Fragments

by Morgan Gallagher

  It was Andy who answered his surprise that Maryam asked the question evident.

  ‘He conducted himself impeccably. I spoke to Wyn about it at length. He knew what to do and say and couched everything he told Wyn under guise of confession, as an actual confession.’

  ‘Then he’d come back again and again and say he’d been weak and sinned once more? Asking for help and forgiveness?

  ‘Yes.’ Fred’s words were weighted down by the guilt he felt, by how they’d been unable to help the young priest.

  ‘When did you find out about all this?’

  ‘Just a few days ago; about ten days, I think.’ He looked to Father Scott, who nodded his head in agreement.

  ‘It took a while for it to filter over to us. His own bishop at Southwark was dealing with it, obviously.’

  ‘When was it brought to you?’

  ‘When permission was sought to enrol the services of a private detective to try and prove that Jason’s certificate of confirmation was a forgery.’

  ‘Was permission given?’

  ‘Yes, but the murder took place before we commissioned anyone.’

  ‘So you knew that Wyn was in the pressure cooker, that he was being targeted this way?’

  ‘Yes.’ Fred felt shameful. Maryam wasn’t sure what else they could have done, given how well Jason Briggs had danced upon the Church’s rules. It also explained why they’d been keeping her close to them. She’d misjudged him.

  ‘At no point could you persuade anyone that Jason’s confessions were not genuine? That he had no intention of changing his behaviour, that he was not a true penitent?’ Her voice betrayed that this was a forlorn hope... how to do you prove someone’s thoughts?

  ‘No. We tried. Wyn offered other priests for the confession. We changed the rota, we even moved Wyn out for a week, on respite. Briggs kept coming back, kept turning up in the confessional and kept requesting forgiveness. He would appear when the Church was locked.’

  ‘So that’s why the back door was changed, not the graffiti?’

  ‘Yes. Briggs was appearing in the Church when Wyn was doing work on his own, requesting confession.’

  ‘No doubt describing in graphic detail what his sins were and where they had taken place?’

  ‘Yes. He spared nothing.’

  ‘And not one of you can breathe a single word about it.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  It was Maryam’s turn to slap her hand down on the table hard enough to bruise.

  ‘Damnation!’

  She was glad she had stayed in Peckham and that she’d taken a taxi back. She got out of the taxi just after it crossed the river and walked the three miles to the Church. It was two a.m. and the world, even the South London world, was indoors and asleep. She needed the wind in her eyes and the cold touching her bones to drive away the depression that was threatening. Wyn was locked into a terrible battle, a struggle for his freedom and his innocence, and it very much looked as if he might lose it. They would lose both a promising new priest and a soul that lit the room up when he entered it.

  She decided to switch from the ‘why’ of this investigation and look to the ‘how’. There had to be some way to save this young man, to defeat the evil that was attacking him. Rather than going to bed when she got in, she switched on her laptop and began research into the gang culture in London.

  In the morning, with the parish house alive around her, she woke and attended to her Tarot. What she got in the three lays she did, one on the Church, one on Wyn, one on herself, was the same card; The High Priestess, card three. She had missed some evidence somewhere. Something was there to be seen, she’d just not found it. A knock on the door disturbed her and she placed the wrapping cloth over the cards that were laid out on the desk. One of the new priests, Father Jacob, had a mug of coffee for her and the news that Detective Iqbal was downstairs in the parlour. She thanked him, drank the almost bearable coffee and dressed quickly. When she’d made herself a large bowl of actual coffee, she and Iqbal settled into the only space they could find some peace and quiet; Father Edward’s greenhouse. It contained no greenery, soil or plants. There was a huge ashtray and a bottle of brandy hidden under the single upturned clay pot, and a stack of old newspapers. It was raining again and the noise was both soothing and meant they could not be easily overheard. The opening of the Church had sparked more press interest, but the telephoto lenses could not, as of yet, look round corners.

