Chris gives Costas a shrug of his own. He is a pro too.
Chris had googled it earlier and there is a Starbucks and a Burger King at Larnaca airport. You saw fewer and fewer Burger Kings these days. Time to make tracks. He stands.
‘What did they get you for, Costas?’ asks Chris. ‘In the end?’
Costas gives a small smile. ‘I bought a Harley-Davidson, from the US, had it shipped over. Forgot to pay the duty.’
‘You’re kidding? And they gave you life?’
Costas Gunduz shakes his head. ‘Sentenced to two weeks and then I killed a prison guard.’
Chris nods. ‘Quite a family.’
95
Matthew Mackie had been surprised to get the call from Elizabeth. Asking if he was available for a confession. He had been gardening and thinking. The police interview had upset him, thrown him off balance. Life had been so simple a few months ago. His life wasn’t happy, exactly, he hadn’t been happy for many years, but was he at peace perhaps? Had he found some contentment? As much as he was ever going to, he supposed.
He had his house, his garden, his pension. He had nice neighbours who would look in on him. A young family had recently moved in opposite, and the kids would play on their bikes on the pavement. He could hear bells and laughter if he kept the windows open. He could walk down to the sea in five minutes. He could sit and watch the gulls and read the paper, when it wasn’t too windy. People knew him, and would smile and ask how he was keeping and, if he wasn’t too busy, could they tell him about their nose bleeds, or their hip, or their sleepless nights? It was a life, it had a rhythm and a routine and it kept the ghosts at bay. What more could you ask, really?
But now? Brawls, police interviews, non-stop worry. Would he ever get his peace back? Would this blow over? He knew it wouldn’t. Whatever they say about time healing, some things in life just break and can never be fixed. For now, Matthew Mackie was keeping his windows shut. There were no bells and there was no laughter, and he was old enough to know there might never be again.
It seemed that every bit of news he had received in the last month had been bad. So what to make of the phone call? What was this to be?
Did he know the confessional stall at St Michael’s Chapel, she had asked. Did he know it? He would still dream of it now, the darkness, the dull echo, the walls closing in on him. The place where his life broke in two, never to be fixed.
Should he go back there? It wasn’t a fair question. He had never left. He had known his life would lead him back there one day. God’s sense of humour. You had to hand it to him.
He had seen Elizabeth, he was sure. At the consultation meeting and again on the awful day of the murder. She stood out. So what was on Elizabeth’s mind? What sin could she no longer hide? And why ask for him? And why there? She must have seen him on the day of the murder, he supposed. Must have seen the dog collar, that usually stuck in people’s minds. It often made people want to tell their secrets, to spill all. What had he unlocked in her that made her pick up the phone? And, for that matter, how had she got his number? He wasn’t listed. Perhaps it was on the internet? She must have got it somewhere.
And so that was that. Back to St Michael’s. Into the confessional, with Elizabeth. Back to where it all began and where it all ended. A macabre coincidence. If only she knew.
Matthew Mackie was already on the platform at Bexhill station when he realized Elizabeth hadn’t actually mentioned which of them would be doing the confessing.
He thought about turning straight round. But, by that point, he had already bought a ticket.
She couldn’t possibly know? Could she?
96
So that, supposed Chris, was that. Gianni Gunduz had managed to disappear, the prodigal son returned, protected by his powerful family. Now to find out if Gianni had recently taken a flight back to England. A little trip down memory lane. But under what name? And with what face? Gianni could come and go as he pleased.
Chris had got to the airport with plenty of time to spare and was enjoying a triple chocolate muffin from Starbucks. He shouldn’t, of course, just empty calories, but he could think about that when he’d finished the muffin. He hears an English voice.
‘This seat taken?’
Chris motions that the seat is free, without looking up. Until his brain registers that the voice is familiar to him. But of course. Of course. Chris looks up, and nods.
‘Good afternoon, Ron.’
‘Afternoon, Chris,’ says Ron, sitting down. ‘Four hundred and fifty calories in one muffin, you know.’
