Blood Rites: A Detective Inspector Paul Snow thriller

by David Stuart Davies

  Panic set in.

  She had to escape. This had all been a terrible mistake. She had to get out – now! She rose quickly and made a move for the exit. The plastic chair scraped on the floor attracting the constable’s attention. He saw the woman make for the door.

  ‘Hey, miss,’ he called out, but it was too late, she had gone.

  As Lucy felt the cold air on her face again, she collided with a tall thin man in a blue overcoat who was carrying a black bin liner.

  ‘Whoa,’ he cried.

  Lucy gazed up into his face. It was a kind face, she thought, if a little sad.

  ‘Where are you going to in such a hurry?’ he said.

  For a moment her mind whirled and then she said, ‘Bus. Mustn’t miss my bus.’ And pulling away from him quickly, she rushed off down the street.

  Snow shrugged. His instinct was to go after her. Anyone leaving police HQ in such a hurry must raise one’s suspicions but she seemed harmless enough and he didn’t want to over-dramatise the situation. Just as Snow was about to enter the building, PC Purvis emerged, nearly bumping into him.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ he said. ‘I was trying to catch a young woman. Did you see her?’

  ‘I did. She’s hurried off down the street, possibly to the bus station.’

  ‘Probably gone to sleep it off, more like.’

  ‘What’s it all about?’

  Purvis shrugged. ‘Piss artist. About to waste police time but changed her mind. We’re used to them in the evenings, but not so much at lunch time.’

  Snow nodded and made his way inside, casting the incident from his mind. He had other matters to concern him.

  He took the bin liner up to his office, brewed himself a strong coffee and then dipping into the black plastic sack, pulled out the picture with the illustration of Jesus. It was a heavily sentimentalised portrait which, Snow felt sure, was meant to be used for domestic worship. A little do-it-yourself altar for the living room. Sure enough, there on the back was a rubber stamped logo: ‘St Joseph’s Church. Peace be with you.’

  He stared at the picture long and hard. He knew what he had to do. It had to be worth a second try. Subtle, clever questioning, catching the fellow off guard might just reveal a little more information. With a bit of luck he might let slip more than he meant to. Snow shrugged. He had nothing to lose by trying. Confucius he say man without haystack grasps any straw. Snow smiled grimly to himself.

  The afternoon was bright if bitterly cold with a flawless china blue sky which promised a hard frost that evening. Snow strolled casually through the churchyard, stopping every so often to read one of the ancient gravestones there. ‘William Crowther, watchmaker of this parish, died 1874 and the age of forty two. A good man and true’. Forty two. Life was short then even for those who were allowed to run their natural course.

  The church door was closed, but it opened quite easily when Snow turned the large rusty ring that hung down by the lock. The squeak of the hinges echoed inside like the call of some strange bird. The church, illuminated only by the shafts of daylight falling through the stained glass windows resembled a smoky etching, a scene which was both pleasing and somehow comforting to Snow. He was not a religious man but he had always enjoyed the serenity and hushed calming atmosphere of churches.

  ‘Can I help?’ A voice broke the silence.

  Snow sought its owner. He found him standing on a tall step ladder by one of the light fittings at the right hand side of the door. It was the brusque Brian Stead, the church warden, gazing down at him through his thick lenses.

  ‘I said, can I help,’ he repeated in a tone that suggested that the last thing he wanted to do was help.

  ‘Hello, there Mr Stead…’

  The church warden stiffened. It was clear he was surprised that this shadowy visitor knew his name.

  ‘It’s Inspector Snow. I was hoping to have a word with Father Vincent.’

  ‘Oh, it’s you.’ With care, Arnold made his way down the step ladder. He came close to Snow peering at him as though to verify that he was indeed Inspector Snow and not an imposter. ‘I think the Father is in the vestry attending to some business or other. If you’ll come this way, I’ll see if he has time to see you.’

  Snow repressed a smile. ‘That’s very kind,’ he said.

  As they walked down the aisle towards the altar, Snow took the picture of Christ from his inside pocket. ‘Tell me,’ he said casually, ‘are these pictures readily available to your parishioners?’

