by Scott Hunter
The abbot settled himself and folded his arms. “What would you like to know, Chief Inspector?”
Moran studied Boniface before replying. Was he imagining it, or did the abbot seem a little agitated? Whatever he’d been up to had obviously been stressful in some way. “Are you all right, Father Abbot? You look a little flustered.” An opening exploratory shot across the bows, just to see what came back.
The briefest look of alarm appeared on the abbot’s face before his customary mask of composure descended like an altar curtain. “I am quite all right, Inspector Moran. My duties are onerous and sometimes unpleasant. Forgive me; I had not expected to keep you waiting, but I could not abandon the task in hand to a later hour. All is well now, and you have my full attention.”
Moran nodded. “Good. Are you aware that there are two boys missing?”
“I am.” Boniface bowed his head. “I have been praying for their safe return.”
“I’m sure you have.” Moran smiled a smile of understanding. “Not your jurisdiction though, really, is it? More the head’s responsibility?”
“Quite so. My role is one of pastoral leadership for the community. There is some crossover with school affairs, but matters of this nature are, as you quite correctly state, the remit of Father Aloysius and other members of the school staff.”
“Any connection with Father Horgan’s death, d’you think?”
Boniface ran a long finger down the bridge of his nose in a gesture Moran remembered from their first meeting. Was it significant? People gave away so much with their body language; the position of their limbs, the movement of their eyes . . .
“I very much doubt it, Inspector. I can’t imagine what sort of connection there might be.”
“Let me help you, then. These two boys, let’s say, were punished by Horgan for some error of conduct, and they cooked up a plan to get their own back. Only the plan went a bit too far and they killed him. Then, knowing what was likely to happen, they did a runner. How’s that for starters?”
The abbot laughed, a scraping, injured sound that set Moran’s teeth on edge. “Wildly imaginative, Inspector. No Charnford boy would behave in such a manner. It’s not the sort of attitude we encourage.” He laughed again, until he was interrupted by a fit of dry, unproductive coughing.
Moran pushed the water decanter towards him and waited while Boniface poured and sipped. “I don’t know,” he told the abbot as the coughing subsided. “I was a Blackrock schoolboy, and some of the things that went on there would chill the bones of the dead.”
Boniface knocked the glass aside with a jerk of his hand. Water flooded the desk and covered Moran’s notebook. He pushed himself backwards to escape the deluge.
“Ah! I do apologise, Inspector. Sometimes I experience involuntary muscle contractions. The doctors tell me it will never improve. Perhaps I should have warned you. I hope I haven’t spoiled your records?”
Moran was mopping the desk with his handkerchief. Involuntary contraction it might have been – or had he touched another kind of nerve? As he was wringing his handkerchief into the bin Neads burst into the room in a state of excitement.
“Guv, a word please?” Neads hovered, breathing heavily.
So, Moran thought, irritation wasn’t the only emotion Neads was capable of expressing. He turned to Boniface. “Excuse me a moment, Father Abbot.”
“Of course.” The composure was back, the mask firmly in place.
Moran closed the sacristy door and turned on his DS. “What is it, Neads? It had better be urgent.”
“It is – sir,” Neads added as an exaggerated afterthought. “Those missing kids. They’re not missing anymore.”
“Well, that’s something,” Moran said, before he caught something in Neads’ expression. There was more to come. He folded his arms and waited for the punchline, which Neads was obviously savouring before delivery.
“They’re not missing anymore – because they’re dead.”
“A kitchen maid, you say?” Moran strode along the monks’ cloister on his way to the kitchens, Neads buffeting along in his wake.
“That’s right.” Neads managed to sound laconic even at the brisk pace Moran was setting. “Bernadette McBride. She’s in a right state. Says her mate – Maria – was driving a car for some kind of bank job. They never came back, and she passed a burned-out vehicle on her way into Reading the next day. Reckons it belonged to this Maria. Feels guilty as hell because she didn’t talk her out of it.”
“Bank job? Are you kidding? Kitchen maids don’t raid banks, Neads. Are you sure you’ve got it straight?”
