If It Bleeds

by Bernie Crosthwaite

  “What? Is she ill? She hasn’t lost her job, has she?”

  “No, thank god. I shouldn’t be telling you this…”

  I knelt down by the chair. “It looks like you need to tell someone.”

  “Yeah, I do.” He couldn’t speak at first. It was like watching the kettle simmer. Finally, when the pressure became too great, he said bitterly, “She’s having an affair.”

  “Rob, I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

  “Me neither. Not till she started staying out all night.” His cheeks were wet with tears. He swiped them away. “Trouble is, I can’t blame her. Look at me, dead from the waist down. Do you know what I’m saying? I can’t get it up, Jude. I’m thirty-two and I’m finished. I was finished the day I fell off that ladder. They might as well throw me out with the garbage!”

  “You’re not finished. Look how much Hayley needs you.”

  We argued like that for some time, the to and fro of despair and reassurance.

  Eventually he reached into his pocket for a handkerchief and blew his nose. “I’m sorry, Jude. I didn’t mean to burden you with this. I’m sure you’ve got better things to do. You get on, I’ll be all right.”

  I stood up. “Is there anything practical I can do to help?”

  “No. Wait, there is one thing. You could feed the damn ferret. Hayley wasn’t well enough first thing and I haven’t got round to it yet.”

  “About the ferret…” I collected the box from the worktop. “There’s been an accident. It must have escaped again and run into the path of a car. I found it on the road outside.”

  “Oh Christ.”

  “I put it in this box. I thought Hayley might want to bury it.”

  “She thought the world of that thing,” he said quietly. “Let’s have a look.”

  “It’s not a pretty sight.”

  “I can take it.”

  I took the lid off and let him see the bloody remains. Neither of us noticed Hayley standing in the doorway until her scream nearly made me drop the box. I pushed the lid back on, but it was too late.

  She ran to her dad and buried her face in his chest, sobbing her heart out.

  “Listen, I’ll bury it for you.”

  “It’s all right,” Rob said. “The ground’s too hard for digging, anyhow. We’ll make a funeral pyre and cremate it. Leave it to us.”

  I was about to place the box on a high shelf where Hayley couldn’t reach it. But then nor could Rob. I put it back on the worktop.

  I wanted to tell the truth about the animal’s death. It was no accident. But how could I explain that it had been placed on my doorstep, a bloody message to warn me off? I didn’t want to drag this innocent family into the sordid world I’d begun to inhabit. I was certain this was the kinder way, even if I hadn’t been quite honest.

  I was sure of something else too. Promise or no promise, there was no way I was going to stop looking for Lara’s killer.

  Nineteen

  Abandoning plans to walk into town, I took the car, which only stuttered into life after several attempts and a good kicking. As I drove over East Bridge I glanced down into the icy water, knowing how lucky I was to be alive. Perhaps it was the fact I’d survived that made me so heedless of future danger. Someone had tried to get rid of me. When that didn’t work they killed a little girl’s pet as an example of what might happen to me if I didn’t drop my unofficial investigation. Didn’t they realise that when you’re dealing with the bloody minded it just didn’t work like that? I remembered reading that during the war Hitler’s bombs had made the British even more determined to defeat him. After the Blitz, morale had gone up, not down.

  I felt the same way. I’d been pushed too far. Now I was raging with the overwhelming need to see the murderer’s face. That was very important. I would risk everything just to look into those eyes and say Gotcha.

  As I negotiated the traffic, barely aware of the endless stopping and starting, I made a mental list of any possible leads I could follow. It didn’t amount to much — the pentagram and blisters that had mutilated Lara’s body, a priest’s memory of a young girl’s hair, Arab music and a movie about the Bedouin, a bracelet that had turned up in the wrong place, a missing print. Only the first of these had any direct link to Lara’s death. Were the other things connected? And if so, how? The answer remained as blank as a piece of resin-coated paper before the chemicals got to work. But like the latent image on the paper, it didn’t mean the whole picture wasn’t there. It meant I had to wait for it to develop.

