A Journal of Sin

by Darryl Donaghue

  ‘I’m sure he’ll understand why we did it.’

  ‘We? Who else was in there?’

  ‘Sean, a local guy. No one we’ve asked so far knows anything. Twenty or so people were gathered at the church this morning and they’re going to ask around to see if he stayed with anyone else. When Grace mentioned you were a copper – sorry, WPC – I came straight over. I don’t want to think the worst, but if something’s happened, I thought it best to get the police involved right away and what with this storm and all, you’re the only one for miles around.’

  He’d chosen to correct ‘copper’, a reasonably acceptable nickname given the range of things she’d been called during her short time in uniform, with WPC, a relic of a term from the dark ages of pencil skirts and tea-making totty. Not to take anything away from the women who served in that era, but Sarah was simply a police constable, like everyone else who donned the uniform every morning. Their duties and remits were the same and so was their title.

  The vast majority of missing people turned up very soon after being reported. She’d attended the report of a missing child who was hiding under the bed and an elderly gentleman ‘missing’ from a care home who was located in the toilet. People had only just started to leave their houses and it was more than likely someone would know where the priest had stayed during storm. But at least this would get her out from under her mother’s feet.

  ‘Well, let’s head to his flat. I’ll take a look and see if there’s anything obviously sinister. That should put your minds at ease at least. It’s generally the case that mispers show up within the first few hours or so.’

  ‘Mispers?’

  ‘Sorry, missing persons.’ She had already slipped into work mode. So much for having some time away from the office. Yes, missing people did tend to return without incident. The policy used to be that missing person reports weren’t investigated for the first twenty-four hours, but that all changed after people who started out as missing wound up dead. Chances were that wouldn’t be the case here, she thought. She put on her black Berghaus jacket, picked up a pad and pen from a small side table in the hall, kissed her mother on the cheek and opened the door.

  John tapped her on the shoulder. ‘You might want some wellies.’

  The rear door was ajar. Judging from the size and depth of the marks, it was more likely to have been a claw hammer rather than a crowbar. Sarah looked at the marks, knowing that should the offending implement be recovered, there was a possibility it could be matched to the damage caused to the wood. The probability of the tool being found and the lab being able to examine it anytime soon, given the situation, was slim. The phones were out and the roads blocked; for the time being, she was on her own.

  ‘No cameras?’ Father Michael’s quarters were at the rear of St. Andrew’s Church. Sarah looked above the large, mahogany door, then to the roof and corners of the building.

  ‘Not here, not anywhere. Some of the businesses have cameras, most of those are dummies, but that’s about it for Sunbury.’

  ‘I take it this wasn’t you?’

  ‘No, that was me.’ He pointed to a small, smashed window to the right of the door. ‘Through the window, then up the stairs on the left. I opened the door for Sean; there was no chance he’d fit through the window. The door wasn’t like this earlier.’ Crime of any sort was non-existent in Sunbury and in a place as old-fashioned as this, breaking into church property would be considered abhorrent. ‘I guess there’s no calling CSI?’ Sarah ignored him.

  ‘I’ll go in first, in case they’re still on site.’ She wasn’t dressed for action. Her white blouse and thin rain jacket would do little to cushion a blow, and she’d struggle to kick anyone in her dark blue, fitted jeans and mud-caked Wellington boots. She pushed the door open and listened for sounds from inside. The air inside was cold. A rear entrance to the church itself was straight ahead and on the left was a small stone staircase that led to Father Michael’s quarters. She crept upstairs and motioned for John to stay on the bottom step. The room was silent and little light came through the window, but it was enough to see the state it was in. Papers were everywhere, the table turned on its side and the bookshelves had been emptied onto the floor. Pictures lay face-down, candles had been thrown with enough force to break them in two and pieces of a lamp’s shattered bulb were strewn at the base of the wall. She shined the torch into the bedroom, flashing it behind the upturned bed and into the emptied wardrobe. Clothes were all over the floor and the bedspread was ripped open, leaving feathers in a pile by the bed. Whoever had done this had left. She went back to the top of the stairs and beckoned John up. He followed, looking nervous.

