Rats. It was all going so well. A decent cup of coffee, kryptonite-lady, and there she was, starting to burble on about the merger, which was why I'd come. And she's just caught herself in the act, and stopped her tongue before it picked up a head of steam.
As discussed with Taylor, there's no point in pretending to be something I'm not. No point in being undercover. It's a small town, with every chance of stumbling across someone that we know, or someone that we've arrested.
'Detective Sergeant Hutton,' I say.
The cloud crosses her face. Such a shame.
'You're working?'
'Not really. I mean, I'm not here to interview anyone, nothing like that, but equally I'm not here because of religious reasons. Just... my boss wanted me to check things out.'
'Related to the suicide of that old woman?'
'Yes.'
'Or was it murder?'
I smile but don't answer. She seems to relax a little, glances around the busy room of churchgoers. She gives me a look that seems a little conspiratorial. Bang on, that's what we need.
'You think someone here might have had something to do with her death?'
'Not really.'
'OK... so why the visit?'
'Covering all angles,' I say.
'Due diligence?'
'Nicely put.'
She smiles. Naturally I smile back. Grateful that I didn't drink anything last night, so consequently don't look like three kinds of shit this morning.
'So,' I say, because I might as well run with this to see where it gets me, 'you know everyone here? Is there anyone who, if you suddenly heard they'd been arrested for the murder of old Mrs Henderson, you wouldn't automatically think, holy shit, I didn't see that coming? You know, someone who'd have you nodding sagely and saying to your husband who runs the Bible group, I said, didn't I? I said he had the cold eyes of a killer.'
There's the smile again.
'I run the Bible group, and my husband helps,' she says.
I nod, but leave the conversational stick in her hands.
'Not here,' she says. She glances around the room, turns back, shaking her head. 'It's not like I'm going to say to you, oh yes, old Mr Crackjaw, he'd been banging old Maureen for years and wanted her dead. Just... I think we've talked enough. We're in the phone book. Top end of Glenvale Road. Give me a call, and maybe you could come to the house.'
I nod, stop myself saying anything which implies that I like the fact she's inviting me on a date.
'Would you like me to introduce you to the minister?'
What the Hell. 'Thank you.'
*
In the office of the Reverend Jones. Unfortunate name for a vicar. I keep thinking of Jim Jones, and all those poor fuckers he had put to the sword in Guyana. Maybe that's just me. There are probably hundreds of Reverend Joneses around the world who have never been responsible for the deaths of nine hundred people.
Like this guy.
'But you didn't know right from the off that you'd be able to break away? You were in the mix for the amalgamation at the start?'
He considers this for a while as he lightly plays with the teaspoon in his saucer.
'I think I always knew. I know what you will likely think, that I didn't actually know, not in the way in which I was in possession of the facts. But I knew. We never really got involved with the project, not in the manner in which the others did. They fought it out between themselves while we remained on the periphery. I think they believed that we were trying to be above it, that we would bide our time and then produce some Machiavellian masterstroke, borne of artifice and deceit, to win the contest. Church of the Year 2013. Ha! It wasn't for us. No, I think we always knew that something would come up, that the Lord would help us in whatever way he saw fit.'
'It was the Lord who brought you the coffee franchise?' I ask.
Yes, that's big of me, isn't? Trying to be cooler than this guy.
'Some of our people aren't happy,' he says, 'but just wait until the Sunday morning when they come in and see the Reebok Church of St Stephen sign above the door. Then there'll be trouble.'
He delivers the line ruefully, and with perfect comic timing, so that just for a second he sucks me in.
'Funny,' I say. And it was. Add this guy to the list of people I was expecting to hate, and who are proving to be much more engaging.