  But if I waited for the truth to emerge, the killer might strike again, and I would never forgive myself.

  *

  When they built St Bridget’s in the 1960s the parish had bought the much older house next door, and it had been the presbytery ever since. The large villa, built in ugly brown brick, had for several years been the home of one parish priest and at least two curates. Nowadays most churches were lucky to have a priest at all, and I imagined Father Thomas rattled around the empty rooms.

  The heavy oak door was opened by a young woman wearing the abbreviated veil and calf-length dress of a modern nun. She looked barely old enough to have left school. Perhaps it was her blameless life that kept her face so fresh and youthful.

  “Is Father Thomas in?”

  “I’m afraid he’s busy right now. If I could take your name?”

  I pushed past her into the dark panelled hallway.

  “Please,” she fluttered, “you need an appointment to see him.”

  “I don’t need any damn thing.”

  The house was very hot and smelled of something spicy, incense or oil, and under that I caught the whiff of fried bacon. The raucous sound of some morning TV chat show was blaring from a half-open door down the corridor. I reached it in three strides.

  Father Thomas had his feet up on a velvet footstool, eating a late breakfast from a tray, and laughing at the antics of the people on screen. He glanced up when I entered the room and his laughter was switched off at once, along with the TV.

  “Jude…”

  The young nun was wringing her hands in my wake. “I’m so sorry, Father. She just walked straight in.”

  “It’s all right, Sister.” He lifted his slippered feet from the stool and placed the tray on a low table. “Why don’t you get on with the filing?”

  “Yes, Father.” She closed the door softly.

  Father Thomas smiled at me. His Irish accent flowed out like honey. “Sadly, Patricia Ramsey isn’t available at the moment, so Sister Veronica is helping me out with the admin.”

  “Does she make your breakfast as well?”

  He stared longingly at the plate of congealing bacon and eggs. “No, I made that myself. Very few Catholic priests have housekeepers these days.”

  “What other duties does she perform?”

  “What do you mean?” He frowned. “If you mean what I think you do, that’s a disgusting suggestion. She’s a nun, a bride of Christ.”

  “She looks about fifteen.” I started to pace around. Heavy brown furniture gave the room a gloomy claustrophobic atmosphere, not helped by the fact that the burgundy velvet curtains were still closed even though it was the middle of the morning. A blazing electric fire and a large corrugated radiator had raised the temperature to greenhouse level. “Lara was fifteen when she had an abortion.”

  His eyes were pale green chips of marble.

  “Why don’t you take a seat?” He removed a pile of hymn books from a stiff-backed chair. We sat down facing each other.

  “Confession time,” I said.

  He seemed confused for a moment. “You want me to hear your confession?”

  “No. I want to hear yours.”

  He exhaled as if I’d punched him, disguising it as a mirthless laugh. “I have nothing to confess, not to you anyway. The bishop is the only person who listens to my sins.”

  “Just imagine you’re on a TV show — like the one you’ve been watching, where people blurt out their darkest secrets. Y
ou’ll find it easy once you start.”

  “I told you, I’ve nothing to say.”

  The room was stifling. I unwound my scarf and unzipped my fleece jacket. Then I waited.

  “Is this something to do with Lara?”

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” I murmured. “Isn’t that what you’re supposed to say first?”

  “Don’t mock the sacraments!”

  I leaned forward. “I’m deadly serious, Father. Tell me about you and Lara.”

  “That was years ago. Why rake it all up again now? What’s the point?”

  “The point is, Lara’s dead.”

  “That’s not my fault.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  The heat was getting to him too. Beads of moisture had appeared on his forehead, his cheeks were beginning to glow. Even though he wasn’t wearing a dog collar, he tugged at the open neck of his black shirt.

  “Lying is a sin, isn’t it, Father?”

  “A venial sin, yes. Why do you ask?” He steepled his hands and pointed them under his chin. “Oh, I forgot. You’re interested in becoming a Catholic.”

