Keely had continued to be raped by Jason and some of his gang, in various places in the Church. All the girls who’d been recruited from the choir had been involved in sex in the Church, usually either the confessional box or on the Altar. It was a ‘thing’ of Jason’s. He’d told her he only did it there with ‘special’ girls. In fact, there had been jealousy with some of the other gang girls, which Jason had solved by smashing the face of one of the trouble makers. He’d taken her into the Church with Keely and some of the other choir recruits and smashed the girl’s face open on the Altar stone as he’d raped her from behind. This had pleased Keely as the girl had been having a go at her personally. None of the other regular girls had complained about the ‘Church’ girls again. Keely had also been given a lot of jewellery and a bunch of girls at school who were bullying her had been ‘sorted’ by the gang. She had begun to like running with them and had started to take part in the drinking. It was only when she was caught paralytic in the streets when her father had thought she was fast asleep in bed, that her family had realised she was out of control and locked her down, literally. Dad had changed all the door locks in the house and installed security shutters on her bedroom window. She’d got out once from the bathroom window, but her dad had caught her in the garden and had knocked the living daylights out of her. She’d threatened to have him arrested for assault and they’d kept her in her bedroom until the bruises had healed a bit.
‘Can they do that, Inspector? Can your Mum and Dad keep you locked up like that, like an animal? I’ve told them how much I hate them, but they don’t care! I hate this new school, and they won’t listen to me, and now you know he hit me! They don’t care about me!’
All Inspector Barham cared about, and was grateful for, was that she didn’t have kids.
Maryam reached Scotland Yard before Barham had finished interviewing Keely. Gatto had been working with Iqbal on the records of the vandalism and obscenity at the mosque conversion. They’d found the same details about the legal order keeping the local man away from the mosque and had been checking up on him. His name was Geoffrey Embleton, he still lived in the area and he was in his late fifties. He hadn’t been in trouble since the problems at the mosque conversion. They were happy to let Maryam feedback to them her thoughts.
‘I’m pretty sure he’s a Catholic, raised by a very old, or strict, family.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘If he did this carving here on the wood panel, it’s from a Catholic Bible, not an Anglican one.’
Gatto was impressed. ‘You can tell that just by looking?’
‘Yes. Translations differ... is this computer on the internet?’
‘Yes, go ahead.’
She opened up several windows and put in different editions of the Bible in each tab. Then she typed the same chapter and verse in each. Within a minute they had four separate versions of the text.
‘It was an Anglican Church, and at the time it would have been the New English Bible that would have been in use. That talks about foreign demons that are no gods, but you won’t get it on the internet.’
‘Why not?’
‘Still under copyright.’
Both Iqbal and Gatto laughed. Maryam, who hadn’t thought she’d been saying anything funny, looked confused, but carried on.
‘You can see it here in the King James, and here in the New Jerusalem Bible. The New Jerusalem is the current Catholic one. But look here.’ She pointed to the screen.
‘That’s the exact same quote down to the colons.’ Gatto sounded even more impressed.
‘Exactly. And this, gentlemen, is from the Douay-Rheims Bible, which is the official Catholic translation from the Latin Vulgate.’
They both just stared at her.
‘It’s an old text, superseded many years ago, too obscure to be used on the walls of an Anglican church in 2004.’
‘There’s no mistaking it. It’s a distinctive translation.’ Gatto was writing details down on his notebook.
‘What does it mean, the text, with the other one there, too?’ Iqbal asked.
‘I’m not sure. The bible text is spoken by Moses to the Israelites in the desert, after he’d returned with the Ten Commandments. The Israelites had been making merry in his absence, getting drunk, worshipping false gods. He returns from the mountains and blasts at them, warning them to pay attention and do as the Lord has commanded or they are in deep trouble.’
‘Fire and brimstone trouble?’ Again, she was sure that Gatto had been raised Catholic.
‘Yes, Faith of Our Fathers trouble.’