  Stead twisted his head in the direction of the picture and with stiff mechanical actions, crossed himself. ‘Not readily available. They cost money to print do them. Father Vincent has a stock of them and he gives them to some of those who come to confess. Well, I say he gives them. They’re fifty pence. But, as you can see they’re good quality. I’ve got one at home. It’s good to be reminded that He’s looking after you. That He’s part of your life. Mind you some of the flotsam and jetsam that turn up for confession don’t deserve His mercy or His forgiveness, I can tell you. They think if they spill the beans regarding the nastiness they’ve been doin’ it’s all right. Their slate will be wiped clean, ready for them to mess it up again’.

  ‘And you think it hasn’t been wiped clean?’

  ‘Of course it hasn’t. A bad deed is a bad deed. A few Hail Mary’s won’t wash the stain away. A wrong cannot be made right.’

  ‘That’s what your religion says.’

  ‘Maybe. I am not so sure.’

  ‘Is Father Vincent sure?’

  Arnold opened his mouth and was about to say something when he shut it again. ‘That’s not for me to say. You’d best be asking him that. All I know is that worshipping Christ and being a good man is the moral way and those that stray don’t deserve any kind of salvation. They’re given a choice and if they take the wrong road it’s their fault and they should pay.’

  ‘That’s rather harsh.’

  ‘That’s a strange point of view coming from a copper. You like to bang wrongs ‘uns up don’t you? You don’t let ‘em off lightly. There’s no forgiveness there in a prison sentence. I see these folk coming to this church to see the Father, heads hanging down, mournful expression, tearful, the lot. Five minutes in that box and they skip out with a smile and a song. They use the confession as a kind of get out clause… Well that’s my view anyway. You’d be surprised how many of ‘em come back time after time to be let off the hook.’ He gave an inarticulate growl and moved his hand in a swift dismissive action to indicate that was all he was going to say on the subject.

  Snow took the hint. ‘Are these pictures exclusive to this church?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so. Father Francis gets them in. Again, you’d better ask him.’

  By now they had reached the transept before the altar. ‘Wait here,’ said Stead, still maintaining his bluff tone as he disappeared through a side door.

  Snow sat down on the front pew and inhaled, taking in that special air that one finds in old churches: it is cool, strangely scented, a mixture of incense, polish and a faint trace of damp. Snow found it uplifting. He gazed at the rich multi-coloured fragments in the stained glass windows, which glistened in the gloom. He was rather disappointed to have his reverie interrupted by the return of Brian Stead.

  ‘Father Vincent says you can go through.’

  Snow found the priest in the cramped vestry, hunched over an ancient gas ring. ‘You’ve called at a very convenient time, Inspector. I am just about to make a pot of tea. Would you care to join me?’

  Snow was not a great fan of tea but he knew it would be useful to the interview for him to be amenable. ‘That would be most kind. Just a little milk and no sugar.’

  Once the tea ceremony had been completed, both men were seated by the priest’s desk which was laden with leaflets, piles of paper, various volumes and files. He saw Snow note the apparent paper chaos and smiled. ‘I assure you there is a method in my filing system. I can lay my hands on anything I want without a search,’ he s
aid smiling.

  ‘Do you have copies of these?’ Snow produced the picture of Christ.

  ‘Indeed, I have. Where did you get that one?’

  ‘From the work locker of Frank Sullivan.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ replied Father Vincent, his gentle features darkening.

  ‘How did he come by it?’

  ‘I gave it to him. As a comfort, when he came to see me.’

  ‘When he came to confess.’

  Father Vincent sighed. Snow was so persistent. ‘To confessional. Yes,’ he agreed, throwing the detective a crumb.

  ‘To reveal all his sins.’

  ‘It’s what we do as Catholics. Do you have a faith yourself, Inspector?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Ah, I see.’

  ‘Why did Sullivan need comfort, the picture of Christ?’

  ‘I would have thought that was obvious, Inspector. He had just lost his daughter in very distressing circumstances.’