  “OK. We both lied.”

  “I didn’t.”

  I stared at him until his gaze shifted to his cold breakfast.

  “All right,” he said quietly. “Not telling the whole truth is a kind of lying, I suppose. What we call sins of omission.”

  “And what did you omit?”

  “I think you know.”

  “Perhaps.”

  His chin sank on to his chest. “God forgive me.”

  “You can only be forgiven if you admit your guilt. Isn’t that right?”

  He nodded.

  “Then for heaven’s sake, get on with it.”

  “All right!” He got up and walked up and down the room a couple of times, then leant on a glass-fronted cabinet for support, staring at the Waterford crystal and brightly coloured icons that it contained, as if he could draw strength from them. “I was the father of Lara’s child,” he whispered.

  “Louder.”

  He reared upright, eyes blazing. “Don’t push it, Jude.”

  “Did you encourage her to have an abortion?”

  “I… I… it’s difficult to explain to someone who…” He tapped his fingernails against the glass door of the cabinet. “Her mother is a good Catholic, so obviously she disapproved of abortion. But she told Lara she couldn’t keep the child, it must be adopted.”

  “Did the Ramseys know you were the father?”

  “They had no idea we were… having a relationship.”

  “How long had it been going on?”

  “About six months.”

  “Jesus Christ! You did realise she was underage, that what you were doing was illegal?”

  He slumped on the arm of a chair. “Of course. It was all a terrible mistake, a complete mess, but Lara was so…”

  “Beautiful?” He didn’t answer. “So you agreed with her parents — the baby must be put up for adoption?” He nodded. “How did Lara take that?”

  “Not well. But what was I to do? I could hardly acknowledge the child as mine, could I?”

  “In other words, Lara had no support from her parents or from you, the father of her baby. She must have felt so betrayed that abortion seemed the only answer.”

  Father Thomas nodded. “And when Lara was determined to do something, there was no stopping her.”

  I stood up and zipped my fleece, feeling vindicated. At least I’d been right about something. There was just one more thing I needed to know.

  “What are you going to do?” he asked.

  “That depends.”

  “Are you going to tell the bishop? And then spread it all over the front page of your daily rag?”

  “I told you, I don’t work there anymore.”

  “That doesn’t stop you going to the press.”

  “No,” I admitted. “But like I say, it depends.” He shrank a little as I approached him. “Is there anything else on your conscience?”

  “Isn’t that enough? What Lara and I did was sinful, the result of unchecked desire.” He laughed grimly. “At least I understand all about human weakness now — been there and done that. And I’ve been paying for it ever since.”

  “Lara was the one who paid, not you!”

  “We both did.”

  “Not good enough, Father Thomas. She was only fifteen when you seduced her. You got her pregnant. Hadn’t you heard of contraceptives? No, of course not, you’re a Catholic.” He bridled at that but I carried on. “Having an abortion at that age must have been traumatic. It was after that she went off the rails, not before. From then on, sleeping around was Lara’s way of trying to fill the terrible empty spaces in her life. If one of her ex-lovers killed her, and I think that’s very likely, then you’re the one who sent her down the road to her death.”

  He stood up quickly, grabbing the cabinet again to steady himself. The contents rocked and tinkled like wind chimes. “I’ve been in a long dark tunnel for the last five years. I thought I was just coming out of it. A few weeks ago I saw Lara in the street. She was with a young man. She looked happy, normal. Something lifted from my shoulders, and I could see a chink of light at the end of the tunnel. Then she was killed.” He let go of the cabinet, his shoulders slumped. “I’m back in the tunnel, and I don’t know if I’ll ever come out into the light again.”

  I rewarded this speech with a slow ironic handclap. “I used to hang around with actors a lot, and quite frankly I can only give that performance C minus.”

  He shook his head sadly. “That sarcasm will destroy you in the end, Jude.”

  “It’s all you deserve. And you haven’t answered my question.”

  “What?”

  “Anything else to confess?”

