by D C Macey
Helen responded promptly. ‘Nothing was handed in that I know of. Did you find anything in the church, Grace?’
Grace shook her head as they all instinctively looked around the office. There was no sign of the notepad.
‘Oh well, it was worth a try. I must have dropped it on the bus. I’ll go and check with the bus company’s lost property office. Thanks for your time though, and I’m sorry for causing any bother.’ Barnett turned and headed off, keen to be away and content he could report that other than a little safe that he had yet to open, the church was clean and certainly these three seemed to know nothing.
Elaine half stepped into the corridor and called after him. ‘Aye, good luck with your search. If it does turn up here we’ll let you know.’ She stood for a moment in silence, watching the now closed door, her stoic face not betraying the slight sense of puzzlement she felt.
CHAPTER 11 - WEDNESDAY 5th JUNE
DCI Robert Wallace stood in the back garden of the manse looking up towards the kitchen window. In front of him and directly beneath the window, Detective Sergeant Brogan was crouching down and scanning for footprints or any other clue. Nothing. Days of early summer sun had baked the ground hard. He tilted his head up and considered the kitchen window too.
‘What do you reckon? About eight feet?’ asked DCI Wallace.
The sergeant continued his own appraisal and then stood to reach a hand up towards the windowsill, which he could not quite reach. ‘Nine I’d guess,’ he replied, stretching up on tiptoes.
Wallace growled an acknowledgement. The robbery team had branded it an opportunist crime, junkies or kids out for a quick profit. There would not be much effort put into catching them, particularly as it seemed they had not actually got away with anything. But experience and a dislike of coincidences was making Wallace cautious. This was a quiet road in a safe area. If the police were involved in the lives of its residents once in ten years it was remarkable. Now, in short order, a former resident with live connections to the place had been murdered and then his old house broken into. He had to consider the possibility of a link, no matter how unlikely.
The kitchen window opened and John Dearly leaned out. ‘This is definitely the window he got out of; got in too, I’d imagine.’ He pointed over the policemen’s heads towards the bottom of the garden. ‘He headed that way before disappearing into the shrubbery. I think he managed to get over the wall there or through the back gate into the cemetery, but that’s not been opened in years so I’m not so sure about that.’
DCI Wallace nodded an acknowledgement. ‘We’ll go and have a look around down there now. Then we’ll just see ourselves away, minister. You’ve been really helpful again and I expect results will start to show soon enough now.’ With a single wave of his hand, he bade goodbye to John Dearly and signalled his sergeant to follow him to the back of the garden.
‘Anytime chief inspector, I’m always very happy to help,’ said John Dearly. With Helen beside him, they watched the policemen disappear in the direction John had indicated.
Wallace growled at his sergeant - the normal introduction to any pertinent observation Wallace wanted to share with his subordinates. ‘Whoever did this break-in was fit and trained. Jumping down nine feet onto hard earth is a recipe for broken ankles.’
‘Yeah, and to start off with, they got the window open without any damage,’ agreed DS Brogan. ‘It doesn’t fit our local crime profile. No reports of similar break-ins.’
At the bottom of the garden, they pushed through the shrubbery to reach a stone built boundary wall. Set within it was a little wooden gate. A private access from manse to cemetery. Sergeant Brogan rattled its handle; it was shut tight. ‘Just went over the wall probably,’ he said.
DCI Wallace nodded agreement. He didn’t believe in coincidences but still couldn’t see any direct link between the two crimes. While he had spoken with John Dearly several times, this was the first occasion he had considered the property itself to be of interest but he looked like drawing a blank here too. The old minister was trying to help but clearly knew nothing, and the young American girl was pleasant enough but she had nothing of use to add either. There was a link; he could feel it in his bones, but what it was he couldn’t begin to think.
