‘Officer,’ he said. ‘Your timing could not be better. I’m preparing a fresh pot of coffee, real coffee, none of the instant nonsense. Will you have a cup?’
‘Sure. Thank you,’ I said. It did smell good.
‘I don’t believe we’ve met, forgive me if we have. But I know Sergeant Williams and a few of the constables from the Dunbar office. Are you new?’
‘I’m from the city, actually. No, we haven’t met.’
‘Milk? Sugar?’
‘Just some milk, thanks.’
He handed a cup to the deacon who brought it over to me. I took in a nose-full before taking a sip. Damn good coffee.
‘What’s brought you all the way out here?’ he asked as he handed the deacon another cup before pouring his own and stepping towards the seated area.
‘You, actually, Father.’
‘Oh.’ His eyebrows raised and he abandoned the sip he was about to take. ‘Something I can help you with? Is it serious?’
‘Perhaps nothing, Father, don’t worry. It’s just an enquiry I’m working on, but it is of a serious nature.’
‘Please, sit,’ he said and gestured to the round table and low chairs.
He joined me, but the deacon left with his coffee.
‘I’m not quite sure where to begin,’ I said, and I meant it. ‘Your name came up as a staff member at the old St Cuthbert’s residential school in Lanarkshire. We’re just trying to speak to anyone we can from that time.’
‘I see, but I wasn’t a staff member at the school. I helped out now and again, but it was all sort of unofficial.’
‘Yes, I was told that. You’re something of a maths whizz?’
He smiled and shook his head. ‘I was one of those kids that could never quite figure out what I wanted to do. My faith was always there, but in the background. I thought maybe an engineer, but I wasn’t great with the practical application. Mathematics, though, came pretty easily and so that was my degree. By my fourth year I knew I wanted to join the cloth, but I’ve always been a believer in seeing things through, so I completed my degree before making the switch.’
‘Who brought you in to the school? Who was aware of this skill for numbers?’
‘Father Reid. We attended seminary together in Spain. It’s part of the training for priesthood, where you begin your journey in priestly formation, as it’s termed. We got friendly and kept in touch.’
‘Father Reid. Am I right in thinking he passed some time ago?’
‘Yes, sadly. He battled cancer for a few years, but we lost him nearly ten years ago now.’
‘I’m sorry. How long did you teach at the school?’
‘About a year or so, maybe a bit longer.’
‘Were there any gifted students?’
‘In maths? No, not really. It’s a bit of a dry subject for most. We did manage to squeeze a few of the boys through their Standard Grade though, I was happy about that.’
‘I can imagine. You knew the other priests and the nuns there well?’
‘I don’t know about well. As I said, I wasn’t part of the staff.’
‘What about the janitor?’
‘The janitor?’
‘Yes. Mr Bradley.’
‘Mr Bradley,’ he said, smiling again. ‘Yes, I knew Mr Bradley. We were the only two who smoked. Well – the only two adults that is, there were plenty of the boys smoked when they could get hold of it. We’d shoot the breeze over a cigarette. I haven’t thought about Mr Bradley in a very long time.’
‘You haven’t asked me why I’m here, Father. Why is that?’
He put down his coffee, wiped his hands on his trousers. ‘I’m assuming you’re getting to that,’ he said and smiled once more.
‘Mr Bradley’s grandson was murdered in April. You may have seen it on the news?’
‘Dear God,’ he said and blessed himself. The colour drained from his face. He took a moment to compose himself, rubbing his hands and looking at the table in front of him. ‘I … I do remember seeing that. And Bradley, you know, I never made the connection. That’s beyond awful.’
‘There’s no reason why you’d make the connection, Father. I’m sorry to be the one to make you aware.’
‘I don’t understand, you think Mr Bradley might be involved?’
‘No, nothing like that. The reason for my visit is because we’re trying to establish commonality between the murder of Callum Bradley and Father Brian McCauley. You knew him pretty well,’ I said. I raised my cup and drank. Really good coffee.
