“Mark’s parents, on the other hand, have money.”
“They do. Mark has always been under strong pressure from his father. The man’s an achiever, and he expects his son to do well in sports, and academically too. It may be that Mark started taking the drugs for the usual reasons, then started supplying them to get himself a lot more pocket money. . . . But I don’t think this can have anything to do with the Horrocks murder, can it?”
“It’s hard to see how,” said Oddie. “But I think you’d be well advised to put this in the hands of the local police. . . . OK, OK, I would say that. But think of the sort of stink there’s going to be if this drug—and heaven knows what else—is being passed around in your lower forms, and you’ve tried to keep it an internal matter.”
Frencham looked worried, then nodded. He ushered them out of his office and they began the walk back to their car.
“This boy Ben Hayman, is he around?” asked Charlie as they emerged into the playground. Frencham stood scanning the noisy, crowded space, then altered his course slightly. They ended up eventually by a gangling black teenager doing brilliant rolls and jerks and handstands on the bare tarmac, more circus acrobatics than gymnastics.
“Hi, Ben,” said Peter Frencham. The boy did a brilliant jump to right himself and land on his feet in front of them. His eyes immediately showed he knew who he was talking to.
“Hi, Mr. Frencham.”
“How are things? You never told me your father was a teacher at Bingley Morton Road.”
“I couldn’t stand the shame, sir.”
“Oh, being a coach is a lot less shameful than any other kind.”
“Well, that’s true. And incredibly less than being a headmaster. . . . We’re living in temporary accommodations at the moment.”
“Oh,” said Frencham, obviously wondering what was coming.
“Awfully cramped. I mean, sharing a room with my kid sister! I’ll be glad when we get something bigger. Lennie Norris has a room all to himself at home.”
“Quite a lot of children have that these days, with smaller families.”
“And his parents are never, ever allowed over the threshold,” the boy said, looking straight at Oddie and Charlie. “Wow!”
And Ben scurried off to join his friends.
“We’ve been given a tip-off,” said Charlie.
“We all have,” said Peter Frencham, and he took them to their car and said good-bye.
“I’d be willing to bet he’s going straight back to his office to ring the Shipley station,” said Charlie.
“Let’s go back there and find out. They’ll need to search the Leary boy’s home as well, but it sounds as though he’s using Lennie Norris’s place as his store, and the boy as his fall guy. Probably his own hands are kept lily-white.”
“I suppose this is hardly our business, and we ought to leave it up to them,” said Charlie. Oddie detected a wistful note in his voice.
“I can’t see any connection with the Horrocks murder that might give us an in. On the other hand, both boys belong to families that are in our investigation. What’s your interest?”
“I’m just remembering what you said about the nervousness of the boy’s mother, Mary Leary. I don’t suppose that was connected with this, but on the other hand, this could be a catalyst to bring it all out. What is griping her?”
“Maybe we could get you permission to sit in with the Shipley force while I go and talk to the Bishop—if His Lordship is willing to talk to me. I can’t see him being enthusiastic,” said Oddie.
But when he rang the Bishop’s office, on their return to the Shipley station, he encountered a cool courtesy on the part of his secretary, something obviously laid down from above. The Bishop was not sure how he could help, but if the chief inspector was sure it was important, the Bishop would alter his schedule for a brief talk.
Oddie said it was important.
CHAPTER 18
Episcopal
The woman in reception at the Bishop’s office was sweetness itself, though it was the sweetness of honed steel.
“You must be Superintendent Oddie,” she said, coming forward to shake his hand. “I’m Bernadette Cullen. I’ll tell the Bishop you’re here. He’ll want to see you as soon as possible, because he has a lot on.”
