The Rags of Time

by Peter Grainger

  ‘Well, sergeant – here we are again.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Hopefully I won’t be troubling you too many more times.’

  ‘And what news do you have for us on this occasion?’

  ‘It follows on from my last visit, sir. We have now charged someone with the murder of Mr Mark Randall, the metal detectorist who was found dead in one of your fields on Tuesday the 18th of June.’

  Brother Jeremy nodded and waited for more. When it didn’t come, when the detective sergeant simply sat and waited himself, the friar sent a puzzled look in Waters’ direction and said, ‘And you have driven out to Abbeyfields to tell us this in person? I must say, this is communication almost beyond the call of duty – your Superintendent Allen must be an inspirational man!’

  Smith said, ‘Oh, he undoubtedly is. I don’t know where we’d be without him – do you, Detective Constable Waters?’

  ‘No sir, I can’t imagine it.’

  Outwardly, Waters seemed perfectly calm and sincere; inwardly he was thinking that it was a while since they had had one of these. When the pilot allows the engine of a little two-seater plane to stall, there are a few seconds of uncertainty before it begins to spiral slowly down towards the earth and the most incontrovertible certainty of all – the certainty of death. One hopes then that the man at the controls does not lose consciousness or self-belief and that the man who built the plane has done a decent job. Afterwards, if there is an afterwards, one remembers it as exhilaration but at the moment, in that moment of free fall, it is simply terrifying.

  Smith said, ‘But actually, what I’ve really come out here to tell you is that I don’t think he did it. Sir.’

  Again, Brother Jeremy looked at them in turn before he responded.

  ‘I’m sorry but you’ve lost me. You don’t think who did what?’

  ‘The man we’ve arrested. I don’t think he killed Mark Randall.’

  ‘Oh. I see.’

  Outside, beyond the still open double doors, someone was walking across the gravelled space in front of the friary. Smith watched until he could see the figure of a tradesman in overalls, carrying a set of steps, and then he seemed to relax and turn his attention back to Brother Jeremy – but he said nothing more. The longer it continued, the more significant the silence became, and Waters thought, that’s how he does it; Wilson tries to frighten people – Smith lets people frighten themselves.

  Brother Jeremy said, ‘And what does your superintendent think, Sergeant?’

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t asked him.’

  ‘But he does know that you are here, presumably.’

  ‘Actually, sir, I doubt that very much.’

  The friar had a perplexed smile on his face – a kindly, intelligent face, Waters decided, the sort of face that one would naturally trust, particularly when the body below it wore the simple uniform of a strong faith. Smith, you’d better pull back on that joystick soon – in fact, now would be good.

  Jeremy said, ‘Gentlemen, I confess it - I’m at a loss here. I do not understand. You have driven out here today to tell me that although someone has been arrested, you don’t think he is guilty. You appear, from what you just said, to be doing this without your superiors’ knowledge; I don’t know why you would do that and why you would tell me that you are. Perhaps it is to your superiors that I should be speaking now.’

  It was the most polite and veiled of threats but once it had been made, Waters knew that this wasn’t going to end well for at least one of those concerned.

  Smith said, ‘Absolutely, sir. DC Waters has the phone number you need, or you can just jump into the car and we’ll give you a lift to the station.’

  Waters took out his phone and flicked through contacts to the number, the actual number that would put the friar through to Superintendent Allen’s actual office – the poor little aircraft was just a few hundred feet from the ground. He remembered saying to Smith only minutes ago “Not much, is it?” It seemed to be even less now, as did his own chances of a long and rewarding career in the police service. After this, he’d be lucky to land a part-time security job at the local mini-mart.

  But then he saw that the friar had responded to Smith’s generous offers only with a smile that was more ironic than those he had given earlier. Then he leaned forward, placing his elbows on the desk and linking the fingers of his two hands as if he was about to ask for a blessing on the rest of this conversation. Smith, meanwhile, remained impassive, his expression neutral, his eyes watching the man in front of him.

  Jeremy said, ‘I have to assume that you have come here with some purpose other than to inform me of these matters, Sergeant. I know that a place like Abbeyfields can seem very peaceful to outsiders – even that nothing much goes on – but it does depend on certain matters being attended to on a regular basis. I’m trying to say politely that I am a little busy today. If there is any way in which I can help with your inquiries, please tell me now and I will do my very best.’

  ‘Thank you, sir – very good of you. If you don’t mind, DC Waters will just make a note of our conversation.’

  Waters returned his phone to its pocket and took out his notebook and pen. Why was this all taking so long? Didn’t DC realise that they were now plummeting downwards at terminal velocity and that there would be no survivors?

  ‘Right then. Perhaps we could start with the argument you were having with someone in this room last Wednesday evening – Wednesday the 3rd of July. Can you tell me what that was about, sir?’

  ‘What I can tell you is that it is absolutely none of your business, Sergeant Smith.’

  Smith looked sideways at Waters as if the answer had taken him by surprise, and then said, ‘I’m sorry but you said that you are willing to help with our inquiries. It seems a simple enough question. Do you recall the argument that took place?’

