Black December

by Scott Hunter

  A narrow wooden staircase between the kitchen and the refectory led up to the kitchen maids’ garret. Bernadette had mentioned that she and Maria had been relocated from the maids’ lodge on the grounds of Oswald’s suspicions of inappropriate behaviour. Moran went up, the steps protesting beneath him.

  He knew which room belonged to Maria, the RTA girl. It was next to Bernadette’s – the door with the crucifix, she’d told him. Moran went in. The room was small, but tidy. A single bed by the leaded window, a chest of drawers. Couple of nondescript pictures, a Coldplay poster. Maria’s scent lingered like a half-forgotten memory. He felt like an intruder – which, to be fair, he was. He wondered about her family, whether they would visit to see where she had lived, or whether they would stay away, the shame of it all outweighing their grief. Funny thing, grief. Unpredictable.

  The second drawer in the unit was slightly open. Moran opened it. Underwear, neatly folded. His hands explored amongst the soft fabric and he tried to suppress an almost voyeuristic sense of guilt at this posthumous invasion of privacy. His hands found paper. A letter – no; a bundle of letters. He pulled the bundle free from its covering of brassieres and panties and reclined on the bed, which creaked and sagged as his weight bore down on its exhausted mattress and overstretched springs.

  First, a letter from someone named Barry. Some admirer from the old days, nothing of any interest. Next, from her mother. God keep you, Maria, it closed. Don’t forget the Holy Mass. Every day, child, and your rosary too. Bless you. Mother. Next, a sister, Theresa, working in Leeds and asking Maria to visit. Moran tossed it aside.

  Somewhere downstairs he heard the movement of culinary equipment and voices raised in laughter. Moran glanced at his watch. Seven o’clock. Where in God’s name was Neads? Judging from the smells and sounds drifting up to Maria’s eyrie the monks would be assembling for their supper very soon. He turned his attention back to the next letter and scanned the typewritten sheet with growing excitement. Turning the page he looked for the signatory. Rory D. Bingo. He reread the opening and drank in the words.

  ‘I just want u to be clear, Maria McCrery, that if yr little job goes badly, u don’t say a word about the gun. U don’t know anything about it, right? I’m coming over soon to clear up some old business, so u can let me have it back then, right? I might have a use for it. I’ll let you know nearer the time. Don’t do anything stupid, girl, or u will have me to answer to. I mean it. Don’t forget, I’ll be listening, girl. As always.’

  Moran frowned. I’ll be listening . . . To Maria? To what exactly? Or perhaps for what? Moran tried to recall as much as he could about Rory Dalton. What did he know about the ex-terrorist? That he was ruthless, efficient, feared amongst colleagues. Good with incendiary devices, technical stuff. Telecoms. Phone tapping. Moran clicked his fingers. That’s what the listening comment was about. Dalton was tapping into the Charnford telephone traffic. But why?

  Moran examined the room again. A silver-framed photograph on the dresser – a younger, ginger-haired Maria at the beach with, presumably, one of her siblings. Close family, probably, as all Irish Catholic families are, Moran thought wryly – and then, with a jolt, he remembered Patrick and Phelps’ telephone bombshell. A close family. Like mine used to be, once, long ago.

  He sat quietly for a few seconds, clutching the pile of letters. Patrick couldn’t be dead, surely? He couldn’t be. A red mist clouded his mind. Someone was going to pay, and Moran knew who that someone was. His bitter thoughts tailed off as a flashbulb of intuition exploded in his head. Revenge . . . the patient motive, his old boss had once said. It’s amazing how long folk will wait for revenge . . .

  The pieces began to take shape. A cornflake in the chamber, Phelps had said. That pointed to a pupil, not a monk. He couldn’t imagine Father Horgan – or any other monk, for that matter – indulging in a solo breakfast beneath the altar. So, some kind of midnight feast? A group of boys, maybe? And Vernon, the leader of men, the future Head Boy . . . what had happened? A fight? Some disagreement? Which turned nasty, and therefore needed a cover-up.

  But that would require help and guidance of an official sort. A housemaster? Horgan had been a housemaster and had known about the chamber. Dedicated to his charges, Aloysius had said. Dedicated enough to protect them from disgrace . . .