  ‘No one’s here. Let’s start in this room. Touch as little as possible and if you’re unsure of anything, ask first. When you open those drawers, avoid using the handles. I’ll start in this corner and work my way left, you start over there and work right. We’ll do the bookshelves and drawers along the edges first before moving into the middle.’ She’d done this before, but as someone taking instructions rather than giving them. She was unsure about having John help, especially as a straightforward missing person enquiry was now a burglary investigation, but searching his quarters would take a lot longer on her own, so she needed to compromise. ‘We’re looking for any notes, travel details or family contacts. Anything that will give us an idea of where he’s likely to be. Also, look out for anything that doesn’t seem to belong here, something the offender may have left behind. Again, if in any doubt, ask.’

  The priest’s quarters consisted of four rooms: a main study, a small bedroom at the far end, an even smaller bathroom on the left and a galley kitchen. The bathroom and kitchen hadn’t been touched.

  ‘Anything useful?’ Sarah kept an eye on John from the other side of the room. He was crouched down in front of an open bottom drawer of a small cabinet.

  ’Just handwritten notes. Nothing that helps us. They look like notes for sermons.’

  ‘What time were you here this morning?’

  ‘About half eight.’ It was one o’clock now. Even though the entrance was around the back, whoever did this was brave enough, or desperate enough, to break in in full daylight. ‘So, what made you join the force?’

  ‘It’s the service now, the police service. I always wanted to, just too nervous, I suppose. I wanted to do something different, something less predictable.’ It was a stock topic whenever she met anyone new. People were interested in why someone would put themselves in danger for the benefit of others. They’d heard about the corruption, bullying and repeated failures in the news reports with their unfortunately singular focus on vilifying the public services, and wondered why a nice girl like her would want to associate with such brutes.

  ‘To give something back to the community?’

  ‘In some ways. It may not be the top of the list, but it’s definitely in there. I like contributing to something through my job.’ It was a cliché idea, but every so often, between shuffling paper and rushing from blue-light call to blue-light call, sometimes, she came home with the feeling she’d made the world a little better. ‘The twins had grown a little and I wondered what was next for me. The routine was nice, but we decided we didn’t want to be one of those married couples that settled down in our early thirties, bellies and bums growing and surrounded by screeching kids and takeaway boxes. We still have plans of our own. I’ve always wanted to run my own side business, something artistic. I’ve sold some screen prints on Etsy; nothing I can call more than a hobby just yet. It’ll take a little more work, we can lead full lives in careers we both want to be in, whilst raising our girls.’ The shelves were stiff, but she managed to pull one side far forward enough to see along the back. She tapped the wall for weaknesses; it was solid.

  ‘Don’t fancy being a stay at home mum?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Erm … So how long have you done it?’ he asked.

  ‘A little over two years. It’s flown by.’ Time really had flown by. She’
d learned so much, and there’d been barely any time to put it into practice before her probation period ended and she was out fending for herself, no longer under her tutor’s wing. The ‘newbie’ label would stick around a little longer yet, which was both a frustration and a comfort. Newbies were allowed a few more mistakes. She picked up a white envelope from the desk and opened the card inside. ‘It seems he did his bit for charity.’ She read the printed text out loud. ‘Thank you so much for your contributions to the Salvation Army.’ There was a handwritten card below it. ‘Dear Fr. Michael, Just a short note to say we very much appreciated your help at the fete. We raised £1021 for new school sports equipment. Thank you.’

  ‘I suppose it’s part of the profession.’

  ‘Doesn’t take away its virtue. What do you do?’

  ‘Freelance computer work. I used to have a regular job, then the marriage broke down. Then I broke down. My ex-wife, Jenny, left with our son. I’ve not seen either since.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that.’

  ‘It’s okay. It gets easier every day, right?’ It wasn’t clear whether he was trying to convince her or himself.

