Prayer for the Dead

by James Oswald

  ‘Stay here with the minister, we won’t be long.’ McLean said to Dalgliesh, then realised that he’d not yet introduced them to each other. ‘Sorry. Mary, this is Jo Dalgliesh. She’s a reporter. You might get Detective Constable MacBride knocking on your door in a moment, too. I’m sure he’d be very grateful for a cup of tea, if you didn’t mind.’

  ‘For someone who gave so generously to the church roof repair fund? Not in the least.’

  McLean nodded his thanks, then turned to follow Ritchie out of the kitchen, but not before he noticed Dalgliesh’s eyebrow shoot up in surprise.

  ‘So, you know where the curate sleeps. Should I be worried for the state of his soul?’

  DS Ritchie stopped halfway up the stairs, looked around over her shoulder and gave McLean a very old-fashioned stare.

  ‘Sorry, that was uncalled for. Especially given the circumstances.’

  ‘It’s OK, sir. I know you’re just trying to ease the tension a bit.’ Ritchie started climbing again, speaking to the dark landing above. ‘To be honest, I’ve never seen Daniel’s room. I only know where it is because it’s next to the bathroom. Here.’

  McLean followed her across the landing, stopped outside a plain wooden door indistinguishable from a half-dozen others. The gloom was only alleviated by the light spilling up the stairwell, and a faint orange glow through a pair of recessed skylight windows overhead. Silence filled the air like cotton wool as he reached out and rapped a knuckle on the panel.

  ‘Daniel? Are you in there?’ If only it were that easy.

  ‘OK. Let’s have a look then.’ McLean dropped his hand to the doorknob, twisted it and pushed.

  It was a large room, high-ceilinged and dominated by two tall windows in the far wall. Heavy, dark furniture looked like it must have been craned in before the roof went on, but had presumably been hefted up the stairs by stout Victorian workmen a century or so ago. By the light filtering in from outside, McLean made out a narrow single bed, a washstand in the far corner, floorboards covered by an old Persian rug. A desk sat between the two windows, but it was hard to see any great detail. Then DS Ritchie flicked on the light.

  ‘Oh my God.’

  The room was mostly tidy, that was perhaps the best way to describe it. The bed was made and everything was lined up square, the gaps between each individual item of furniture arranged so that they looked in proportion. In amongst the order, the desk stuck out like a nun at a rugby club stag night. It was piled with books, all of a jumble as if Daniel had been going through them in a rush, looking for snippets of information first from one then another, tossing them aside when they didn’t yield what he searched for. Others lay on the floor in a circle around the chair, wagons drawn together against the Indian attack. On the desktop, ground zero, an A4 spiral-bound notebook lay in the middle of it all, splayed open to reveal a page of scribblings. McLean approached it carefully, not wanting to disturb anything, and peered at the words. He couldn’t make anything out, and he was used to deciphering Grumpy Bob’s impossible scrawl. It didn’t matter; the stacks of newspaper cuttings, Post-it notes and half-read books told the story quite clearly enough.

  ‘I never knew.’ Ritchie stood by McLean’s side, peering down at the evidence of an interest verging on the brink of obsession.

  McLean picked up the nearest book, turned it over to reveal the title. Urban Deprivation: Causes and Cures. Other books followed a similar theme. No light bedtime reading here.

  ‘We need to find him.’ He put the book back down on the pile. Hoped to hell no one else had found him already.

  Mary Currie and Jo Dalgliesh were chatting like old friends when McLean and Ritchie came back into the kitchen. The minister broke off, her face asking the question before she voiced it.

  ‘Find anything?’

  ‘Not what we were hoping for.’ McLean wondered how best to broach the subject, then realised there wasn’t really time for niceties. ‘Tell me, would you have said Daniel was obsessive about things?’

  Mary frowned. ‘Obsessive? Not really. He’s earnest, keen. His faith is very strong. But I wouldn’t have called him obsessive.’

  ‘He has a thing about social deprivation though.’

  ‘Oh, that. Yes, there is that. But I wouldn’t call it an obsession, really. More of a fixation. If there’s a difference.’