The manner was much warmer than the guarded, cool response on the phone an hour before. Again, decision from above, presumably. Her boss had, on reflection, decided on a policy of delighted cooperation. An authoritarian bishop who made PR-based decisions on the grounds of expediency had the hackles of Oddie’s neck twitching from the start. They began rising in earnest a minute or two later when the man emerged from an inner room with two priests and one wispy, gingery little layman of middle age and middle stature. Oddie had been briefed by Charlie about Julie Norris’s account of the investigating committee she had been interviewed by. This was it.
The Bishop was tall, lean, and fit, with fair hair and assertive features—a figure that commanded respect, with the accent on “command.” He kept people in their place by expecting, even assuming, that they knew it. The fact that he was currently exhibiting geniality and openness did not change Oddie’s assessment that he was not likely to brook opposition, and not likely to suffer fools at all.
“Father Maclise, Father Donovan, and Gerald Beany. This is Superintendent Oddie. These three gentlemen are the committee investigating the allegations against Father Pardoe. Since they were meeting here today anyway—quite independently of me; I have nothing to do with the process—I thought I’d interrupt them and bring them along in case you had any questions for them.”
Oddie made a gesture of denial. He had no wish to be associated with the disciplinary process initiated by the Bishop.
“No, no. Your procedures are entirely your affair. Horrocks was—well, let’s call him an investigative journalist. No doubt he had been involved in probing into all sorts of people and situations recently. The story about Father Pardoe was simply the one he happened to be running at the time he was murdered. It may be entirely irrelevant.”
“I’m sure that will turn out to be the case,” said the Bishop.
“I have spoken to the woman who wrote to you,” said Oddie, making it clear he was choosing his words with care and addressing the Bishop alone. “It’s a type that’s dying out, though it’s one that when I joined the force was well known to the police. We had dealings with many such. I imagine you have some stronger evidence than hers.”
“You have the advantage of us in having met her,” said the younger of the two priests, Father Donovan. “We made the decision that our job was simply to look into the truth of the allegations.”
It was as close as he could come in the Bishop’s presence to an admission that they had no stronger evidence than Doris Crabtree’s. Oddie raised his eyebrows.
“I’m told by my sergeant that the young woman—Julie Norris, is living in very straitened circumstances. Out-and-out poverty, to put it bluntly. I’m sure she told you this herself, but his observations back her up.” He turned to the Bishop. “But the Fund is something I should talk to you about, isn’t it, My Lord?”
The geniality was perceptibly decreased in the Bishop by now, and, tight-lipped, he nodded and said, “If you’ve no questions to ask the committee, perhaps you’ll come through to my office. Mrs. Cullen will bring us coffee.”
He led the way, his back unbending, down a passageway and into a comfortable but not lavishly furnished office, large enough to allow medium-size meetings or impromptu gatherings to take place there. He waved Oddie to an armchair and took his place at the desk, where he loomed even larger over the just-regulation-height policeman. Mrs. Cullen fussed around for a minute or two with coffee and cream and sugar, then she tactfully withdrew without a word.
“Just to wind up the matter of the committee,” said the Bishop. “Father Pardoe is talking to them early next week, then they will be sieving the evidence and coming to their conclusions. I have no idea what th
ose will be.”
Oddie nodded a kind of acceptance of this. He had noticed the older priest, who had said nothing during their encounter, and he had concluded that Julie was right, that the Bishop worked through him. What was not so clear was what made the Bishop tick. Or rather, in a man who clearly loved power, what had made him exercise it so emphatically in this particular case, then claim to be no part of the process.
“As I said, the committee is not really my business,” Oddie resumed, “but what they are investigating is, or may be. When what they call ‘human interest’ stories are blazoned throughout the popular press, people get hurt. It’s not too far-fetched to wonder whether one of the people involved may have wanted to hit back.”
The Bishop considered, his fingers forming a pensive triangle.
“I’d be the last person to try to teach you your business, Superintendent, but wouldn’t something closer to home be more likely?”