  ‘It had nothing to do with his sins?’

  ‘I believe we have had this conversation before. You know very well that what Frank Sullivan said to me is…’ The priest faltered and gave another sigh before taking a large gulp of tea. ‘Look, Inspector,’ he resumed, ‘believe me I do not wish to hinder your investigations but you must understand and appreciate my position.’ He paused again and Snow waited. ‘Let me say this, I am sure that nothing Frank Sullivan said to me in confessional will have any bearing on the terrible murders that you are investigating. How could it? The man ended up dead himself.’

  ‘But why? I’d like to know if he had any inkling that his life was in danger.’

  ‘I don’t believe he did. He was just a sinner seeking forgiveness. That’s all I can say.’

  ‘And did he receive forgiveness?’

  ‘It’s not for me to take on the role of our Lord. I listen and offer succour.’

  ‘And provide a penance.’

  ‘Yes, that is the route to forgiveness.’

  ‘So no matter what foul sin a man may commit, he can be given a route to forgiveness, as you call it, an escape route.’

  ‘If you want to put it like that, but it does not mean that he will receive full absolution from his sins.’

  Snow left the priest uncertain whether the visit had been useful to him or not. Certainly on the surface he had learned little that was new but something the priest had said troubled him. He had always assumed that a confessional led to complete absolution. It seemed, however that Father Vincent thought differently.

  As Snow made his way down the aisle on his way out of the church, Brian Stead emerged out of the shadows. ‘I bet you got nowhere, eh, Inspector? Like a clam is Father Vincent. He won’t reveal a word of what they say to him. I wish he would.’

  ‘Why is that?’ asked Snow casually.

  ‘Well, they need to suffer, don’t they? If they’ve committed a sin in the eyes of God, they need to pay for it with a bit of pain. Depending on what they’ve done.’

  ‘What about murder? If they confess to murder?’

  Stead grinned ghoulishly and drew his right forefinger across his throat.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY THREE

  As Matilda drove home she was filled with a mixture of excitement and apprehension. She was going back to an empty house – she hoped. She had waved Roger off in a taxi that morning. He had taken with him the two suitcases containing all his worldly possessions. He was off to his new flat and giving her back her life. Initially, she had felt a tiny pang of guilt at pushing this filial cuckoo from her nest; but she very quickly recovered from that. She knew that her brother was still going to be there in the background and she feared that he would prove to be a problem from time to time, but at least now she had recovered the sanctuary of her own dwelling. And now perhaps she could resume her relationship with Paul and get that back on track.

  As she turned her car up the drive, the thought struck her that maybe the whole thing was one of Roger’s jokes. He had returned as soon as she had left the house and when she opened the door he would be standing there grinning at her, shouting, ‘Surprise, surprise!’ Although she knew this was nonsense she couldn’t shake the unsettling idea from her mind as she approached her front door and unlocked it.

  The house was empty. It was still, silent and thankfully Roger-free. There was, however, a bottle of champagne, a bunch of flowers and a note waiting for her in the kitchen. The sight of these chilled her. So he had returned. He had come back to the house after she had gone to work. She snatched up the note, scribbled in Roger’s extravagant hand: ‘Hey Sis, thanks for your kindness. You are no doubt delighted to have me out of your hair. Well, darling, you can relax now. And I promise you the new flat is just the first step on the complete rehabilitation of yours truly. But more importantly, I’d like you and Paul to come for dinner on Sat evening at my new pad. See you around 7.30. No excuses. Love R.’

  Despite herself, Matilda smiled. This was followed by the return of the feelings of guilt. Perhaps she had misjudged her brother after all. Certainly, she now thought, she had been too hard on him. Could it be that he was about to do a reversal of the Jekyll and Hyde routine and actually convert into an honest and respectable citizen? Time would tell and she would have to be patient. Matilda slipped the champagne in the fridge and put the flowers in a vase in the hall and then poured herself a large white wine. Slipping her shoes off, she slumped into an armchair and sighed. Perhaps things were going to get better now. This thought collided with one about Paul. Could she really woo him back to her after this strange interlude? She had rather frozen him out of her life for a while. She now accepted that her frustrations and worries regarding Roger had turned her into an ice maiden where Paul was concerned. She had behaved badly and would need to practise some clever coaxing to get the relationship back on track. Certainly, she couldn’t imagine an evening meal at Roger’s place would hold any attractions for him.

