Black December

by Scott Hunter

  He extended his distance from the blurry brake lights ahead, easing off the pressure with his right foot. There was a petrol station somewhere nearby, he recalled. Bad position – on one of the bends. Not this one, though, Moran muttered as he took the corner. But then suddenly it was this corner and the car in front had stopped, indicator blinking. Moran slammed on the brakes, all too aware of the unfavourable physics of wet tyres and rain-slicked tarmac – oil too, probably, outside a petrol station . . .

  Moran hung onto the wheel. It gave him the illusion of control, but in reality there was no control at all in the sick, skidding journey he was making towards the rear of the stationary Vauxhall Astra. He felt a flicker of responsibility for the passengers, but the dangerous combination of obscuring hedge, country highway and petrol station was not his fault . . . by God it was someone’s fault, though . . . the tyres sang a rubber-perishing scream as the soaked wheels failed to grip. Moran did a quick calculation; he’d been doing around fifty, and the braking would slow him to maybe … thirty-five, forty? Still fast enough to do a lot of damage. He glimpsed a face freeze-framed against the rear window of the Astra before the jeep slewed crazily to the right. Then it was all about the oncoming lorry. Headlights blazed, blinding him. Moran squeezed in one last calculation. New closing speed: around eighty… The last thing he heard was the blaring of the artic’s klaxon.

  Then came the impact, the gagging stench of diesel, crushing pain, a sensation of floating.

  And then he died.

  But he didn’t stay dead. The doctors told him later that he’d been technically dead for thirty-six seconds – until they’d managed to get his heart going again. Moran was glad he’d been dead while they were doing that, because they’d broken four ribs while they were about it. This was the pain he remembered when he’d finally come round. Ribs first, head second; right foot (shattered) trailing in third position in the agony polls.

  But the dreams that accompanied his convalescence were worse than any pain. He’d swap them for cracked ribs any day. Thing was, he could cope with the nightmares if they were restricted to the six hours of restless tossing and turning he endured every night.

  But they weren’t.

  Because Moran’s biggest problem these post-trauma days was staying awake the rest of the time . . .

  Chapter 1

  “Guv?”

  Moran’s eyes snapped open. “What?”

  “There’s a monk on the phone for you.”

  “A what?”

  “A monk.” Phelps grinned. “You know…” The sergeant steepled his hands and raised his eyes heavenwards in an attitude of mock reverence.

  Moran ran a hand through his thinning hair. The smell of the crash was in his nostrils. The impact, the flames. He shook his head to disperse the images. His foot was aching with a familiar dull throb.

  “Says it’s urgent. Sounds upset.”

  “Well, put him on, Sergeant. And get me a coffee, would you?”

  “Will do.” Phelps made as if to leave, but then popped his head back around the doorframe.

  “Well?”

  “This monk – I was just hoping, sir. It’s nothing.”

  “Hoping what?”

  Phelps’ face broke into what, on his battered features, passed for a grin. “Well, sir, I hope he doesn’t make a habit of it, that’s all.”

  “Out, Phelps.”

  Moran was still smiling when he picked up the phone, but a moment later the joke was forgotten. As he listened to the shocked, tumbling voice on the phone his eyes grew wider. Two minutes later he slammed the receiver down, grabbed his raincoat and made for the door.

  Moran was dropped off outside the school entrance. The front door was an ornate, solid oak affair with two astroidal windows set into the deep grain. They returned Moran’s scrutiny with the indifference of age. This was the old part of the abbey, the dormitory and classroom block, plus the headmaster’s office where prospective parents and their nervous offspring would be welcomed.

  A newly-painted sign showed Moran the way to the abbey. He waited as a group of boys crossed the road in front of him. One, a tall ginger lad, gave him a courteous wave. Well, that was to be expected. Boys were sent here to be turned into young gentlemen, future high achievers. He found the expansive car park adjacent to the abbey church, an impressive building featuring a space-age cupola stretching high into the winter air.