‘I’m sorry?’ he said. He looked genuinely confused but his neck, right around his collar, was as red as the bricks of his church.
‘Father McCauley. Brutally slain in his own church. That must have been very hard on you?’
‘I, I don’t understand.’ He laid an arm across his knees and leaned forward as if he was mishearing me. I drank again, really taking my time over it. He continued without prompting. ‘Oh, the horrible business with the priest in Edinburgh. I read about that. Of course, we said a prayer for him, just awful. You know I did a whole sermon on …’
He drifted off as I lifted the phone I’d just taken from my pocket and took a picture of him.
‘Sorry, you were saying, Father. You did a whole sermon?’
‘I .. we … did a … Sorry, why did you just …?’
‘The picture? Sorry, I should have mentioned. You were easy enough to find online. The church has its own website and you were listed as the parish priest, but no pictures. I’d have preferred to have shown a picture to Mrs Wilson prior to coming here. Mrs Wilson was Father McCauley’s cleaner, she bumped into you one morning, rather unexpectedly at the manse. I can use this to confirm that to be the case. But, I’m just wondering why a priest, of all people, is lying to the police? What is it you don’t …’
The man was weeping into his hands. Great sobs from deep in his chest. It took me by surprise. There was no break in it for minutes. The deacon, having heard the crying from wherever he’d gone, pushed his head around the door.
‘It’s OK. I just had to deliver some sad news, that’s all,’ I told him. Father Livingston, now aware of the company tried to pull himself together. I waved the deacon away and after another thirty seconds I could finally continue. ‘Father. What’s going on? Did you have something to do with the death of Father McCauley?’
This sobered him up instantly. ‘Oh, no. Lord no. Absolutely not.’ He wiped at his face and began searching his pockets for something to wipe his nose. I took some kitchen paper from next to the kettle and passed it to him. ‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘Take your time, Father.’
He blew his nose and dabbed at his eyes. ‘I did know Brian, but I swear to you, I swear to Lord God that I could never have harmed a hair on his head.’
‘I believe you. How did you know him?’
This prompted more crying, but he managed an answer. ‘We were … friends … for a very long time we’ve been friends. When I found out about his murder, I just didn’t know what to do with myself. I couldn’t grieve properly. God forgive me, I wasn’t even at his funeral.’
I thought about how to form the next question. ‘Father, I don’t need to know exactly what your relationship with Father McCauley was. Frankly I don’t care, that’s between you and him as far as I’m concerned. But would it be fair to say it was beyond friendship?’
He hesitated a moment, then nodded and brought the paper back to his eyes.
‘When was the last time you saw him?’
He took a deep breath, trying to push the grief out of his chest. ‘Uh, it was a few weeks before his death.’
‘And where was this?’
‘At the manse. His manse.’
‘It would have been a Monday?’
He nodded.
‘Because Mrs Wilson doesn’t work on a Monday?’
He nodded again.
‘When did you meet him?’
He cleared his throat. ‘It’s funny that I mentioned seminary e
arlier, it’s where I met Brian, too. He was a confirmed priest at that time and was there on a religious retreat while I was studying.’
‘How long ago are we talking?’
‘Oh, forty-something years.’ The tears were rolling again. ‘Please tell me you’ll catch the person who did this.’
‘I’m trying, believe me. Father, the only thing that links Father McCauley’s death with that of Callum Bradley is you. You, Mr Bradley and the school. Is there anything you think I need to know at this stage?’
‘I – I can’t think of anything.’
‘At some point, I will need you to come in to provide elimination prints. We can do it discreetly, but it will be necessary.’
‘I understand. Yes, of course.’
I felt a sense of guilt, looking at this man in the black shirt. He was no killer. He’d lost the dearest thing in the world to him and couldn’t talk about it to a living soul.