Wallace turned and pointed back towards the house. ‘Come on, let’s get away. I need some time to think.’ He led DS Brogan off towards the front of the house where their car was parked. Crossing the back lawn, he could see John Dearly and the Johnson girl through the kitchen window. A pair of innocents he thought, but if the connection was here, he’d find it; he just needed a little more thinking time before speaking to them again. It was just possible that someone knew something, even if they didn’t know they knew.
• • •
Set on the northern side of the church, the vestry and little church office behind it were always sheltered from the sun so it stayed cool even on the warmest of days. Anticipating the chill, Helen had brought a jumper along and now she pulled it on. She had filled the kettle and set it to boil while John was busy at the desk, sorting and re-sorting papers. She knew that the new presbytery clerk was ruffling both John and Elaine’s feathers and could see that John was not looking forward to James Curry’s visit. Though knowing John’s dedication and Elaine’s unmatched efficiency, she did not really understand what could be causing so much concern.
Helen drew a couple of chairs towards John’s desk, placing them each at forty-five degree angles to the desk front, trying to create an environment where they could all sit and talk together as a team rather than being seated in an oppositional stance from the outset. John nodded acknowledgement of her efforts and then lapsed back to paper shuffling.
Just as the boiling kettle switched itself off, they heard a voice calling in the church. Helen stepped out of the office, along the little corridor, through the vestry and into the nave. A middle-aged man stood near the top of the aisle. She remembered him from the Moderator’s reception; James Curry had arrived.
Only the thinnest of painted smiles crossed James Curry’s face as he stretched out a hand, greeting Helen with formality and little warmth. ‘Ah, Miss Johnson, again, the temporary assistant,’ he said.
She chose to disregard the put down. ‘That’s me,’ Helen replied with the warmest of broad smiles, hoping her pleasant response would smooth things a little. She could understand at once why Elaine had taken against the man. ‘It’s nice to meet you again.’
Curry nodded, he did not bother offering Helen any polite response; clearly she did not merit it.
‘Is that the way to the office?’ asked Curry while pointing towards the vestry from where Helen had just emerged. Almost before she had acknowledged his question he was setting off, leading the way.
Helen felt so sorry for John. His look of dejection told how unwelcome the visit was.
Curry did not hesitate. Lifting one of the chairs Helen had positioned earlier, he returned it to the side of the room before sitting in the remaining chair. No place for Helen.
John did not even bother offering his hand, giving only a shake of his head to decline Helen’s offer of coffee. The visitor accepted. While Helen prepared his drink at the back of the room, Curry started the meeting without her.
‘Now John, you and I are going to need to have a chat about some of the practices in this parish, things I think we want to be putting behind us now. But let’s save that for another day. I’m sure you and I can sort out those little anomalies, yes?’ He looked at John and gave the same thin painted smile that Helen had received.
John gave a little non-committal shrug that James Curry took as acquiescence.
‘Good,’ said Curry, ‘but today we need to explore something very delicate. Curry paused for just a moment, forcing John into a nodded acknowledgement.
‘Now, I’ve only been in this role a short while and you know what? Everywhere, in all the parishes in our presbytery, I see nice straight lines. Happy compliance, people fitting in. Then I turn
to St Bernard’s and it sticks out like a sore thumb. I have no intention of exercising the complaints against you today, one thing at a time, yes? First, I really want to understand this source of funds the parish has. It makes no sense to me at all.’
Viewed from Helen’s position at the back of the office, John looked beleaguered behind his desk. As a matter of principle she disapproved of any financial misbehaviour; she held John in the highest regard, couldn’t believe he would be involved in anything underhand, yet James Curry was here, he must have a reason to question John. She hoped it was a misunderstanding. She could not help feeling a pang of sympathy for the older man, held at bay by this luminary. Whatever he wanted, she hoped it could all be resolved amicably.
Helen placed a mug of coffee in front of the visitor. He scarcely acknowledged her and stretched out his legs ensuring there was no space to return the second chair to, even if she wanted. She retired to the back of the room and sat on a little chair beside the door.
