by Scott Hunter
Clearly someone was trying to tell him something. Or perhaps ask him something? Had it been passed to him for safekeeping? Or for some other purpose? Whatever the reason, here was an opportunity to establish exactly what he was dealing with; a quick call and it was sorted. If anyone could declare the artefact fake or genuine it would be Reading University’s Professor of Archaeology, Charles Sturrock. Moran also trusted Charles’ discretion, and he needed plenty of that right now. After some thought he had elected not to share his acquisition with Phelps; for all he knew, that knowledge might be a dangerous thing.
Moran tried to stretch the stiffness out of his aching back and groaned. He glanced in the full-length mirror and wished he hadn’t. He looked as bad as he felt.
“I need a coffee, Phelps. Then we’ll see how Forensics is getting on – I hear the dulcet tones of TVP’s finest diggers and scrapers.”
“Anything of interest?” Moran bowed his head to avoid a sharp projection of stone above the vault entrance.
“Possibly,” a white-suited female officer replied in a tone that suggested a reluctance to suffer interruptions, even from a senior officer.
“Prints?”
“Afraid not. The surfaces in here don’t lend themselves to prints. Wood, rough stone. No good.”
Moran heard a muffled curse as Phelps’ crown made contact with the low ceiling. The Forensics officer straightened from her bent posture. “But we have found something.” She jerked a thumb. “In the chapel. More bloodstains.”
Moran raised his eyebrows. “Did you, though? Show me.”
They followed the Forensics officer to the rear of the chapel where a small window had evidently been forced. The stone sill bore traces of dark brown stains.
“Have you got a lab report on it yet?”
“Any time now, sir,” the brunette replied. “They said by three.”
Phelps was examining the window frame. “Horgan’s blood – or the killer’s?”
“As soon as I hear, I’ll come and find you,” she said, a note of impatience creeping into her voice.
They left Forensics to finish up their work in the chamber. Phelps cocked his head as he lumbered along the cloister, his heavy forehead knitted into a frown of anxiety. “An outsider, d’you think, guv?”
“I don’t know what to think at the moment, Phelps. What was the murderer looking for? Nothing’s been stolen, according to our friend Oswald. At least, not at the time of the murder,” he said, thinking of the Titulus. His mobile buzzed. “Moran.”
“Hello, Mr Moran, it’s Kelly.”
Moran groped into his mental contact list and drew a blank.
“Kelly, from Happydogz,” the voice prompted.
Moran stopped walking and Phelps leaned back on a convenient radiator with a grunt of satisfaction.
“Of course – sorry. What can I do for you?”
“Well, it’s just that we were expecting to walk Archie today, but he’s not there. We wondered if we’d got the wrong day.”
Moran frowned. Not there? Then – he groaned as he put two and two together. Patrick.
“Is everything all right, Mr Moran?”
“Fine, Kelly – I apologise. My brother is staying over – he’s probably taken Archie out. I should have let you know.”
“No problem – we’ll come on Monday as usual, shall we?”
“That’d be great. Thanks.” He hung up.
“Problem, guv?” Phelps blew on his hands and rubbed them along the radiator’s corrugated surface. “I can’t believe how flamin’ cold this place is.”
Moran pocketed his phone. “My brother. He’s taken the dog out.”
“Bad news?”
“Very.”
“I won’t ask.” Phelps reluctantly disengaged from his new-found source of warmth and fell into step with Moran. “Where next?”
“The linen room, then the headmaster. Oh, and the Cardinal. One each and one up for grabs. Shall we toss for it?”
“I fancy the Cardinal, guv, if that’s all right?”
Moran shrugged. “Who am I to question your carnal tastes, Phelps? Be my guest.”
The linen room was tucked behind the back entrance to the school, nestling between the tuck shop and the infirmary. Moran went to the counter and, finding no bell, knocked twice on the worn wood. A slight figure in a light blue dress appeared from within.
“Can I help you?”
“I hope so.” Moran smiled. “You are–?”
