A Vicar, Crucified

by Simon Parke

  Tamsin smiled at Peter, who was quietly wondering how he’d been eliminated from the enquiry quite so fast. As the last known figure to have seen Anton alive, he had expected hard questions. Perhaps later, he would ask why they never came.

  ‘Who?’ asked Sally.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Who recommended him?’

  ‘Operational information, I’m afraid, but getting down to business, you found the body, didn’t you, Sally? You were the first one on the scene.’

  ‘I was, yes.’

  ‘Perhaps you could tell us about your discovery,’ said Tamsin.

  The detective had decided to kick on. She had thought of holding Sally over until later, but why wait? She had no wish to waste time and the sooner the curate was removed from her bubble of special status the better. She could play the wonderful priest in her own time; for now, she was just witness and suspect.

  ‘You were in the church very early weren’t you?’ Sally sat down on the spare chair.

  ‘I was in at 6.00 a.m.’

  ‘OK. Was that normal?’

  ‘I sometimes come to church for my private prayers in the morning.’

  ‘Do they not work at home?’

  ‘I find the atmosphere of a place of worship helps; knowing that other people have prayed here for years.’

  ‘It didn’t help the vicar.’

  ‘No. Well, bad things can happen in holy places too.’

  ‘Archbishop Oscar Romero was shot dead in a hospital chapel in San Salvador while celebrating Mass,’ said Peter.

  Sally nodded. ‘Great man,’ she said.

  ‘He was killed by a government assassin. The day before his assassination, he’d called on the country’s soldiers to stop supporting the government’s abuse of human rights.’

  There was a pause which threatened to become a minute’s silence for the murdered of San Salvador but for Tamsin’s sharp interjection.

  ‘Meanwhile, back in Stormhaven,’ she said with deliberation, ‘this morning you just happened to come in early, Sally?’

  ‘As I’ve said.’

  ‘Indeed. And so how exactly did you make the discovery?’

  And now Sally blushed.

  ‘I came in through the side door of the vestry as normal. It wasn’t locked which was unusual. But I went in, and - well, there he was.’

  ‘What did you see?’

  ‘I saw Anton hanging there, nailed to the Good Friday cross.’

  ‘And why was the cross there? I’m not an expert but it seems unusual in a vestry.’

  ‘It is unusual, rather stupid if you ask me. It was Anton’s idea. He didn’t want it going back into the church. He didn’t like pain or reminders of pain.’

  ‘And how did Anton look when you saw him?’

  ‘It was awful. His face was shocked. And he looked cold.’

  ‘What else did you see?’

  Sally allowed her eyes to drop to the ground, in a rather coy manner. For a moment, she looked like Princess Diana.

  ‘I want you to tell me everything you saw,’ said Tamsin. ‘You’re the one who found him.’

  Sally was struggling to speak her lines.

  ‘His wrists had big nails through them,’ she said. ‘But he was also held by a large amount of sticky tape round his arms. It seemed -.’

  ‘ - it seemed what?’

  ‘Well, my first thought was that he’d been taped to the cross first - then nailed. That was just my thought.’

  ‘Anything else strike you?’

  ‘His feet were taped as well but not nailed.’

  ‘OK. Anything else?’

  ‘There was a lot of blood. I’ve seen some pretty bleak scenes as a social worker, but nothing to compare with this.’

  ‘What else can you tell us about the body?’

  Sally again looked at her feet.

  ‘He was naked,’ she said.

  ‘Completely naked?’

  ‘Except for the dog collar. A dog collar had been placed around his neck.’

  ‘What can you tell us about that?’

  ‘It was his dog collar. Well, it was like it at least. They’re just pieces of white plastic, after all. Some priests cut up washing-up liquid bottles when they lose them. They’re just as good.’

  Tamsin was not interested in the varied roles of old washing-up liquid bottles.

  ‘Do you have any more to say about the dog collar?’

  ‘You mean the writing?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘It was Ginger who saw it first.’

  ‘Ah yes, Ginger was with you?’

  ‘He wasn’t with me, that’s a misconception.’

  ‘Whose misconception?’

  ‘I’m just saying it isn’t how it appears.’

  ‘How does it appear?’

  ‘Well, that we were together... when we weren’t.’

  ‘You were together in church but not together?’

  ‘I think I can see what Sally’s saying,’ said Peter.

  ‘So you weren’t kissing or anything?’

  ‘No!’

  Sally blushed again, a deeper red now.

  ‘It’s important we know,’ said Tamsin.

  ‘He came in through the other door,’ said Sally.

  ‘The door from the church?’

  ‘That’s right. He was there on business of his own.’

  ‘What sort of business?’

  ‘You’d have to ask him that.’

  ‘We will obviously but I just wondered if you knew?’

  ‘Well I don’t.’

  ‘Carry on.’

  ‘I screamed and he heard me and came immediately to see what was wrong. I had no idea he was there but was very glad he was.’

  ‘I’m sure you were.’

  ‘I was in a state, I don’t mind admitting. He was a complete angel.’

