Mr Justice Keating closed his red notebook. ‘We’ll adjourn for lunch. Who is your next witness, Mr Grainger?’
‘Father George Carrington, my lord.’
34
And of course, if anyone knew the answers to all the questions it was the Provincial of the Lambertines, who’d come to Anselm incognito knowing that he would shortly be exposed as Littlemore’s superior. He’d hoped that one day he and Anselm would be in a courtroom together. That seemingly impossible moment had now arrived.
There are vested interests, he’d said.
Carrington entered the witness box and swore to tell the truth. The formula was short, but Anselm watched him closely, noting every inflection of feeling, plotting the curve of every nuance, every gesture, trying to determine if this man was a friend or a fraud. If Carrington was an honourable man, there was a secret bond between them; and an exchange would presently take place before everyone’s eyes, its significance unseen – a sleight of hand in the interests of justice. Anselm turned to the public gallery, just to make sure an important witness was there: and he was; Kester Newman was sitting on the back row by the door, ready to listen to his master’s voice.
There are people occupying positions of considerable trust and influence who do not want this man to be found. Someone, however, must intervene, regardless of such misguided … sensitivities.
Grainger covered the evidence quickly. Yes, the Lambertines had a manual of child protection procedures. They’d been drafted by Carrington himself, in consultation with expert opinion. Amendments were made in keeping with the developments of best practice. All members of the Order had studied the provisions in detail. Yes, Father Littlemore had been given a copy. Yes, he’d examined them. Yes, he was aware that under no circumstances should he permit himself to be alone in a building with a minor. Grainger underlined the point and then he shifted ground:
‘Father Tabley will be celebrating his Golden Jubilee shortly.’
‘He will, yes.’
‘Did you ask the defendant to prepare a memoir to mark the event?’
‘No.’
‘Did anyone else?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘Were you aware that the defendant had set himself the task?’
‘No.’
‘That he was visiting families with children on that understanding?’
‘Absolutely not. Had I known I would have forbidden it.’
‘Why?’
Carrington became sententious: ‘I can’t imagine anything that Father Tabley would want less.’
Grainger gave a light flick to his gown. ‘Thank you, Father. Please answer my learned friend’s questions.’
Anselm reached for the Code of Canon Law. Its provisions had no application in this particular court, of course, but Anselm had underlined some important passages that just might help him find people like Harry, forced to lie and to live a lie.
If, indeed, he had lied. If, indeed, there were other people waiting to be found.
‘Father Carrington, I assume the Lambertine Order has an archive system consistent with the dictates of Canon Law?’
‘It does, yes.’ Carrington had recognised the open volume in Anselm’s hands. ‘We follow the same procedures for any diocese.’
‘Would you confirm, then – pursuant to Canon four-eight-six – that the archive is in a safe place?’
‘It is.’
‘That “written documents pertaining to the spiritual and temporal affairs” of the Order “are safeguarded there, after being properly filed and diligently secured”?’
‘They are.’
‘Canon four-eight-seven … the archive is locked?’
‘Correct.’
‘You retain the key?’
‘I do, in common with my deputy, the Vice-Provincial.’
‘Where is the archive?’
‘In a room adjacent to my office.’
‘Canon four-eight-nine, paragraph one: “There is also to be a secret archive, or at least in the common archive there is to be a safe or cabinet, completely closed and locked, which cannot be removed”.’ Anselm appraised Carrington as if they were in the parlour at Larkwood. ‘You have such a secret archive?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where is it located?’
‘In the basement of the building where I live.’
‘The basement door is locked?’
‘It is. But the key is to hand to comply with fire safety regulations.’
‘Where is it?’
‘On a board in my office. Each key is clearly labelled.’
Anselm resumed his reading: ‘Paragraph two: “Each year documents of criminal cases in matters of morals, in which the accused parties have died or ten years have elapsed from the condemnatory sentence, are to be destroyed. A brief summary of what occurred along with the text of the definitive sentence is to be retained.”’ Anselm looked up. ‘The Order has complied with these requirements?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘There have been no criminal cases. Not one in our one-hundred-and-seventy-year history in these islands. Had there been, then the relevant records would have been dealt with as prescribed.’
Anselm showed curiosity: ‘What about cases that didn’t come to trial? I’m talking about allegations against an individual that have not led to any criminal proceedings. Are relevant documents retained? Correspondence, minutes of meetings, records of interviews?’
‘All such material is preserved.’
‘In the secret archive.’
‘Yes.’
‘Subject to the provisions for destruction?’
‘No, the types of document you mentioned are kept in perpetuity.’
Anselm made a puzzled frown. ‘Why?’
‘Because there’s been no criminal case. It is the criminal case that entitles someone to have information about them destroyed after a reasonable period of time.’
‘So nothing is shredded? Each allegation and accusation remains on file?’
‘Indeed. Along with the response of the accused and any documents produced during any internal enquiry.’
‘Including agreements between the Order and a given individual? Agreements which resolve a dispute that never ended in a trial and a definitive sentence? Assuming, of course, that such agreements might exist.’