  ‘When was the last time you saw him?’ McLean asked. ‘When was the last time you saw this chap who claims to be Norman, for that matter?’

  ‘I’ve not seen Norman since Sunday. We had a service at Saint Michael’s across town. Can’t use our own church at the moment. It’s full of scaffolding and building stuff.’ Mary Currie frowned as she tried to gather her thoughts. ‘Dan was here for breakfast. He was meant to be getting the half-ten train to Leuchars, to have lunch with the bishop and be home in time for Evensong. He was thinking about taking him up on his offer, wanted to discuss it face to face. That’s Daniel for you. Likes to be hands-on.’

  Ritchie looked up from her phone at the words. ‘The bishop’s offer? He was going to take it up?’

  ‘I’m not sure, but I got the feeling he was considering it. He’s been torn about it for weeks now. Sometimes he prays for guidance, but it’s been weighing heavy on him.’

  McLean watched the exchange, not quite understanding it but sure somehow that it was important. ‘I’m missing something here. The bishop’s offer?’

  ‘There’s a parish in Perthshire that’s looking for a new minister. Daniel was offered the post, but he always saw himself as more of a missionary. Never seen someone with such zeal before, but I think he might have been starting to reconsider.’ Mary glanced at DS Ritchie standing in the doorway, clasping her phone as if it were the most precious thing in the world. ‘Can’t think why.’

  The doorbell ringing broke the silence that followed. Ritchie stood bolt upright at the sound, as if someone had wired her into the same circuit as the tinny electronic bell. Without a word she darted out of the kitchen and down the hall. Moments later she returned, less energetically, with DC MacBride in tow.

  ‘Squad car’s arrived and parked outside the gate, sir. Keeping an eye on things until the forensics people arrive. Bale’s e-fit’s gone out to all officers in Scotland. Should be hitting the news later. Oh, and Dagwood wants to know what’s going on.’

  ‘Did you tell him?’

  ‘Thought it best coming from you, sir. He sounds hopping mad you ran off without updating him on Bale.’

  ‘Well, he’ll just have to wait. We’ve a missing curate to find.’ McLean tried to remember what the minister had been saying before they were interrupted. ‘He was praying for guidance? Where would he do that?’

  ‘Where? What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, if the church is off limits, where would he go to pray?’

  ‘Oh, I see what you mean. No. We can’t hold services in the church; Health and Safety won’t let us open it to the public. Nothing stopping Daniel or me from going in there though. If he was looking for a little peace and quiet he might well have gone in there. But he wouldn’t have spent all day there, let alone into the evening.’

  ‘What about this man … Norman? Would he go there to pray too? Even if the signs said keep out?’

  McLean didn’t wait for an answer. He could see it dawning on the minister’s face. He checked his watch, counted the hours. Too many, surely.

  He put a hand on Dalgliesh’s shoulder, pushing her back into her chair as she tried to get up. ‘You stay here, keep Mary company.’ He turned to MacBride. ‘Stay with them. And get more uniforms over here as soon as you can.’ And finally to Ritchie, already putting her phone away. ‘You’re with me.’

  70

  Darkness filled the inside of the church like peat water, shadows casting weird shapes in the open space. Scaffold poles marched down the aisles and criss-crossed in a tangle of metal; the untidy nest of some improbably large bird. The echo of the closing door took less time to fall to nothing than McLean had expected, muf
fled by heavy wooden boards overhead. He held his hand up for silence before Ritchie could say a word, then strained to hear anything unusual in the quiet.

  Nothing. Not even the muted, distant hum of the city outside. The church was unnaturally still, as if something somewhere held its breath in anticipation. Treading softly, McLean stepped into the body of the kirk, all the while listening out for something louder than the thunder of blood in his veins, the racket of his heart beating.

  The ancient, carved stone font squatted in its familiar place, where he had seen it scant months ago, but the rest of the church interior was unrecognisable. Piles of unused scaffold boards stacked up against the pews, themselves dragged to the walls. Looking down, he saw scuffed flagstones, some inscribed with words in memory of the mouldering bones lying beneath them, barely visible in the final gloaming of the dying day. Beside him, Ritchie was turning slowly on one heel, searching for signs of life, when she let out a low moan of horror.