  So, if the buried corpse wasn’t a schoolboy, then who was he? Someone associated with the school. Connected with Dalton. An employee. An Irish employee . . .

  Moran dialled Phelps’ number. It went to voicemail after five rings. His voice sounded harsh in the quiet room.

  “Phelps – can you check out missing persons in County Cork, circa 1965-70? Have a ferret in the local papers. Quick as you can. I’ll look up the school records. Never mind Lawson. If he asks, refer him to me and I’ll take the flak.” Moran’s head was aching; he leaned back on the faded wallpaper, Maria’s bedsprings protesting beneath his weight, and shut his eyes. Now he was pretty sure of the mystery corpse’s identity . . .

  A gust of wind rattled the window. Moran’s eyes jerked open. He hadn’t drifted off again, surely? He shivered. His hands were cold, sticky – gum from one of the envelopes, probably. He rubbed them together as the wind continued to buffet the thin pane. Moran heaved himself off the bed, found the latch and clipped it back into its frame.

  He sniffed his fingers. Something familiar. He remembered Bagri, the little pathologist’s nose for an unusual smell. Moran opened the first drawer, moved more clothing aside. In the corner – what looked like a medicine box, on its side. Leaking. He fished it out. The label said: ‘Kilkenny’s Polish – for all your kitchenware’. Next to it, a wrapped bundle. He opened it, untying the drawstring like a shoelace. Cooks’ knives. And one was missing.

  Neads became vaguely aware that he was moving, a curious bumping motion as if somebody or something were nudging his bed, trying to wake him. Well, they succeeded, he thought groggily. God, it was freezing. He tried to get up and a spasm of pain shot through his leg.

  With a sick bolt of fright he remembered everything. He was lying on his back, looking up into an opaque sky. He tried to move his arms but they appeared to be strapped to his side. He twisted, trying to see who or what might be causing the movement. It was when he tried to speak and realised that his mouth was covered by some kind of elasticated plaster that he felt the first stirrings of fear.

  Another jolt. He was moving backwards, quite fast, being dragged on some kind of makeshift sled. He struggled hard, but whoever had tied him had known what they were doing. The sled made contact with some hard object and bounced wildly to one side, almost overturning. Neads heard a voice raised in what he could only describe as a whoop of enjoyment. He strained until the veins in his neck stood out but failed to loosen the tightly-trussed bonds. The crazy, bouncing journey continued.

  From what he could see in his peripheral vision – which wasn’t much – he was in the open, probably somewhere on the games fields behind the abbey. Where was he being taken? What was his abductor planning to do? Neads toyed with the idea of rolling the sled. He reckoned he could do it with his body weight, but he had to consider his leg; he could cause it further damage by engineering a crash.

  On the other hand, he couldn’t just lie here and wait to see what happened next. Neads didn’t want to dwell on that. He was thinking about Horgan’s body in the morgue, that horrendous neck wound. It wasn’t going to happen to him . . . Neads had read somewhere recently that there was going to be a lunar eclipse. Didn’t the moon affect people? Had he fallen into the hands of a madman? He was gripped with terror, and in spite of the sub-zero temperature he felt sweat trickle down his forehead.

  They were moving down a path between two tall hedgerows. If only someone would catch a glimpse of them; surely someone would be out and about? But Neads realised that he had no idea what time of day it was. He had set off for Gilham around, what, five forty-five? He could have been unconscious for an hour, maybe more. And still the snow fell. Sensible peop
le wouldn’t be out in this, Neads concluded bitterly.

  The sled hit a harder surface, rattling across compressed ice and snow. The car park? Please, God, let Moran be watching. They stopped. A door opened and he felt himself lifted – hauled – into a half vertical position. Whoever it was, they were very strong; Neads weighed nearly thirteen stone. Then, a lurching, ascent began. A staircase? Where in God’s name was he being taken?

  The movement ceased. He was propped against a wall. A door opened with a bang and he was dragged through it and dropped unceremoniously onto the floor. Neads screamed silently as his fractured leg absorbed the vibrations. The door closed with a shudder and he was alone.

  All he could see was a high, circular ceiling and a section of wall. Some kind of turret or tower, maybe? Surely his captor didn’t intend to abandon him here? If only he could remove the gag . . . Neads started to work on the material with his tongue. After ten minutes he gave up. Hopeless. He tried to roll the sled, but only succeeded in sending fresh bolts of agony through his leg.