  That was, of course, a cleverer question than it might first appear but Brother Jeremy was equal to it.

  ‘What I am saying, sergeant, is that whatever took place in this room or anywhere else in the building, can have no bearing on your investigation.’

  After the merest pause, Smith said, ‘The thing is, with the greatest respect, you aren’t in a position to make that judgement for a number of reasons. I’ll give you just a couple. First, you cannot know what every other member of this community is or has been doing at any given point; therefore, one or more of them might have some things to tell me that are highly pertinent to the investigation. They’re going to get the opportunity because I intend to speak to every one of them again, individually and as soon as possible, beginning this morning. Second, as the investigating officer, it’s my call to decide what does and does not have any bearing on the investigation. It really doesn’t work any other way – we can’t have suspects deciding which are the valid or even the acceptable lines of questioning, can we? Conviction rates would take a bit of a tumble if we went down that avenue, I think.’

  ‘Suspects?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You are implying that members of this community are suspects in a murder investigation?’

  Smith had that slightly bemused look again. Waters had stopped pretending to write and he had also stopped breathing – that look often came before the coup de grace.

  ‘No, sir – I am absolutely not implying that. I am saying it directly. It is my belief that one or more of the members of this community were involved in the murder of Mark Randall.’

  Waters had learned to watch people closely; what they do in these situations can be as significant as what they say because what they do is often unconscious and therefore uncontrolled. A couple of weekends ago, Waters had spent a day in London with Katherine. They had gone to Camden market and spent an afternoon strolling around amongst the various counter-cultures that have become tourist attractions in their own right. By the canal there had been performance artists, and amongst them had been a living statue of St George, all in white save for the red cross emblazoned on his breast, brandis
hing a sword at an imaginary dragon. While Katherine took photographs, Waters simply watched the man and marvelled at the self-control; the only sign of life that he could see for minutes on end was the beading of sweat on the brow beneath the helmet – it had been another hot afternoon.

  The guardian of the friary had also become a statue for perhaps twenty seconds – the mind within had simply switched off the body, drawing every resource into itself to consider what the detective sergeant had said and to construct an appropriate response. But twenty seconds was a little too long.

  ‘I see. May I ask what has led you to believe such a thing?’

  ‘You’ll appreciate that I will not disclose everything under the circumstances, sir, but it’s a reasonable question. I will say this much – I’m very puzzled about the timing of the re-appearance of the weapon that was used, and about its appearance, come to that. Detective Constable Waters shares my concerns.’

  Smith looked to Waters for some sort of affirmation and received a nod that might have meant anything, including astonishment that the balsawood and paper construction that they were flying around in was still, somehow, in one piece.

  ‘Anyway, sir, various things point to the involvement of parties other than the person we have in custody, so…’

  ‘And whom you have already charged, sergeant.’

  ‘Yes, sir – but not me personally. I wouldn’t have charged him.’

  ‘I have to say, this seems to be a very odd way of conducting an investigation. You’re here making such allegations on your own? You do have an assistant but he doesn’t appear to be nearly as certain about all this as you – forgive me for saying so, young man. I always imagined that detectives worked as part of a team, sergeant.’

  ‘I know what you mean, I really do. I used to imagine that myself.’

  Smith looked momentarily wistful at the idea.

  ‘Nevertheless, sir, I have made my superiors aware of my concerns, so my being here won’t come as a complete shock to them. Coming back to the question, then – do you recall an argument taking place on the evening of Wednesday the 3rd of this month?’

  Waters could see that Smith had avoided naming any names as yet, but it also occurred to him that the friar had not asked who had given Smith the information. Surely that was a natural question under the circumstances? Perhaps Brother Jeremy wasn’t asking it because he already knew the answer. If so, Joseph Ritz might be in for a difficult time later this morning. For now, it seemed that Brother Jeremy had had enough time to organise a reply to Smith’s persistent attempts to find out what had taken place on the 3rd.

  ‘Yes, sergeant – I do recall it. It was over a matter of interest only to the community which I serve.’

  ‘Once again, and still with respect, that’s a judgement that I have to make, sir. I realise that for you there is a higher authority involved and that even Detective Superintendent Allen cannot hope to compete with that, but this is a situation in which you are, so to speak, in Rome. The earthly jurisdiction, I’m afraid, rests with foot-soldiers like DC Waters and me. What was the argument about, sir?’

  Waters wasn’t watching Smith at all now. If this was a game of chess, one by one the moves that the guardian could have made were being eliminated; he had no pieces on Smith’s side of the board, and no means, it seemed, of placing any there. Once it had been established that Smith had no fear of the authorities above him, temporal or divine, it was intellect versus intellect, will versus will, and the patiently cynical old detective was not losing on either front.

  ‘It was a dispute about doctrine.’

  ‘I see, sir. I’m not really up on Catholic theology but don’t worry – my young colleague went to university. Did the conversation involve any sort of confession?’

  The gleam in Jeremy’s eye at that moment was anger, Waters was certain of that.

  Smith continued, ‘Because if it did I do know that this Seal of the Confessional business can be very awkward. Hopefully, if there was a confession, you advised the person concerned to go to the police, and I believe that you can withhold the sacrament in such cases…’

  ‘There was no confession.’