The woman smoothed her dress. “Miss Coleman. I’m in charge of the linen room.”
Moran showed her his ID. “I’d like to have a chat about linen numbers, if I may.”
Miss Coleman chewed her lip and looked puzzled. “I don’t see–”
“I’ll explain everything,” Moran said in his most reassuring voice.
“Very well.” Miss Coleman raised the counter flap and Moran went through.
“Come into my office,” Miss Coleman bustled past ironing boards, racks of jackets, piles of sports clothes. “Here we are.” The room was small, just a table, two chairs and a cupboard. Miss Coleman invited Moran to sit.
“Thank you.”
“What can I do for you, Chief Inspector?”
Moran studied the linen matron. She was fifty-something, maybe older. Her features were spare and angular; a long nose led to a small mouth framed by thin lips. The face was pale, her makeup heavily applied.
“How long have you worked at Charnford?”
“Since 1975. The seventeenth of November.”
“I see. And if I gave you a linen number, would you have a record of who it belonged to?”
“Of course.”
“You have archive records?”
“Indeed we do.”
Moran put his hand in his pocket and produced a piece of paper. He squinted at his note. “F362.”
“Oh, that’s the old version. We don’t use the house prefix any more.”
“No? When was the change made?”
Miss Coleman pursed her lips. “That would be when the new house came in. There were three, you see, but they introduced another, Fortescue House, in 1970 I think it was.”
“Do records go back before then?”
Miss Coleman raised a long finger. “They do. We’ll have a look.” She went to the cupboard and withdrew a fat volume. “Here we are. Well before my time, but it’s all here.” She placed the book on the table, moistened her finger and flicked through the yellowed pages. “This takes us up to the changeover.” She looked up enquiringly. “Was there a particular year?”
“The boys go through the school in, what, five years?”
“That’s correct.”
“What have you got for 60-65?”
Miss Coleman turned the pages. And frowned.
“Problem?”
“The records only go up to F350 during this period. The number was unallocated.”
“65-70?”
Miss Coleman bent to her task. And frowned again. “That’s odd. Someone’s torn the pages out.” She placed her palms face down, as if to deny the anomaly. “I’m very sorry, Chief Inspector. I don’t know why anyone would have done this.”
Moran wasn’t surprised. “That’s all right, Mrs Coleman. Thanks for your help.”
As he made his way to the head’s office, Moran consoled himself with the thought that, at the very least, they now had a rough timeframe to work with.
Father Aloysius Strickland was a choleric little man with cheeks like an overfed hamster. His eyes were bright buttons, pinpricks of intelligence in the overripe plumpness of his vein-infused face.
“The restrictions will be lifted very soon, I trust?” Father Aloysius shifted papers around his desk nervously. “Jolly hard to keep a lid on this sort of thing – normal life must be resumed as soon as possible you understand, Inspector Morane.”
“Moran.”
“Of course.” The little man bobbed his head. “We have parents to show around – an intake of new boys next ter
m – only a few, you understand, but nevertheless if the parents get wind of, of –”
“I do understand, Father.” Moran felt some sympathy for the headmaster. Times were hard, and a murder wasn’t an ideal addition to the school prospectus. “My sergeant tells me that the school has been struggling financially.”
“Struggling, yes, quite so.” Aloysius articulated the word with distaste. “But we soldier on. Our reputation is second to none, you see. Second to none. Well, apart from Ampleforth, Downside and so on – but they are much larger schools, Inspector, much larger.”
“They could ride out a scandal, you mean.”
“Well. Yes, I suppose so.”
Moran leaned over the desk. “But this is more than a scandal, Father. A man has been killed. And so far there appears to be more concern over the future of the school than with the abruptly terminated life of Father Horgan.” Moran sat back to let his words take effect. “Now, why is that, I wonder?”
Aloysius adopted an attitude of studied concentration while the beginnings of a frown bisected his bushy brows. “Father Horgan,” he murmured, as if to prompt himself to accurate recollections of the dead monk’s character. “Not an easy man at all, I’m afraid.”