  Iqbal had come to invite her to meet the local Imam later that afternoon. She was happy to do so, glad she would have the opportunity and he phoned through a time. She then kept his attention by inviting him to go through the physical evidence they had, something that he was more than happy to do. As a junior officer brought in for his background knowledge, he’d not been getting much of a shot at that. They spread out a layer of old papers on the bare potting boards and laid out their individual files, collating their knowledge as they went. There was little to add to what she’d already been furnished with. Vincent Doherty, the locksmith, was a childless widower. However, his manager ran the store and did all the fittings. He had three children. Like his boss, Mr Curtis was a Catholic and supporter of the Church. Both his younger children were altar boys and his daughter, Keely, had been a member of the Choir.

  ‘Any trouble at home?’

  ‘Yes. Keely was brought in drunk and disorderly by the local constabulary about four weeks ago. Turned out that the perfect daughter had been skipping school and running wild in the evening when the family thought she was studying at a friend’s house.’

  ‘She’s one of the girls who have been in trouble since the youth group and choir started?’

  ‘Yes. Her father banned her from the choir, took her out of the local school and she started in a private Catholic school two weeks ago. Her mother drives her across town to the new school and drives her home. Father is refusing us access. We’re going through procedures to interview her.’

  ‘How old is she?’

  ‘Thirteen.’

  ‘The brothers?’

  ‘Ten and eight.’

  ‘They in trouble?’

  ‘No. Still at primary school, no problems reported. It’s just Keely that’s gone off the rails.’

  ‘Does it make sense to you, Shahrukh, the gangs targeting these girls through the Church?’

  He thought about it. ‘No, actually. From what I understand from the briefings I’ve had, the girls that join gangs are the ones already in trouble. They come from broken families with histories of abuse. The girls in the choir don’t tend to follow that pattern. Much more work for the gang, bringing them in. Gang meat is usually easy prey. Girls on the edge, already in trouble... they drift towards the gangs. The gang gives them family and safety. If you are in one of the stronger gangs, you never have any trouble at school or on the streets again as long as you are with your pack. If you are being bullied, the gang will dish out punishment. We had one girl who was being raped by her step-father: she got into a gang in order to get them to beat him half to death. She had to put up with worse than he was doing to her from the rest of the gang, but she took it. I was always confused by that.’

  ‘It was on her own terms.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The gang treatment, it was on her own terms. She knew what was going to happen, didn’t want it, but she’d agreed in her mind. You don’t look convinced.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘It’s not something I can make sense of in any way. The women here, on the streets and the estates, often allow themselves to be treated very badly.’

  Maryam studied Shahrukh. His expensive suit cut to fit him, the pressed linen shirt collar and easy clean silk tie. His hands were soft, his fingernails manicured so discreetly that you had to really look. He’d worked hard at dressing to conform to his plain clothed superiors, but quality always shone through. Like his Italian shoes. Yes, she could see that he would have some problem understanding Peckham.

  ‘What brou
ght you into the police, Shahrukh, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  His smile lit up his face. ‘Somebody’s got to catch the bad guys.’

  They set themselves to catching the bad guys the old fashioned way: hard slog. They sifted through all the evidence, twice. The coroner had constructed a timeline on the presumed time of death being at approximately four a.m. Blood flow would suggest that meant Jason had been cut for the first time at approximately one a.m. Toxicology still hadn’t returned results on what drugs, if any, had kept Jason lying down whilst he bled to death, so times could be out by a couple of hours, depending on what might have been in his blood.

  ‘What time does the CCTV show him entering the Church ahead of Father Jones?’

  ‘21.43. Father Jones went in at 21.55, came out at 22.20. Locked the door as he left.’

  ‘So, even if he had attacked Jason, then the coroner doesn’t think the cutting started for another two hours, maybe three?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘So what was he doing in there?’

  ‘The timeline is why Father Jones has not been charged yet. He can’t have attacked Jason and started the cuts that early, nor did he have enough time. Equally, no one else went in.’

  ‘What if there was someone else in there at the same time?’

  ‘It is possible. The cameras are not 24 hour, they come on at twilight.’

  ‘If Wyn didn’t do it before he locked up, what’s the thinking back at the office?’