  A black figure approached from the direction of the school. As he drew nearer Moran could see the anxiety etched into the monk’s forehead. He was in his late thirties, with a gaunt face, a serious slant to his mouth and a closely-trimmed beard in which traces of grey were beginning to show. He was wearing a black full-length habit tied at the waist with a leather belt. A pale hand appeared and extended in greeting. The grip was unexpectedly firm.

  “DCI Moran? So good of you to come promptly. Father Martin Oswald, prior of the abbey. Please – follow me.”

  “Who found the body?” Moran enquired as Oswald started back along the path at a brisk walk. “And when?”

  Oswald’s pace slowed a fraction. A bell rang in some distant cloister and the sound of young male voices filled the courtyard ahead.

  “Break time.” Oswald gave a brief smile. “Just fifteen minutes, and then we’ll have peace and quiet until half past twelve.” He paused and stroked his beard. “Father Horgan was found by one of the older monks – and a boy who was serving Mass at the time. The boy has been sent home – very distressed, obviously.”

  “What time, exactly?”

  “Around five forty-five this morning. Many of us celebrate Mass before breakfast. There are four small chapels within the main chapel. I’ll show you.”

  Oswald opened a door and ushered Moran inside the school. The kaleidoscope of smells took him back: floor polish, the institutional tang of boiling vegetables, paper, ink, and the unmistakeable odour of adolescent youth. Oswald was walking briskly now and Moran had to lengthen his stride to keep up. His leg still pained him and he walked with a noticeable limp, but he’d be damned if he’d let it slow him down.

  They stopped at an iron-hasped oak door; Oswald produced a set of keys and slid one into the lock.

  “These are the only keys. No one has been in since – except me and the abbot.”

  “And the body?”

  Oswald swung the door open. “Is lying where it was found. And that’s strange enough in itself.”

  Moran resisted the urge to genuflect as they crossed the nave to the chapel’s east side, where an ambulatory cloister ran from north to south.

  “Strange in what way?” Moran clocked the curiosity in Oswald’s voice – the monk was bursting to share the discovery. Moran couldn’t recall the last time anyone had showed such unbridled enthusiasm at the site of a suspicious death.

  “Over here,” Oswald gestured. They were standing in front of one of the side chapels. The altar had been pushed aside, and beneath it a dark gap revealed a stone staircase.

  Moran fished in his pocket and produced a pair of rubber gloves. “Anything been touched?”

  “Not that I’m aware of,” Oswald replied, his eyes shining with anticipation.

  Moran hesitated at the rail. He hadn’t set foot within the holy boundary of an altar since his earliest years in Ireland. It was out of bounds to the common people; only the priest and his acolytes were permitted to tread within its mysterious perimeter. He pulled the gloves on, irritated with himself, and followed Oswald. What are you thinking, Moran? This is a murder, not High Mass . . .

  “This chamber,” Oswald murmured. “Quite something. I’ve said Mass here countless times. I had no idea that it existed. I–”

  Moran grunted. “At least two people knew about it – namely Father Horgan and his murderer.” He paused by the altar and peered into the stairwell. Father Horgan’s body was lying face up, his arms outstretched in what appeared to be a shallow recess in the floor. A pool of blood had begun to congeal around the head, and smaller droplets
dotted the stone by the dead monk’s outstretched hands.

  Moran went down, minding his footing on the crumbling steps. Glass fragments crunched under his shoes as he bent automatically and felt for the pulse he knew would be absent. The monk had a yellowed bone clasped in his right hand, but what was in the other? It looked like a sliver of wood, upon which were carved a series of marks; curved, sweeping strokes made by some carpentry instrument. The markings had been partially obscured by a dark stain, and the ragged extremities of the object indicated that other fragments had, in all probability, been lost altogether, whether by deliberate damage or excessive handling it was impossible to say.

  Moran could feel Oswald hovering. “May I–?” The monk made as if to step closer.

  “No further, if you don’t mind.” Moran held up his hand. “Forensics will need to give it the once-over first.” His mobile gave three short beeps. “Excuse me a moment.” He fished out his phone. “Moran.”