‘Are you following me, Ron?’ asks Chris. ‘Seeing what there is to see?’
‘No, we got here yesterday, old son,’ says Ron.
‘We?’ says Chris.
Ibrahim arrives with a tray. He nods at Chris. ‘How lovely to bump into you, Detective Chief Inspector! We heard you were here. Ron, I didn’t really know how to ask for just an instant coffee, so I got us Caramel Frappuccinos.’
‘Thanks Ib,’ says Ron, and takes his drink.
‘I wonder if it’s worth my while asking what you two are doing here,’ asks Chris. ‘Assuming it is just the two of you? Perhaps Joyce is stocking up in Duty Free?’
‘Just us boys,’ says Ron. ‘Little jolly to Cyprus.’
‘Quite bonding, in fact,’ says Ibrahim. ‘I have never had many close male friends. Or close female friends. Or been to Cyprus.’
‘Elizabeth sent us over with instructions,’ says Ron. ‘She knew someone who knew someone who knew someone, so here we are. Probably finding out the same as you.’
‘A very powerful family,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Very easy for Gianni to go missing. To change his identity. No trace of him anywhere.’
‘A ghost,’ says Ron.
‘A ghost with a grudge,’ agrees Chris. He has given up on the muffin. He has already eaten half, so what was that? Two hundred and twenty calories? If the gate was a good walk from Starbucks, he would work some of that off. Then nothing on the plane.
‘We heard you’ve been to see Gianni’s dad,’ says Ron. ‘You get anything?’
‘Who did you hear that from?’ asks Chris.
‘Does it matter?’ asks Ron.
Chris supposes it doesn’t. ‘He knows where Gianni is. But even Elizabeth wouldn’t be able to get it out of him.’
The men nod.
‘Joyce, maybe,’ adds Chris, and they all nod again, smiling this time.
‘You don’t smile very often, Detective Chief Inspector,’ says Ibrahim. ‘If you don’t mind me saying so? That’s just an observation.’
‘If I can make an observation of my own?’ says Chris, realizing that Ibrahim is right and not wanting to think about it right here, right now. ‘If Elizabeth knows someone who knows someone who knows someone, then why isn’t she here? Why send Starsky and Hutch when Cagney and Lacey could have come and done the job?’
‘Starsky and Hutch, very good,’ says Ibrahim. ‘I would be Hutch, more methodical.’
There is a boarding announcement, and the three men gather their belongings. Chris sees that Ron has a walking stick with him.
‘First time I’ve seen you using a stick, Ron.’
Ron shrugs. ‘If you’ve got a stick they let you on the plane first.’
‘So where are Elizabeth and Joyce?’ asks Chris. ‘Or don’t I want to know?’
‘You don’t want to know,’ says Ibrahim.
‘Oh great!’ says Chris.
97
Candlelight is flickering in the chapel. Elizabeth and Matthew Mackie are inches apart, in the confessional.
‘I see no point in dressing it up. And I don’t want forgiveness, yours or the Lord’s. I just want it on record, I want someone to bear witness, before I die and it’s all dust. I know there are rules, even in the confessional, so you must do whatever you need to do with this information. I killed a man. This was a lifetime ago, and for what it’s worth, he attacked me and I defended myself. But I killed him.’
‘Go on.’
‘I was living in digs in Fairhaven. I don’t know if you’re the type to judge me, but I had invited him home. Stupid, perhaps, but you were probably stupid back then too. That’s where he attacked me. The details are grisly, but that’s not an excuse. I fought back and I killed him. I was so frightened, I knew exactly how it looked. No one had seen what happened, so who would believe me? They were different times, you know that, you remember that?’
‘I remember.’
‘I wrapped the body in a curtain. I dragged it to my car. And that’s where I left it while I thought what to do. This had all happened very quickly, that’s what you have to understand. That morning I had woken like everybody else and now here I was. It seemed so absurd.’
‘How did you kill him? Can I ask?’