“Hard to say, really. Woman’s hysterical. That’s the gist of it, though. And the interesting bit is that the perpetrators were two Charnford boys – lower sixth formers, one James Montgomery and his buddy Stephen Mason. I checked it out with uniform. Three John Does, fried to a crisp. One female, two male. It fits.”
“She was the getaway driver?” Moran halted and stared at Neads incredulously.
“Apparently.” Neads shrugged.
Moran shook his head in disbelief. What a waste. He glanced at Neads for some empathetic reaction, but Neads obviously didn’t share the same view; the DS had sidled over to examine a canvas of some previous prior or abbot.
“For God’s sake, Neads, we’re not on an art gallery excursion.” Irritated, Moran walked on, nostrils flaring as the smell of overcooked vegetables wafted down the cloister. The smell became overpowering as they drew closer to an arched slatted door. “In here?”
Neads nodded, and Moran found himself in a large kitchen where a few white-overalled figures scurried here and there at the command of a squat personage in Benedictine garb. Moran followed the sounds of sobbing which rose above the clatter of pans and plates, and came to a hunched figure in a corner by a chipped enamel sink. He looked around for some indication that the girl was being seen to. Casting a withering eye at Neads, he gently touched the heaving shoulders.
“I’m sorry to bother you – DCI Moran, Thames Valley Police.” Moran fluttered his ID, but he might as well have produced a handkerchief and waved that for all the attention the girl was paying. Her head was between her knees and every few seconds her body shook with a fresh spasm of weeping.
Moran got down on his haunches. “Listen – Bernadette – I have to ask you some questions. I’ll make it brief for now.” He cast his eye around the busy kitchen in frustration. “For God’s sake,” he shouted above the clamour, “can someone please attend to this woman? Neads – sort her out a cup of tea, would you?”
Neads raised his eyebrows a fraction, did the opposite with the corners of his mouth, and ambled off.
Five minutes later Moran had Bernadette sitting at one end of the top table in the school refectory sipping from a steaming mug that Neads had conjured from the depths of the kitchen. The DS was draped across one of the refectory’s long benches, his expression leaving Moran in little doubt that he considered the duties of a tea boy well beneath him. Moran didn’t care; his interviewee was stabilising.
Bernadette took another sip of the hot liquid and shivered. “I can’t believe it, sir, I just can’t.”
“Tell us what happened, Bernadette. In your own time.” Moran knew from experience that patience was the key. No point in going in with all guns blazing; besides, a relaxed interviewee was more easily caught off-guard.
The girl pursed her thin lips and ran a hand through her short, peroxide bob. She was pretty in a straightforward sort of way, but her reddened complexion told a tale of too many hours slaving over steaming pans. As she spoke she toyed restlessly with the gold ring encircling the index finger of her right hand. Her fingers were stubby and functional, the chipped nails bitten down to the quick.
“It was Maria’s idea, really,” she began. “She’s always been a bit of a dreamer, y’know. Makin’ things up, talkin’ big about what she’s going to do. I suppose we used to encourage her – y’know, just for fun.” Bernadette smiled weakly. “Ozzy was alwa
ys teasin’ her, eggin’ her on. But I’m to blame too,” Bernadette went on quietly. “I should have spoken up when I realised what they were thinking. It was mad. Just mad.” She shook her head and pursed her lips, her eyes blurring with fresh tears.
“Ozzy meaning Father Oswald, I take it?” Moran inquired.
“Yeah, that’s right. Sorry.” Bernadette flashed an apologetic smile, like a thin blade drawn across Plasticine. “We all call him Ozzy.”
Moran pressed on. “Tell me about the idea. And the boys.”
Bernadette sighed, her fingers busily intertwining with each other and the mug handle as she struggled to control her emotions. “James was the one. Maria always fancied him. She likes the cheeky ones.” A sad smile flickered across her face. “And his friend, Stephen, he was quieter but well fit. I liked him from the off. They shouldn’t have come to the lodge, but they did. Maria encouraged them. There’d have been all kinds of shit if they’d been caught.”
