Black December

by Scott Hunter

  “Here we go again,” Neads said in Moran’s ear as the monks began to sing Ave Maria. As if on cue, a group of sixth formers exited the church and took up their positions behind and to the immediate left of the grave. Prefects, Moran surmised. Representing the school. Quite right, too. Moran had been a prefect once, in another life. He eyed the seniors approvingly as they stood to attention, their young faces pale in the weak sunlight. They’d stayed behind for the funeral while the rest of the school had departed for the Christmas holidays.

  Yesterday had resounded to the rumbling commotion that was the end of term, the school cloisters transformed into a bedlam of trunk-packing, shouting and high spirits. Moran had deliberated for some time, wondering whether to postpone the holidays and keep the boys on the premises for an extended term while his investigation continued, but in the end had decided to let them go. He had names, addresses, and, more importantly, no suspects amongst the boys.

  Today the school was empty and sombre, as if the buildings were mourning the boys’ as well as Father Horgan’s departure. Moran wondered at the resilience of young minds; their dead contemporaries already – perhaps deliberately – forgotten, the youngsters had their sights on the immediate future, the prospect of holidays, Christmas celebrations, family . . .

  “How long is this going to take, guv?” Neads stage-whispered in his ear.

  “Just keep your eyes open, Sergeant.” Moran watched the monks line up on either side of the boarded hole in the frozen grass. “You never know – you might notice something useful.”

  “Sir.” Neads monotoned in a peeved voice.

  It must have taken some effort to dig a pit that size in the frozen and unyielding soil of the monks’ graveyard. Some commitment . . . Moran caught Neads’ profile. “And get rid of that cigarette behind your ear – you look like a market trader.”

  Neads complied, muttering under his breath.

  The coffin arrived at the graveside to the gentle sound of plainchant. Then Moran heard a cry of alarm, followed by a ripple of commotion.

  Neads stepped forward. “Hello. What have they found?”

  Moran was already walking briskly, covering the distance between the headstones with long, loping strides. He shouldered his way between the press of monks and stopped. A pole had been inserted at the head of the grave, surmounted by a yellowed, hair-tufted skull. There was some kind of note attached to the pole, the message scrawled in large capitals. Moran scrutinised the text. It read:

  Ex libertas, pax

  Neads was at his side. Moran was thinking about another grave, the shallow recess beneath Charnford’s chapel. So far, Forensics had only been able to confirm a probable male body, forty years interred. And here was the missing skull.

  The monks seemed paralysed with horror, unsure what to do. The abbot was motionless, his arm outstretched as if trying to ward off an evil spirit. Neads opened his mouth to speak but Moran silenced him with a grip on his arm.

  The abbot began to sing, a low note that seemed to vibrate the frozen earth beneath them. “Thou art man and thou art dust…” Boniface dunked a brush into a silver receptacle of holy water, sprinkling the drops onto the grinning skull and into the open grave. “And unto dust thou shalt return . . .”

  Moran allowed the verses to conclude before interrupting. “I’m afraid we’ll have to postpone Father Horgan’s internment for a short period. If you’d all like to return to the church and allow DS Neads and myself a few moments to sort things out I’d be grateful . . .”

  It was only later that Moran recalled the look in the abbot’s eyes, the way the monk’s body language had voiced his opposition. And what also stuck in Moran’s memory was the look Boniface had given DS Neads as the sergeant hovered beside Moran – a proprietary look Moran could only interpret as longing. Or maybe desire.

  Moran despatched the skull to the coroner’s office for examination. The cause of death was clear: the skull was fractured, a cracked indentation zig-zagging across the crown like a lightning bolt. Although it looked like a blow from some heavy object, he’d leave it to the path lab to establish likely cause. Still, whoever had moved it from the chapel vault to Horgan’s freshly-dug grave must have left traces – at least Moran hoped so. But why the morbid display? Who was the perpetrator trying to scare and why?

  And the note: From liberty, peace. What was all that about? Moran’s take on that one was straightforward enough: someone had known about the body, that it needed a Christian burial, and now, in this rather flamboyant way, they were making a statement that the burial was well overdue. However, the question he most wanted an answer to was just as puzzling: was the display of the skull the work of Horgan’s killer, or someone else?

