Not a very Christian attitude, mused Snow, but he kept that thought to himself. He could see from the fierce spark in the man’s eyes and the ferocious demeanour that he was not a fellow to argue with.
‘Well, I am here on official police business and I’d like to have words with Father Vincent.’
‘Mmm,’ came the tight-lipped response.
‘Where will I find him?’
Brian Stead stared at Snow for some moments, his mouth moving slowly as though he was chewing something unpleasant and deliberating whether to give this policeman the information he required. At length, he spoke. ‘He’ll be in the vicarage now. That’s at the back of the church. Go out the door, turn left, follow the path right round, pass through the graveyard on your right and you’ll see the house through the trees.’
Snow nodded. ‘Thank you.’
As he turned to go, Stead added, ‘Don’t keep him too long. He’s had a busy day.’
The vicarage turned out to be a modern bungalow. Snow assumed that there must have had been an older building standing in this position, built in the Victorian period at the same time as the church, but for some reason it had been demolished and this modern rabbit hutch erected in its place. It looked as though it had been built sometime in the 1960s. Typical of its period, it was squat, square and utilitarian in appearance; quite ugly in fact.
He made his way up the slippery flagged path and rang the bell. He could hear its modern bing-bong resonate inside. He did not have to wait long before the door opened and the tall cleric stood before him.
‘Inspector. Good evening. Do come in. It’s too cold to converse on the door step.’ Without further conversation Father Vincent led Snow into the shabby brightly lit sitting room. With a hand gesture, Snow was offered a seat.
‘Would you care for a cup of tea?
Snow shook his head. ‘No thank you, I’m fine.’
‘So, what brings you here Inspector? How can I help?’
‘Frank Sullivan.’
The priest’s features darkened. ‘Oh, terrible, terrible. What a tragedy.’
‘How well did you know him?’
Father Vincent shrugged. ‘Hardly at all’. He smiled faintly and shook his head as though something had amused him. ‘We seem to have had this conversation before with regards to Sammy Tindall. As I said then, I get to know my regular parishioners well of course but those who only make, how shall I put it, sporadic visits are generally strangers to me. The fact that they return from time to time pleases me for it seems to show that they are gaining some form of comfort and support from the Lord. I had seen Frank Sullivan’s face in the congregation occasionally but I had not been in conversation with him until the funeral of his daughter.’
‘Did he come to confession?’
Father pursed his lips and gave Snow an uncompromising stare. ‘You know the situation here, Inspector, surely. I cannot be expected to answer such a question. Whether a man comes to me for confession and what transpires in the Sacrament of Penance remains confidential between the sinner, his priest and God.’
Snow nodded. ‘Yes, Father, I am aware of that. I only asked if Frank Sullivan came to you for confession.’
‘I still cannot say. The implication in itself would be a betrayal of trust. Such information is within the bounds of my confidentiality.’
‘I ask because I think he carried with him the weight of a great sin on his shoulders. One which I believe he would have the need to share, to unburden himself.’
Father Vincent raised his eyebrows in surprise but Snow was not convinced this gesture reflected genuine emotion. ‘I see,’ said Father Vincent at length.
‘You are not curious as to what I’m referring?’
‘The man is dead. There is no profit in discussing whatever you consider he did in life. It makes no difference now.’
‘Can’t you help me here?’
‘I am afraid not.’
‘Do you know if Frank Sullivan and Sammy Tindall were acquainted with each other?’
A benign smile flittered across Father Vincent’s face. ‘Oh, dear, you will think that I am deliberately trying to hinder your investigations by my answers, Inspector. But I assure you I am not. My vows as a priest forbid me to discuss any information concerning the Sacrament of Penance and now my ignorance concerning the two gentlemen you have just mentioned leads me to present you with another negative response. As I’ve said Mr Sullivan and Mr Tindall were irregular churchgoers and I am not au fait with their friendship networks. In simple terms, I have no idea if they knew each other or not. I can say that I never saw them in each other’s company in church, but I suspect that is not much of a help’.