  ‘Have you lived here your whole life?’

  ‘Most of it. We moved out to London when we got married; we separated a few years later and I moved back. It’s a nicer place to live. The big city is a little too impersonal for me. You waited out the storm with your mum, right? That’s admirable.’ He pulled the curtains back and looked along the windowsill, trying to be as thorough as possible.

  ‘They’ve tried to jimmy the floorboards.’ A corner of the carpet had been pulled back and the edges of the wooden boards damaged. The tool marks were similar to those on the rear door. ‘They didn’t manage it. The boards are still intact.’ The rest of the wine-red carpet lay in perfect place. ‘They’ve searched this room thoroughly. Aside from those drawers, everything has been turned out and checked. Behind the shelves, under the table, the floorboards. What would a priest have that’s so important? It wasn’t like this this morning, right?’

  ‘No, not at all. It was in good order. Pristine, in fact.’ He stood up after failing to move a large pot plant. His fatless frame appeared in good health, but in truth, he was weak and out of shape.

  ‘Is there anything missing now that was here this morning?’

  ‘It’s hard to say, really. I was looking for him, so wasn’t taking in the aesthetic.’ Two years in the job had given her a knack for seeing and recalling details that others wouldn’t. She sometimes forgot the rest of the world didn’t have to remember things the way she did and therefore paid less attention. John didn’t live in a world where anything could go wrong at any time and he’d be asked to recall it all months later whilst a man in a wig fired damning questions across a courtroom.

  ‘Take a good look around.’ He walked around the room, looking closely at this and squinting his eyes at that. Sarah was about to put him out of his misery.

  ‘I don’t know if it’s relevant, but Sean took a book.’

  ‘A book?’

  ‘I came out of the bedroom and he was reading it.’

  ‘What did it look like?’

  ‘Blue, about so big.’ He held his index fingers out about five inches apart. ‘Had last month’s dates on the cover.’

  ‘What was in it?’

  ‘I don’t know. He wouldn’t say, just put it in his back pocket and left.’

  ‘Anymore like it around here?’

  ‘Not that I’ve seen.’

  ‘If anything else comes to mind, let me know. It’s hard to really know without spending a lot of time here.’ He looked relieved and shrugged his shoulders. ‘Was he particularly close with anyone?’

  ‘He spent a lot of time with the old folk, but I doubt they can tell you the contents of their own houses, never mind anyone else’s. Tom’s holding a meeting tomorrow in the church hall, most of the town will be there.’

  ‘Tom?’

  ‘He’s one of the oldest members of the community. With Father Michael missing, he’s the go-to guy.’

  ‘That meeting will be a good place to start asking questions. I don’t want anyone knowing about the burglary, okay? With the roads out, whoever did this is still here. Now, this could be someone who knew Father Michael was missing and saw an opportunity to steal valuables, or it could be connected to his disappearance.’

  ‘I don’t think there’s ever been a burglary here. Word spreads so quickly everyone would have known about it. Who’d target a priest for valuables anyway?’

  ‘Some churches house sought-after artwork or sculptures attracting the highbrow burglar. That sort of thing can fetch thousands, sometimes more, if you know where to sell it. Gold crosses, chalices and other ornaments can make a fair few pounds too and are much easier to shift.’

  ‘Easier to shift? It’s hardly something you’d be able to sell at the pub.’

  ‘Just find some unscrupulous gold trader. They’re on just about every high street now. You’d be surprised what some of them take. And let’s not forget the Internet, the rogues’ playground. We’re done in here. We’ll conclude this room and start on the bedroom.’

  She shone the torch into the bedroom and took a good look. It was small. The bed on the left, next to the fireplace, was turned on its side. The only other furniture was a white bedside cabinet, also on its side, and a brown freestanding wardrobe. A lack of windows made the room feel cramped and tight, a feeling the weak torchlight did little to lift.

  ‘Where do we start with this? I’ll take the left side, you take the right. Search his clothes too in case there are any notes or receipts scrunched in the pockets.’