“To the maids’ quarters, you mean?” Neads spoke up. “Out of bounds, I suppose.”
“Yes. We’re all told when we start here. Any carrying on with the boys is instant expulsion for them and dismissal for the likes of us.”
“But they still risked it,” Moran prompted. Not surprising really – three hundred young males incarcerated with a handful of Irish girls. Bound to happen sooner or later.
“Yeah, but Ozzy thought there was somethin’ going on. He moved us out of the lodge to the garret.” Bernadette sniffed loudly and flicked away a stray tear with an angry gesture. Moran offered his handkerchief. “Thanks a million.” She took it and dabbed at her cheeks. “I’ll be all right in a sec.”
Neads gave a loud sigh and tapped a staccato rhythm on the table top. He shifted his weight on the bench, leaned back on the table and crossed one leg over the other. Moran half-expected him to start twiddling his thumbs.
“But before that,” Moran returned his attention to Bernadette. “James and Stephen came to see you? And you talked, amongst other things, and then Maria just came up with the idea?”
“Not exactly.” Bernadette looked up. “James told us that he’d heard a rumour about the way the school was being run. There wasn’t enough money to keep it going.”
“I see.” So, job threats for the maids, nooky threats for the lads. And the answer? A bank robbery? The solution certainly cut to the chase, Moran conceded, but what were they planning to do with the proceeds? Leave a sack of money outside the head’s office? Pay it anonymously into the Charnford account? He voiced his thoughts. “And what was the plan? How were they going to do it?”
“Maria and I have some contacts, back home,” Bernadette said, lowering her eyes. “I said I could probably get hold of a gun if they needed one.”
“A gun.” Moran let out his breath in a weary sigh. He glanced at Neads. “Any sign of a gun at that RTA?”
Neads frowned. “Not sure – guv.”
“Well, get onto it now, and be damn sure when you come back.” Moran stared hard into Neads’ look of surprise.
The DS got the message. “Oh. Right.” He slid off the bench and loped away towards the massive refectory doors, beyond which the sound of impatiently queuing boys could be heard like a low roll of distant thunder.
Moran watched Neads slip out and close the doors behind him. They clunked into place with a resonant boom that called to Moran’s mind a controlled explosion he had once witnessed in Derry. On that occasion the disposal squad had found the device before it was too late. On other occasions they hadn’t been so lucky . . .
“Shall I go on, Inspector?”
Moran started. He realised he had drifted into a half-awake, half-slumbering state. The narcolepsy Dr Purewal had diagnosed was back with a vengeance. He rubbed his eyes. “I’m sorry, Bernadette. Please – do go on.”
“I knew someone, you see . . .” she hesitated. “Maybe I shouldn’t be sayin’–”
“It’s all right, Bernadette. Ireland is well outside my jurisdiction these days.” And gladly so, Moran thought. In fact, the past couldn’t be far enough away for his liking.
“Oh, well, it’s my uncle. He has contacts. You know, with people who know about these things.”
“Terrorists, you mean.” Moran frowned.
Bernadette looked at her shoes. “I suppose.” She looked up suddenly and met Moran’s steadfast grey eyes. “But he’s a good man really – really he is, Inspector Moran. He doesn’t get involved in all that stuff these days.”
These days. Moran considered the statement. Disarmament was to be applauded, but you couldn’t disarm a mindset. Had anything changed? Moran doubted it. He had first-hand experience of the depths to which human minds could sink; it had often been bad over here, sure, but the atrocities he had witnessed during the Irish troubles were of a different order altogether.
“You won’t go after him, then? My uncle?” Bernadette clasped and unclasped her hands. There was fear there, real fear. A moment later Moran knew why.
“And his name, this uncle of yours?” he prompted gently.
A moment’s hesitation, then: “It’s Dalton. Rory Dalton.”
Moran felt as though an icy probe had entered his bloodstream, searching out every corner of his body, freezing the marrow of his bones in paralyzing shock. Dalton. Rory Dalton. Wanted terrorist. Never caught. Never brought to trial. No case ever proven against him.