  ‘Was it normal for him to be in the church at six in the morning?’

  ‘I don’t know what’s normal for him. You’ll have to speak with him about that.’

  ‘Well, again, Sally, we will but I just wondered if you had an opinion on the matter.’

  ‘I don’t have an opinion, no.’

  ‘Surprisingly opinion-free when it comes to Ginger.’ Sally sat quietly.

  ‘And what happened then?’

  ‘Ginger checked for breathing. It was then that he saw the writing on the dog collar.’

  ‘And what did it say?’

  ‘It said: “Should have done better”.’

  ‘That’s all?’

  ‘That’s all.’

  ‘And did you have any reason to kill him, Sally?’

  ‘Me? Well, no, of course not!’

  ‘No cause for anger? No reason for resentment about the way you’d been treated, either personally or professionally?’

  ‘No. He was just my vicar. What can I say?’

  ‘And what about Ginger?’

  ‘Ginger is a kind man who wouldn’t hurt anyone.’

  ‘That’s not everyone’s view.’

  ‘Then they don’t know him.’

  Tamsin paused.

  ‘From what I understand, you both had a sack full of grievances against Anton Fontaine.’

  ‘That’s a sack I’m not aware of,’ said Sally, with controlled rage.

  ‘And we still have the unexplained early morning gathering. Quite by chance, you are both in the church at 6.00 a.m. the morning after the murder.’

  ‘If you really think I was Anton’s murderer then you are very stupid,’ said Sally.

  ‘Not wise words, Sally,’ said Tamsin. ‘I will find out what you two were doing here
.’

  There was a knock on the door. PC Neville poked his head round.

  ‘Just to say there’s no sign of her, Ma’am. We can’t find her anywhere.’

  ‘Who’s that?’ asked Sally. ‘Is there someone missing?’

  ‘Thank you for your help, Sally,’ said Tamsin, getting up quickly. ‘You may go now.’

  The unspoken hostility remained as Sally was asked to leave her office. But Tamsin wasn’t quite done: ‘I’d add only that we must be careful that pastoral concern, or indeed any feelings of a more personal nature, do not in any way become respite or protection for the guilty. Do you understand me?’

  ‘I believe so,’ said Sally.

  ‘We’re dealing with a dangerous individual here, who operates quite beyond any normal moral compass.’

  ‘Rather like you then,’ thought Sally.

  ‘We mustn’t mistake collusion with compassion,’ said Tamsin. It was a cold farewell.

  Sally said: ‘Of course,’ after which she collected her bag and left.

  When she was gone, Tamsin turned to Neville, as young and fresh-faced a copper as was either legal or decent.

  ‘In future, Constable, when you have operational information to disclose, you wait until the room is free of suspects. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am. I’m sorry.’

  ‘She could be the murderer.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Ma’am.’

  ‘Too late for sorry, Constable.’

  ‘Never too late for sorry,’ smiled Abbot Peter.

  ‘Maybe in your world, Abbot, but not in mine.’

  ‘So who’s missing?’ asked Peter.

  ‘Clare Magnussen.’ And then turning to the Constable, ‘You’ve tried her work and home?’

  ‘Nothing, Ma’am. And it’s out of character apparently. She’s never been absent from work without warning. The Bishop says he gave her a lift home and since then, no sign of her. And we don’t think she slept in her bed last night.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Yesterday’s post was uncollected by the door. It looks like she came to last night’s meeting straight from work and never made it home.’

  ‘And the house searches? Have they delivered anything?’

  ‘No, Ma’am. We’re doing our best to get round. But with two of the team off sick and Mick on compassionate leave -.’

  ‘Compassionate leave? Whatever happened to coping?’

  She looked round in derisive dismay.

  ‘Just keep the fit busy, the unfit on our radar and let me know as soon you know anything. That will all be for now.’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am.’

  The policeman left, closing the door carefully behind him. Tamsin and the Abbot were alone in Sally’s office.

  ‘Well?’ asked Tamsin.

  ‘You’re not strong on manners,’ said Peter.

  ‘Neither was the murderer.’

  Twenty Eight

  And now Clare was remembering... allowing herself to remember.

  It hadn’t seemed worth it in the past, despite Jonathan the nice psychotherapist. And he was nice, a decent sort. But now she was allowing the memories of her mother who had hit her from when she was very young. Why? Why does someone do that? Who knows? But for some reason this mother, the mother given to Clare, the carer given to Clare, didn’t care at all... in fact she seemed to hate her youngest daughter. And every time, when the hitting was over, she’d always say the same thing: ‘Don’t bother telling anyone, Clare - they’ll never believe you’... .

  And she never did tell anyone. She never told anyone of the years of random violence from her mother, violence ignored by her father who was usually out, but not always, sometimes he just played the saxophone... that’s how you knew if he was in; you’d hear the saxophone playing... and then one day, in her early twenties, she did tell someone. She’d told a psychologist at a dinner party and he just confirmed her mother’s prediction. She had begun to tell her story over the dessert. After a while, he said:

  ‘It simply can’t have been as you say, Clare. People like you are in special units or drugged up with medication. They’re not doing the sort of job you’re doing.’