  ‘What is it?’ McLean spoke the words in a low whisper, but she was already moving away from him at a run. And he could see for himself what had set her off.

  At the far end of the nave, just as the low stone steps climbed up to the altar, someone had constructed a makeshift crucifix from scaffolding poles and what looked like roof beams. The first thing that struck McLean was its size, so much bigger than the crosses he was used to seeing on the few, uncomfortable occasions he had found himself in a church. The second thing he noticed was that this cross, unlike the usual Christian affairs, was a crude X. The sort of thing he remembered from school and lessons in ancient history.

  The third thing he saw was the naked man, arms and legs splayed, dark marks where he had been nailed in place.

  ‘Wait!’ McLean tried to shout, but his voice caught in his throat. It was a wasted effort anyway. Ritchie was almost at the body now, reaching out for it. As she did so he recognised the man nailed there as the young minister, Daniel, and the pieces started to fall uncomfortably into place.

  He took a step further into the church, straining his ears to hear anything over the low ‘no, no, no,’ of DS Ritchie as she tried to get to the cross and the man spreadeagled upon it. He had thought the church empty, but it was hard to tell. Too many shadows, dark upon dark in shapes that could simply be benches stacked in a corner, or a murderer lurking with evil intent. He reached the aisle, turning slowly, letting his eyes adjust as he fumbled out his mobile phone. The screen blazed light at his touch, almost painful to look at. Still he thumbed at it until the speed dial for the incident room came up, clamped the phone to his ear as he approached the crucifix.

  ‘McLean,’ he said as soon as the call was answered. ‘Who speaks?’

  ‘It’s me, sir. Sandy … that is, Detective Constable Gregg, sir.’ Well it could have been worse.

  ‘Constable, I need a full tactical team out here as soon as possible.’ McLean gave her the address as he approached the body. The cross was surrounded by a jumble of scaffold poles, precariously balanced one upon another so as to make getting within touching distance almost impossible. Instead of clearing them, Ritchie was trying to climb over, but every time she put a foot down the pile shifted under her and she had to step back again.

  ‘I can’t reach him. We need to move this.’ She bent down and pulled at a scaffold pole, then let out a shriek as it rolled over, trapping her hand. McLean managed to find the end of the pole, lift it enough for her to free herself, then they both had to scramble backwards as the pile collapsed.

  ‘What’s going on, sir? Sounds like a car crash.’ DC Gregg’s voice sounded thin with the clattering of steel pipes still ringing in his ears, but McLean was more concerned by the crucified priest. The noise had stirred him, his head shifting so slightly it might even have been a trick of the light. Except that there was barely any light in the place now to trick them.

  ‘I need an ambulance and a fire team. Five minutes, Constable.’

  ‘I’m on it, sir. Only Superintendent Duguid …’

  Whatever it was Duguid wanted, McLean never found out. Ritchie had managed to pick a path through the tangle of scaffold poles now. She reached the cross and began climbing it, looking for a way to cut her boyfriend down. The instant she touched him, the church filled with a screech like some terrible, fantastical monster roused from its slumbers.

  ‘You must not interfere. This is God’s work!’

  McLean barely had time to react before a figure came flying through the air at him. He ducked out of the reach of a hand he thought was going for his throat, tripped on a coil of rope left behind by the builders and fell backwards. Sharp steel glinted in the half-light, whistling through the air where his neck had been, then his head smacked against something hard. Stars crazed the darkness, a roaring in his ears like standing in a tunnel as the train comes. He fought to stay conscious, vision narrowing to a dark-circled point that focused on the crucified priest and Ritchie’s frantic attempts to cut him down.

  ‘His soul is pure. You cannot stop the Lord from taking him.’ The words were oddly distorted, like a radio dropped into the bath. McLean struggled to pick himself up off the floor, hands finding everything slippery. He lifted one up, seeing it smeared in something dark, and only then did the pain register, a cut across his palm, another at the back of his head where it had hit.