The dearest thing in the world to him, I thought.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
No Comment
There was a car parked at the rear of Mr Bradley’s place. A blue Ford Focus. I stopped and thought for a moment. Was this a detective visiting in an unmarked car? A Focus was just the kind of model you might expect for a pool car. The sensible thing to do would be to reverse back up the drive and do this another time. Yet I was stationary, engine running, just staring at the side of this car. My mind had been racing all the way from Dunbar and so had I, a steady ninety along the M8. I parked and went to have a look, thinking about what I’d say if a suited officer were to suddenly appear. I couldn’t think of one plausible reason for being here but the truth.
A look at the registration put me at ease. It told me the car was eight years old and so extremely unlikely to still be part of the Force fleet. Inside I could see CDs pushed into the door storage, definitely not police. CID. Still, the old man had company and that wasn’t ideal.
Assuming nobody used the front door, I retraced my path around the side and into the garden as per my last visit. I entered the garden and there was Mr Bradley in his chair, in a vest despite the fact that it was now early evening. Four of his extra-strength lager tins lay crushed at his feet. He appeared to be sleeping, his arms folded across his chest.
‘Mr Bradley? Hello?’ I said, not wanting to touch the man.
‘Hello?’ came a voice from inside. A man stepped through the open back door. He was drying a cup with a dishtowel.
‘Hi. I’m sorry to bother you. I was just hoping to have a word with your, um, with Mr Bradley.’
‘Dad. There’s someone here to see you. Dad.’
He tapped at his father’s shoulder with the back of his hand. The old man’s hands shot out as if her were falling.
‘Jesus,’ he mumbled. The old man wiped at his mouth and then his eyes.
‘Dad. There’s a police officer here to see you.’
The man looked around, then saw me. ‘Oh no. I’m not talking to any more police. No, you’ve had it. I’m done.’ He stood and had to grab the arm of the chair to stop from falling back into it.
‘Dad, sit down. Behave yourself.’ Mr Bradley’s son tried to lever him back into the chair, but he was having none of it. He disappeared into the house. ‘I’m sorry. He can be a bit like this when he’s had a few. I’ll talk to him. Give me a minute.’
The man followed his father into the house. An argument raged for five minutes and I grew impatient. I ventured into a kitchen the son had been doing his best to clean but was unlikely to make any real progress on, such was the grime at every corner.
In the living room the father was simultaneously coughing and trying to light the cigarette in his mouth.
‘I’m sorry. I’ve never seen him quite this bad,’ the son said. ‘He’s adamant he doesn’t want to talk to any more police. Maybe it’s something I can help you with?’
‘Thank you, but it really is your father I need to speak to. Some things have come to light that I need him to talk to me about?’
‘What sort of things?’
I stepped further into the room, leaning against a wall where I could see the father’s face and he could see mine. ‘I was here a few days ago to speak to your father. We talked about a lot of things, but particularly about the St Cuthbert’s School. Well, I’ve been doing some digging and a few things don’t add up. So, I’m here to just clarify a few points,’ I said to the son, but my eyes were on his dad.
‘I thought DC Kane was dealing with that?’ Bradley Junior looked from me to his father and back.
‘She is, but there’s a lot to cover in an inquiry like this, so I’m helping out.’
His face was one of confusion, but he seemed to accept my explanation. ‘Dad, whatever it is, will you please just talk to the man. It might be important.’
The old man stared out of the window from his armchair. His teeth were grinding under his lips. ‘I don’t need to talk to them. It’s my right not to answer questions.’
‘What are you talking about, Dad? Anything the police need to know, we tell them. You don’t know what little thing might—’
‘My lawyer says I don’t need to speak to them. I don’t have to.’
Bradley Junior laughed, though out of confusion. ‘What the hell are you talking about? Lawyer. Don’t be so stupid. You don’t have a lawyer.’