  ‘That Father Jones knew the cameras didn’t pick up the outer door to the Sacristy and went in later using his key. Only he and Father Edwards had keys, and Father Edwards is too old and infirm to be considered as a suspect.’

  She mused on the two or three hours of ‘dead’ time for Jason Briggs.

  ‘Didn’t the coroner’s report say that Jason had eaten and drunk alcohol?’

  ‘Yes. They wondered if there was a drug, it might have been given in wine. But still no tox report as of yet, as I said.’

  ‘Show me the bit in the file.’

  He handed it to her and she read out loud. ‘Stomach partially full. Strong smell of alcohol. Meal of chicken, rice and peas had been ingested but was not fully digested. Meal probably eaten within two to three hours of death.’

  She looked at Shahrukh. ‘Where had he eaten chicken, rice and peas if he’d been in the Church since ten o’clock?’

  Shahrukh’s phone call to Barham about the stomach contents had two immediate effects. Wyn Jones, who had been en route for more questioning, was sent back to Westminster with a polite request he stay there for a few more days. Barham then phoned Keely Curtis’s father and read the riot act to him in a most convincing manner. Keely could, she promised, be taken into care if Inspector Barham thought she was in danger of significant harm; did Mr Curtis want to push that, given his thirteen year old daughter had been found in the gutter, unconscious in her own vomit, just four weeks ago? He agreed to her being interviewed as long as a lawyer was present.

  Shahrukh drove Maryam to the local mosque in his own car, which was gleaming, small and city-use compact. She marvelled that it had both its wing mirrors and no dents as he negotiated the tightly packed streets with the huge buses and trucks and constant double parking in every nook and cranny. He drove neatly but with just a hint of aggression. It seemed to work.

  Parking down the street, walking up to the mosque, Maryam observed that it was an old building that had been bought and made over into a Mosque. She read the plaque outside as she took a grey Hermes silk scarf from her coat pocket and covered her hair neatly. The plaque stated it was six years since the former Anglican Church had been converted. Maryam studied the arched windows where stained glass had been stripped out and replaced by plain and then looked up to the steeple, now used as a minaret, calling the faithful to prayer.

  Imam Abdhul-Rahemm Malik was a gracious host. Maryam, for her part, was a gracious and respectful guest. When tea was offered, she accepted it with appropriate gratitude and she sat neatly to one side of the Imam, making no attempt to shake his hand. The meeting had been arranged in the lull between afternoon and evening prayer and Maryam knew her time was very limited. The Imam had begun by thanking Maryam for ensuring that the Holy pages of the Qur’an had been treated with respect, and by offering his aid in any way. Maryam thanked him, then diverted the conversation to the Mosque in a way that disconcerted both the men.

  ‘Imam Malik, may I ask you if you were part of the organising committee that oversaw the buying of this property and the conversion?’

  ‘Yes, I was. We spent many years raising the funds for it. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I presume it had been abandoned and deconsecrated by the Anglican community before you took over?’

  ‘Yes. That is correct. This building had been empty for many years before we began negotiations to buy it. It came out of a meeting at an inter-faith council. The Church that was, even abandoned, was costing the Anglican authorities a fortune to maintain. But they could not demolish it or have it assigned to any other purpose.’

  ‘So a transfer to your community, whilst maintaining it as a place of worship, was suggested?’

  ‘Yes. We paid a token sum and made a contract that all the Christian elements we removed would be passed on to the Church, or the profit from their sale was. The stained glass windows went to a new Church being built somewhere else, I believe. The font and their altar were removed before we took possession.’ Malik was starting to look a little uncomfortable. Shahrukh spoke up.

  ‘Miss Michael, are you suggesting the mosque and the events at the Church are connected after all?’

  ‘Not in that sense, no, Detective Iqbal. As I’ve stated, I firmly believe that attacks are aimed only at the Catholic Church. That the use of Islamic elements is about causing trouble, not an actual part of the crime.’

  ‘Then why are you asking about this mosque?’