‘Huh?’ It was Iqbal’s turn to look confused.
‘Dungeon, Fire and Sword,’ replied Gatto. ‘What about the other bit?’ He indicated the Arabic script on the photo.
Shahrukh answered that. ‘It’s the prophet speaking, replying to a question about who are the people likely to be bothered by demons.’
‘And who’s that then?’ Gatto asked him.
‘Sinners. Those who lie and cheat. The point being that if you are pure of heart, you won’t be bothered by them.’
‘So, let me get this right. We have graffiti in a church about to become a mosque, from five, six years ago, saying that the badly behaved will be damned and that demons will come after sinners?’
‘A somewhat crude summing up, but yes.’ Maryam was aware that one of her faults was that she thought and spoke as an academic.
‘And now we have a dead body in a church that has been defiled and is laying out on a Muslim holy book, and a statement that a demon killed him with the implication being that the said demon is a Catholic priest?’
‘Well, yes, you could look at it that way I suppose.’
‘Blimey. Well, I think the priest is orf the ‘ook then, don’t you?’ That Gatto’s childhood accent had slipped through as he spoke said much to both Shahrukh and Maryam.
Barham had been sceptical about the connections but let Gatto and Iqbal follow the line of investigation: they had to find a connection between Briggs and Embleton. Maryam, exhausted as she was, asked for a car to take her to the Cathedral, where she informed Bishop Atkins of all they’d uncovered and personally told Wyn Jones he was unlikely to be charged. Jones had been stunned into pale silence. Fred had made sure she’d eaten before sending her back to Peckham via Andy Scott. They’d both tried to persuade her to stay at Westminster for the night, but she wanted to wake up in a room she knew and compose her thoughts for her report on her own.
The parish house was still up and filled with people coming and going for the prayer vigil in the Church, which was on its second night. Maryam excused herself and went straight to bed, falling asleep within moments.
Her dreams were not happy. She woke after only three hours and drew upon her Tarot cards. The reversed Chariot, card seven, was working alongside the reversed Ace of Swords. The person involved was working against authority, taking no heed of the situation or others’ understandings or feelings. The force working through that person was out to destroy Divine authority. The Fool was once more the card being worked against. Wyn Jones was the battleground. Why?
She spent an hour writing her report for Rome and included Geoffrey Embleton’s details: date of birth and last known address. At the police station, she hadn’t asked permission to do so, she’d just not spoken. They, in turn, had not forbidden her from discussing him with others. The sins of omission: it oiled the wheels of justice most days; when it wasn’t creating injustice.
She felt dirty and sweaty. It was past dawn but only just. She prayed for an hour, as she could pray when dirty with no problem. Then she ran a hot bath, ignoring the banging in the pipes and soaked in it for half an hour, before rising and then meditating for another hour. Meditation needed clean. Her sense of balance restored, she descended into the kitchen.
The women of the parish had been busy; the kitchen gleamed. So had Father Jacob, who handed her a plate of poached eggs on toast and a quite acceptable cup of coffee. They talked about
West Africa, his home town, and how he was coping with the cold in Britain whilst she relished the cleaner air. The stench of stale smoke was gone and had been replaced by the lemon oil of detergents: it was much more palatable. Everywhere, everything looked cleaner: the paint in the hallway was three shades lighter.
She walked over to the Church afterwards and sat at the back for a couple of hours as parishioners in the prayer vigil came and went. Father Jacob was alternating with Father Hector to make sure a priest was present at all times and many other clergy were coming and going. The entire London community of priests was trying to make sure they attended the Church and prayed there at least once during this phase of restoration.
She sat, thinking, feeling the sense of space and light re-enter the Church, and then drifted off, drifted into thinking of nothing very much.
It wasn’t a noise. It wasn’t a sound. It wasn’t a feeling. What was it?
