by Scott Hunter
“Well? Are you coming in, or practising for first-footing? You look frozen stiff!” Holly held the door open as a flurry of snow whipped into the cottage. “Quick!”
Moran ducked his head under a low beam and entered a surprisingly large but snug lounge, furnished with a two-seater settee and matching armchair, a low coffee table straddling a butter-brown rug, and neat, cream-patterned curtains shuttering the two leaded windows. It was tastefully but sparsely decorated, the only item of incongruity being a large wooden crucifix, suspended prominently between two exposed beams on the far wall.
Holly followed his gaze. “Comes with the cottage.” She smiled apologetically. “Bit gruesome, isn’t it?”
It was. The agonised figure of Christ looked down at them beseechingly. Above the head was a representation of the Titulus Crucis, the text shortened to INRI: IESUS NAZARENUS REX IUDAEORUM – Jesus the Nazarene, king of the Jews.
Moran studied the effigy. Was the missing relic the genuine article? He doubted it – forgeries were de rigueur in the Middle Ages. The likelihood of something as extraordinary as the Titulus surviving into the twenty-first century was remote. Or was it? The abbot had spoken of a similar fragment on display in Santa Croce, a church near Rome. Moran wondered if it had been subject to forensic examination, carbon dating . . . A line of scripture fell into Moran’s head unbidden. Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do . . .
He noted that the plaster figure had been designed with something of the reality of Christ’s sufferings in mind: here and there across the body’s painful topography bones gleamed whitely beneath the tinted skin, facsimiles of the pre-crucifixion scourging Jesus had endured. A picture of Horgan’s body came into Moran’s head, a bone grasped in one hand, the Titulus fragment in the other . . .
“Tea? Coffee? Something stronger?”
Moran tore his eyes away from the crucifix, his mind grasping at something but failing to connect. A drink? He supposed he was off duty in a sense – until he returned to the school premises. The thought of a night in the sacristy made his mind up for him. “Okay, perhaps a small glass of wine, just to warm my stomach?”
Holly smiled broadly. She was wearing a figure-hugging woollen dress, belted at the waist and stopping a good distance short of her knees. Moran found himself drawn to the gap between the hem and the point at which her legs disappeared into a pair of soft leather boots.
“Red or white?”
“Red – if you have it.”
“Shiraz or Cabernet?”
“Shiraz. Please.” Moran inclined his head in appreciation.
Holly disappeared into the kitchen. “Sit yourself down, Chief Inspector,” she called back, her voice accompanied by the clink of wine glasses.
“We’ll have to dispense with the formalities, you know,” Moran replied. “Brendan will be fine.”
“All right – Brendan.” Holly appeared in the doorway with a glass in each hand. The use of his Christian name caused a not unpleasant constriction in his throat. He accepted the glass and resisted the temptation to down it in one.
Holly sat down on the two-seater. She patted the empty seat. “Come on, Brendan, for goodness sake. I won’t eat you.”
“Right. Thanks.” He manoeuvred himself onto the sofa whilst trying to maintain a discreet distance. It wasn’t easy; the sofa hadn’t been constructed with discretion in mind.
Holly crossed one long leg over the other, revealing a generous portion of thigh. She gave him an appraising look. “So, Brendan, what’s shaken you up?”
Moran was taken aback at her directness. “Excuse me?”
“You look awful. What’s happened?” Holly playfully cocked her head to one side, waiting for his response.
Moran sighed and aligned his glass carefully on the coaster Holly had placed on the adjacent nest of tables. “What hasn’t happened may be quicker to answer.” And that was the truth of it, he thought wryly.
“Either will do,” Holly said brightly. “I’m in no hurry.” She flicked a lock of hair from her cheek and settled back on the cushions.
Moran laughed. “All right . . . well, for starters, my house has been commandeered by a bunch of immigrants and my brother’s been beaten up trying to sort it out.”
“No way!” Holly’s hand went to her mouth. “That’s awful. Is he okay?”
“As far as I know. It was his damn fault in the first place.”
Holly sipped her wine and retained the glass, running her finger along the rim. Her nails were finely manicured, painted a deep red. “Can’t you just get your buddies along and chuck them out?”