  ‘Because I suspect that whoever killed that young man and wrote upon his body knew a great deal, not only about Islam, but about Catholic beliefs. They knew how to instruct a young man from the streets on how to act in a Catholic Church. They could write Arabic with a sure hand. The person is educated about faith and highly knowledgeable.’

  ‘And...?’

  ‘When planning permission for the conversion of the Church here was undertaken, did you have any serious objections? And when I say serious, did you have objections lodged by someone who argued time and again, perhaps using lawyers or sending in many letters, or generally using the legal argument as well as a religious one?’

  ‘We had several objections, obviously.’

  ‘But did you have anyone that seemed to be... out of place? Out of the normal, expected response?’ It was Shahrukh who had picked up the thread and pushed forward. ‘Did you have any vandalism during the conversion? Anything unusual?’

  Malik nodded. ‘Yes, we did. How did you know that?’

  Maryam felt the knot in her chest loosen. Shahrukh’s voice betrayed that the same had happened with him. There was a chance that Wyn could be saved.

  Whilst Maryam was searching through records of the Mosque with Imam Malik, a young mother from the community by her side, Shahrukh had returned to New Scotland Yard to examine the police records about the same events. The usual stupid and everyday obscenities had occurred, such as slices of bacon being nailed to the doors. However, there had also been some more adept vandalism. A section from the bible had been carved into a wood panel alongside quotes from the Qur’an, on the inside of the former church. That had had to be removed and stored safely. The files contained a photograph of the panel before it was removed. Someone had spent a long time carving Deuteronomy 32.17 into the wood:

  They sacrificed to devils and not to God: to gods whom they knew not: that were newly come up, whom their fathers worshipped not.

  The Arabic was much shorter but beautifully carved. Very sure and clear on the swoops and curves. It was Sura 26.221 and translated as:
<
br />   Shall I inform you upon whom do the devils descend?

  Maryam wrote down both quotes, being careful to replicate them exactly.

  ‘Is the panel still in good condition? Do you have it?’

  ‘I would have to inquire. It may have been buried, I do not know.’

  Maryam turned to the file on the objections to the transfer. Among the usual deluge of complaints about anything changing in any way in someone’s beloved ‘community’, one complainant stood out. A man who had been voracious in his protests; he’d even chained the front gates, repeatedly. He’d tried to stop diggers and workmen going in and had protested vigorously the removal of the windows. He’d lodged dozens of complaints with the local council and the police. He’d ended up being given an exclusion order under an anti-social behaviour order, forbidding him from entering the street the building was on. In the five years since the order there had never been any more trouble from him. She noted everything down, thanked the Imam and the woman who had chaperoned them, and left.

  At the same time, a tearful Keely Curtis was detailing all the areas in the local Church that Jason Briggs had forced her to have sex with him. She’d thought he loved her, she explained, and had bought her gold earrings and a gold cross. Why would he buy her a cross if he didn’t love her? During the break in choir rehearsals, Jason had tried to find somewhere private for them to go and chat, but as the only place they could meet was the Church during choir practice, it was impossible. Her parents didn’t let her out of their sight apart from when she was at the Church, and she was never out of sight of the priest or a parish helper then. Jason finally persuaded her to meet in the Sacristy during a Sunday service. She was attending with her family and excused herself, saying she felt sick. She went out the Church doors and went round to the Sacristy, where Jason was waiting for her. He took her in and raped her with two of his gang whilst the Mass was being said through the wall. Jason used his mobile phone to film the other two having sex with her and threatened to send it to the whole school, and her father, if she said a word. Then they threw her back out into the graveyard. She’d gone home, showered, thrown her clothes into the washing machine and told her parents she was sick and stayed in bed for three days. She was too scared to do anything else, and when Jason started texting her to tell her to sneak out and meet up with the gang, she did as she was told. When Jason was thrown out of the choir and the new door and locks were put in the Church, Keely was ordered to make copies of the keys. She worked in the shop every Saturday and knew how to access the secure codes. She had been trained in making keys: it was how she earned her pocket money.