Black December

by Scott Hunter

  He felt the rope binding his arms drop away. They flopped uselessly, stiff and numb. Neads felt them lifted, stretched to full extension. From behind came a low hum of contentment, the sound of someone happy in their work. Neads twisted and strained, but it was futile; he couldn’t bring his eyes to bear on whatever preparations were being made. However, after a few seconds he understood the purpose and sweat broke out afresh on his forehead, clammy and urgent. He knew what was going on all right: he was being measured.

  Moran wished he’d had the foresight to keep a pack of paracetamol in his pocket. His headache was relentless, robbing him of the very thing he needed most: the ability to think. But it was all coming together nevertheless, the way it usually did when he’d given his subconscious time to process the information. Sure, the loose ends would evade placement for a while, like spare patio stones cut to the wrong shape, but eventually, by a process of logical rearrangement, they would fill the gaps perfectly.

  Dalton was coming, there could be no doubt; it was just a question of when. Moran wondered how old Rory Dalton had been when his relative had disappeared. A cousin, maybe? Or a brother. More likely a brother, to prompt such intensive surveillance. So, when had the unproven possibility of his brother’s murder prompted decisive action? How long had Rory Dalton spent poring over banal recordings, ears sharply tuned for some shred of evidence, some careless word? How many hours devoted to debriefing Charnford workers – workers he had been supplying to the abbey? A violent man, yes, but a patient one also.

  And his patience had been rewarded. The listener had finally heard something tangible. Moran had no way of knowing exactly what had passed between Horgan and Vernon during their telephone conversation, but he could take an educated guess. Mismanaged school finances, the threat of dissolution – of the school at least – and a well-heeled old boy with a dark secret. But Vernon was a tough character, certainly not one to lie back and cough up. He had rebuffed Horgan’s blackmail threats and attempted exactly what Moran would have predicted: removal of the evidence.

  And that’s where it had all gone wrong for Vernon, because someone else had joined their dangerous game – someone with their own agenda. Vernon’s attempt to hide his buried secret had failed. And then the past had caught up with him in the shape of the eavesdropping Dalton’s professional hit. Clean, tidy, easy; Vernon, already injured, providing Dalton with an opportunity to finish the job and pin it on the original attacker. But the Irishman had given himself away by using a rare and traceable blade.

  Another thought lurched into Moran’s mind: what about the other guilty boys? What if Horgan had named Vernon’s accomplices during the tapped phone conversation? If that were the case, Dalton’s hit list would be complete and other lives in danger . . .

  The library was silent, the stillness heavy with the burden of his thoughts. Moran rubbed his eyes and let his hands slide down his stubble-spiked cheeks. The rugby photograph lay before him on the desk. 1967. Which of these fresh-looking lads had been with Vernon that fateful night beneath the chapel? Moran contemplated the time-frozen vignette. There was Vernon, and seated next to him the boy with the familiar features. Something clicked into place in Moran’s beleaguered brain. Of course – the homing instinct . . . Oswald maintained he hadn’t recognised the eager, guileless face – but Moran didn’t believe him. Even though it had later been horrifically burned the features were discernable – if you looked carefully.

  Moran closed the magazine and stood up. It was time to save Abbot Boniface from the nemesis that was Rory Dalton.

  Moran was on the steps leading down to the senior wing when the lights went out. He fumbled in his jacket pocket and found his Dunhill cigarette lighter. He’d been sure it would come in handy one day. The flame guttered as a blast of wind battered the school brickwork, finding its way between the gaps and ruffling his hair like a ghostly hand. Moran shivered. Power cable down, probably, he reassured himself.

  The senior wing was cloaked in darkness. Moran shuffled along, lighter aloft, feeling like an extra from Haunted House. He arrived at the Court of Arches, where the coffee machine stood silent by the prefects’ staircase and the gold-embossed achievement boards glinted dully in the localised light provided by the Dunhill. Moran raised his arm a little to view the roll of honour, the surnames and initials of bygone rugby and cricket captains. There he was: 1969: John Vernon. As he angled the lighter to view the next board, a high-pitched scream echoed along the main cloister, escalating in volume before being choked off by another pane-rattling buffet of wind.

  Moran froze, rooted to the spot. Were his ears playing tricks? Just the wind, surely? With his heart beating fat, lazy duplets against his ribs he began a slow advance along the cloister towards Haywood Hall. He passed the junior library, an empty classroom, the staff room . . . and threw up a protective hand as torchlight blinded him.

  “Who is it?” A familiar voice. The torch wavered and went out.

  “Holly?”

  “Is that you, Chief Inspector?”

  “The very same.” Moran flicked the knurled knob of his Dunhill and Holly’s face lit up in the orange circle of light. “I thought you’d left for the holidays. What on earth are you doing in there?”

  “Marking. Reports, you know. The work never ends with the term.”

  “Of course.” He hesitated. “Did you hear that cry?”

  “Cry?”

  Moran felt slightly foolish. Perhaps it had been the wind. “I thought I heard a scream – after the power cut.”

  “The wind.” Holly smiled. “I heard it too.” She pointed to the window. “Just listen to it.”