  On impulse, she slurped down the rest of the wine and rang Paul. She got the answer machine. She grimaced, but left a message.

  After her abortive visit to the police station, Lucy had returned home and drank several cups of coffee. She felt awful both physically and mentally. Her mind was a mess. She was a mess. Her life was a mess. Well, she mused, what do you expect when you’ve just murdered your child? This brutal observation brought on another bout of crying. If only there was someone she could turn to. But there was no one. She had no family. There were a few casual friends but she could hardly reveal her dark secret to them. They would be appalled. They would inform the authorities.

  She wandered about the tiny flat, running her hands through her hair, desperate for some comfort, some glimmer of light. Perhaps… perhaps she should pray…?

  ‘I can recommend the chicken madras. It warms up a treat.’

  Paul Snow turned his attention from the freezer cabinet in the Fine Fayre supermarket where he had been perusing the vast array of microwave meals for one to face the speaker. It was Roger. He was grinning broadly.

  Snow found himself lost for words. He felt awkward and unprepared for this encounter. He really didn’t know how to react to this man, not after their last meeting.

  ‘Or perhaps that is a little too spicy for you,’ Roger continued with a knowing wink.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Snow found himself saying.

  ‘Miserable little things, aren’t they? These meals for one. Made to be consumed by losers, billy-no-mates. For those who can’t even find a companion to have a little nibble with. I’ve eaten my fair share so I should know. Surprised that you’re after one though. Thought you might have been out on the town with Matilda celebrating.’

  ‘Celebrating?’

  ‘Getting me out of the way so that you could… carry on where you’d left off before I turned up and interrupted things.’

  Snow turned back to the cabinet and picked up the chicken madras. ‘This will do me tonight,’ he said.

  Roger laughed. ‘A fellow of firm principle
s. I like that in a man.’ He touched Snow’s arm briefly. Snow took a small step back. ‘Paul, will you do me a favour before you fly away to your manly chicken dish for one. Seriously…?’

  Snow raised his brow in silent query.

  ‘Come and have a drink with me now. Just a pint. As a kind of apology for my dreadful behaviour the other evening. I know I was crass and stupid. I really don’t want there to be an awkward rift between us.’

  Snow shook his head. ‘I don’t think…’

  ‘Please, my dear chap. Just for me. I’m a ‘meal for one’ saddo too. I’m alone in this big old town. A bit of company for brief while. Just one pint, eh?’ Roger touched Snow’s arm again. This time he did not move.

  It was early evening in the White Hart and the pub was abuzz with noise and clouded with cigarette smoke. It was filled with workers on their way home who had called in for the one drink and had stayed for more, along with old codgers who had been drinking slowly and quietly for most of the afternoon and the odd teenage group gearing up for a night out. Snow and Roger had walked there from the supermarket while Roger kept up a monologue of inconsequentialities and Snow remained silent. He wondered why the hell he had succumbed to the offer of a drink – a drink with this man of all people. Maybe it was because he was Matilda’s brother – but that explanation did not really convince him. He was not normally that weak or indecisive. He was angry and disappointed with himself; but also - and this was more worrying - apprehensive. They found a seat in the far corner of the main bar after Roger had secured their drinks.

  ‘Cheers,’ grinned Roger, clinking Paul’s glass. ‘So glad I bumped into you. Rendezvous at the chiller cabinet, eh? And so glad you agreed to come for a drink.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Snow, gently.

  ‘Ah, forever the policeman, eh? What was my motive, officer? Well, to clear the air, I suppose. As I said, I was a bit foolish the other night and I apologise but I do want us to be friends. I don’t have many in this town. I don’t have any, in fact. I’ve been away too long. It’s not easy coming out of the nick and trying to start afresh you know.’