  “Oh, I see. You think I killed Lara?”

  “It’s a reasonable theory. Her parents had no idea you were sleeping with Lara. She might have threatened to tell them, or the bishop. She could have destroyed your reputation in this parish, threatened your whole career.”

  “It’s not a career, it’s a vocation.”

  “Whatever.” I picked up a Bible from the table and held it out. “I don’t believe in this anymore, but I assume you do.”

  “You want me to swear on that that I didn’t kill Lara?”

  “Yes.”

  He placed his right hand on the black leather. “I swear, by Almighty God, that I had nothing to do with the murder of Lara Ramsey.” When he took his hand away the sweaty imprint of his fingers remained. I was transfixed, watching the image evaporate in the overheated room.

  A wave of dizziness rocked me as I stood there. The room was like a hothouse. I had to get out of here before I combusted.

  Father Thomas touched my hand. His fingers seemed to scald the skin. “Are you all right? Have you eaten anything today? Can I get you a cup of tea? A sandwich?”

  I was suffocating. “No…” I hurried to the door, clumsily pulling at the brass handle.

  “Let me, it sticks sometimes.”

  He brushed against my shoulder as he opened the door. He emanated heat like a radiator. I felt almost consumed, as if I’d flown too near the sun. I nearly fell into the corridor. It was a degree or two cooler here. Sister Veronica stuck her head out of the adjoining room.

  “Is everything OK, Father?”

  “It’s fine. Make me a cup of coffee, will you?”

  “Of course.” She passed us on her way to the kitchen, keeping her eyes averted.

  I was outside in the frosty air and Father Thomas was closing the door on me when I asked, “When the police finally release Lara’s body, will you conduct the funeral?”

  He looked calmer now, back in control. “Of course I will,” he said. “She was one of my flock.”

  I rang Stan at his home number, assuming he wouldn’t be back at work until next week. I was right. I asked him how he was.

  “Not good, Jude. Neither of us can sleep. We look at pictures of La
ra all night, trying to remember the good times.”

  “I’m so sorry, Stan. Give my love to Carol.”

  “I will.”

  “Listen, there’s something I should tell you, before you hear it on the grapevine.” I explained that I had resigned from the paper, but before he could ask any more about it, I changed the subject. “Stan, I need to track down a film called Scorching Desert.” It was possible the DVD was still in Lara’s flat, but I assumed the police activity would make it impossible to gain access. I knew Stan was keen on old movies. He had a vast collection of them, his favourites being westerns, anything with Katharine Hepburn, and the films of Quentin Tarantino. He assured me his wife Carol had the same tastes. “Have you heard of it?”

  “I don’t know that one, Jude.”

  “Do you know where I can find a copy?”

  He recommended a man in the market hall, a repository of every kind of film - the good, the bad, and the downright obscure.

  “Thanks. Take care. I’ll drop by as soon as I can.”

  *

  The market hall had a roof as high as a cathedral. The sounds of stallholders shouting their wares echoed up to the rafters where the occasional pigeon fluttered. The place reeked of vegetables and fish and the aroma of the potent mugs of tea available from the café. I worked my way along the many aisles, threading my way past the cheap clothes and leather goods and highly coloured confectionery, trying to find the guy Stan had recommended. But the place was like a maze and all I knew was that the second-hand movie stall was somewhere at the centre of it.

  I turned a corner past a tottering pile of bird cages, and there it was. Half the stall was devoted to vinyl records and obscure CDs, and the rest to DVDs and ancient videos. The stallholder was sitting on a stool reading a magazine. He had deep lines etched beside his mouth, which was twisted sideways in order to keep a cigarillo in place. With his dyed black quiff and long sideburns, it was clear his interest in style had stopped in the fifties. He took no notice of me.

  The DVD cases were stacked in boxes like second-hand books, spines uppermost. I ran my finger along the first row. They didn’t seem to be arranged in any kind of order.

  “Looking for anything in particular?” A rich puff of tobacco wafted my way.