‘I do so have a lawyer. I have his …’ A coughing fit interrupted him. He was on his feet again and launching spittle about the place, not bothering to cover his mouth as he searched through papers and drawers. ‘Here,’ he managed, before grabbing a filthy looking towel and continuing to cough into it. He’d thrust a business card into his son’s hand. Bradley Junior looked at it, confusion returning to his face, then he handed it to me. ‘Alexander Aitchison & Co’, and an address in Motherwell.
‘When did you speak to a lawyer?’ he asked.
‘My question would be why did you speak to a lawyer, Mr Bradley. What made you feel then need to seek legal advice?’
From the son’s face, this question had just superseded his own. He walked to his father and lowered to his haunches in front of him, placing his hands on the old man’s knees. ‘Dad. What’s going on?’
The old man pushed his son away. ‘I just don’t want keep talking about it, that’s all. The lawyer says I don’t need to speak to any more police if I don’t want to.’
‘That’s perfectly true, Mr Bradley, but I’m sure you were well aware of that already. You only had to tell me, or one of my colleagues that you no longer wanted to assist with our enquiries and we would have respected that. So, why a lawyer?’
‘I just … I just want to be left alone.’
‘What is it you don’t want to discuss, exactly, Mr Bradley? Does it have something to do with Father Stephen Livingston?’ I studied the man’s face as I released the name into the air. There was a momentary drift of the eyes in my direction, then they snapped back to the window.
‘The lawyer says if you come round and start harassing me, I’ve to call him. So, you better get out.’
‘Dad, for God’s sake, nobody’s harassing you. Who’s Stephen Livingston?’ Bradley’s son said, partly to his father and partly to me.
‘He’s someone I spoke to this morning who knows your father pretty well. He also worked at St. Cuthbert’s. Used to sneak away for a cigarette with your dad. Only, when I spoke to your father the other day and pretty much described this man, your dad knew nothing about him.’
‘I don’t. I don’t know whoever it is,’ the old man snapped, sending him into another coughing fit.
I addressed Bradley Junior. ‘Look, I don’t know what’s going on here, I really don’t, but one thing is clear: the link between your son’s murder and that of the priest in Edinburgh has something to do with your father. Your father and this other priest, Livingston. The mere mention of Father Livingston’s description has had your dad running off to a lawyer.’
‘Get out. Get out my house!’
�
�Dad, stop this nonsense. Stop it right now. Look, sit down.’ The old man was wrestling with his son, but he was soon planted back in his chair. ‘Dad, you start answering this man’s questions and no more shite about a lawyer. This is important. This is for Callum.’
Bradley Senior pushed his hands into his face, his knuckles white, balled into fists.
‘This couldn’t be more important, Mr Bradley,’ I said, forcing my voice to a calm and even tone. ‘Thing is, I’m beginning to think that the target of these attacks was not your grandson and the priest in Edinburgh, but rather your old friend Father Stephen Livingston and you, Mr Bradley. Rather than attack you directly, he’s taken away the things you both love most in the world. Now, who would do such a thing? Mr Bradley please—’
‘I don’t know!’ he yelled, his eyes wide, his fists beating the arms of the chair. ‘Don’t you think if I knew who killed my grandson, I’d fucking tell you?’
‘Dad—’
‘It’s OK. Let him speak,’ I said.
‘Maybe I remember this priest from the school. But I don’t know anything. I don’t know anything.’ The tears were flowing and the coughing had returned.
‘Did you see something at that school? Something involving Father Livingston?’ I asked. I thought about that poor boy, his eyes cut from his head. There was no response from the old man.
Bradley Junior was prodding at the old man, trying to make his father look at him. ‘Dad, if you can help the police, you need to say something.’
‘I’ll level with you, Mr Bradley. I don’t think these attacks are finished and I think another one is coming soon. If you don’t help me, I’m going to be powerless to stop it. What if it’s another child? What if it’s someone else’s grandson or granddaughter? Could you live with that?’
‘Dad. What did you see? Speak to this man for God’s—’
‘Maybe,’ the old man muttered, suddenly calm. He took the ragged towel and wiped his eyes with it.
Into the Dark Page 23