‘That’s quite correct … assuming such agreements might exist.’
‘For completeness, and continuing the assumption, would those records include details of any compensation payments made under mutual terms of strict confidentiality?’
‘They would, yes, though you must appreciate I am merely endorsing your hypothesis. I’m not in a position to confirm or deny that complaints have, in fact, been resolved in this manner, because to do so would undermine the principle of secrecy that protects both parties. Without the consent of a specific individual, I can only speak hypothetically; and speaking hypothetically, I can only assure you that each and every record would be properly and safely conserved.’
‘How, exactly?’
‘The relevant records of a given complaint would be placed in a brown envelope and then sealed with the date of closure and the names of the parties involved written on the outside.’
‘“Closure” isn’t quite the right word, is it?’
‘Not in a moral sense, no. Such things can never be closed.’
‘But envelopes can; and, once closed, they would then be placed in the secret archive in perpetuity?’
‘Yes.’
‘What happens when a new leader of the Order is elected? How is the principle of secrecy preserved, given that the individual concerned was not a party to the original agreement, but, of necessity, only comes to learn of its existence after the fact? How is he bound by something he might otherwise not countenance?’
Carrington obviously thought the question to be penetrating. He said, ‘They are sworn to secrecy on the day of their election.’
‘Before
they are permitted access to the archive?’
‘Precisely.’
‘At which point he might examine the relevant records?’
‘No. He would need the permission of a consenting party.’
‘In effect, then, you are an ignorant custodian?’
‘Not quite. I know they are there; I just don’t know exactly why they are there.’
Anselm glanced at the jury as if to take any questions, then he said, ‘Would you accept that a natural consequence of this arrangement is that you evade the obligation to report a crime?’
‘I can’t evade what I don’t know about.’
‘But this swearing to secrecy in advance is inimical to transparency. It has to be.’
‘Which is why, having taken the oath, my first act as Provincial was to abandon the practice and forbid its reinstatement.’
Anselm noted the reply and then moved on. ‘And what of complaints against an individual that were not settled by an agreement of some kind?’
‘Those records are kept separately in the secret archive. They are not sealed. And as to what they contain, if they relate to a potential criminal offence, then – pursuant to the system of mandatory reporting that I implemented following my election – the proper authorities will have been informed.’
Anselm’s finger moved down the page. ‘Canon four-nine-zero, paragraph one: “Only the bishop is to have the key to the secret archive.” You are not a bishop, but you are the Provincial. Do you possess the key?’
Carrington smiled gently. ‘It’s a safe. But the combination is known only to me.’
‘Would you write the number down for his lordship, please?’
The court clerk provided a chit of paper and Carrington took out a fountain pen, slowly unscrewing the cap. In a charged silence, the number was shown to Mr Justice Keating, Grainger and finally Anselm: ‘1-7-1-5-1-3 moving clockwise from the digit 1 and back again.’ The combination memorised, Anselm handed the chit back to the clerk.
‘Same Canon, paragraph three: “Documents are not to be removed from the secret archive or safe.” Accepting that you can only speak for your stewardship, have any documents been removed from the safe?’
‘None whatsoever.’
Anselm closed the volume and placed it to one side. ‘Father Carrington, does the secret archive hold a file on Edmund Littlemore?’
‘It does.’
‘Have you disclosed it to the police?’
‘Yes. And I’ve sworn an affidavit attesting that no other documents of relevance have been retained in any manner of archive.’
Grainger gave a confirming nod to Mr Justice Keating. Anselm continued:
‘Am I right in saying the file contains absolutely nothing except correspondence between the prosecuting authorities and yourself regarding this one case, along with notes made by you after a single meeting in which the defendant protested his innocence?’
‘That is correct.’
‘Would you confirm please, that this insistence on innocence was given to you by the defendant on the day following Harry Brandwell’s first video interview?’
‘It was.’
‘When, as the court has heard, Harry failed to repeat the allegation reported to the police by his mother?’
‘That’s right, yes.’
Grainger confirmed the timings for the court record and, his cross-examination complete, Anselm resumed his seat. In doing so, he turned to the public gallery. Kester Newman was on his feet making ready to leave and meet Carrington who’d already left the witness box. Their eyes met briefly and Anselm prayed that the former accountant had been listening carefully; that the restive student kept on his knees to wax a corridor and meet Anselm would now think long and hard about the contents of that secret archive and whether or not he’d be prepared to open the safe, if asked; should Anselm find it necessary to go that far.
Anselm felt a light brush of air. Grainger was at his side, leaning down to whisper:
‘I’m sorry, I don’t have any choice. You’ve brought this on yourself.’ Returning to his place he addressed the bench, ‘My lord, I apply to call my learned friend, Father Anselm Duffy.’
35
A soft gasp filled the courtroom and Martin stopped breathing. Grainger was addressing the bench but Martin couldn’t hear the words. He pushed past the knees of excited spectators, stumbling towards the door held open by a scolding official trained to handle misfits and distressed relatives, not a father crippled by shame. He pulled at his collar, loosening the tie, taking quick steps down the stairs that led to the public entrance.