‘Not really, but then I am chasing errant straws in the wind. Both men have been murdered and all the evidence points to the crimes being committed by the same person…’
‘Which prompts you to seek a motive and a connection. I do see. So where does the death of the young girl come into this?’
Snow wondered whether the priest playing with him now? If Frank Sullivan had confessed that he had raped his daughter and fathered her unborn child, Father Vincent would know all about it. If not, well he wasn’t about to fill in this gap in his knowledge. Not just yet anyway.
‘That’s another conundrum I have to solve,’ he said.
‘I wish you well in your endeavours. May God’s help be with you. There are so many wicked people in the world. Let us hope you catch the murderer before he strikes again.’
Amen to that thought Snow.
As he drove away from the vicarage, Paul Snow ran the interview with Father Vincent though in his mind. Despite the priest’s intransigence, Snow was convinced that Frank Sullivan had unburdened himself in confessional. If he had not, there really was nothing in the cleric’s rules to prevent him from saying so. He wondered, bitterly, how many Hail Mary’s Sullivan had been given to absolve himself from the rape of his daughter.
‘I was hoping you could put me up for a few weeks, till I get a place of my own’.
‘You intend to stay around here?’ Matilda could not keep the note of surprise and dismay from her voice.
‘Why not? I’m a free agent – now. Be close to my big sister. We can get to know each other again.’
Matilda was tempted to respond with, ‘I know you too well already’, but she bit her tongue instead.
She and her brother Roger were back at her house and he was lounging on the sofa while she stood uneasily in front of the fireplace.
Suddenly, he leaned forward, his features concerned and serious. ‘Look Mat, there’s no need to worry. I have changed, you know. Really, I have. I’ve paid my dues for running off the rails. I’m a good boy now and I intend to stay that way but I do need a little help, some encouragement to get me started again.’
Matilda forced a smile. ‘Of course. Your sudden appearance has taken me by surprise that’s all. You can stay in the spare room for a few weeks while you get yourself sorted.’ The words made her mouth dry. It was the last thing she really wanted to say. She had an overwhelming sense that her fairly placid, organised life was about to go into freefall.
‘That’s great,’ Roger grinned, his serious mask evaporating as easily as it had appeared. ‘Now then, what does a man have to do to get a drink around here? I’m gagging for a gin and tonic.’
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
Snow had not seen Matilda since his visit to her school. It had bothered him that his professional life had intruded upon hers. He was aware how discomforting she had found it and he too had felt awkward dealing in a formalised way with someone he was close to. He felt somehow that the experience had sullied their relationship a little. It was as though this rather brittle encounter had placed a barrier between them. He thought that it was significant that she had not been in touch with him since, not given him a ring for a chat or arranged a date. Certainly they didn’t live in each other’s pockets and the demands of their jobs often meant they did not see each
other for days, even a week, but there was always the odd phone call, usually late at night, to help bridge these gaps. But not now. However, he was well aware that he had not contacted her either and now as Friday dawned he was feeling guilty about it. While in the shower that morning, he decided to break this impasse. He couldn’t live his life with these uncertainties. It was time to call her and arrange for a meeting that evening if she was free. At least then he would know where he stood.
He towelled himself dry and while still in his robe, he padded downstairs and reached for the phone. He knew that she left for school early, but at this time he reckoned that he would catch her before she set off. As he dialled the number, suddenly he felt a warm glow of affection for Matilda. Despite his uncertainties about their relationship, he really was fond of her and felt very comfortable in her company. It would be a great shame if something happened to spoil that. The phone rang for some time and his spirits sank as he thought he must have missed her. Then his call was answered.
‘Hello,’ said a voice. It sounded cross and harsh. It was a man’s voice.
For a few seconds Paul was perplexed. Have I misdialled, he thought, and got the wrong number.
‘Hello,’ the voice said again.
‘I was hoping to speak to Matilda Shawcross.’
‘You’ve missed her. She’s gone to work already.’
It wasn’t the wrong number then.
‘Thanks,’ he said hesitantly.