Something had flared her into life, brought her senses up full. The Church around her had become huge, cavernous. The light from the stained glass windows was flowing in but failing, stopping, not managing to reach the air above her, not managing to illuminate the central space. The people in the front pews were distant, tiny specks on her consciousness. She could feel someone praying on her left, behind her. She turned. A woman, old and round and puffing, a multi-coloured head scarf on her hair, a worn rosary in her hands, was praying in the depths of the left aisle. Her coal black spiral tresses were tinged with grey. She exuded life, loving, and images of joyous grandchildren roaring with laughter. Maryam could smell jerk chicken, grits, all manner of mouth-watering things. She turned back to the altar. The front pews were still far away, floating somewhere else. The right hand aisle also held someone praying, kneeling at the altar of the Lady. His hands were hidden from her as he was leaning forward on the communion rail. It looked as if he too held a rosary. She leaned forward, trying to see clearly. His head was bowed; she could see nothing but the pale back of his neck. He was thin, wiry looking and wore a waxed jacket, the type that kept out the cutting wind and rain. As she looked, she could smell wax; incense and wax. Not candle wax, sealing wax. As soon as the thought was formed, the scent strengthened, developed. The powerful smell of old books, lost books, musty books, slammed into her. She sat back, breaking the moment. The light that had been held above her cracked and clattered to the ground. The altar was back where it should be. No one else seemed to have noticed the noise. She stood up, sliding sideways out of the central seating and headed up the side aisle for the Virgin’s altar. As she moved, the smell became stronger, more corrupt. Mould and decay caught at her throat, she tried not to cough. The man was still kneeling, head bowed. He was less than two feet from the tea roses she’d seen arranged the day before, yet all she could smell was decay and deception. The stench became so strong she gagged, had to cough or suffocate. The man jerked back, looking at her approaching him. As he stood up from his knees, she saw his face clearly, saw his eyes. Saw the darkness moving in them; saw the lack of humanity, of love. Could see the depths of despair caused by a complete absence of grace. She faltered, tripped and fell as the darkness pushed into her.
By the time she had been helped to her feet by the parishioners and a startled Father Jacob, her head had cleared. The delicate scent of the tea roses was mingled with incense, burning candles, aftershave and perfume. She apologised for tripping and disturbing everyone’s prayer. Father Jacob escorted her to the parish house, where he was so concerned that he phoned Bishop Atkins. Maryam was quite content with this; she was using all her energies in restoring her own sense of belonging to herself and herself alone. It wouldn’t do to alarm Father Jacob further and she happily accepted some tea from him and let him sit with her and prattle away whilst they waited out the good Bishop’s arrival.
When he did arrive a scant half an hour later, which led Maryam to wonder if Father Scott had gained tickets for speeding on their way, Wyn Jones arrived with them. She was a little shocked by this, given the police request, but it was clear he’d been alarmed to hear of her fall and had wanted to see she was fine for himself. She accepted this, but asked them to send a message to Scotland Yard advising them that he had returned to the parish. Andy Scott phoned Iqbal’s mobile phone number whilst Maryam discovered something wonderful about Wyn Jones: he could make excellent coffee. He was clearly a man taking his own territory back as he marshalled together the water, ground beans, and a cafetiere that she hadn’t known the kitchen held. Although he almost swore in frustration when it took him five minutes to find which cupboard it was in.
‘The parishioners have been busy.’
‘Mrs Olagbegi has been rather frustrated by Pete’s refusal to let her ‘take over’, as he put it.’
‘When did you lose your housekeeper?’
‘Oh, many years ago. The old one died and parish funds could not afford a new one.’
‘Was Father Edwards here then?’
‘He’s been here thirty-five years.’ He stopped and looked at her. ‘Mrs Fisher, the housekeeper, had been here for twenty years when she passed. I think he still misses her.’
Fred returned from the Church, where he’d popped in his head as he’d walked Father Jacob back up. With Andy off the phone, they took their coffee through to the parlour and firmly closed the door. Andy drew a chair up against it as a precaution against a parishioner walking in at the wrong moment.