“His family, you mean? His colleagues at work? A great many people are suggesting that. I’ve just come from a matter connected to his family, and my sergeant was in the Midlands yesterday on a matter relating to his work. In a case like this, you have to juggle a lot of balls, keep them all in the air.”
“Of course, of course.”
“When you suspended Father Pardoe, did you anticipate the sort of press interest in the matter that in fact there has been?”
A slight touch of the turkey cock appeared in the Bishop’s face.
“Not at all! I tried to combine discretion with a proper investigation of the allegations. I take it very badly that Pardoe has seen fit to go public. We have an obligation to be careful not to bring scandal on the Church itself.”
“Just to correct you for a moment,” said Oddie, holding up a hand to stem the flow. “I feel pretty sure that Pardoe never spoke to Horrocks at all, only to the Telegraph and Argus after the scandal broke. All indications are that Horrocks got on to the story by listening to two St. Catherine’s parishioners scan-dalmongering about it in the dining car of an intercity train from London.”
“Oh.” The turkey cock exhaled and looked deflated.
“And, of course, for all the discretion of the authorities, there have been several cases recently when scandal has been brought on the Church, has there not? The Scottish bishop with the illegitimate children. Many really disgraceful matters coming to light in Ireland. Those cases probably whetted the press’s appetite. But I suppose it was precisely scandals such as those that made you careful in the Pardoe matter to set up a committee of inquiry.”
“Certainly this was the first time I’d done any such thing. I decided the proper procedure was to establish the truth first, then decide on a course of action.”
Instead, thought Oddie, of assuming Pardoe’s guilt and moving him swiftly to another parish. That was probably what would have happened ten years before. His purpose in talking more freely than he usually would was partly to undermine this domineering man’s faith in his own judgments. Oddie felt the Bishop was already showing signs of being rattled.
“But the reason I wanted to talk to you was not the sexual side of the allegations against Father Pardoe,” he said, “which I suppose you have no more special knowledge of than anybody else. It was the matter of the Father Riley Fund, which is also the subject of the committee’s inquiries.”
“Ye-e-es.” The fingers triangularized themselves again. “The two matters were of course closely connected. The charge is that he used the Fund for the benefit of this young woman that he’s been—that he may be involved with. That I can discuss. Otherwise, it’s a question of diocesan finances, and those must remain confidential.”
Oddie allowed a few seconds’ pause.
“I’m afraid it’s not as simple as that.”
“Oh?” He spoke magisterially.
“I gather from the article in the Telegraph and Argus that the Fund was set up by a will, and was to be administered by the priest of the day at St. Catherine’s for the benefit of the poor of that parish.” The Bishop cautiously nodded his head. “That brings the Fund and its administration within the orbit of the law. Now, I gather that there was a decision to use the Fund not just for individuals in need, but for wider projects of general benefit and usefulness.”
“Yes. That is the case.”
“Two things occur to me about that. I gather Father Pardoe felt that larger projects were rather outside his competence, and he preferred to leave decisions on them to you and the two lay trustees. But was any legal effect given to this decision, or does Father Pardoe still technically have responsibility for the Fund?”
This time it was the Bishop who allowed a long pause.
“I suppose technically he remains responsible.”
“No legal steps taken to alter the terms of the will.” Oddie looked steadily at the Bishop. “Yet Father Pardoe in the interview in the Telegraph and Argus seems vague about any uses the Fund has been put to, which suggests he was not only not consulted but not kept informed. He was technically responsible for a large sum of money but was kept totally ignorant of any uses it was put to. That could put you in a very difficult position, particularly if he were relieved of his parish and decided to take civil action against you.”
“An absurd speculation. It would never happen.”
“He seems to feel strongly that he has not had natural justice. Then there is the matter of the will. It apparently specifies the beneficiaries are to be parishioners of St. Catherine’s—in other words, basically, Catholics in Shipley. Either the money should be used for Shipley people or, with the extension you have made, probably justifiably, for projects in Shipley. So the question arises, has the Fund been used exclusively within the parish?”