Moran shook his head. Admittedly, that had been his first inclination, but as Kay had pointed out, Patrick’s mates had been invited onto the property, which would make things awkward if they lodged a complaint against the police. “Not that easy, I’m afraid. Still, at least I have the sacristy as an alternative for the time being.” He raised his eyes to heaven and grimaced. He was making a play act out of it, he knew, but he had no desire to examine his apprehensions more fully; he knew he was scared, and Brendan Moran took a lot of scaring.
“But you need to take legal advice, surely?” Holly’s face was the epitome of attentive consternation.
“I do – and, well, I have, in a way.” Moran hesitated as he wondered why he was finding it hard to reveal Kay’s involvement. Then he realised that his relationship with Kay might be interpreted in the wrong way, which would in turn – maybe – cause a problem or–
“Well, that’s a relief,” Holly broke in without questioning his reticence. “I’m sure they’ll sort it out for you. But what a pain! I can’t believe the nerve of these people.”
“You and me both.” Moran cocked his head wryly and sipped his wine, enjoying the feeling as the rich liquid stung his throat. His attention was diverted by a small photograph frame on the mantelpiece. The subject was a young man in uniform, a wide smile creasing his sunburned face. The attitude was confident, the beret angle just one or two degrees short of jaunty. He pointed with his glass. “Your boyfriend?”
Holly got up and retrieved the silver frame from the mantel with a graceful movement. She handed it to Moran for inspection. “A long time ago. His name is Andy. He was killed in Afghanistan.”
Moran fumbled for appropriate words. “I’m so sorry – I didn’t mean to–” Brilliant, Moran, an absolute winner . . .
Holly rested her hand lightly on his. “It’s okay. It was a very long time ago. And you were kind enough to confide in me about your loss yesterday. So, we have something in common.”
Moran nodded. “It never really leaves you, does it? The memory, I mean.”
The ghost of a smile appeared briefly on Holly’s face. “No. But then, I wouldn’t want to forget.”
“Of course not.” Moran took a deep draught of wine. “Not at all.”
“It’s a lie, isn’t it?” Holly said in a quiet voice. “That poem they read out at funerals? You know the one that goes ‘I’m just stepping into the back room–’”
“‘I’ll send you messages almost every day . . .’” Moran finished for her. He pressed the photograph into her hand and let his remain for a moment before withdrawing it self-consciously.
Holly held the photograph at arm’s length, breathing deeply, as if something tangible could be drawn from the celluloid, some small reminder of her lost love. She conjured a brave smile. “Well, no messages, no back room. So far.”
“Our learned brethren would beg to differ.” Moran set his glass down. “They would no doubt point to some deeper purpose. But it’s the arbitrariness that gets me.” He shook his head. “Makes no sense at all.”
“You just pick up the pieces and move on as best you can, don’t you?” Holly replaced the frame above the fireplace, allowing her hand to linger for a few seconds before turning to face Moran.
“That’s my job, in a nutshell.” Moran sat back on the cushions wearily. “Picking up the pieces. Trying to find answers, reasons for the messes human beings crea
te.”
“I imagine it’s quite cathartic,” Holly smiled. “Sorting messes out.”
“Cathartic? No, not really,” Moran replied. “To pry into men’s souls is to uncover their true motivation. Their depravity. But then, it’s something I feel impelled to do. Don’t ask me why.” He looked up. Holly was watching him intently, her hair a golden reflection of candlelight, her expression one of rapt concentration. “God, will you listen to me,” he laughed. “DCI Cheerful.”
“No, go on, please.”
Moran found his wine glass and took another sip. He was feeling a little light-headed. For a moment he imagined that both Holly and the cottage interior flickered, like a damaged film transparency. He rubbed his eyes. Dr Purewal’s alcohol-free instructions pricked his conscience for an instant, but what harm could one glass do?
“Why do I do it? Why am I still a policeman? I don’t know.” He swirled the red liquid in his glass. “Have you ever wanted to rub out your life and start again? Start completely over with a clean sheet?”