  So her mum had been proved right. No one would believe her though it had been as she said, worse in fact because she’d told the psychologist only a little of what went on.

  And she had survived... she’d begun to regain control in her early teens when on one occasion her arm went up to stop her mother’s strike. It just happened... after that, her mother never tried it again, just emotional punishment from then on, but always losing power. And then with Clare as an adult, the years of denial, the shroud of evasion, the final refuge of scoundrel parents...

  Some called Clare tough as old boots, some simply called her cold, but she’d survived and regained control until now... she was drifting in and out of consciousness, disappearing then returning with such clarity of thought, trapped, losing strength, no voice to call out, held down, pressed hard, held in, darkness, heartache, familiar smells, stone floor and remembering, distant things, distant things never touched for the sadness they bled, the overwhelming sadness, the overwhelming bleeding, the abandonment...

  Stretching out now, Clare was stretching out, reaching out for someone, the sound of a car, voices, they could be voices, is there anyone there...?

  Twenty Nine

  Tamsin and Abbot Peter sat on a bench with their sandwich lunch, looking out on the cold green sea. Peter broke the silence.

  ‘I don’t want you to take this amiss, Tamsin.’

  ‘Ominous. My defences are suddenly raised.’

  ‘Because I know you’re the detective here.’

  ‘Good. But what exactly are you preparing the ground for?’

  ‘And you’re a hunter, of course, dangerous and sharp-toothed.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I certainly wouldn’t want you on my case!’

  ‘You’d be too easy.’

  ‘Ah, cocky as well!’

  ‘No one in the south of England got higher marks than me in my Inspector’s exams.’

  ‘Then I am in awe of you.’

  Peter paused, allowing time for the applause to be heard. He started on his tuna sandwich, reassuringly moist and filled to the edges, just as a sandwich should be.

  ‘But tell me,’ he said, ‘Do you know what every good interrogator knows?’

  ‘Of course. Don’t give them an inch.’

  ‘Almost the opposite in fact.’

  ‘Not in my manual.’

  Peter took another bite from his sandwich and chewed slowly.

  Tamsin spoke first: ‘Well get it out then! You’re like a storm waiting to break.’

  ‘It’s nothing really.’

  ‘But it’s a nothing that’s starting to get on my nerves.’

  ‘It’s just that the good interrogator knows you don’t get anywhere with the suspect until you break down the barrier between their world and yours.’

  Tamsin thought for a moment. ‘Exactly! That’s why I pressure them.’

  ‘Well, that’s one way but only one way and rarely the best.’

  ‘Always the best. It’s why governments continue to use torture.’

  ‘And why secret services around the world are told so many lies. Victims will say anything to make the pain stop.’

  ‘That’s the point.’

  ‘But “anything” may not be the truth, Tamsin. The reign of Henry VIII was the story of endless people confessing “the truth” - a long list of things they hadn’t done just so they could get off the rack. They knew they’d be executed soon after but at least it wasn’t the rack.’

  ‘Is there a point to this dull history lesson?’

  ‘It’s ho
rses for courses, Tamsin, and sometimes a soft word or a joke is the better way to join the two worlds together. Humans are liars, I grant you, we can’t help ourselves - but strangely, we’re more likely to be disarmed by kindness than terror. And once disarmed, once the barrier between the two worlds is broken, then the real talk begins. And the hope is that it’s truthful talk.’

  ‘Shall we get back to work now?’

  ‘We are at work.’

  ‘Not in my book.’

  ‘We’re working on how we might access the truth. And by the way, who recommended me?’

  ‘I can’t tell you. Operational information. If you knew, you might go easy on them, seduced by their flattery.’

  ‘Good point.’ He ate a little more of his sandwich before adding:

  ‘But the only good one you’ve made in the last five minutes. We must understand the psychology of the killer.’

  ‘I don’t want to rain on your mental parade,’ said Tamsin, wiping some crumbs from her lap and sighing a little.

  ‘I sense damp in the air.’

  ‘But in my experience - my professional police experience - psychological profiling is as often wrong as right.’

  ‘Well, I can’t answer for your brief professional experience, Tamsin, and I grant you that some of the sickest people on the planet are psychiatrists. But the right person with the right psychological tools is a dangerous enemy.’

  ‘And you’re that person?’

  ‘I don’t know if I’m that person, time will tell. But I certainly have the right tool: the most profound analysis of human motive ever discovered.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘The Enneagram.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘We’ll talk this evening.’

  Thirty

  The Sarkar poured himself some water and sipped sparingly. The man in the cobalt blue turban did not rush things and Gurdjieff was struggling to concentrate. He fidgeted a little, looked into the distance, then over-compensated, staring too hard into the eyes of the speaker. The mysterious Yorii was out of sight but not completely out of mind.

  ‘You must strive for attention,’ the Sarkar said, ‘and all will be well.’