  ‘Right. Which element of doctrine was the argument about, then?’

  A longer pause now, and Waters could see something altering in the priest – perhaps some sort of resolution forming, a decision being made.

  ‘I’m a little surprised that you haven’t asked me with whom the argument took place, sergeant.’

  ‘There’s no need, sir.’

  Jeremy smiled to himself, picked up from the desk a small book bound in black leather and held it in his left hand. For the first time, and to his own surprise, Waters felt sorry for him.

  Smith said, ‘I imagine it’s been a difficult two or three weeks.’

  ‘“Hours, days, months, which are the rags of time…”’

  The office and indeed the whole of the building had become very still and silent. After another spell of reflection, the friar looked up at Smith and said, ‘And you intend to speak to everyone here again about the matter, to question them?’

  Smith took out his own notebook now.

  ‘Yes, sir, if necessary. I have a list already made out – the running order, so to speak.’

  ‘May I ask who is first on your list?’

  ‘Why not? Here we are. Brother Andrew Waring. At last, I might say – you’ll recall he was the only member I was unable to speak to last time. He was away on some sort of retreat, I believe.’

  ‘Yes. He was. Sergeant, I would like to spare them all that – indignity.’

  ‘Of course you would, sir.’

  Waters realised then what was about to happen – somehow the two-seater had missed the ground by inches and it was now about to perform the Immelmann turn. He had no idea where his stomach had just gone.

  Jeremy said, with a strangely light and conversational air, ‘I have remembered something I said to your wife all those years ago, sergeant. After we met, I said to her that I was surprised that you were a policeman – you know, that you didn’t seem the sort. I take it all back now.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘And if possible I would like to take this book with me when we go.’

  He was still holding the same small volume but in both hands now.

  ‘Very good, sir. Where exactly are we going?’

  ‘I think you are toying with me, Sergeant Smith. To Kings Lake police station, I imagine. There will, I know, be many more questions.’

  Smith glanced at Waters before he responded, and the glance said that he, Smith, had realised that, after all those exciting manoeuvres, they were heading in a slightly unexpected direction after all.

  ‘Questions about what, sir?’

  ‘What exactly happened that night. How I came to kill that unfortunate young man.’

  Chapter Twenty One

  ‘And who exactly did arrest him?’

  ‘Detective Constable Waters, sir.’

  ‘Why?’

  It was another one of those questions that Superintendent Allen was so skilled in asking, presenting the recipient with a multiple choice scenario, a veritable smorgasbord of ironic possibilities.

  'Well, to be fair, sir, he – that is, Brother Jeremy – didn’t leave us much choice. When I asked him whether he thought he ought to be arrested, he replied in the affirmative, and so we did. Taking into account the fact that he had also confessed to murder, it seemed the appropriate thing to do in the circumstances.’

  Through gritted teeth, Allen said, ‘I meant, why did Waters arrest him and not you? Not trying to dodge responsibility, I hope…’

  ‘Not at all, sir. I viewed it as a part of his training. We need to be able to arrest all sorts in this job, without fear or favour. I said to Waters afterwards that this was probably the only time in his career he would have to arrest a man of God.’

  The door to Detective Inspector Reeve’s office was still open. Allen nodded angrily towards it and Detec
tive Sergeant Wilson went to close it. Then there was a moment of quiet where the four of them stood and looked at each other – or rather, when the three of them looked at Smith. What he had actually said to Waters afterwards was, ‘I’ll bet that was the only chance you’ll ever get to arrest a priest. You’ll thank me for this later in your career.’

  Wilson, who had spent three days and heaven knows how many man-hours preparing the case against Brian Davis, looked sort of vacant and numb, as if he had suddenly and unexpectedly arrived at step five on the eightfold path to wisdom and it was all too much for him. DI Reeve seemed to be the most focused of them but whether, at this point in time, she was focused most on the case or her career was difficult to say.

  The superintendent’s silence was in danger of becoming monumental – it was the detective inspector who took the decision to end it.

  ‘DC – what made you go to Abbeyfields in the first place?’

  ‘As I said before I went, ma’am, I intended to visit the Harper family who farm the land, to find out a bit more about the recent spate of badger-digging. The friary is on the way and as they are the landowners it made sense to call there first.’

  Allen said, ‘And while you were there, the abbot just popped into the conversation a confession to murder? Sort of, oh, before you go, sergeant, there’s one more little thing I feel I ought to mention!’

  Sarcasm, even of the crude sort, isn’t easy for literal thinkers and Smith couldn’t remember the last time that Superintendent Allen had attempted it; he must be really quite aggravated by this situation. Best not to correct him about the abbot thing…

  ‘No, sir, it wasn’t quite like that. It was after I questioned him about an argument which took place at the friary on the night of Wednesday the 3rd.’

  Reeve stepped in quickly.

  ‘What argument? You haven’t mentioned an argument before.’

  Smith could see the digital clock on her desk – almost three in the afternoon already. They were wasting valuable time, and whereas in the past he could have amused himself in this situation for another hour or two, these days it just seemed pointless.