‘I shot him. In the leg. I hadn’t thought he would die, but he bled and he bled and he bled. So much blood, so quickly. Perhaps if he’d made a noise it would have been different. But he just whimpered. In shock, I suppose. And I watched him die, as close as I am to you now.’
Silence in the confessional. Silence in the chapel. Elizabeth has locked and bolted the door. No one is going to come in. And, of course, no one is going to get out. If that was the way this was going to end.
‘Then … well, then I sat and I wept, because what else was there to do? I waited for the hand on my shoulder, for someone to take me away. It was so monstrous. But as I sat there and I sat there and I sat there, nothing much happened. No one knocked, no one screamed. There was no lightning. So I made myself a cup of tea. And the kettle still boiled and the steam rose, and I still had a body, wrapped in a curtain, in the boot of my car. It was a summer evening, so I turned on the wireless and I waited until dark. And then I drove here.’
‘Here?’
‘St Michael’s, yes. I worked here for a time. I don’t know if you knew that?’
‘I didn’t.’
‘So I drove through the gates, and I switched off my lights as I drove up the hill. The Sisters would always sleep early. I kept driving, past St Michael’s, past the hospital and up the lane to the Garden of Eternal Rest. You know it?’
‘I know it.’
‘Of course. And I took my spade, and I don’t want these walls to crumble around us, but I chose a grave, of one of the Sisters. It was right at the top, where the earth was soft, and I dug. I dug until I hit the wood of a coffin. Then I walked back to my car. I tipped the body out of the boot and out of the curtain. I hadn’t had to remove any clothes, because he was naked when he attacked me, you understand. And so I dragged the body up the path, through the headstones. It was hard going, I remember that. At one point I cursed, and then I apologized for cursing. I got the body up to the hole and tipped it into the grave. On top of the coffin. Then I took my spade again, I filled in the grave and I said a prayer. Then I walked back to my car, I put the spade in the boot and I drove home. That’s as plain as I can tell it.’
‘I understand.’
‘And the knock at the door never came. Which, I suppose, is why I’m telling you all this now. Because no one knocked at my door and surely someone should have? In my dreams they knock every night. There have to be consequences. So, what do you think? Please, just be honest with me.’
‘Be honest with you?’ Matthew Mackie lets out a long, slow, sigh. ‘I’ll be honest. I don’t believe a word of it, Elizabeth.’
‘Not a word?’ queries Elizabeth. ‘There was a lot of detail, Father Mackie. The date, the gunshot to the leg, that very particular grave. What a peculiar thing for me to make up.’
‘Elizabeth, you didn’t work here in 1970.’
‘Mmm. You did, though. I’ve seen the pictures.’
‘I did, yes. I’ve sat here before. And I’ve sat where you are too.’
Elizabeth decides to start turning the screw.
‘You sound like a man who wants to talk? Anything I’ve said triggered any memories? Convinced you I might just know something?’
Matthew Mackie gives a sad laugh. Elizabeth keeps at him.
‘If you don’t mind me saying, Father Mackie, you gave quite the little jump when I mentioned the Garden of Eternal Rest?’
‘I do mind you saying that, Elizabeth, but I suppose I would like to talk. I’ve always wanted to. And since we’re both here, why don’t you play your real cards and see where that gets you?’
‘You’re sure?’
‘I’m at home here, Elizabeth. In God’s house. Let’s talk awhile, shall we? Two old fools? You just start somewhere and I’ll join in where I can.’
‘Shall we start with Ian Ventham? Shall we talk awhile about him?’
‘Ian Ventham?’
‘Well, let’s start there at least. We can always work backwards. I might start with a question, Father Mackie, if you don’t mind?’
‘Ask away. And call me Matthew, please.’
‘Thank you, I will. So, first things first, Matthew. Why did you kill Ian Ventham?’
98
Joyce
I have been given express instructions, and Elizabeth has been gone too long. I wish Ron and Ibrahim were with me. I’m writing this down while I wait for Donna to arrive, which I hope will be very soon.
