by Neil Boyd
When the warder on duty momentarily turned his eyes away, Zachary slipped a card under the grill. There was only a fraction of an inch of space. Nothing thicker would have made it.
I was about to protest that this was against regulations when I saw he had handed me a holy picture.
‘For my mum,’ he whispered. ‘In your book with it, Father. Quick, for God’s sake.’
Before putting it into my breviary, I just had time to notice that it was a picture of Pope Pius XII, his aquiline face in profile. He was clad in scarlet with a white skull cap and his hands were joined in prayer. Above his head the papal insignia and, at the bottom, in crude handwriting, ‘Thou art Peter and upon this Rock I will build my Church.’
‘Your mother will like that,’ I said softly. ‘Would you like absolution?’
‘Please, Father.’
‘Right, Emilio, you can make your confession without the warder overhearing.’
‘Just absolution will do, Father. No confession.’
‘I can’t give you absolution unless you confess your sins.’
‘Sins?’ he asked hoarsely. ‘What sort of facilities for sins do you think they provide us with here?’
I declined to speculate. ‘I’ll give you a blessing.’
‘Thank you kindly, Father.’ And he bowed his head.
Before I left, Emilio said:
‘Tell my mother to remember me and Dev in her prayers.’
‘Mr. de Valera?’
‘Yeah. A family joke. I think he’s some sort of Irish geezer. My mother’s potty about him.’
When I gave Mrs. Grourke the messages, she sat gazing at the picture of Pius XII and said, ‘God bless him,’ whether referring to his Holiness or Zachary or Mr. de Valera I could not tell.
The middle-aged gentleman was wearing a fawn raincoat and fingering a brown trilby like a rosary. As soon as he entered the sacristy after Sunday’s nine o’clock Mass I knew it meant trouble.
I had removed my vestments and the altar server was extinguishing the candles when the stranger flashed his identification in front of my nose.
‘Scotland Yard. Is there somewhere a bit more private, sir?’
In my room, he introduced himself. ‘Detective Sergeant Chinnery of C.I.D. You, sir, I gather are Father …’
‘Neil Boyd,’ I said, offering him a chair. I hadn’t the slightest doubt he had come about Emilio.
‘The church notice board says the priest in charge is a Father Duddleswell.’
‘He has nothing to do with it.’
He stared at me. ‘With what, sir?’
‘With whatever you’re going to say.’
‘What am I going to say, sir?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You only know he’s innocent of what I’m going to say.’
‘Yes.’
He looked at me coldly as he took out his notebook. ‘Have you by any chance seen today’s papers, sir?’
‘No.’
‘Or listened to the wireless?’
I shook my head. ‘I’ve been saying Mass all morning.’
‘Good. It’s better that way. For everyone concerned.’
I was on the point of asking what this was all about when it flashed through my mind that, in films, guilty people always said that. I decided to act as if this was a friendly call. The act didn’t last long.
‘Emilio Zaccharone,’ he began, testing me. ‘Ah, I see the name means something to you, sir.’
‘Well, yes. I’ve met him. Once.’
‘Last Tuesday afternoon between three and three-thirty.’
‘Wormwood Scrubs.’
‘You knew I’d come about Zaccharone, didn’t you, sir?’
‘Yes.’
‘Even though today you’ve not read a paper or listened to the radio.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Can you explain this?’
‘Sixth sense, Officer.’
‘You’re psychic?’
‘No, Sergeant, just inclined to get into a fix.’
He nodded as if to signify he didn’t believe a word I said.
‘He hasn’t escaped, has he, Sergeant? He’s not dead?’
Detective Sergeant Chinnery lifted his head like a patient ox from his notebook. ‘I ask the questions, sir.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘But I do not know the answers,’ he admitted, ‘and that’s why I’m here.’
Odd, I thought. If he doesn’t know whether Emilio has escaped or not, is alive or not, why doesn’t he call Wormwood Scrubs and ask them to look in his cell? They’d tell an officer from Scotland Yard, surely. Why is he interrogating me?