  The interrupted funeral service had resumed an hour and a half later. Father Leo Horgan had been left in peace beneath the frozen turf as the light was fading and a fresh batch of snow was blowing in on the chill afternoon wind. The monks had moved away in small groups, black hoods drawn around frowning faces, each nursing private suspicions and anxieties. Moran read their expressions: what was happening amongst them? Who was responsible? What would the abbot do about it? Were they safe?

  Moran made his way through the empty school cloisters towards the sacristy. After he’d sent Neads off to conclude the interview with Bernadette he remembered his missed call and dug out his mobile. Kay’s voice trilled in his ear, asking about the car. Of course. Damn. He’d forgotten to call the mechanic. Hopefully the thing had started. Well, he’d find out later.

  Passing through the Court of Arches he caught sight of Father Oswald conversing with a knot of prefects at the end of the main cloister by the school toilets. Duty done, the boys were finally being sent home.

  Oswald watched him approach. He was cradling several weighty books, his hands wrapped protectively around them. “Hello Inspector. Good of you to attend Father Horgan’s send-off.”

  Moran nodded. “Good job I did, Father Oswald, wouldn’t you say?”

  The monk looked unabashed. No telltale signs of agitation. “Yes, indeed. A strange thing, a very strange thing indeed.”

  “Well odd,” one of the prefects offered. He was a tall, blond boy with a sharp, intelligent face. “Especially with all the other stuff that’s been going on.”

  There was a chorus of assent from the other prefects. Moran searched their faces and found no subterfuge, no trace of foreknowledge or guilt. Just a bunch of responsible lads concerned for their alma mater and the abbey.

  “This is Stephen Catton.” Oswald patted the boy lightly on his shoulder. “Our Head Boy.”

  Moran shook the boy’s hand. It was, he noted with satisfaction, a strong and dry handshake. “Pleased to meet you, Stephen. So, off for the holidays, eh? Is that it?” Moran shared a smile with the others.

  “Yes sir,” Catton replied. He hesitated and bit his bottom lip, then blurted, “Sir? I mean, Chief Inspector?”

  “Yes?”

  “You will find out what happened to Mason and Montgomery, won’t you? And to Father Horgan? And this other thing, the skull . . . I mean, who was it? Why was it there?” Catton shook his head, at a loss to make sense of it all.

  Catton’s concern and sincerity, obviously shared by the other prefects, moved Moran. “I will,” he said solemnly. “I will, Stephen. That’s why I’m here.”

  The sacristy was cold and empty. Moran sat on the rickety chair provided by the abbot and placed his mobile on the table. It rang. He picked it up. Phelps.

  “Guv?” Phelps spoke softly. Phelps never spoke softly. Moran wet his lips. Something bad had happened.

  “Fire away, Phelps.”

  “Guv. It’s your place. There’s been an explosion.” Phelps’ words came out like a reluctant tooth.

  “Go on.” Although Moran’s heart was hammering slowly in his chest, he felt oddly calm.

  “The garage. Something happened.”

  “The garage.” Moran repeated Phelps’ pronouncement verbatim to be absolutely sure, becau
se he had made the connection instantly. Kay. Patrick. The four-by-four. His stomach turned to stone.

  “Guv. They don’t know exactly what happened yet. It went up like a bomb.”

  A bomb. Dalton.

  “Bodies?”

  A long hesitation. “I’m afraid so, sir.”

  Moran gripped the arms of the flimsy chair. The sacristy temperature felt as though it had dropped to minus ten. “How many?”

  “Two.” Phelps paused. “Two bodies, I believe.”

  Phelps couldn’t bring himself to elaborate. Moran understood that. He prompted, “One male, early fifties.. One female, mid-forties. That about right?”

  Phelps cleared his throat. It sounded as though tough old Sergeant Phelps might be holding back tears. “Yes, sir. That’s right. Guv, I–”

  “I know, Phelps. It’s all right.”

  “Sir.”