Had Littlemore said anything to the monk? Would it all come out, now, under oath? Martin reached the swing door and pushed it open; he went up Warwick Lane, whimpering like a child: a man infantilised by fear and weakness and, yes, love. Above all, love. Ever since he’d lied to the doctors and lied to the police and lied to his wife and lied to the world and himself – and all out of love – he’d ceased to be a man. He’d been stripped of dignity and self-respect and moral authority. He’d become a child again, but without innocence. He was burdened with knowledge.
Littlemore had promised to say nothing. He’d given his word. Martin thought he might be sick. He stopped to lean on a wall, head down. At his feet were flattened fag ends, a tissue smudged with lipstick and a torn paper cup. Looking up, out of breath, he saw clouds changing their shape like milk dispersed in water. The sky behind was a shining, majestic blue … there was no escaping the appalling beauty of this ruined world. A breeze tugged his hair. He could almost taste brine.
‘Dad, I’m not normal,’ said Justin. ‘I’m not like other people.’
A gentle wind came off the sea. There were boats leaning into the waves. A boy in bright red trunks was standing ankle deep in the surf, staring down at his toes. His skin was white and he was shivering with delight. Other children skipped over low breakers. The long beach swept towards a lonely headland.
‘You’re a doctor, Dad.’ said Justin. ‘Is there a cure?’
Martin didn’t know. He thought not. But it wasn’t his field. And he was still devastated by Justin’s confession. Martin’s own world – the world he’d known and loved – had collapsed. The foundations had been rotten. After Justin tried to take his life, Martin had begged him to explain why … and Justin, drugged and weak, had told him. They’d come to Harlech as soon as he was discharged. There were things to talk about, though God knows Martin had no idea what he might say in reply. He said:
‘The best thing is to speak to a specialist. Someone who knows what can be done, and what can’t be done.’
Martin’s own father had been a great talker. He’d put great emphasis on sitting down and talking out a problem. Martin had taught Justin to do the same, only, without Martin realising it, Justin had held back everything worth saying.
‘I can’t, Dad. I’ve told you and I can’t tell anyone else. I don’t want anyone else to know. Can’t you understand that?’
Martin could. He stopped walking, bringing them both to a halt. Unable to reply honestly, he turned to look at his son, but his eye snagged on the little boy in red trunks, bending down to reach the water. He was trying to catch the foam. He was learning one of life’s difficult lessons: there are some things you just can’t keep for ever. Martin’s focus shifted to Justin. His son was gazing at him, as vulnerable as the day he’d been born, looking to the one person in the world who might even begin to want to understand his problem. Only it wasn’t a problem. It was an affliction. Martin could think of none that was deeper.
‘I don’t even want to look at a girl, Dad.’
Martin nodded.
‘I’ve tried walking across the room, you know; but I end up walking for the door. I’m just not at ease. I don’t belong. I’m different.’ Justin dragged a hand through his tangled hair. ‘Mum keeps asking why I don’t have a girlfriend, why I don’t want to get married, why I don’t want children. What can I say?’ He stared out to sea, at the boats lilt
ing in the wind. ‘She’d never understand. It would kill her.’
Martin agreed. Maisie would probably die. Some illness would take her away, summoned into being because she couldn’t face another morning. Justin was gazing at him once more: at the person he hoped would live and share his secret.
‘Will you help me, Dad?’
‘How?’
‘Just treat me like I’m normal. Be the only one who understands what it must be like. Don’t turn away from me.’
But Martin wanted to turn away; and he didn’t understand what it must be like. He didn’t recognise his own son any more. On the day of Justin’s birth, he’d been late getting to the hospital, trapped in traffic, arriving at the very moment of delivery. He’d held the child in his arms, looking into the strangely aged face of the newborn, overwhelmed by the divine aroma of new life, and those impossibly deep eyes … wide, watery and searching for understanding. Perhaps asking the first question ever. Where had that wonderful boy gone? The foam had passed through Martin’s fingers.
‘Stay with me,’ begged Justin. ‘Don’t leave me to handle this on my own. I tried and I can’t. If you accept me, then maybe I can change. Will you share the weight?’
Martin felt his entire life come into focus. This moment, this twisted and twisting question was decisive, for all that would happen hereafter. Suddenly he reached out and pulled Justin towards him. Martin wanted his son back … the one he’d held in hospital; and this was the only way. He’d have to start lying. He’d have to hide what he knew should be exposed. Hope and confidence? The belief in change? The possibility of a better tomorrow? Fresh starts? He’d have to cling onto the phrases knowing they’d lost their meaning; he’d have to use them if Justin began to sink again into that swamp of inner filth; cite the lines to bring him back to the surface, knowing they’d have no effect. But at least Justin wouldn’t be alone. They’d sink hand in hand. How could it be otherwise? Martin could no more let go of this man than he could have let go of that baby.
The Silent Ones Page 17