  Everything was in slow motion except the man moving through the shadows. He was everywhere, flicking in and out of existence like some child’s nightmare monster. The jumble of poles was no more of an obstacle to him than chalk lines on a pavement. Closer and closer to the cross, the crucified priest and DS Ritchie, that wicked shining blade blazing with fire as it caught a stray beam of light from the stained glass windows. McLean knew in that instant exactly what had happened to Maureen Shenks. And why.

  ‘No!’ The word sounded dull in his muffled ears, but there was an urgency in it that must have carried. As he scrambled to woozy feet, so Ritchie finally turned her attention away from the cross, saw her attacker at the last possible moment. She ducked away from him as he lunged, her training kicking in as she positioned herself best to deal with the blade. McLean stumbled towards her, the room still spinning in his head, aware somewhere in the back of his mind that he was unarmed, concussed and approaching a man with a knife. The nave seemed to draw away from him as he struggled towards the altar and he watched in horror as Ritchie fell backwards over one arm of the makeshift cross. The man who claimed to be Norman leapt around it, his movements more like those of an ape as he pressed his advantage. She was on her back, arms up to protect herself from the stabbing knife and still McLean was too far away.

  ‘Norman, stop.’

  Whether it was the pitch of his voice or something more fundamental, the use of that name stopped the man in his tracks. At his feet, DS Ritchie was curled in on herself, arms covering her head, the sleeves of her jacket shredded and bloody. Bale straightened, turned to meet his accuser, and McLean realised he was much closer to the cross than he’d thought. He looked up briefly at Daniel’s pale face, wincing in pain as his head protested at the movement.

  ‘Do you like what I’ve done, Tony?’

  The voice was at once alien and hauntingly familiar. Older, true, but also just the same. Could it really be him? Had his grandmother lied to him about Norman’s death? Had he really survived? Grown up to become this monster?

  Norman stepped lightly away from Ritchie, the knife still sharp in his grasp. As he walked around the cross, he ran his free hand down Daniel’s naked thigh, smearing the blood that had dribbled from the crucified man’s hand down his arm, dripped from his armpit like thick, red sweat. A low noise stirred from the body, bubbles of spittle and blood leaking from his nose. Still alive. There was still hope. And help was surely on its way now. He just needed a little time.

  ‘I thought you died. All those years ago. Leukaemia. That’s what they told me.’

  ‘Oh, I died, Tony. I had a disease that your precious science couldn’t cure. Of cour
se it couldn’t. It was God’s will that I die. He took me into his arms and told me I was chosen.’

  McLean couldn’t be sure whether his head was clearing or not, but he felt a little steadier on his feet. He edged slowly backwards, up the aisle in the direction of the font. The man who might have been Norman followed him, still holding that wicked sharp knife.

  ‘Why, Norman? What were you chosen for? What was Daniel to you? What were the others?’

  ‘You don’t know? You can’t see it?’ Norman took a step closer and McLean could see the madness in his eyes, glinting in the last of the light. They flicked around like a bird’s. Darting here and there, trying to take in everything but seeing something very different to the mundane.

  ‘Tell me what I should be seeing.’ McLean edged back another step, hoping Ritchie wasn’t badly injured. Any minute now the cavalry would arrive. Surely.

  ‘Of course you can’t see it. None of them could. But I can. I can see it in them. In Daniel here, in Ben and Jim and all the others. And I can see it in you.’

  Norman lunged forward, knife hand outstretched. McLean moved slowly, too slowly, his head still filled with sawdust and fireworks. A ripping sound, and he felt a tug on his jacket, a sharp pain in his side as the knife slid across his ribs. He pirouetted around, trying to get out of the way as Norman danced in the darkness, coming in for a killing strike. Something blocked him, the ancient carved stone font. He was trapped, helpless.

  ‘Such glory in his work. Two perfect souls will go to heaven this day.’ Norman stepped up close, knife held high as he made to strike. McLean raised his hands in defence, knowing it was useless, remembering the mess that had been made of Ben Stevenson and Maureen Shenks.

  And then confusion. A dull thud echoed briefly in the hall. Bale’s eyes shot upwards even as his knees gave way. He dropped the knife, crumpled to the silent floor. Behind him a grinning Devil’s face loomed out of the shadows. Jo Dalgliesh held a short length of scaffold pole in her hand, an evil glint in her eye.