Holly laughed. “Frequently. Especially before fifth form Chaucer.”
Moran laughed with her, enjoying the way her eyes lit up and her nose twitched like that girl in the Sixties comedy show Bewitched. He caught himself with a jolt. Yes, that’s what’s happening, Moran. You’re being bewitched . . .
“Carpe diem,” Holly shrugged. “That’s what we have to do, Brendan.”
Moran raised his glass. “Quam minime credula postero.”
“Seize the day, trusting as little as possible in the future,” Holly translated. “Gosh. A scholarly policeman.”
“Not really,” Moran said dismissively. “O level Latin’s about my limit.”
Holly indicated the crucifix with an elegant gesture “I had a different take on that philosophy once.”
“Tell me.”
Holly closed her eyes and pursed her lips. “Carpe diem – quam maxime credula Deo.” She opened her eyes. “Now I’m not sure which maxim to adopt.”
Moran nodded. “Death redefines your outlook, doesn’t it? The way I look at it, I can’t go back, so by default I go forward. I keep busy. I trust no one. I keep working. Which brings me here. Someone has to find out what’s been going in the dark corners of Charnford Abbey, and it may as well be me.” Moran self-consciously quaffed his wine to hide his embarrassment. What gives, Moran? Baring your soul to a total stranger?
Holly nodded, her forehead creasing in a frown. “Yes. Absolutely. The murder.”
“Plus the suspicious deaths of two Charnford pupils. And a member of the kitchen staff.”
Holly’s face fell. “No! Oh my God! Who? When?”
“I’ve only just been informed myself. I’m sorry; that wasn’t very tactful. You probably know the boys – forgive me.” Moran the detective homed in on Holly’s reaction, whilst the off-duty Moran cursed himself for his clumsiness and fought the urge to take her in his arms. The detective won by a short margin.
“God, it’s the truant pair, isn’t it? Mason and Montgomery? You’re allowed to tell me their names, surely?” Holly’s hands were shaking. She returned the glass clumsily to the table and reached for her cigarettes.
“Not really, no. Not until the next of kin have been informed–”
“Well it’s got to be them, hasn’t it? I can’t believe it . . .”
Moran hadn’t anticipated the reaction his news would cause. Plain insensitive, Moran, that’s your problem. Been on your own too long . . .
He laid a cautious arm on her shoulder. She didn’t pull away as he had feared, so he said, “I’m so sorry, Holly. Were they in your group?”
Holly lit her cigarette with trembling fingers. “You don’t mind, do you?”
Moran waved his hand dismissively. “Of course not.”
She blew a delicate plume of smoke towards the ceiling, her free arm wrapped defensively beneath her breasts. She bit down on her lower lip. “Last year. Yes, they were in the top English set. Always together. Always mucking around, but funny with it, you know? Hard to tell off. Bright as well – both of them. A star material. They’ll be taking their A levels next summer. I mean, they would have been–”
The cigarette went into the ash tray, the tears came and Holly collapsed into his arms, sobbing like a child. He held her tightly, heart thudding, muttering soothing sounds into her ear as her shoulders heaved. The smell of her perfume and the warmness of her skin made him feel dizzy with desire. After a moment she pulled away, dabbing at her eyes.
“I’m so sorry.” She offered a half-smile and blew her nose.
“Don’t apologise. It’s my fault entirely.” Moran blustered like a teenager, furious at his lack of tact. He got to his feet, awkwardly, unsure what to do.
“It’s all right, Brendan, really. Sit down, please.”
“I should go.” He grabbed his coat. “I’ve upset you. I’d best get on with some work.”
“Please stay.”
But Moran had already lifted the latch and stepped out into the night. Snow crunched beneath his feet as he made his way across the road to the abbey courtyard, cursing his stupidity with every step.
“Come in, Brendan.” Kay’s bright welcome did little to alleviate the symptoms of his restless night, but he returned her smile as best he could. The lack of sleep was incidental; what was really bothering him was his tactless idiocy at Holly’s cottage. Archie’s bark echoed briefly from the garden. He felt a pang of guilt at his neglect.