I hadn’t read my Dostoievsky for nothing. Perhaps this plausible chap in my chair wasn’t from Scotland Yard. I’d better answer cagily.
But if he was genuine, my caginess would make matters worse for me, especially if Emilio had done something silly in prison like killing a warder. Besides, the Sergeant knew too much about me already to be an imposter, even the date and duration of my visit to Wormwood Scrubs.
‘When you visited Zaccarone on Tuesday, sir, did you pass him anything? Metal objects, for instance?’
‘He has killed someone,’ I blurted out.
‘Has he, sir?’
‘Hasn’t he?’
‘Not to my knowledge. Not recently anyway.’ He allowed himself a smile. ‘Answer my questions, please.’
‘No metal objects.’
‘Wax or anything like that?’
‘Wax what?’
‘Just wax.’
‘Sergeant, I couldn’t pass him anything. There was a grill between us and a warder was on guard.’
‘Did you convey any messages to him?’
‘No. Well—’
‘Yes, sir.’ He looked up. ‘Details, insignificant to you, could be important.’
I told him his mother was praying for him.’
‘That’s nice, sir. Did Zaccharone mention, um, weightier matters?’
‘He didn’t make his confession, Officer, if that’s what you mean. And even if he did, I wouldn’t be able to repeat it to you.’
‘Understood, sir.’
‘Not even to a judge.’
‘Did he give you a message for anyone outside?’
I repeated Emilio’s request to his mother to pray for him and Mr. de Valera.
He sucked the end of his pencil for a moment or two. ‘Is Zaccharone an I.R.A. sympathizer, then?’
‘He’s alive,’ I blurted out.
He shot up. ‘Thank you, sir. But how do you know that?’
I hesitated. ‘You just told me.’
‘I did?’
‘You said, Is he an I.R.A. sympathizer? not, Was he?’
He sank down again. ‘That is very brilliant of you, sir.’
He put his pencil on his lap as if it were suddenly a burden too heavy to bear.
‘Did Zaccharone, sir, give you the impression that some party or other was leaning on him?’
I felt like saying, Only his mother, but thought better of it. ‘No.’
‘The warders, perhaps? Members of his own Organization? A rival gang?’ He must have seen a glazed look in my eyes. I certainly saw one in his. ‘You only discussed … spiritual matters?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why did you have to go to Wormwood Scrubs to do that and by chance immediately before this … incident?’
‘Incident?’ He gave no clue as to his meaning. ‘Sergeant, his mother is a devout Catholic, a daily communicant if you must know. She wanted me to persuade him on his release to go back home to live. But he prefers prison.’
‘You didn’t get the impression on the way to and from the Scrubs that you were being watched?’
‘No. That’s one thing I am sure of.’
‘Thank you, sir. You’ve been most helpful.’
‘Have I?’
‘Yes, sir. You’ve eliminated one suspect from our enquiry.’ He put his notebook away and stood up. ‘You’re i
n the clear. I’d be grateful if you kept this to yourself. This investigation has been instigated at the highest level.’
As he was leaving, Chinnery suddenly faced me. ‘So you’ve no idea where Zaccharone is?’
It was clever. A last question when you are relaxed, thinking it’s all over. Fortunately, I had nothing to hide.
‘Isn’t he in prison?’ I asked with deliberate naivety, knowing I was safe.
‘This job isn’t easy, you know, sir.’
‘His mother will want to know. What’s happened to him?’
‘What’s happened to him?’ As the Detective Sergeant climbed wearily into his car, he called over his shoulder, ‘I’d waste a lot of coppers to know the answer to that, sir.’
At lunch, Fr. Duddleswell asked me if I’d read about Nelly Grourke’s son in the paper.
‘He’s in it, is he?’ I said, to put him off the scent.
‘At six last night, he was in a special security wing. At six-thirty, his cell was empty.’
‘The lock was picked?’
Fr. Duddleswell shook his head. ‘That’s the strange thing. And the door was locked after him.’
‘Tidy,’ I said.
‘According to the paper, the Home Office has ordered an enquiry.’
‘The highest authority,’ I gasped.