It’s beginning to feel like this isn’t all some jolly lark. An adventure where everything resolves itself and we all come back for more of the same next week. Elizabeth said two hours and she has now been gone two hours. A bit more than two hours. What had I been thinking when I agreed to this in the first place? There have been lots of things we had kept from Chris and Donna, but this is by far the most dangerous. I am not one of nature’s liars. I can keep my secrets to myself, right up until the time someone asks me about them.
So I made the call to Donna and I told her where Elizabeth had gone and I told her she hadn’t returned.
Donna was very angry, and I understand that. I told her I was sorry for lying and she said that Elizabeth had been the liar, I had simply been a coward. She then called me something which I wouldn’t want to repeat, but which, I have to admit, was fair comment.
I am so keen for people to like me that I chose that moment to say how much I had always liked her eye shadow and to ask her where it was from. But she had already put the phone down.
Donna is on her way. I know she is very worried and so am I. I have always thought Elizabeth was indestructible. I hope I’m not wrong.
99
Elizabeth has made this walk many times before, along the curving path, through the avenue of trees and up to the Garden of Eternal Rest. She can feel Matthew Mackie’s hand in the small of her back, guiding her forward.
It is always quiet, but she can never remember it being this quiet. Even the birds are silent. What do they know? It looks like rain. The sun is doing what it can to pierce the cloud cover, but she still shivers. There had been police crime tape here until a matter of days ago. A fragment has been left tied to a sapling and flaps its blue and white tail in the wind.
They pass Bernard’s bench. It looks absurdly empty.
Bernard would have wanted to know what the two of them were doing, Elizabeth and the priest, walking slowly up the hill, faces set in stone. Bernard would have looked up from his newspaper, wished them a good day and kept them in sight for the rest of the walk. But Bernard has gone. Like so many before him. Time’s up, that’s it. No return. An empty bench on a silent hill.
They reach the gates and Matthew Mackie pushes them open. He ushers Elizabeth inside, hand still at her back, and she hears the hinges squeal shut behind them.
Matthew Mackie does not walk her all the way to the top right-hand corner of the Garden of Eternal Rest, to where the older graves hold their secrets. Instead, he takes his hand from her back, steps off the path and walks between two rows of newer headstones, cleaner and whiter. The route he always takes. Elizabeth follows him this time and they stop in front of a headstone. Elizabeth looks at the inscription.
Sister Margaret Anne
Margaret
Farrell, 1948–1971
Elizabeth takes Matthew Mackie’s hand and interlaces her fingers with his.
‘It’s a beautiful place, Elizabeth,’ he says.
Elizabeth looks out, beyond the wall, to the rolling fields, the hills, the trees, the birds. It really is a beautiful place. The peace is broken by a commotion further down the hill, the sound of footsteps running. Elizabeth looks at her watch.
‘That’ll be my rescue party,’ she says. ‘I told them if I wasn’t out in two hours, they were to break down the door. Come in shooting.’
‘Two hours?’ asks Mackie. ‘Were we really two hours?’
Elizabeth nods. ‘There was a great deal to say, Matthew.’
He nods too.
‘You’ll probably have to go through it again when this lot finally get up the hill.’
Elizabeth can see Chris Hudson now, fresh off the plane she guessed, running as best he can. She gives him a friendly wave and sees the relief on his face. Both that she is still alive and that he can now stop running.
100
There had been a schism in the Cryptic Crossword Club. Colin Clemence’s weekly solving challenge had been won by Irene Dougherty for the third week running. Frank Carpenter had made an accusation of impropriety and the accusation had gained some momentum. The following day a profane crossword clue had been pinned to Colin Clemence’s door, and, the moment he had solved it, all hell had broken loose.
The upshot of all this was that Cryptic Crossword Club had been postponed this week, to let all parties cool down, and so the Jigsaw Room was unexpectedly free. The Thursday Murder Club are in their regular seats and Chris and Donna have brought through a couple of stacking chairs from the lounge. Matthew Mackie sits in an armchair in the corner. The focus of attention.
The Thursday Murder Club Page 24