  “Just let me know when you’ve got definite IDs, okay?”

  “I will, guv. But, I – I don’t think there’s much doubt–”

  “Thank you, Sergeant Phelps. I appreciate your candour.”

  “Guv, if there’s anything I can do? You know. With you being stuck up at Charnford. The weather’s treacherous . . . if it wasn’t snowing like a bastard, I’d…”

  For the second time that afternoon Moran was surprised at how clearly his brain was working. “Any sign of the squatters?”

  “No, sir. Witness reckoned they all scarpered when it happened. I’ve secured the house for you. There’s no damage to the actual property. Just the . . . well, just the garage, sir.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant.” Moran absorbed the news. So the house was intact. He had somewhere to live again. “You could check my answerphone messages, Phelps. Let me know if there’s anything urgent. Have a sniff around for any missing items. You know, that sort of thing.”

  “Sure, guv. Listen, how are you getting on with Neads? I can probably twist Lawson’s arm under the circumstances – I mean, he’ll probably–”

  “Everything’s fine, Phelps. Thanks. We’ll have this sorted in a very short time, I’m quite confident. Perhaps you could pass that along to the Chief?”

  “Right, sir. Yes. I will.”

  “Oh, one more thing, Phelps – there’s my dog, Archie. Kay was . . .” He took a deep breath and carried on. “Kay was looking after him. He’ll need feeding. And walking. I’d be very grateful.”

  “Consider it done, sir.”

  “I appreciate it, Phelps. Thanks for letting me know. And Phelps?”

  “Yes, Chief Inspector?”

  “Get me chapter and verse from the SOCOs, would you? I’m going to nail this one to the wall.”

  “You’ve got a suspect, guv?” There was fresh concern in Phelps’ tone.

  “I have a suspect.”

  “Guv–” A brief silence, then: “Guv, I mean to say – that is, there’s no tangible evidence that it was deliberate. I’m told there were canisters of Calor Gas . . . the vehicle may have impacted somehow – one of the squad reckoned it was a gear lurch, you know. Maybe it had been left in first? By mistake, I mean.”

  “It was deliberate, Phelps. And it was meant for me. I’ll explain more when I see you. Thanks again.”

  Moran ended the call to spare Phelps any further distress. On the whitewashed wall of the sacristy there was a lighter mark where a crucifix had been removed and presumably relocated. Cross of salvation, he thought. A picture came into his mind, the agonised saviour pinned to Holly’s cottage wall, the expression crafted upon the suffering Messiah’s face . . . this is all for you, Brendan Moran, all for you . . .

  Moran’s discipline buckled and he heard himself blurt a throat-hacking sob, a brutal sound that echoed in the small room as if it had been expressed by some suffering animal. All he could think of was Kay’s contented smile as she’d clasped Patrick’s hand, her last words to him: ‘I’m in the right place now, Brendan. I feel it in every fibre of my body.’

  Neads opened the door. “Guv? You got a minute? Our maid’s done a runner.”

  Chapter 11

  “Visiting? Visiting whom exactly?” Moran asked the bursar, a short, corpulent monk whose job it apparently was to oversee the school and abbey catering.

  “A friend. She was very upset, as you can surely understand, Inspector.”

  Moran understood upset. He had walked along the cloister feeling as though his body belonged to someone else. Some other power was placing one foot in front of the other. When he spoke, words came out. He found that he could still think clearly. Later. It’ll be later when everything shuts down, his rational mind obligingly informed him. Fascinating how a human brain could deal with news of the magnitude he’d just received and yet still function normally. But shutting down wasn’t an option. He wasn’t going to let that happen until he had a prime suspect banged up and charged, until the end game had been played out and he could rationalise events into some manageable perspective. He owed that to himself. He owed it to Kay. He owed it to Patrick. He owed it to the Charnford community.

  In this context, he gave the monk a withering look. “Father Remus, I gave explicit orders to the community via the abbot that no adults were to leave the premises without very good reason until our investigations are concluded.”