“Unpopular?”
“Yes, in many ways, I believe so. Very capable – don’t misunderstand me – he was a housemaster in his heyday, you know. Harder job than mine … and latterly he excelled as the school librarian and archivist. But those boys–” the monk shook his head, clearly agitated. “The boys are members of his old house. Odd, all very odd.”
“Boys? What boys?”
“They’re missing, you see.” Father Aloysius rubbed his forehead distractedly. “Two roll calls. That’s too many,” he added, half to himself. “Far too many to–”
“What?” Moran was dumbfounded. He sat forward in the leather-upholstered chair he had been ushered into a few minutes earlier. “Are you telling me that you have missing boys? How many? How long?” Moran felt his temperature rising. “Why haven’t I been informed?”
“I wasn’t sure – if it was pertinent to your investigation – a distraction, perhaps, might have been unhelpful, that sort of thing–” Aloysius trailed off.
Moran had left his chair and was standing by the window overlooking the monks’ garden. A naked apple tree held court over the carefully tended lawn, bare branches swaying as a gust of wind chased dead leaves around the walled perimeter. Keeping his voice even with a huge effort, he turned to face the headmaster.
“I want names, ages, details. When they were last seen. Who with. Friends, enemies. Likes, dislikes. Everything. As soon as possible.” He spun on his heel and grabbed the door handle. “What sort of a place is this, headmaster? I’ve heard of closed ranks, but Charnford really takes the biscuit. This is a murder investigation, not a temporary inconvenience. What about the parents? Have you informed them?”
“Just about to when you knocked.” Aloysius gave the telephone a covert glance. “Quite right, about time I did.” He reached for the instrument, but Moran had already departed in a paroxysm of repressed anger, having narrowly resisted the temptation to slam the door behind him.
Phelps strode purposefully down the path that ran alongside the monks’ cloister leading to the abbey church and the playing fields beyond. He could see his target in the distance, walking slowly with hands clasped behind his back in an attitude of relaxed and leisurely exploration of the monastery and school grounds. Right, Phelps thought. Got you at last, Señor Vagnoli, or whatever your name is. The guv’nor was checking out John Vernon’s hotel room – good job he’d had a reason to get away from Charnford for a bit. Phelps shook his head ruefully as he walked. The guv would have gone up in smoke otherwise. He’d never seen Moran so angry.
There was something about this place that made the investigation almost impossible. Like wading through treacle, Moran had spat in irritation after his interview with the head. Two missing kids, and not a peep until now. Unbelievable. Phelps was getting the distinct impression that the monks considered themselves above all earthly things, including co-operation with the police, the exercise of common sense; the ability to take a murder seriously . . . it was exasperating, to say the least.
Moran had told him to take a hard line – gloves off. Phelps lengthened his stride and thrust his hands further into his coat pocket. His breath formed clouds in the chill air as he narrowed the distance between himself and Vagnoli. When had it last been this cold in December? He vaguely remembered the winter of 1963, when his uncle had cleared the snow from their drive with two broken pieces of fencing. The snow had lain for weeks. Phelps stole a glance at the overcast sky and shivered. He wondered what sort of accommodation the monks had; he’d read somewhere that they slept in cells. Phelps snorted. If he had his way, he’d chuck the lot of them in the TVP cells until they started to sing a new song, never mind all that plainchant stuff.
A group of boys in rugby gear appeared on the path, tossing the ball to each other in easy comradeship. Their knees were raw with impacted grass and mud, but their spirits seemed high.
“Hello, sir,” the tallest boy smiled as he passed. He stopped and held up his hand. The others came to a halt and waited a few paces away. “You don’t by any chance have a light, do you?”
“A light?” Phelps was taken aback. “I’m not sure you’re supposed . . . anyway, how do you know I smoke?” He drew himself up to his full height, but the boys seemed unfazed. They were respectful, but confident.
“Well, sir,” the boy grinned, “it’s the cigarette behind your ear that gives it away.”