Abruptly, the receiver was replaced at the other end and his ear filled with a sharp burring sound.
Well that was a bolt from the blue. He wandered into the kitchen somewhat in a daze and made himself a strong coffee. ‘What was that all about?’ he murmured and then took a sip of scalding coffee, allowing it to burn the inside of his mouth and taking some perverse pleasure from the process. Come on, he chivvied himself, you are the detective: explain that scenario. Who was that answering the phone in Matilda’s house – after she had gone to work? Too early for a workman/repairman - surely. Paul knew of no other men in Matilda’s life – at least none that she had told him about. There had been the husband but he was long gone and not likely to return. The voice was brisk and alert, suggesting youth rather than age. Was it time for alarm bells to start ringing? Surely, it couldn’t be another boyfriend? She was not the type to two time him – or anyone. It was not in her nature. Or had he been fooled? Well, it wouldn’t be the first time. These thoughts niggled at him as he drained the coffee mug and got dressed.
If he, Paul Snow, had one sterling trait, it was his ability to be patient – an ideal quality for a policeman. He would now have to exercise this regarding Matilda. He couldn’t rush at the problem in a clumsy and aggressive manner. He would have to wait and see how things fell out.
As he pulled up in the car park at the Huddersfield HQ, he compartmentalised this nagging dilemma, pushing it the back of his mind and attempted to focus on the demands of his job. A snotty, sniffing Bob Fellows was waiting for him in his office. He had returned to work the day before but still looked like death warmed up. The rheumy eyes and red nose indicated clearly that the heavy cold was still in residence.
‘I’ve had a thought,’ he said as Snow hung up his coat.
‘How did it make its way through the mucus?’
‘Slowly with wellington boots on.’
Both men smiled.
‘Go on, dazzle me with your thought. I really need stimulating this morning.’
‘The Tindall and Sullivan case. Perhaps we are dealing with an ancient grudge here.’
‘Go on, Sherlock.’
‘Well, there seems little to connect these two men…’
‘For little read ‘nothing’.
‘Yes,’ agreed Bob, dabbing his nose with his handkerchief. ‘Apparently they didn’t know each other. They didn’t mix in the same social circles. In fact they didn’t seem to have any social circles.’
‘Which is indicative of something, I suppose.’
‘That they were a pair of miserable buggers.’
‘You put it so elegantly and succinctly.’
‘But that might not have always been the case. What if they’d known each other say ten or maybe twenty years ago – when they were young men. They live in the same town and were about the same age. It’s not beyond the bounds of possibility that they had known each other then: worked for same firm maybe, played on the same team, hung out in the same boozer or courted the same girl even. Something that links the two of them and, indeed, links them to the next victim.’
‘Don’t say that!’ groaned Snow. ‘‘Next victim’, indeed.’ He rubbed his chin and thought for a moment. ‘You could have a point. It’s certainly worth digging back into their histories to see what we can come up with. School days, work patterns, clubs etc. Good thinking, Batman. At the moment it seems to be the only straw that we can clutch at. Okay, off you go, take your snotty carcass out of here and follow that up. Let me know if find out anything significant.’
Bob Fellows gave a mock salute and sniffed noisily before leaving the room.
Snow made himself a coffee: a thick black brew which was his drug. He had never counted how many mugs of the stuff he downed in a day, perhaps because he was aware that if he did he would be appalled at the number. He sat at his desk and sighed as he gazed at the two files sitting there. He knew he had to sift through the material yet again to see if there was anything, anything at all, that might give him some kind of lead in the Tindall and Sullivan murders. He also knew that this would be a fruitless task.
Half an hour later, he felt his eyelids drooping and the text misting before him. He had read it all before, scrutinised it before and analysed it before. There was nothing new. Nothing tangible to grasp and run with. Suddenly he thought of Matilda and the phone call earlier that morning. Initially, he was annoyed for allowing thoughts of a personal matter intrude while he was working but he justified this intrusion to himself by realising that here at least was a mystery he could clear up quite easily. With one telephone call.