Rory Dalton.
Janice’s murderer.
Chapter 9
Moran leaned on the red-bricked wall of the chapel, sucking in draughts of cold air. He bent double, hands on thighs, in an effort to quash the reaction sweeping through his body. Rory Dalton. The name rang mockingly in his head. Of all names, why his? And yet there was something inside him that – in contrast to his physical reaction – exulted at the unexpected opportunity to draw a fresh bead on the Irishman’s head. This time there would be no evasion, no cover. Moran straightened and exhaled slowly, watching his breath dissipate in the evening chill. Just like Dalton’s previous conviction: in the bag one minute, then gone like a puff of smoke.
But not this time . . .
Three insistent beeps from his mobile. He remembered a previous unanswered call. The display read 901. Moran hit the call button, taking steadier steps along the path that ran parallel with the kitchens, his shoes squeaking in the fresh snow. Kay’s voice: Hello Brendan. Look, nothing to worry about, okay, but Patrick’s had a spot of bother over at your place. He was adamant that he could talk this chap round. But – a slight hesitation in her voice – well, he got roughed up a little. But he’s all right, Brendan – nothing I can’t sort out. So – don’t worry. We’ll see you a bit later, okay? Or I guess that you may be staying up at the abbey tonight? Let me know what your plans are when you can, no probs – everything’s all right, really. Bye.
Moran groaned. The auto-operator pressed on: Next message, message left at . . . “Get on with it,” Moran growled into the handset.
Guv? Phelps here. Moran felt a smile lift the corners of his mouth despite himself. Did Phelps really think he needed to introduce that voice?
. . . bumped into that looker from Forensics half an hour ago . . . Liar. Moran smiled to himself again. ‘Off the case’ was not a phrase Phelps understood too well. Moran mentally substituted ‘made sure I was in the right place at the right time’ for ‘bumped into…’
. . . She’s going to write it all up but I thought, better early than later, right? So anyhow, the deal is, those bone fragments in the chapel chamber? They reckon around forty years deceased. Male. And they found something else – well, weird or what?
Moran could almost see Phelps’ worn features creasing in bemusement.
. . . It’s a cornflake, guv. You know, breakfast cereal. Shrivelled, but definitely a cornflake. I said, ‘what, not a Frostie then?’ and she gave me one of them looks, you know. Phelps adopted a cultured accent. ‘We measure the sugar content, Sergeant, and I can assure you that the reading is considerably lowe
r than if the fragment had been a Frostie’. Phelps snorted at this point in his message. So there you are, guv – thought you’d like to know – bones and breakfast cereal.. Make of that what you will. Oh – one more thing: I checked the missing persons files for that period – no one showing up. So I’m guessing that our bones ain’t going to belong to a Charnford boy – the parents would have played hell, right? Would at least have made the local press. But there’s zilch. Oh – one last thing – lab report on the shard of metal from Vernon’s neck. Lab says hunting knife, custom job. They’re trying to get a fix on its origins. Uh oh – gotta go, guv – the CC is making a beeline. Cheers for now . . .
From within the school walls floated the sound of feeding and raucous conversation as Moran considered Phelps’ report. A missing person who was not missed? What sort of person would fall into that category? A visitor to the abbey, perhaps? A gentleman of the road? Benedictines were renowned for their hospitality, especially to down-and-outs.
And then there was Rory Dalton, the name dredging up a period of Moran’s life that he had never been able to bury. Dalton and a gun. And what else? A knife? A hunting knife? Moran’s head hurt. He longed for an oasis of calm to gather his thoughts. Then he remembered Holly Whitbread’s invitation. With this new, appealing, purpose in mind he retraced his steps and made his way through the silent cloisters to the main school gate. Holly’s cottage lights twinkled an irresistible welcome. Moran crossed the road and knocked on the door.
“Well, hi!” Holly Whitbread’s face lit up with pleasure. Genuine pleasure, Moran noted. That alone made him feel a lot better.