  Sergeant Phelps’ barrow boy growl filled his ear. “Taylor’s on his way, sir. Should be with you soon.”

  “Have Forensics got their fingers out yet?”

  “Hang on, guv.”

  Moran heard Phelps yelling across the office. He took the opportunity to study Father Oswald as the monk stood over the body of his fallen brother, wringing his hands like the leading player in a Shakespearian tragedy. Genuinely shocked, Moran concluded. And keen to do a little amateur sleuthing. He made a mental note to sow some seeds of discouragement. Amateurs were always bad news.

  “On their way, sir. Be with you as soon as,” Phelps blasted in his ear. Moran winced and signed off.

  The silence of death, Moran reflected, is a unique kind of silence. He was standing in the chamber, conducting what he called his ‘prelim’. This involved a careful perusal of each and every angle of the crime scene, taking account of any loose objects, anything that seemed to have been displaced from its normal position, anything out of the ordinary. In this case, however, everything fell into the latter category. The fact that the chamber was, in effect, some kind of closely-guarded secret, and the fact that the victim was a man of the cloth for starters . . .

  Somewhere in the distance he could hear the school returning to morning classes – the sound of running feet, whistles, the collective din of recently-broken male voices. If he closed his eyes he could imagine himself at Blackrock during his own schooldays. Lunch at the communal table, rugby training until four o’clock. Lessons till seven. Free time, then bed at nine. Moran shook his head ruefully. Those were the days, my friend.

  “Inspector?” Oswald’s earnest voice floated from the stairwell where Moran had insisted he remain. “Anything I can do?”

  “You can arrange a meeting with the abbot and the headmaster for starters,” Moran called back. “I don’t want anyone leaving the school grounds until they’ve checked with me.” His voice sounded flat in the small enclosure. He gingerly probed under the body, taking care not to disturb Horgan’s position, which was odd in the extreme. His fingers found what he expected: more bones. Horgan had died on someone else’s grave. Moran straightened up and climbed back into the chapel.

  Oswald’s expression was a contortion of unasked questions.

  “I know what you’re going to ask.” The monk raised his finger. A brief smile played about his lips until it was dismissed by the look on Moran’s face.

  “Well, go on then.”

  “I – I know, of course, about the relic.”

  “Relic?”

  “The wood – the Titulus. That’s what the chamber is for.”

  Understanding dawned. “Ah, I see.” So Christian relics were not exclusive to the Middle Ages. The provenance and value of the scrap of wood might be an avenue worth exploring. Had Horgan been trying to protect it? It seemed he had succeeded – albeit at the cost of his own life. “Perhaps I can have a quick chat with the abbot while we’re waiting for the quack and the SOCOs?”

  “SOCOs?” Oswald looked puzzled.

  “Scene of Crime Officers. And the death needs to be certified. I can’t get cracking until that’s done and dusted.”

  “Ah. Forensics and so on? I see. I’ll find the abbot for you.”

  “And the headmaster, please.”

  “Of course. Perhaps I can ask you to wait in the Court of Arches.”

  “Fine. Anything else I need to know about the chapel?”

  Oswald stroked his chin. “Well, there is something. But it’s rather fanciful . . .”

  “Anything that might be pertinent.”

  “Every abbey has its ghost story,” Oswald said. “And we are no exception. The spirit of a dead girl is said to haunt the chapel. She is known as the White Lady.”

  “I see.” Moran sighed. “I may not follow that particular line of enquiry, Father, if it’s all the same to you. Now, if you’ll excuse me I have to make a few phone calls.”

  Schoolboys were beginning to emerge from classrooms along the length of the main cloister, laughing and joking or talking in small groups of two or three as they made their way to further places of study. Harassed-looking teachers were dotted along the passage issuing a warning here, a word of greeting there as the swarm passed them by. These be-suited laymen were supplemented by several older boys wearing distinctive blue ties; prefects, Moran supposed. He noticed that the younger boys showed respect for the blue ties – evidently discipline was a working concept at Charnford, Moran noted approvingly.