'We won't get that far, but we have to look at different things. Congregations everywhere are going through the floor. It's how the town ended up in this awful situation in the first place. But what you can't do, what doesn't work, is trying to reinvent your product. They had a praise band up the road there for a while. A praise band? Nobody wants to see drums and guitars in church. It's wrong. Our core beliefs and traditions have to remain as they have for hundreds of years. That's who we are. We need to attract people using the sense of community, and with the message of God's love. We have to say to people, this is where you can come for help. This is where you can come to get away. Switch off your mobile phone. Leave the Blackberry at home.'
'Most people left the Blackberry in the shop...'
He holds up a hand.
'You're right,' he says, although I'm not sure what he's agreeing with. I was just making a glib comment, but that's pretty much what I always do. 'You didn't come here to hear the speech I gave the church session. You wanted to talk about Maureen.'
This fellow is smooth. And I'm not even getting the vibe that he's too smooth. He's got a way about him. If he hadn't found God, he'd make a perfect politician. Good thing we're not in America, or he'd have done both.
'Did you know her? Had you ever talked to her? Did she ever come to St Stephen's?'
He laughs.
'She was a life-long hater of St Stephen's,' he says, the smile slowly leaving his face. 'That's how it is around here, and in most towns with more than one church. People think that the great rivalry in towns in the west of Scotland is between the Protestant and Catholic churches. In reality, they have little to do with each other, and the real rivalry is in-house. There's been long-standing enmity and antagonism between the four churches for decades. It's how it's always been. How on earth the Church of Scotland expected it to be sorted out satisfactorily, no one knows.'
'What should they have done?'
'Let nature take its course. Let the churches pay their own way. Let them stand or fall by the amount of people they attract. If they can't get the people, they fold.'
'Which is ultimately what you're attempting here.'
'Indeed.'
'Would St Stephen's have broken off on its own if it hadn't been for you?'
He takes a moment with that, but I'm not picking up on anything from the guy. No artifice, no question-avoidance. He's happy to talk.
'It could have happened. Whether it would or not, I doubt.'
'And what happens when you go?'
A sigh and a parting of the hands gesture.
'That's for the future,' he says. 'I doubt any of us can say.'
'You haven't put anything in place yet.'
'One thing at a time, Sergeant Hutton,' he says. 'One thing at a time.'
17
I stand outside the church for a few moments. Check my watch. Just after one. The Dundee United-Kilmarnock game that everyone's been talking about will just have started. I look along the deserted stretch of Main Street and contemplate heading for the pub.
A bright, autumnal afternoon. Will be dark in just over three hours. There's something in the air, something more than the smell of wood smoke coming from the houses along Church Avenue.
There are one or two cars parked outside the church gates, but most people are long gone. I stood around having coffee until people were leaving, then went and had my fifteen-minute audience with his Holiness, the Reverend Jones; the only people left now, those clearing up the detritus of another riotous morning at the kirk.
I'm not going to the pub. Don't want to sit down. Don't want to be inside. For once in my stupid, wasted lif
e, I can appreciate a pleasant afternoon.
Still standing inside the church gate, I take out my phone and dial home. My old home. The one I was kicked out of.
Peggy answers.
'Hey,' I say.
'Hello, Sergeant,' she says.
Immediately I feel some relief. She only ever calls me Sergeant when she's feeling reasonably benevolent towards me. I'd have got 'Thomas' or complete silence if I'd done anything recently to piss her off. As it is, I just haven't done anything at all recently.
'Everything all right?'
'Rebecca's pregnant and Andy's in prison for killing his maths teacher. But other than that, sure.'
Funny. And I wish she wouldn't make jokes about Rebecca being pregnant. Jokes like that have a way of biting you on the arse. On the other hand, I wouldn't mind if Andy murdered his maths teacher. Seriously, the guy's a dick.
'You OK?' I ask, ignoring the comedy shock tactics.
'Same old, same old. How about you?'
'Just been to church,' I say.
She laughs.
'No, really.'
'Is that the name of your new pub?'
Yeah, well, it's not like I don't deserve it.
'Andy in? I thought I might be able to drag him up the park to play football.'
'Seriously?'