He gazed at the phone on his desk. It stood there in its shiny black case beckoning to him. He glanced at his watch. 9.30. School assembly would be over. Probably Matilda would be in her office now. Well, he could find out. He snatched up the receiver and rang the school. He got through quite quickly to the secretary. ‘I’ll see if Miss Shawcross is free,’ she said calmly and efficiently.
Paul waited and began to wonder if he had done the right thing. Had he been too impulsive? He heard the receiver being lifted at the other end. It was too late now.
‘Hello.’ The tone was neutral, if anything, apprehensive.
‘Hello Matilda. Sorry to bother you at work.’
‘Is it about the Sullivan girl?’ The voice was laden with concern.
‘No, no. It’s… well it’s a personal matter. I rang you at home this morning, wondering if you’d like to meet up for a drink this evening…’
‘Really. I didn’t get the call.’ Her voice seemed strained, distant.
‘No. You’d gone to work. A man told me.’
‘Ah.’
He waited a moment but she said no more and so he jumped in, feet first. ‘I was wondering who he was.’
‘I have a house guest at the moment. I’ll tell you about him later.’
Why not now? A simple explanation was all that was needed. Wasn’t it?
‘It’s complicated,’ she added.
What the hell did that mean?
‘Well… I was wondering… how about that drink this evening?’
‘I’m sorry but I’ve got rather too much on at present. I’d love to… but I can’t. Can we leave it for now?’
Leave it for now! Was he getting the heave ho? Certainly sounded like it.
‘Sure, anything you say.’
‘Call me next week, eh? At work.’
Not at home. Not where ‘the house guest’ is.
‘Yes, sure. Bye for now then.’
‘Yes, bye.’
/>
He lowered the receiver and stared ahead, his forehead frozen in a frown. He had been wrong. He had given up on one mystery in the belief that he would solve a less puzzling one. But now he was more confused than before. Matilda was behaving oddly. For some reason she didn’t want to see him – not for the moment at least - and there was a man living in her house. Perhaps it was the beginning of the end which perhaps, he mused reluctantly, was for the best given his own deep rooted uncertainty about the future of such a liaison. He was well aware that his own innate sexuality had not been eradicated, conquered or whatever phrase he could think of to suggest that it had gone away. It was, he knew, only sleeping. Matilda was not a cure. And yet she had given him comfort, warmth and affection which he had not experienced in his adult life before. That he would miss and the thought of life without her saddened him greatly.
Suddenly, he realised that his fists were clenched, the nails digging into the flesh of his palms. He gave a snort of irritation. He was over-reacting, growing melodramatic, creating a bleak scenario from a few minor uncertainties. However, he knew that he would not be at ease until found out what was really going on.
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
He knew that this one had to be different – if only to buy him some more time. He had already set a kind of pattern and he was aware that the police would be desperately trying to fathom it out. He didn’t underestimate their intelligence, aware that a third victim with similar provenance would be helping them too much. Guiding them towards the truth. Leading them to him. That must not happen. He had no desire to help them at all. He knew, of course, that he would be caught in time. He was philosophical about that, but he wanted to carry on a lot longer than this. Two was a minor number. There had to be more: the body count had to be much bigger before the end came. So now it was time to throw a spanner in their works and confuse the issue for the gentlemen of the law. The notion pleased him and warmed his soul.
He sat at the kitchen table and spread out the local newspaper and gazed at the article on page four, in particular at the grinning features of a swarthy fellow who with charmless aplomb was sticking two fingers up at the photographer. This was Simon Barraclough caught outside Hull Prison on his recent release. As the article revealed he had served his two year sentence for aggravated burglary and was once more a free man. His leering features quite clearly indicated that two years in choky had not chastened him one jot. There was no remorse or shame imprinted on those grim features – only gloating defiance and brutish arrogance. The two-fingered gesture epitomised the nature of the beast. His expression told it all: ‘I’ve got away with it. Two years at Her Majesty’s pleasure was a doddle, so fuck you’.
Blood Rites: A Detective Inspector Paul Snow thriller Page 8