James Curry took a tentative sip of the coffee - it was too hot and he tutted disapprovingly. He could not feel Helen’s indignant scowl on his back, though it registered with John and he smiled fleetingly to himself.
‘Now, John, today’s little visit is quite informal and I certainly have no intention of trying to press you into doing anything you don’t want. And after all, I don’t have any powers here, I’m just an advisor, a guide, little else, but…’ Curry paused and for a moment stared down at the fingers of his hands which were now pressing together to form a little steeple as he rested his wrists on the edge of the desk in front of him. The silence was not an invitation for others to speak.
At last, he continued. ‘But John, I’m very worried about you, worried about St Bernard’s, and I’m worried about the presbytery too. Reputations can be so easily damaged; misunderstandings, mistakes, mysteries even, and who knows what? Above all, John, my job is to protect, to shepherd the parishes in my presbytery. I consider myself responsible for their good order and making sure we all follow the rules.’
John was not quite sure where James Curry was going but indicated his agreement by inclining his head while half raising a hand from where it rested on his thigh and then he let it drop down again. He replied softly, partly cautious, partly just weary. ‘Of course, who could disagree with such a sentiment? But what’s it got to do with St Bernard’s?’
James Curry’s thin painted smile flitted around his lips. ‘John, we’re all friends at this table; in the end we’re all on the same side. We all want to help and serve our people, want the best for every parish. However, John, I have a real concern, and you know? I don’t understand what the big secret is. Why can’t I see the source of St Bernard’s funds? In my experience, secrets tend to be covering up things.’ James Curry’s smile had vanished, just a cold expression remained.
‘John, I won’t have my presbytery enveloped in a scandal. I think we need a good deal more openness here. You really need to share the facts with the presbytery.’ Knowledge was power and James Curry wanted it.
John was drained but exasperated. ‘What scandal for Heaven’s sake? We do nothing wrong, our accounts are inspected every year and they’re spotless. The presbytery is always happy with them. You know your predecessor never raised any issues. This is nonsense, it really is.’
‘Let me be blunt, John, there are things about your parish that make me unhappy. I don’t know how your predecessors managed to wangle these little informal concessions, these little unofficial twists in the rules, but be under no illusion; I intend to see those kinks ironed out. I want this parish to be conforming like all the rest. Oh, I know, you seem to have friends here and friends there. Everybody likes John, don’t they? Everyone apologises for him - Oh, don’t worry about John and his lot, they go their own way, but it’s all right, they always end up at the same place as everyone else. Well, let me tell you, it’s not all right, not in the modern Church and not on my watch. Trust me, it will change. It will. But that’s for another day. First of all, there’s this money question to address.’
From the back of the room, Helen was unable to get a handle on what Curry was really pushing for. But she could see that John was being pressed and was very uncomfortable.
‘John, all I want is for you to show willing. I want my presbytery to be leading from the front, keeping everything in order. A model of propriety.’
Pressed as he was, John was not going to give ground easily. ‘Look, there’s no scandal, nothing underhand in our accounts. You’ve seen them, the government’s seen them. What more do you want?’
‘Yes, John, l have seen them and I have to say they are in good order. That’s why I’m more than happy to encourage you to co-operate with me. To satisfy me that there’s no need for an investigation, before one even starts. Let’s just nip it all in the bud, hmm?’ Curry leant back a little, tilting his head a fraction and arching an eyebrow, inviting John to respond.
‘Of course I want to help. There’s never been any question over St Bernard’s. There’s nothing to hide, there’s nothing to show. I don’t know what I can do to help.’ John gave a shrug. ‘I’m at a loss to know what to say.’
‘Well, John, it’s very simple. You make cash gifts to several local organisations each year, and I know you have every right to do that. I understand you have the funds, so that’s fine.’ Curry leant forward a fraction, quietly placing a hand flat on the desk. ‘The problem is I need to know the source, need to know there is nothing that compromises my, our, presbytery. Nothing questionable going on.’
