by Simon Parke
‘Is not allowed in. End of story.’
‘She says the flowers are already bought.’
‘Your point being?’
‘Just seems a wicked waste.’
Tamsin looked at him with dry incredulity.
‘Those were her words, Ma’am. “A wicked waste”, she said.’
‘Sergeant, at this particular moment, that’s you. A wicked waste of my time.’
‘Yes, Ma’am.’
‘No flower lady.’
‘That’ll be Edwina Pipe,’ said Abbot Peter.
‘Then tell the Pipe woman to take them to a hospital or funeral parlour.’
‘She won’t be thrilled,’ added Peter.
‘No, but they might be. And isn’t that meant to be enough for Christians?’
The Abbot left her to her business and approached the vestry alone. He had no appetite for what lay ahead and stalled. Behind the door hung the crucified body of the man to whom he’d spoken to last night. Peter was one of life’s observers, but while he had an endless appetite for psychological darkness, the sight of physical pain held a strange terror. So here he was between a rock and a hard place. Behind him was the harridan Tamsin and before him, the vestry door. Which way to turn? His hand moved towards the handle.
Twenty Three
‘The crucified vicar story.’
‘What of it?’
‘Well, I was just wondering how we were going to work together on this one, Chief Inspector.’
The voice on the phone was smooth and compelling.
‘I wasn’t aware we were a partnership, Mr Channing.’
‘A right relationship between press and police is one of the great social partnerships, Chief Inspector, at the very heart of a healthy democracy!’
Wonder was slightly aggrieved that Martin Channing had managed to get through. He’d clearly charmed the switchboard but that would be the extent of his victory this morning: Channing, as editor of the Sussex Silt, was much too dangerous to be allowed near this investigation.
He may have been a newcomer to the south coast, but everyone now knew Channing. He’d just turned fifty when, three years ago, he chose the well-worn path of the rich from London to Brighton. It was the Prince of Wales, later to be King George IV, who’d started this trend in the late eighteenth century and it had never really stopped. London was for work, Brighton was for pleasure but Martin Channing combined the two, bringing his hobby with him. The former editor of a middle-England national - ‘chauffeured to Downing Street on a regular basis, those were the days but semi-retirement now, really, it’s not a proper job!’ - he edited the Sussex Silt and was apparently having the time of his life.
And the Silt? Everyone bad-mouthed the paper, you had to, it was one of the basic tests of human decency. At dinner parties around Brighton, believing in UFOs was entirely your choice; you could even hold a candle for private health care, the amendment of the human rights act and council-assisted places in private schools for the children of white witches. But whatever cause you espoused, you had to hate the Sussex Silt or face the disapproval of the politically righteous.
‘If the devil came back as a newspaper, he’d come back as the Silt!’
‘And so say all of us!’
The only footnote to all this decency and correctness and right thinking was that everyone read it. No one admitted to reading it, no one wanted to read it but everyone did read it. ‘My mother insists I get it for her. Really! But what can you do? And I did flick through a few pages when I visited last Saturday - appalling, of course!’
For a paper no one read, sales were huge which thrilled the advertisers and made it a publication with no little power. The genius of Channing was to bring to its pages just the right balance of moral outrage and despicable sleaze. The paper printed the darkest stories whilst at the same time complaining that decent people should not have to read such things. Readers could at once feel titillated and self-righteous. What more could anyone want?
‘As you know, Chief Inspector, we do like to get to the bottom of things at the Silt.
‘Yes, rock bottom on occasion.’
‘The truth is rarely pleasant.’
‘And the truth is rarely in your paper.’
‘Well, we all work under pressure, Chief Inspector, police and press alike, so let’s make a pact.’
‘A pact?’
‘I won’t mention the numerous miscarriages of justice perpetrated by the police if you’ll look past the occasional error made by the Silt.’
‘You make this sound like a negotiation, Mr Channing.’
‘All life is a negotiation, Richard!’
Richard? There it was again. He’s Richard when someone wants something. With his mother, it was only Richard if he was being told off.
But Channing wasn’t finished: ‘And if we can help the police along the way, then clearly it’s a win/win situation for us both.’
‘The case is under investigation and there’ll be a press conference when we have something to say.’
‘But who’s interested in the manicured revelations of a press conference, Chief Inspector? When with inside information, we could get the public to do your work for you.’
‘And how does that work exactly?’
‘I mean, how was it done, for instance? Put some meat on the bone for me. Is it true the vicar was naked? I’m hearing he may have been naked. Appalling if it’s true, not what anyone wants to read about - a naked vicar involved in some sex game presumably? We do not want our readers having to dwell on those images.’
‘So don’t mention the nakedness.’
‘We’ll have to mention the nakedness, Richard, because facts like these might just jog someone’s memory.’
‘Only the murderer’s I think. Who on reflection is probably one of your keenest readers.’
‘That’s a bit cruel, Richard! But we’re the good guys here and you do know that I’m just a phone call away if there’s any way we can help.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind.’
‘Yes do. I sincerely believe, that at its core, the press, like the police, is a public service.’
‘Quite.’