I don't blame her for that tone either. When you're as rank awful a father as I've been, there's always a reason to question my actions. When was the last time Andy and I played football in the park? Two years? Three? Five? He's fourteen now, maybe the idea is a complete anathema to him. Perhaps the only chance of playing him at football is to get an Xbox and go on-line. Even then, I'd likely have to pretend to be someone else.
'I... I mean, I know he's probably too old for that kind of thing. It's just a nice afternoon, and I wondered... that's all. I'm just trying not to be an arsehole.'
My voice has flattened out as I speak. Just trying not to be an arsehole. There's a personal mission statement. I could have it stamped on my forehead, if not for the fact that there are plenty of times when I don't make that particular effort.
'No, I'm sure he'd love to,' she says, her voice softening. 'He might still have said no, of course, but then he's fourteen. He's out, though. Over at the new kid's, the one who just joined the school a fortnight ago.'
'Ah, OK.'
'Sorry. And Rebecca and I are just about to head to my mum's.'
And that'll be that. Maybe the next time I think of one my kids – in nine months or so – they might be available.
Another couple of minutes, then we hang up. Nothing promised, nothing else suggested. The merest civility is just about all we aspire to these days.
'Excuse me.'
I look round. And down. There's a kid standing next to me. A girl, twelve years old maybe, long hair, a dress and a cardigan. The sleeves of the cardigan are too short.
Where have I seen her before?
'Yes?'
'You should look at this.'
She holds out a small book. Thin. The title of it is written in small print on a plain, faded black cover. The Book of Daniel. I take the book from the kid, and immediately think of standing in the Old Kirk a few days ago, reading the large Bible. What had that been opened at? Not Daniel. Revelations.
I open the book, flick randomly through it in the way that you do. Not stopping to read anything. The type is small, and I guess you would call it a book, but there are only thirty pages. There are a few illustrations, of great beasts and apocalyptic visions.
'Why?' is the only word that comes into my head as I look up.
The kid is gone. Like, completely gone. I step through the gate and look along Church, up Oak Avenue, out onto Main Street. No sign of the kid, no sign of a car driving off.
I turn back and look round at the church and at the bright November afternoon. The small book weighs heavily in my hands.
18
'A kid?'
'Yes.'
'A mysterious kid, out of nowhere?'
'Yes.'
'Offering you the Book of Daniel?'
'Yes.'
'Jesus, Sergeant. Did he look anything like Damien?'
'It was a girl. Think I've seen her before, but... just not sure, you know, where. When. Or how, even.'
We're sitting in Taylor's office. Monday morning. We have coffee. From the coffee machine, not from one of the coffee giants in the vicinity. Although, presumably one of the coffee giants actually operates the coffee machine. It just doesn't have any branding on it.
If I was a coffeemeister I'd be able to tell whether this was Starbucks, Nero, Costa or Scotrail, but I'm just a guy. It's only recently that I've expanded my knowledge beyond telling the difference between an Americano and a mocha-frocha-vanilla cappuccino.
'Describe her.'
'It's... I remember standing next to her, and I remember the moment she gave me the book, I just don't entirely remember what she looked like.'
'So a strange, un-placeable girl gave you one of those Old Testament apocalyptic books. Well, that's.... ominous. Had you seen the kid during the service?'
'Don't think so. But... you know, it was pretty busy, man. The place was jumping. Not quite standing room only, but I sat at the back and there were only a few spare seats. Upstairs looked like it was heaving 'n' all.'
'Hmm,' he says. Takes a sip of latte. I mean, here we are, grown men. He's got his latte, and I've got my bog-standard milk, no sugar.
'St Mungo's was dead,' he says. 'And not because there was no one there. It wasn't empty, there were a couple of hundred folk, I suppose. Space for plenty more, but still enough to create some sort of atmosphere. And, of course, they'd lost two of them with Maureen and young Tommy. Particularly Tommy, it'd be the kind of thing that's really going to drag a place down. Yet, there was something more.'