“Behind my–” Phelps’ hand shot to his ear. His face broke into a grin. “Right, yes, so there is.” He fumbled in his pocket and produced a box of matches. “Here you are. I never gave you these, all right?”
“Thank you, sir.” The boy grinned widely and accepted the box. Then his expression changed. “May I ask you something, sir? I mean, you are a policeman, aren’t you?”
“Is it that obvious?” Phelps smiled. Of course it was. He’d been at this game too long to look like anything else.
“Well, it’s just that we’ve heard rumours about what’s going on, you know? About Horgan – in the chapel – and Montgomery, and Mason. They’ve gone missing, haven’t they?”
The other boys had moved in closer, their eyes echoing their spokesman’s question. “Was it the ghost, sir?” one of them asked. He sounded serious, but the question drew shouts of derision from his friends.
Phelps cleared his throat. “No, it wasn’t a ghost. But Father Horgan died under unusual circumstances and we’re trying to find out what happened. My boss is going to speak to you all at your assembly tomorrow morning. As for your friends, I’m afraid I can’t say any more about that at the moment. I’m sure the headmaster will make an appropriate announcement in due course.” Phelps doubted that, but what else could he say?
“Oh, they’re not our friends. Montgomery’s a bit of a tosser, actually. Mason’s all right I suppose. Anyway, they’re in the year above, and we don’t have a lot to do with them, really.”
Phelps raised his eyebrows.
“Mason owes me 50p,” one of the other boys offered. “Bet I don’t see that again.”
“Thanks, sir,” the spokesman said, giving Phelps a jaunty salute. “Good luck.” They continued their journey along the path, passing the ball between them.
I’ll need it, Phelps thought as he watched them go. He turned and took one step in Vagnoli’s direction, only to stop short with a curse. The cardinal had disappeared. He quickened his pace, but the only signs of life were a couple of straggling rugby players returning to the changing rooms. Not a monk or cardinal in sight.
Phelps’ mobile bleeped. He pulled it out and answered testily. “Yes? Oh, hello guv. No, not yet. He’s done the old disappearing act again.” He listened intently. Moran sounded calmer, but there was something in his voice that set Phelps’ antennae twitching. “A match?” He moved to one sid
e to allow two trotting boys by – late for afternoon lessons, judging by their expressions. Moran was speaking clearly and slowly – always a sign that something heavy had gone down. “What’s that, guv? Horgan’s blood?”
“For God’s sake, stop repeating everything I’m saying, Phelps. Yes, Vernon was stabbed, but traces of Horgan’s blood have been found on his body,” Moran’s voice said. “And it was Vernon’s blood on the chapel window – the tests have just come back.”
Phelps scratched his head. “So Vernon’s our killer?”
“Not necessarily. Whoever killed Vernon could have killed Horgan as well.”
“But what was Vernon doing in the Charnford chapel?” Phelps acknowledged a passing monk with a half-wave. The rise and fall of a plaintive organ melody piping from the abbey church hurried the monk on his way.
“That’s what you’re going to work on, Phelps. What I’d like you to do is get onto BT and Vernon’s mobile service provider. I want to know if Vernon and Horgan had a chat recently, because guess what?”
“What?” Phelps groped in his pocket for a cigarette.
“Because Vernon’s an old Charnfordian, that’s what.”
Phelps lit the cigarette with his free hand. “Right. That makes sense. So I’m betting he wasn’t paying a social visit to his old alma mater.”
“Exactly,” Moran agreed. “Blackmail is my guess.”
“Maybe he was trying to hide something.”
“Or steal something – the relic, maybe? Anyway, I’ve got to get on, Phelps. Once you’ve chased up the telecoms people I want you to track down Cardinal Vagnoli. All this kicked off the day he arrived. It probably isn’t a coincidence.”
“Will do.” Phelps drew on his cigarette “You coming back up here tonight, guv?”
“I doubt it,” Moran’s voice said bleakly. “Once I’m finished here I need to check in at home.”