‘Our motto is the truth; our practice is the fearless advocacy of the truth!’
The Chief Inspector, a history buff, recognised the quotation.
‘Isn’t that from the first edition of the News of the World, when it was founded in1843?’
‘It was a fine vision.’
‘It was, yes,’ said the Chief Inspector, with enough emphasis on the ‘was’ to make his point. Channing took the hit but sought the rainbow in the rain.
‘I’m denigrated by many, and perhaps deservedly so - God knows, I’m no saint, would never pretend to be - but I hope you at least see a little more of me, Chief Inspector, see beyond the cartoon figure to someone who really wants to make a difference here on the south coast. I suspect you do.’
‘I think we understand each other,’ acknowledged Wonder, liking the role he’d just been given.
‘You’re too clever, Richard, you can see through the flannel! Here I am, as one naked before you!’
‘So you won’t stir things, Martin?’ Martin? Now he was doing it.
‘You have my word, Richard.’
Twenty Four
Abbot Peter knew about crucifixion, at least as a religious professional. The crucifixion of Christ was the famous example of this barbaric form of execution but the Romans crucified people in their thousands, leaving their rotting corpses up for as long as they would hang. It was an inefficient form of execution but then that was part of its appeal. Death could take hours or days, depending on the strength and will of the victim. But bodies hanging in such pain and humiliation were reckoned a good deterrent to lawbreakers. No one much wanted to join
them there.
It was Jesus, though, who made the cross famous; he alone who ensured that necks across the world would be decorated with crucifixes, silver and gold. How a fashion accessory could emerge from such an event remained a mystery to Peter for it was blood and agony from beginning to end. Prior to execution, Jesus’ back would have been scourged, using the ‘flagrum’ - a whip of leather strands with small pieces of bone and metal attached. Such was the damage done to the spine by this device that unconsciousness and sometimes death occurred through loss of blood.
If the victim survived, they then carried the cross bar to the site of execution, where seven inch nails were driven through the wrists. They would hit the median nerve, sending pain up through the arms, shoulders and neck. The body was then turned slightly, to allow the feet to be nailed to the pole. The cross was then swung up into the air, at which point the body strain was such that dislocation of both shoulder and elbow joints was inevitable. With only shallow breathing possible, loss of blood and lack of oxygen could then cause severe cramps and unconsciousness.
Remarkably, medical opinion still debates what ultimately causes death for the crucified. Archaeological evidence is rare, for the simple reason that crucified bodies were never buried; and the one that was, unhelpfully claimed resurrection. But the death of the crucified was not a complete mystery. Although the fatal blow for one victim might not be that of another, amid loss of blood, collapsed lungs, multiple dislocations, cardiac rupture and unrelenting agony, perhaps heart failure, hypovolemic shock, exhaustion or asphyxia were the most common ends.
But now Abbot Peter must look on the crucified himself and a sense of shame passed through him. He’d always spoken mockingly of Jesus’ weak followers who had made themselves scarce after his arrest. Only four brave souls had the guts to stand by the cross in solidarity with Jesus, three of them women and one of those his mother. ‘Fair weather friends’ Peter called the others in his sermons - ‘friends who disappeared when the Roman heat was on.’ And now he understood why. Who’d want to witness that? They’d been terrified and so was he. Behind the vestry door was the crucified vicar with whom he’d spent many hours. And he too wanted only to run away.
God help you when your dream comes true, thought Abbot Peter. He had so wanted to meet a Detective Inspector. And right now, as he pushed open the vestry door, he was rather wishing he hadn’t.
Twenty Five
The killer took the notebook from the shelf again. It had found a role in life at last. It was now the murder diary. Or the diary of a murderer, was that better? Book titles were so hard. This probably wasn’t the intended use when the notebook was wrapped in festive paper and left below the Christmas tree in church. But we cannot legislate what others will do with our kindness and nor should we try. The murderer started to write:
‘The church is a beehive of activity. Strange how quickly everything is changed. Busy bees in their investigation clothes investigating. Though to me it feels more like a game of snakes and ladders. What a nasty game, I could never play that. But hopefully they will encounter more snakes than ladders.
I saw that pushy woman detective with Abbot Peter traipsing behind. It’s like watching the Queen and Prince Philip. I hate pushy women, really hate them. It’s good to use the word “hate”. That feels good and I think I can use it now I’ve killed. Before you kill someone you imagine yourself too nice to hate. But after killing someone, you’re free of all that self-deception, all that nonsense. Everyone hates; but some of us are honest enough to acknowledge it and blessed are the honest.
My fans may want me as the sole murderer but it takes two to tango. Murder requires teamwork. If you can call it that.’
Twenty Six
Peter gazed on the naked figure of Anton, taped and nailed, head hanging, the shock on his face, blood dry around the wrists, feet taped but not nailed. No nails in the feet. Strange. Had the murderer experienced a failure of nerve? Been disturbed? Or simply lost interest?