The silence from the Bishop seemed endless.
• • •
Charlie stuck rigidly to his role as observer when he accompanied two uniformed officers from the Shipley force to the Norris home. He admired the approach of the young sergeant, who seemed to have the sort of dogged, unfazed tenacity that any good policeman should have. He listened through all the “Lennie would never forgive us”s and the “He’s been a wonderful son to us”s that the bemused and genuinely distressed Norrises could produce. Charlie wondered how in the world they had become such terrible parents.
His own situation struck him forcibly. He and Felicity were about to produce a child. He refused to believe that they could treat any child the way the Norrises had treated Julie—as if they had a grudge against her rather than a duty to her. Nor could he see himself and Felicity spoiling the child rotten, as the Norrises had their son.
But, nevertheless, policemen’s children, like clergymen’s, were notoriously prone to go off the rails. The fact that their fathers were never there at the points in their lives—high points as well as low points—when they were needed was an obvious factor, as was the fact that, like clergymen, policemen had a sort of aura of probity that acted as a challenge and was something any child of spirit felt he or she had to react against. Pillars of the community ask to be pulled down by their offspring.
But how could he bear it? What if the child started showing signs that he or she was going off the rails, and still he was not there at the crisis moments? Then, if serious trouble began, and he still wasn’t there? How could he bring a young life into the world but have such a nebulous responsibility for what happened to it? Rather than that, he’d leave the job he loved, was good at, felt committed to.
Sergeant Bingle had got his way. Professing their total confidence that they would find nothing in Lennie’s room, the Norrises led the little party upstairs. Simon Norris, who had already told them he had no key, gestured to a door, and Bingle cast an expert eye on the lock. Then he took out a formidable bunch of keys and selected a few. The third one he tried turned, and he swung open the door. The parents held back, as if nervous even then of their son and how he would react. The two Shipley policemen and Charlie went in.
It was not a small room, but with the
three of them inside it felt cramped. Their first impression was of a modern-day Aladdin’s cave. The walls of the room were piled high with boxes, cassettes, and videos. When Bingle went over and swung open the wardrobe door it was packed full to bursting with the teenage equivalent of designer clothes, including athletic shoes, block-soled shoes, tracksuits, and the latest Leeds United and England strips. Charlie, out of the corner of his eye, saw the parents’ eyes widen: they’d known he had a lot of good clothes, but not so many. What could he do with them all? Bingle went over to the videos and took one out. He flashed it in the direction of his fellow constable and Charlie: a blonde who was all breast and heavy makeup with her legs outstretched left nothing to the imagination.
“Here—” began Mr. Norris, then spluttered into nothing.
Bingle muttered, “Seems to cater to all tastes,” then settled down on his haunches. He pulled out two boxes from the bottom of the stack.
“This’ll be the Andraol,” he said.
Charlie, meanwhile, had gone over to the window. On the sill he found two files. The top one was marked BUSINESS in uneven childish capitals. He took it up and flicked through it. Just a glance told him the sums involved were enormous for a child. Then he took up the other. It was marked in the same hand: PERSONAL. And when he began to examine that one he really drew in his breath.
• • •
Eventually the Bishop made a feeble attempt to regain ground.
“I really do not see why we should be discussing this matter.”
“Don’t you?” asked Oddie, hardly bothering to disguise his skepticism. “I grant that normally I don’t suppose we would consider that this is a matter we should investigate—unless someone, for example a Shipley parishioner, was insistent that we should. But the Horrocks story was two-pronged: there was the sexual side, which was the main thing that made it of interest to the national tabloids; linked to that, though, was the financial side, the alleged misuse of the Father Riley Fund. We’ve touched on the sexual side outside. It’s not for me to give an opinion, but I expect you registered that I was surprised you gave such a strong response to what was after all nothing but a single muckraking letter.”
Unholy Dying Page 21
