you out of the desert haven’t always left it themselves.

  Ansel
m turned back to the tennis court. Father and son were shaking hands over the net, smiling and chatting. The son had made all the right moves, executing each stroke with considerable talent. But – and this was no criticism, just a natural outcome of the balance of power – the boy had only done what his father had wanted. His father had made all the decisions from a commanding position at the net, determining the reactions of his trusting son.

  Just like Father Carrington.

  8

  ‘Late starter’ was an understatement. Andrew Taylor was in his mid-forties. He had thinning black hair and rimless glasses. The three-day growth made him conventionally handsome, in the sense that he was the sort of good-looking guy you see everywhere: in wine bars, outside the theatre, standing at the bus stop, hailing a cab; smart, but lacking originality. He’d picked potatoes in Ireland, washed dishes in Marseille, been a barman on a ferry, swept platforms on the Underground, imported wine from Portugal … the list was endless, which, to Crofty, had been the perfect CV for a man whose new piste was to report on the odd things people do. He was, in effect, one of Crofty’s vagrants, people he’d met and given a job when they’d found themselves in a hard corner: the same thing had happened to Robert.

  Only Robert wasn’t entirely enthusiastic about his mentoring role. Andrew was a bit too keen. He leaned forward, ready to do anything Robert asked: make coffee, do the photocopying, fetch the mail. If there’d been dishes to wash, he’d have washed them. He sat at a facing desk like a willing pupil who’d won a scholarship. It was pitiful. He’d made notes on the Littlemore case in a brand new reporter’s pad, nodding as if he’d heard it all before, wanting to be an equal.

  ‘I want to search where he lived,’ said Robert, reaching for his coat. ‘The police looked in vain. I’m hoping they missed something.’