Maryam described what had occurred, although she did so as a light sketch, not in detail. Some things you didn’t tell priests. Or anyone, actually. She did describe the scent of the old books even as she omitted the detail about the jerk chicken, and she described the man in full.
‘That is Keith Pargiter.’
They all stared blankly at Father Jones.
‘You know him?’
‘Well, yes, he’s a stalwart of the parish. He’s an altar server and does some ground work in the graveyard. He runs an antiquarian book shop on Rye Road, although it does most of its business online, I believe. He joined the parish about three years ago I think, when he bought the shop. You’d have to ask Pete when exactly.’
‘And he’s a regular parishioner?’ Andy spoke first.
‘Oh yes, one of the faithful, as I said, can always be trusted to help out if we need it. He’s also been very good at donating bibles and religious texts to us if they are of no commercial value. We have a lot of things that Keith has passed on.’
‘Does he have keys to the Church?’ Maryam asked.
‘Well, not as such, no, but he’s on the cleaning rota with the others, why?’
‘I’m not sure how to tell you this, Father Jones, but the man I saw was Geoffrey Embleton.’
Gatto and Iqbal turned up about twenty minutes later. They asked Wyn if it would be all right if he went for a walk or went up to his room... or really, wasn’t he sure he wouldn’t be happier at the Cathedral?’
Father Jones had capitulated with a sigh and declared he was going to go and clear his head and walk back over to the other side of the river. He’d been cooped up for days between the police station and the cloister, and so he was off to get some fresh air.
‘Well, some London rain, I suppose,’ he said as he opened the door to discover the heavens had opened once more.
He took his overcoat and a brolly from the hallway and departed. Iqbal followed him out to make sure he went past the Church, then returned to the parlour.
Once more they laid out the files and started to go through them meticulously. Gatto had brought with him photographs from Embleton’s file and Maryam confirmed that was the man who had been praying in the Church before. She didn’t mention anything other than noticing him ‘because of a smell of old books’.
‘And Father Jones knew him as Keith Pargiter?’
‘Yes. He runs a book shop, old books.’
‘Well, if it is him, it’ll be interesting to see if he has an old Qur’an in stock. Or rather, missing.’
‘Didn’t Inspector
Barham ask for the antiquarian book shops to be looked into, to see where the copy of the Qur’an could have come from?’ Iqbal asked Gatto.
‘Yes, she did, son. Keep asking questions like that and you’ll do okay.’ Iqbal almost blushed but held it off by staring hard at some paperwork.’
‘And you got a strange feeling off him, did you, Miss Michael?’
‘I never said that, Sergeant Gatto, did I?’
‘No, you didn’t, what was I thinking?’ His wry tone fooled no one. Maryam sipped some coffee and looked placid and neutral. Gatto excused himself and went outside to phone headquarters in private to see if the book shop had already been visited. Iqbal stayed and took them through what they’d uncovered in their own inquiries.
‘Shortly after Embleton was issued the ASBO for the mosque conversion, he was admitted to hospital. He was suffering from malnutrition and dehydration. There were marks on his body, self inflicted.’
‘What sort of marks?’
‘He’d whipped himself with something that had metal on it. One of the wounds on his back had become infected and it was the blood poisoning that caused him to collapse in Marks & Spencer’s. After treatment, he was voluntarily admitted to a psychiatric unit. No idea of the diagnosis or treatment, still looking.’
Maryam sighed. ‘It is rather unfortunate that Mr Pargiter appears to have been born in the wrong millennium.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Never mind, Detective, carry on.’
‘He came back into police view about two years later, when he was the subject of a complaint from a synagogue in Golders Green. He had been trying to convert to Judaism and things were not going well. I’m not sure what that means. He’d been asked to leave the synagogue in question and not return.’
Fragments Page 13