‘I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about. There’s nothing questionable to rule out,’ said John.
Curry had been weighing up the options. If there was a scandal, he wanted nothing to do with it, but this was his patch now and he needed to minimise any possible risk. And if there were to be a threat of scandal on his patch, it would be here, where they couldn’t follow the simplest of guidelines. Every irritation in his working life seemed to lead back to St Bernard’s and he was going to sort it, once and for all. ‘John, I don’t doubt things are as they should be, I have every confidence. But I think you should make a little time to provide whatever is needed, for clarity’s sake. Our hands are clean so let’s show that they are, it makes sense. I must urge you to help me.’
John pulled himself up in the chair a little. ‘Well, what exactly would helping mean?’
Sensing progress and keen to close in on a conclusion Curry tried to wrap up the discussion. ‘I think we should set some dates to start building a proper understanding of things, don’t you?’ he said.
John nodded, resigned, he was thinking about Archie. Compared to that, what did all this really matter anyway?
James Curry smiled contentedly. ‘Good, we can sort things between us. John, I’ll need to see your list of giving. I’m quite keen to understand the rationale behind your choices and see when these regular annual gifts started and why, that sort of thing, nothing you shouldn’t be able to sort out easily enough. And I really do want to understand where the money comes from. Shouldn’t take too long, we’ll put the whole thing to bed in no time. Probably put your mind at rest too, what with this new government initiative on old trusts and the like, I’d like to know we have a clean bill of health there while I’m at it.’
James Curry half stood and then a thought struck him, from the parish’s annual accounts he knew St Bernard’s received a big payment each year, a very generous six-figure sum. He couldn’t help but ask. ‘John, how much is this mystery fund of yours worth?’ Curry tried to make the question sound light, inconsequential, but he was suddenly intrigued to know.
John appeared withered and shrunken behind a desk that only a month previously he had so confidently filled to overflowing. He was grieving, tired and drained. He seemed a beaten man. He threw his hands up a little way and let them fall onto the desk, didn’t look at the man in front of him, focusing instead on his thumbs. ‘I’m not really sure; most of it’s no
t in cash. But, there’s a good bit more than you might think.’ His voice trailed off in despair.
‘Oh,’ said Curry, ‘seven figures? Eight perhaps?’
John just shrugged, lapsed into silence and made no attempt to get up. Watching the meeting unfold from the back of the room Helen found herself conflicted. She believed surplus wealth should be used where it would do the most good, yet she had found herself wanting to intervene to protect John from the onslaught. She was not happy with the pressure being applied; it seemed very threatening.
Then came the shock of hearing that St Bernard’s had an old trust fund that might be worth millions, but it seemed John could not afford to extend her stay at the parish. She was being moved on and had obviously not been given the whole story. What were John Dearly and Elaine McPhee hiding? She had come to realise they were thick as thieves. Perhaps that was it? Even though it was hard to believe.
Helen realised John was not going to stand, so she stood and took control from the back of the office. ‘Perhaps I can show you out now? I think John needs a minute or two on his own.’ Helen could sense James Curry’s feeling of triumph and did not really like it. She pulled open the office door and the man walked out, bristling with satisfaction. Concerned with his own thoughts, the girl’s existence scarcely registered with him. Helen saw his expression as they moved out through the door and into the corridor. Curry’s look of triumph showed he had achieved whatever goal had triggered his setting up of the meeting. But it was the intensity of his expression that shocked her. She had seen dominant and controlling men in Africa, witnessed their obsessive drive for power, and Curry’s look was unpleasantly familiar.
Having guided the man out of the church she watched from the little window beside the door. Saw the triumphant expression still set on his face as he got into his car. Whatever John Dearly’s reasons for hiding the fund, Curry’s motivation seemed to stretch way beyond the public good. She could not work out what his angle was but felt instinctively that she did not like what she was looking at.