‘Indeed. It seems Zach Grourke needed four keys to get out of that prison.’
‘And his mother says he’s such a good boy.’
‘Ah, Father Neil,’ he laughed, ‘if the divil had a mother, she would say the same about him. But ’tis a strange business, all right.’ He handed me the paper. ‘Cast your eye over that.’
What I read explained why the C.I.D. man was so enigmatic. A journalist was questioning whether Emilio Zaccharone had really escaped at all. What motive could he have for engineering such a brilliant break-out when he was due for release in three weeks time?
One suggestion was that a rival gang had sprung him and killed him. But if so, why not rub him out in his cell? Why bother to take him with them? In any case, Zaccharone would have known it wasn’t his Organization that had come to get him and put up a hell of a fight. Instead, complete silence at the time of his disappearance.
Zaccharone’s Member of Parliament, it was reported, was tabling a motion asking the Home Secretary why it was that a constituent of his was no longer guaranteed safety in one of his Majesty’s prisons.
When I’d finished the article, Fr. Duddleswell said, ‘D’you know, Father Neil, Zach had a hundred wiles from his earliest years. At fifteen, he pinched a car from right outside the front door here and sold it.’
‘A parishioner’s?’
‘Much worse.’
‘Yours?’
He nodded. ‘An Austin seven. His mother thrashed him within an inch of his life for that.’
‘Did you report him?’
‘I did, not realizing, of course, who had stolen it. I went to court. But for his dear mother’s sake I pleaded for him, suggested he may only have been borrowing it.’
‘Borrowing it!’ I exclaimed, laughing.
‘He got off with a warning.’
‘He didn’t show any gratitude, I suppose.’
‘Oh, he did. He stole me another just like it.’
‘What did you do with it?’
‘The only decent thing I could in the circumstances. I had to drive it all through the War.’
‘Mrs. Grourke did tell me once you were a lovely priest.’
‘Well she might, the dear soul. I tutored that lad of hers meself, made him an altar boy and used his services at the parish bazaar.’
Fr. Duddleswell then told me that Zachary had changed his name to get into the big time and, in spite of his thick headedness, made a fortune in the car-trade, buying and selling.
‘He went straight, then, Father?’
‘As straight as a pig’s tail.’
Mrs. Pring burst in. ‘Father Neil.’
‘Yes, Mrs. P?’
‘There’s a gentleman to see you.’
‘Tell him,’ Fr. Duddleswell snapped, ‘to wait till we have finished lunch.’
‘He’s from the Home Office,’ Mrs. Pring said.
The visitor was a florid-looking man with salmonhued cheeks. I took from him his fawn, officer’s overcoat and bowler hat. Underneath, he had on a pepper and salt hacking jacket, fawn waistcoat and fawn bow-tie with pink spots.
He held out a card. ‘Clark, Father. Jonathan Clark from the Home Office.’ It was a smooth, pleasant voice. ‘A very informal confabulation.’
‘Is it about Emilio Zaccharone?’
He nodded. ‘A bizarre business, mon père. I’m surprised you have such a keen interest in the chappie in question.’
I motioned him to be seated. ‘I already told the Detective from Scotland Yard everything I know.’
‘The Yard’s been on to you?’ As he sat, he lifted the tail of his jacket like a toilet top.
‘Earlier this morning.’
‘Très curieux,’ he mused. He spoke the occasional French phrase with exaggerated Englishness as if to show what he thought of the foreigner across the water. ‘What was this chappie’s name?’
I told him.
‘Chinnery. Mind if I use your blower.’ I heard him mutter ‘Whitehall 1212’ as he dialled.
‘Scotland Yard? Give me extension 3063. Merci bien.… Jimmy, Johnny C. here. Listen, got anybody with you on the Scrubs job called Chinnery, Detective Sergeant?… No? Anybody of that name on attachment from one of the beastly provinces like Leeds or Nottingham?… You’re sure? Thanks beaucoup. Be in touch.’
Mr. Clark turned to me. ‘Describe him to me, Father.’
I tried without much success. Mr. Clark didn’t seem very interested in a raincoat and trilby.