  “I’ll leave you here for a few minutes, Chief Inspector, if that’s all right.” Oswald gave a brief smile. “There’s a coffee machine in the corner, if you’re in need of refreshment. I’m sure the abbot won’t keep you long.”

  “I’ll be fine, thanks.”

  He watched Oswald glide down the cloister. The hubbub of scholarly traffic died away and the Court of Arches fell silent. Moran went to the drinks machine and inserted a coin. He retrieved the plastic cup, sat down heavily on a bench beneath a leaded window and considered the corpse. Throat slashed, left for dead. Had the murderer been disturbed? No effort at concealment had been attempted.

  Moran jotted a quick note. A shaft of sunlight stole into the cloister, motes of dust swirling in the beam like a miniature galaxy. The radiator next to him clanked as it cleared some hidden airlock. From behind closed doors came the muffled mutterings of academia. Moran closed his eyes.

  “Excuse me. Are you okay?”

  Moran was still dreaming. He knew that for sure, because Janice was dead. Long dead. And he’d recognise her voice anywhere; from behind the wall of sleep or from within the vaults of his memory, that sweet sound lived on. He didn’t want to let go, even though he was aware that the dream had reached its nightmare stage: they kissed, parted, and he watched her walk across the car park, her red hair catching the sunlight, seeing the half turn, the wave. A moment frozen in time, the last time their eyes had met. Then a pause as she opened the car door, another second or two as she turned the key in the ignition. Then an orange blossom of flame, a hot wind that blew him off his feet, particles of glass and metal flying. Blood on his clothes, a pall of black smoke. The bomb that was meant for him. His car. Not hers.

  “Hello?”

  Moran woke up. And gawped.

  “I just thought you might have been lost – I don’t think I know you . . .”

  The voice, the face, the hair. So like her. Moran heard himself clear his throat and mutter an apology. He stood up, the hairs on the back of his neck tingling.

  “Holly Whitbread. English Lit. and RE.” She smiled and offered her hand.

  “Chief Inspector Brendan Moran. Pleased to meet you.” He cleared his throat, tried to keep his voice steady.

  “Are you sure you’re okay? I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “Fine, thanks.” Moran smoothed his hair. “I haven’t been sleeping too well.”

  “Well, with your job I’m not surprised.” She smiled again and Moran worked to control his emotions. It was as if Janice had come back to
life, younger and more beautiful than ever.

  “You’ve come about Father Horgan, I suppose.” Her forehead creased. “Poor man. But he hadn’t been keeping well. I imagine you’re obliged to be present at the scene of a sudden death?”

  “A sudden death?” Moran frowned. “Of course, absolutely.” So that was the story. Why hadn’t Oswald told him? “Did you know Father Horgan?”

  “Oh, yes.” Holly Whitbread wrinkled her nose. “We all knew him very well. He was quite the disciplinarian. Very old-school.”

  “I see.”

  “But likeable with it,” Holly went on. “I can’t believe he’s gone – just like that.” She snapped her manicured fingers.

  “Is the news on general release?”

  “I’m not sure. I think there’s to be an announcement at lunch. The boys know something’s up – because the chapel is locked,” she added. “No morning prayers. My class are still celebrating.”

  Moran smiled. “You’re not turning them into little monks, then?”

  “Hardly.” Holly made a face. “Little devils, the lot of them.” She tossed her hair back and laughed. Moran tried to swallow but his mouth had dried up. She could be Janice’s twin, even down to the mannerisms. He pulled himself together with an effort.

  “Do I detect a Cork accent?”

  Holly inclined her head in acknowledgement. “You do. And I might ask the same.”

  “Close,” Moran conceded. “I was born in Ardmore, but I moved to London after . . . after . . .” He couldn’t bring himself to say her name. “After my fiancée died.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Her forehead creased and her eyes locked onto his. The sympathy was so evidently genuine that it took him aback.

  He cleared his throat. “Thank you. It was a long time ago.”

  “Can I escort you anywhere, Chief Inspector?”