  “Well, she’s not gone far,” Remus said, a little huffily. “She’s at a friend’s house in Gilham. Other side of the woods, you know?” He pointed vaguely in the direction of the abbey church. “One of the maids will give you the address . . . ”

  “Let’s go, Neads.” Moran began to move away, but Remus called after them: “I wouldn’t drive, not in this. They could hardly get the prefect’s coach down the hill earlier. Did you see it? Sliding all over the place. It’s an ice rink – getting worse by the minute.” Remus pointed to the thick flakes buffeting up against the cloister windows. “The roads into the village are like bobsleigh runs. Unless you have a Land Rover, I don’t expect–”

  “No,” Moran said wearily. “TVP’s budget doesn’t stretch to Land Rovers. Or snow ploughs.”

  “But you could get to the village through the woods,” Remus suggested, his rotund face beaming with satisfaction that he was able to offer a workable solution. “There’s a path – shouldn’t be a problem if you’re young and fit.”

  Moran looked Neads up and down. “We do young and fit, don’t we, Neads?”

  “You’ll need some stout footwear, obviously, in this weather,” Remus added. “But it’s only half a mile. Less risky altogether . . .”

  Neads’ face betrayed no emotion. It didn’t need to; the sergeant’s eyes said it all, but Moran wasn’t interested.

  “Splendid. Well then, Neads.” He pointed to the kitchen. “Ask Bernadette’s buddies for directions, and then off you go. In the meantime I’ll winkle out our Vatican visitor. Come and find me as soon as you get back, would you?”

  Neads fumbled in the boot for the police issue wellingtons he hoped were still tucked away in the accessories pocket. The wind blew snowflakes into the open boot, hindering his search. He was furious that Moran had sidelined him so quickly. He wanted to be alongside Moran to capitalise on any slips or missed opportunities. Now he had to tramp through the frozen countryside to interview some Irish bint about her stupid mate who’d got herself killed in that sodding bank job RTA.

  Silly cow. Who in their right mind would recruit a couple of schoolboys for a bank job? Bonkers. Absolutely bonkers. He had no sympathy for Bernadette’s supposed emotional state. As Neads pulled on the black rubberised boots and wrapped his scarf tightly around the lower part of his face, he determined to pull no punches during the interview. If she was hiding something he’d find it. She probably knew loads about what went on in the school. Maybe even about Horgan and his enemies. Well, he wouldn’t be sharing any info with Moran after this little excursion. No way.

  Neads blinked through the gusting snow and tried to remember which way the mousey little kitchen maid had told him to go. Ah yes, back of the abbe
y, across the playing fields, straight through the woods for around five minutes and he’d see the outskirts of the village ahead. Neads prided himself on his sense of direction; he had been a regular in the orienteering top five at school.

  The gangly sergeant strode off confidently, banging his gloved hands together for warmth. Just before he reached the school gates he saw Moran emerge from the main entrance and hesitate briefly by the derelict cottages before moving off in the direction of the Abbey Church. The guv’s collar was up, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his overcoat. Neads watched Moran disappear into shadow before resuming his own mission with a dismissive shrug. Whatever avenue the guv was exploring, he’d figure it out later. Right now, he was the results man. And he intended to prove it. Big time.

  “Cardinal Vagnoli?” Moran approached the still, bowed figure cautiously. The abbey church was in semi-darkness, its silence compounded by the fresh snowfall which muffled the lofty space like a soft eiderdown. A candle on a tall golden stand guttered as he moved into the main body of the church, his footfall a slapping echo in the still air.

  The figure turned its head, then, as if satisfied as to his identity, turned back to its contemplation. Moran hesitated, his Catholic background insisting he retrace his footsteps and allow the monk to continue his communion with God uninterrupted. Once again he reminded himself why he was here. A murder, Moran, remember? Two, actually – possibly three. And the dead boys . . . and Kay and Patrick . . .

  He steadied himself with a deep breath before making his way past the organ and the main altar, genuflecting as he did so, coming to a halt beside the monks’ stalls where Vagnoli finally sat up and acknowledged Moran’s presence.

  “I apologise for the interruption,” Moran began. “I need to ask you some questions.”