  Some time later the door swung open with a waft of cold air. Various items were thrown onto the floor with a clatter. Neads swivelled in an effort to see what was happening, but his gaoler was taking care to keep out of his line of sight. Moments later he moaned in terror as the sound of carpentry filled his prison. Whatever fate was planned for him had the inescapable feel of permanence about it. Neads shut his ears against the noise and prayed.

  The Bede Library was a pleasantly warm, wood-panelled room located above the senior wing of the school. Moran entered and found it empty; the community were evidently still dining. That suited his purposes.

  He made a quick reconnaissance of the bookshelves. A third of the way round the room he found what he was looking for. The Charnford Magazine, Volumes X1 to XV1. He flicked through the first copy that came to hand: 1971. Too late. Another: 1968. Getting there. Next: 1967 Spot on. Moran sat at the nearest table, the scrubbed surface of which was scarred with pupils’ initials and sundry graffiti. A clock located above the central mantelpiece told him it was seven forty-five in the evening. A dog barked somewhere, the harshness of the sound muffled by the snow. Moran guiltily remembered Archie. He hoped that the spaniel wouldn’t try to escape Phelps’ custody; Archie’s homing instinct was highly developed.

  Moran opened the paperback magazine and scanned the contents page. Teaching Staff, School Officials, Editors’ Preface. Various articles, reviews, sports results. Rugby. Under Sixteens. Moran studied the photograph. Earnest young men in striped jerseys, one tenacious-looking lad seated in the middle foreground with a rugby ball balanced on his knee. The ball had been annotated: 1967.

  Moran peered closer. There was something familiar about the captain. Of course. John Vernon, the all-rounder; in years to come, captain of rugby, football, cricket et cetera et cetera. He thought of the white flesh parting under Dr Bagri’s implacable knife and shuddered. Moran scanned the other faces. The boy to the immediate right of Vernon looked familiar as well. Moran read the text beneath the photograph. M. Jeffrey, J. Wilds, B. Corcoran, H. Phillips. The names meant nothing.

  “Ah, Inspector. Sitting in the gloom?”

  Moran looked up as Father Oswald appeared in the doorway.

  “Anything I can help with?” The monk fussed with the light switches. “Bit of an anachronism, the Bede, I’m afraid. We’re building a new library you know. Quite state of the art.”

  “You’re fond of books then, Father?” Moran said, looking up from the photograph.

  “Oh, absolutely. The stuff of learning and so on. We’ll be creating an electronic archive as well. It’s terribly exciting.”

  “Is that so? What do they call those devices?” Moran groped in his memory. “Kinders?”

  “Kindles.” Oswald smiled paternally. “A marvellous invention. Of course, not everyone subscribes to the technology, especially the older monks, but . . . ”

  “That’s progress?”

  “Indeed, Inspector.”

  Moran ushered the monk over. “I wonder, would you mind? In your capacity as librarian, would you know anything about this boy?” He pointed to H. Phillips, the boy next to Vernon.

  Oswald leaned forward and ran his finger along the row of seated footballers. “Now then, 1967, gosh. A memory test indeed.” He pushed his glasses down the bridge of his nose and squinted. Moran noticed that Oswald’s hands were calloused and marked, as if he had spent a number of years in manual labour. Which, to be fair, was what monks tended to do. They had a printing press at Charnford, and a thriving workshop where furniture repairs were apparently undertaken by a team drawn from the community. Oswald was no doubt a member of such a team. Whatever else he felt about the monks, Moran couldn’t help but feel admiration for the Benedictines’ self-sufficiency.

  Oswald straightened up. “No. No, doesn’t ring any bells. But 1967 – well, it’s a little before my time, Inspector.”

  “I see. Well, thanks anyway. Anyone else I might ask?”

  “Let me think.” Oswald stroked his chin. There was a small cut above his eyebrow, Moran noticed, just above the horn rim of his glasses, as if some stray splinter had flown up from his workbench.

  “Father Aloysius is sure to know,” the monk said. “He’ll be just leaving the refectory. Shall I fetch him for you?”