'Like the life had been sucked out of it.'
He nods.
'And St Stephen's was the exact opposite. Like the life had been injected back into it. Like they're the vampire, sucking the life from the other three.'
'Maybe that's it,' he says. 'The forced union of the churches has really screwed up the three that had to go through with it. Even those who won the fight over the building, it still rankles with them. They're still having to share their home with the opposition, and they had to listen to the others when it came to choosing a minister. But St Stephen's... they escaped. They're free to do what they want.'
'Who knows how it'll work out in the long run,' I say, 'but for now they're having a party.'
'God, it's a right shitstorm in a biscuit factory, isn't it? Did you know about any of this stuff?'
'Nah,' I say. 'Like we said before, I'd heard they'd amalgamated, but didn't think anything about it. Thought it'd all be a very straightforward procedure. Turns out it was like trying to reform Yugoslavia.'
He smiles and nods.
'That, Sergeant, is a very good analogy.'
'Was Connor there?' I ask, quickly getting the subject off Yugoslavia, having been stupid enough to bring it up in the first place.
'Oh, yes. I'd given him the heads up that I'd be going, just so there was no Lee Van Cleef stare-down across the church, but we avoided each other all the same.'
'Post-match cup of tea?'
'Yes,' he said. 'But nothing like your high-end beverage operation. A few women with large pots of PG tips and Nescafe Gold Blend... D'you still get Nescafe Gold Blend?'
'Fucked if I know.'
'Me neither. Anyway, it was plastic coffee, a few bourbons and some custard crèmes.'
'We had muffins. Blueberry. Raspberry and white chocolate. Double chocolate chunks. Vanilla. I think it was vanilla.'
'Yeah, if we're still on this next week, we can swap.'
'Shit.'
'What?'
'Another week of church...'
He takes a drink, lays his cup down and looks outside at the grey mid-morning.
'If you'd rather be on your domestic abuse cases, p
etty drug crimes and failed car theft, I'm sure there will be plenty of them to keep you busy.'
Another week of these serious-looking dudes in suits and shoes, with all their pious shit, I think I might be just about ready to go back to the usual petty drug crimes, no matter how shitty all that stuff is.
The image of the girl in a dress and the short sleeves of her cardigan, the thin book in her hands, flashes across my mind. I eject the thought, lift my coffee.
*
Our lives are dictated by food and drink. Mostly drink. It's automatic. Want a coffee? Cup of tea? Would you like to go for a drink?
Here I am, having escaped a slow day at work to come and speak to Philo Stewart, the woman who runs the Bible group with her husband. One of those big old detached houses up the top end of Glenvale Road. Not too far from the Old Kirk in fact. I suppose church allegiances, like football team allegiances, will be dictated by much more than geography.
I'm standing at the bay window of the lounge. From here I can see the houses across the road, a little of the hills in the distance. They've probably got a better view over the town, and the sprawling south side of Glasgow, from their bedroom upstairs.
Bedroom. Hmm...
Stop being such a dick, Sergeant.
The door is pushed open behind me. Mrs Stewart enters the room clutching a small tray containing two mugs of tea, and what looks suspiciously like a plate of home-made flapjacks. About five each.
'That's a lot of flapjacks,' I say, as she places the tray on a small table.
She smiles as she takes a seat.
'Brain freeze,' she says. 'I put one each, and then I thought, well that looks a bit mean, so I put two each, and I thought, that might seem terribly proscriptive. So I panicked.'
She giggles.
I sit down opposite her. Have that familiar feeling – attraction, desire, an awareness of the inevitability of infatuation – accompanied by its negative pal, depression at the thought of here we go again. Someone else for me to lust after. Someone else to make an idiot of myself over. She's married, she's involved with a church which is, in some way at least, under our investigation. This has so many ways it can end badly, it could be a Middle Eastern democracy.
The Blood That Stains Your Hands Page 9