  He started with the wardrobe. It was a tall and made of dark oak with two large doors and two drawers at the bottom. The clothes had been emptied onto the floor; some were still on hangers. They were mostly casual clothes and vestments, numerous polo shirts in muted colours and faded blue jeans. A black rucksack had been opened and left on the floor. He searched every garment that had pockets but found nothing.

  ‘Some of these pockets have been turned out.’

  ‘Whatever they were searching for, it must be pretty small.’

  She stood the bedside cabinet up. The open top drawer contained a notepad, a small blue pen – the kind you get as a freebie in crossword magazines, a pendant of St Christopher, two small laminated prayer cards and four small sheets of lined paper with handwritten notes. The bottom door opened to two small shelves; on the top was a pair of soil-covered garden gloves and on the bottom was a roll of five twenty-pound notes.

  ‘Shine the torch over here.’ She held the money up to the light. ‘So much for theory B.’ She picked up the handwritten notes. The direct torchlight on white paper hurt her eyes, but they soon adjusted. ‘Bear ye one another’s burdens, and so fulfil the law of Christ - Galatians 6:2.’

  ‘Bible verses. More sermon notes?’ he said, looking at the pages. ‘If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you withhold forgiveness from any, it is withheld - John 20:22-23.’

  ‘They were looking for something small, something that can fit into a pocket. Given that every inch of this place has been searched they either found it in the very last place they looked, or didn’t find it at all. I’m leaning towards the latter.’

  She shined the torch along the walls and began tapping. The first wall sounded strong, the second just the same. She finished the third and fourth walls with a dismayed look on her face.

  ‘Nothing?’ he asked. ‘They’ve done a thorough search of the place, maybe they found whatever it was they were looking for?’

  Sarah wasn’t convinced. She marched into the main room without saying a word and John followed. Three large pot plants stood untouched below the window. A thick layer of dust covered the rims and the dry, cracked soil wouldn’t be able to keep plants alive. She removed her jacket, rolled up her sleeves and reached down into the first pot until she had earth up to her elbows.

  She pulled out a thi
n blue notebook. ‘1st November to 30th November 2009. Sean’s one look like this?’

  ‘Yeah. Exactly like that. How did you know they’d be there?’

  ‘I didn’t.’ She enjoyed maintaining the mystery, but in truth, it was simple deduction. The old ladies maintained the garden; these were the only pot plants in his quarters and the gloves in his bedside drawer had soil on them. The soil in the pots wasn’t suitable for growing, but was suitable for concealment.

  All three of the pots hid thin blue notebooks. The top few were covered in soil, but the ones at the bottom were clean, if a little tatty and yellowed. Sarah dusted the soil from her arms and it joined the clumps from the pot on the floor. She spread them out in date order: March 1991 to December 2009. Two hundred and twenty-five books in all.

  ‘What do you think’s in them?’

  Sarah read another passage out loud. ‘She didn’t want to and he knew she didn’t want to, but he continued. He couldn’t say why he did and seemed in a real bother over his reasoning to continue. It was an odd sentiment, not knowing why he was doing something that he knew was wrong. I worry for this one.’ She picked up another one. ‘She knows she shouldn’t have done it and rightly repents, but carries a lot of guilt for the theft of 98 pence. A sin is a sin, I suppose.’

  ‘A priest and a poet,’ he said. ‘A sin is a sin indeed. I bet you’d let someone off 98p, right?’

  ‘Depends on the kid. You think these are confessional notes? Things people have told him in confidence? There’s little detail, but this one’s clearly a theft, that one maybe some sort of sexual offence. Seems an odd thing to keep a record of.’

  ‘It’s supposed to be confidential. Listen, dole out the penance and forget about it. Either way, it looks like he has, and has been doing so for years.’ John crouched down and started reading through the books.

  ‘Those are evidence. You can’t touch them.’ He kept reading. ‘John. Put it back, they’re coming with me.’