  “Don’t worry,” Moran said. “I’ll seek him out. You’re a busy man.”

  “Well, I suppose I do have a finger in many pies, so to speak, Inspector.” Oswald hesitated on the threshold. “I was going to ask you if you had any news on the missing–”

  Moran stood up. “The Titulus? Not yet, I’m afraid.”

  “And the Cardinal?”

  “Patient rather than anxious, I’d say.”

  Oswald nodded. “I see.”

  “I thought you were going to ask me how the murder enquiry was progressing, Father, that being my most pressing concern. Yours too, I imagine?”

  “Of course. Naturally – and how are things in that respect?”

  “Let’s just say I require a little further clarification,” Moran said. “I’ll soon be out of your way.”

  “Oh, well, I didn’t mean to suggest–”

  “Of course not,” Moran said.

  “Well, then, if there’s nothing else?” Oswald opened his palms.

  “I’ll track you down if need be,” Moran said. “Rest assured.”

  Phelps cursed as the Land Rover lurched into another drift and stalled. He switched the hazards on for the third time and got to work with the spade. The street lights cast orange light over the weirdly surreal landscape. Without their diffused glow it would have been almost impossible to work out where the road finished and the ditch began. Everywhere was a spreading meadow of white. Phelps thought fleetingly that it would feel a bit like this to be standing on the surface of the moon.

  He paused and wiped his brow. He was still on the main road; he had yet to tackle the country byways around Charnford Abbey, which would, he realised, be all but impassable. But he had no choice. After he’d broken the news of the explosion to Moran he’d made a few calls. Phelps had many friends in the force, at least one contact in each constabulary – something which had proved invaluable during previous investigations. He’d struck lucky on the third call to Ivan Macintyre, a Leeds-based DS who’d transferred up to Yorkshire after remarrying. Macintyre told him they had one unsolved: a man in his fifties, throat cut. Lecturer at the University. No apparent motive. Phelps checked the victim’s background: John Lowndes, ex-pupil of Charnford Abbey School. Someone was bumping off old boys like they were going out of fashion.

  A little more research turned up something even more interesting: a newspaper article from the late sixties. Just a few lines, nothing special; he’d nearly missed it. A house fire, in Earley. Two fatalities, one severely injured male, aged twenty-four, by the name of Hugh Phillips, believed to be a Theology student at Reading University. Ex-public schoolboy, Charnford Abbey, 1965–1970. A contemporary
of Vernon’s. Phelps checked the hospital records. Phillips had been discharged three months later. The university then told him, after a short tussle with a records clerk, that according to their archives Hugh Phillips had never returned to his studies. Which was a problem particularly because the police suspected arson, and Phillips had not only evaded questioning, he’d disappeared altogether.

  But I know where you went, Mr Phillips. Phelps threw the spade into the Land Rover’s boot with a clatter and heaved his bulk into the driver’s seat. Oh yes, I know exactly where you went . . .

  Chapter 13

  Neads licked his cracked lips. God, he was thirsty. And cold. He twisted and strained against his bonds, feeling the rope bite into his wrists. His captor had departed thirty minutes earlier, Neads calculated. What that meant, he didn’t care to meditate upon. He was alone – which, at the very least, meant a postponement of whatever was in store.

  The pain in his lower leg had dulled to a deep, internal throbbing. He didn’t think he was bleeding but he knew he needed medical attention urgently; the injury might precipitate a DVT or some other complication. He had to get out. Somehow.

  Neads examined the ceiling: it was high, exposed rafters running from cornice to cornice, and tantalisingly far away just off-centre, a hatch or trapdoor of some sort. That meant there was probably a way up. A ladder, maybe? But even if he could stand, he doubted whether he’d have the strength to pull himself up onto some exposed area of the roof. And his mystery rescuer was clearly fit and able. No, he had to use his brain. He had to talk to this person, reason with him. But he couldn’t; his mouth was still firmly sealed.

  A key scraped in the lock and Neads’ stomach did a slow roll. The door was closed and relocked. Footsteps clicked across the bare floor towards him. He heard the sound of some metallic instrument, like a butcher sharpening a knife. Neads’ eyes bulged in terror. A wave of nausea passed through his body. It couldn’t end like this. He was young. He had his whole life to live. It wasn’t fair . . .