‘Was he tall or short, Father?’
‘Medium, I think.’
‘About my size.’
‘Yes.’
‘But I’m short, five feet six.’
‘Sorry. It’s difficult to tell when you’re sitting down.’
‘But when I came in, I was standing up.’ He waved his hand forgivingly. ‘Did he wear glasses?’
‘I’m not absolutely sure.’
‘Not sure whether he did or didn’t?’
‘Both.’
‘Any distinguishing features? Him, I mean. Birth marks? A moustache?’
‘He might have had a moustache.’
‘Might he?’
‘A small one.’
‘Barely visible.’
‘That’s right.’ He was having me on, I could tell.
‘Did he come by car, mon capitaine?’
I was glad to be able to assure him of one thing. ‘Yes, he did.’
‘Which make?’
‘I didn’t notice.’
‘But you did see him get out of a car.’
‘No, I saw him get into one. As he was leaving.’
‘And you inferred he had arrived in the car he was leaving in. Un esprit sage. Colour of car?’
‘No particular colour.’
His eyes opened wide. ‘No … particular … colour.’
‘I mean it wasn’t bright yellow or anything like that.’
‘That’s useful,’ he murmured. ‘Car not bright yellow. You wouldn’t have taken the number, I suppose.’
‘Mr. Clark, I assumed he was a police officer and it was before breakfast.’
‘Of course,’ he said soothingly, ‘of course. I understand because I haven’t had breakfast myself yet.’
Detecting a trace of mockery in his tone, I said, ‘I don’t suppose you’d care to close your eyes for a few moments.’
‘Why not, mon ami?’ And he complied.
‘Mr. Clark, you have been with me for about as long as I was with that bogus policeman. What have you learned about me?’
‘All right,’ he smiled. ‘Do my best. You are approximately six feet two inches tall and weigh in the region of, say, um, 155 pounds. Good looking, black
wavy hair parted on the right. Your eyes are brown with a green tint and you have a scar about one eighth of an inch at the right corner of your mouth.’
‘Above or below the lip?’ I asked, impressed.
‘Above. You are left handed.’
‘I am?’
I guessed firstly from your handshake. Apart from that, whenever there was an alternative you used your left. You closed the door with it. You took my coat with your left and transferred it to your right. You put my hat on the peg, you pushed the chair towards me with your left. In fact, the whole room is a left-handed room. A simple example, your pen and pencil are to the left of your blotter.’
‘It’s so easy,’ I laughed, expecting him to stop.
‘It’s a Parker pen, by the way. It’s strange,’ he continued, ‘how you can tell a left-handed person in a thousand ways, even from watching him clap at a concert. Mais peiner toujours. You don’t drive.’
‘I don’t?’
‘Unlikely. If you drove a car, you would probably have noticed the make and age of Chinnery’s car and compared it with your own. Vanity and all that. Also, on your desk is a key ring. Only three keys. Plenty of room for a car key on it but there isn’t one. Besides, your trousers give it away.’
I looked down them. ‘They do?’
‘’Fraid so. They bulge alarmingly at the knees and the bottoms, I regret to say, have creases going in opposite directions, all of which indicates that you regularly ride a bicycle and wear cycle clips.’
‘Correct,’ I said.
‘Shall I go on?’
‘Please.’
‘You don’t smoke. Usually when I appear and say where I’m from, people take out a cigarette at once. In fact, three smokers who had given up the weed immediately resumed it on meeting me. No, you don’t smoke. No nicotine on your fingers, no ash tray to hand, no fug in the atmosphere. I noticed immediately I entered the house that nobody smokes here. Of course, cigarette fumes do not prove you smoke. Could be visitors. The absence of such fumes proves you do not smoke. Finally, and this is quite common in non-smokers, you forgot to ask me if I’d care to smoke.’
‘I’m sorry. Please go ahead.’
Without opening his eyes, he held up his left hand, splayed his fingers to show they were free of nicotine stains and said, ‘You didn’t notice, then?’
I sniffed as a substitute for no. A flash of inspiration. ‘Chinnery didn’t smoke.’