“How’s the patient?” he enquired, afraid of the answer before he had even formed the question. But there was something strangely positive in Kay’s disposition that seemed at odds with the dubious pleasure of nursing an ailing alcoholic.
“Absolutely fine.” Kay beamed.
“No drink?”
“Not a drop. I’ve been firm.” She grinned. “Come and see for yourself.”
Moran frowned. “Really? I should have introduced you years ago.” He followed Kay into the lounge, admiring the way her skirt swished about her well-turned ankles.
“Ah!” Patrick looked up as they entered. He was fiddling with a table lamp, a screwdriver and a length of electrical cable. “The man himself.”
Moran noted the discoloured bruise on his brother’s forehead, and the neat line of stitching. It had been quite a blow by the look of it, but Patrick seemed on top form.
“Hello Pat.” Moran tried to inject a note of cheerfulness into his greeting, all too aware how tired his voice sounded. “I hear you had a little altercation.”
“Sure. But I’m okay. Top dollar, no more, no less – that’s God’s honest truth.” Patrick dropped the screwdriver and plug onto the coffee table with a decisive clunk and smoothed a hand across his thick pelt of hair. His eyes looked brighter, healthier. Kay joined him on the sofa with a sly smile.
Moran’s disquiet spread into horrified realisation as Kay took Patrick’s hand and squeezed it affectionately. He gawped, not knowing what to say.
“We’ve been getting along very well.” Kay turned and gave Patrick a full eyes-and-all smile.
“I’m not sure this is a good idea, Kay . . . I . . .” Moran struggled to express thoughts of negativity on the one hand, and congratulatory platitudes on the other. In truth, he was profoundly shocked. He had grown used to Kay’s single status, and, he realised, the semi-open door of possible re-admission to her affections. Selfish? Undoubtedly. But he was still very fond of her. He had even considered the possibility that one day they might still make a go of it – when he had sorted himself out. Now, in one blow, that had all apparently disappeared, and in the most unlikely and complicated way possible. Maybe Kay was doing this to provoke some reaction, to force his hand, expose his true feelings – whatever they might be . . .
“Well? Why ever not?” Kay countered brightly. “We have a connection, don’t we, Patrick?”
“We do that,” the patient agreed earnestly. “An affinity, even.”
“Oh, big word!” Kay said with admiration. She
leaned and kissed Patrick on the lips.
“Well, I don’t know what to say.” Moran opted for honesty. “It’s all a little quick, don’t you think? I leave you two alone for a couple of days and–” He gave up, fell into an armchair and rubbed his eyes wearily with the heels of his hands. He didn’t need this now.
“I’ve been busy as well,” Kay said. “Sorted your IPO out. Notices are being issued tomorrow morning.”
“That’s fantastic.” Moran felt relief wash through him, Kay’s unexpected liaison taking a temporary back seat. He was going to get his house back after all.
“And the hearing will be five days from then.”
“Five days?” His elation disappeared. Five more days in the sacristy was five days too long, even with Holly’s proximity as a sweetener.
“We have to give the squatters a few days’ warning. I’ll come with you tomorrow and serve the notice, okay?”
“And I’ll be there too, Brendan,” Patrick offered. “I feel responsible.”
“You won’t be there, and you are responsible,” Moran snapped. “You’ll damn well keep out of it.”
“All right, boys – that’s enough.” Kay stood between them, hands raised. “There’s no need to fall out over it.”
“Fall out? This is my house we’re talking about, that he turned over to the East European mafia.” Moran felt his temperature rising. Why did he have to have a brother like Patrick? He was the one who needed support right now. But their roles were always reversed so that he was always forced into playing the elder brother, the strong arm to lean on. And what did he get in return? Hassle and grief. For the love of God, his house had been taken away . . .
Kay took him by the elbow and steered him into the hall. “Brendan, just take it easy. He’s very upset about what happened. He’s only trying to help.”
“Is he?” Moran shrugged off Kay’s supporting arm. “That’ll be a first.”
“Give him a chance, Brendan.” Kay blocked his path into the lounge, her folded arms and angry expression taking him aback. “I wouldn’t have expected a jealous reaction from you. I thought you were over that.”