Scene of crime tape denied Peter the closeness he desired. Before entering, he had wanted only distance but now longed only to be close. He longed to touch Anton, bless the cold body, kiss it even, but was under strict instructions. And so he stood and gazed at a measured distance like a visitor in an art gallery. It was the saddest of pictures, a black Christ - no Messiah certainly, but still a keeper of the divine spark, and now savagely pierced.
‘I’m sorry they were not better days, Anton,’ he said, looking into the surprised and open eyes.
He wished to speak to him, give body to his thoughts. It’s what talk therapy does, it puts inner things out there, gives them air and visible shape. Abbot Peter needed this now. ‘I’m sorry for the fears you had to run from, my friend, and the abandonment at the end. You were worth more than your last night on earth. You laughed it off, you always laughed it off; you laughed it off and moved on because to feel it would have killed you. But now something else - or rather someone else - has done that. Who was it, my friend? Who killed you, Anton? Do you have anything to say?’
Peter paused, waiting for the dead to speak. Perhaps the body would rip its arm from the wood and write the murderer’s name on the wall.
‘Did you see them, Anton, you must have seen them... you knew they were coming, you spoke to them on the phone... and how was it done and why?... and don’t worry, I won’t judge... how could I ever judge?’
Just then, the door opened and a scene of crime officer popped his head round. If surprised at finding a figure in a monk’s habit talking with a dead man, he didn’t show it.
‘If I could be left alone for a moment,’ said Peter.
‘Of course,’ he said and the door closed again.
Peter looked again on the figure but knew Anton had gone, Anton the person, Anton’s spirit, these things had gone, no longer having need of this carcass. Peter’s time was done, there were more voices outside. This wasn’t an art gallery or even now a church; this was a murder scene, a brutalised space and still an open wound.
‘Goodbye, my friend. And whether you will care, I don’t know - but I will find the one who did this.’
Act Two
‘The Enneagram describes nine different journeys of the human psyche. It describes the journey away from our true selves when young and the return journey that becomes possible in adult life.’
Twenty Seven
The Reverend Sally Appleby, the curate at St Michael’s, had done a good job making things ready for Tamsin and Abbot Peter. They were to use her office for the day’s interviews.
‘I hope you’ll be comfortable here,’ she said. ‘Not as clean as it should be! But you’ve rather caught me out.’
Her spotless office would be a pleasant setting. It was up the small metal staircase and next to the Gallery which looked down onto the Church. The gallery itself was not much used. The church hardly needed an overflow and so this was a place for gathering dust and forgotten church artefacts. Sally’s room, on the other hand, was a light space and on a clear day, you could just glimpse the sea over the rooftops. Her distinctive perfume hung in the air while fresh images of Christ and the saints looked down from the walls. Sally was a suspect of course, how could she not be, but on that Wednesday morning, eight days before Christmas, it seemed an unlikely home for a murderer.
‘I’ve spoken to everyone,’ she said. ‘They’re all in a complete state of shock, of course.’
‘I quite understand,’ said Abbot Peter.
Strange to say, but Sally and Peter had passed like ships in the night over the eighteen months of their acquaintance. Something inside her drew back from him and he’d allowed the distance to remain. They met as polite colleagues in shared professional endeavour but nothing more.
‘I’ve tried to reassure everyone,’ she said to the Abbot. ‘I’ve told them that I’m here for them; that they must call me night or day, if needs be.’
>
Peter noted Sally hard at work establishing her pastoral superiority. The message was clear: Sally was caring for everyone; and any who wanted care would certainly choose her over him.
‘Let me introduce myself, Sally,’ said Tamsin, stepping forward to clarify roles. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Tamsin Shah and I will be leading this investigation.’
‘Very pleased to meet you,’ said Sally, ‘Another woman in a man’s world!’
‘I’ve never seen it like that myself,’ said Tamsin. ‘We all make our own way, I think.’
‘Oh, definitely,’ said Sally, changing gear. ‘I’ve always very much believed that... very much so.’
‘And Abbot Peter is to assist me as Special Witness.’
‘Really?’ said Sally, taken aback. ‘And what does that entail exactly? Being a Special Witness?’ She seemed a little flustered.
‘Not my idea, I hasten to add,’ said Abbot Peter with a smile.
‘It simply means that Abbot Peter is part of the investigation team,’ said Tamsin. ‘And as such, privy to all material uncovered.’
‘I see.’
‘Abbot Peter has become a detective, you might say.’
‘I’m sure everyone will be reassured by that,’ said Sally. ‘Well, most of us, anyway!’
Abbot Peter could imagine the Bishop being less than pleased and Sally as well, it seemed. There was a slight pause as both Tamsin and Peter waited for Sally to leave. But she didn’t.
Sally said: ‘We must hope that Abbot Peter isn’t the murderer then!’
‘Clearly everyone is a suspect at the start of the investigation,’ said Tamsin.
‘Everyone except for Abbots?’ asked Sally.
‘Abbots quite as much as anyone else, perhaps even more so,’ said Tamsin. ‘The church has a poor record when it comes to massacre. But on this occasion, we were quickly able to eliminate Abbot Peter from our enquiries. Free of suspicion, he then became a strong candidate for the post of Special Witness and came with a warm recommendation.’