  Moran suddenly remembered Neads with a faint sense of unease. He hoped the DS hadn’t got himself lost – in a blizzard of this severity you wouldn’t want to be outside for long.

  Holly took his arm. “Come in for a sec – I’m working by candlelight.”

  “Be prepared, eh? I’ll bet you’ve got a copy of the Girl Guide Handbook tucked away somewhere.”

  Holly laughed. “Not me. This has happened before; the electrics are positively prehistoric.”

  Moran allowed himself to be led into the dimly-lit staff room. The interior was divided into a series of partitions, each containing a desk and an assortment of personal ephemera. Holly’s alcove was tidy and sweet-smelling; two scented candles burned brightly on her window ledge and a vase of fresh flowers, balanced precariously on the edge of her desk, overrode the underlying grassy fragrance of books. Moran waited until she had set the torch down and turned to face him before moving forward and holding her in a tight embrace.

  “Wow. I wasn’t expecting that,” she purred in his ear. “Taking advantage of a woman in the dark. Not what I expect from Her Majesty’s finest.”

  Moran hadn’t been expecting it either. He couldn’t believe what he’d just done. “I don’t usually conform to expectations.” He nuzzled her shapely neck. He had not been rejected. It was too good to be true. And actually it was, because he knew that he was about to spoil the moment. “Holly?”

  “Mmm?”

  “You have to leave the building. It’s not safe.”

  Holly pulled away. “What?” She folded her arms and cocked her head to one side. “You know how to treat a girl, that’s for sure, Brendan Moran.”

  “I’m sorry. Not great timing.”

  “You can say that again. What’s wrong?”

  “I can’t explain. I have to sort something out. I hope it won’t take long.”

  “Is this to do with Father Horgan?”

  “Yes.” He had to be straight with her. “Look, there’s an Irishman, a man named Rory Dalton. He wants revenge. I think he’s on his way to Charnford.”

  She reached out and grasped his wrist. “Is it him? The killer?” Her hand went to her mouth. “Oh God. Please be careful.”

  “Of course. I have my sergeant–” But he didn’t. Best not mention that. “Look, I’ll be fine. Just get yourself away out of here for a while. I’ll cal
l you later.”

  “Out of here?” Holly pointed to the window. “In this?”

  Moran followed her gesture. He could see very little out of the window; the alcove was covered in snow, and the dark rectangles of glass were shaking with the force of the particles crashing against them. She had a point.

  “Okay. Just stay put. Don’t move. At least I know where you are.”

  Holly shivered. “All right. If you’re sure.”

  Moran wasn’t. But he didn’t tell her that either. Instead he bent forward and kissed her full on the lips. Taking her by the arm, he sat her down at her desk and doused the candles.

  “Oh no. Not in the dark, please.”

  “It’ll only be for a while, I promise. And you have the torch,” he added, trying to sound positive.

  “Great.”

  “I’ll be back soon,” he said, and shut the door behind him.

  The Land Rover eased its way off the Bath road and onto the hill that led up to Charnford Abbey. Phelps squinted and jammed his nose against the windscreen. The four-by-four’s wipers were doing their best, but even their workmanlike sweep was fighting a losing battle against the severity of the blizzard. He felt the tyres slide, shift, and spin ineffectually as the incline became steeper. It was no good. No vehicle was going to make it up here tonight.

  As Phelps pondered his best plan of action a flash of headlights in his mirror made him twist in alarm. Some crazy . . . He threw himself across the passenger seat as a van (a blue VW, rear wing dented, offside mud flap missing) cannoned into the side of his vehicle, yawed crazily towards the ditch and then, fishtailing wildly, righted itself and was gone in a spectacular flurry of slush.

  Phelps groaned, clutching his ribs where the gear stick had all but impaled him, and pushed open the driver’s door to inspect the damage. The wind bit into the exposed parts of his body and snow blinded his attempts to free the rear wheel from the confusion of twisted metalwork that had, until recently, been the wheel arch. He soon gave up. The car was not going anywhere. Phelps delivered a hefty kick to the rear bumper and made what he knew to be a futile call for backup. Then he started walking.

  It was hard going; when logic prompted him to consider self preservation as a serious alternative it was a single thought that drove him on. The van that had wrecked Ray’s four-by-four was the same vehicle a witness had observed speeding away from Moran’s house on the afternoon of the explosion. No coincidence – someone was after Moran, and Phelps knew he had to be at the abbey quicker than he was going to be. He dipped his head and pressed on, teeth gritted as much in determination as against the howling blast of the storm.

  Chapter 14

  The nagging insistence that something had happened to DS Neads would not be subdued, but, Moran rationalised, there was little he could do about it. Neads would have to take care of himself. As he made his way through the empty cloisters Moran mollified his conscience with the thought that Neads had probably got himself lost, or taken shelter in the village until the worst of the storm blew over. But a darker possibility was tugging at this comforting scenario – the possibility that the Charnford murderer had found another victim.

  Moran sincerely hoped he was wrong. Granted, he hadn’t taken to Neads, but he felt responsible nevertheless; Moran hadn’t lost a sergeant in thirty years of policing, and he had no desire to spoil that statistic. He pushed through the swing doors connecting the school to the monks’ cloister. Yes, he hoped he was wrong about Neads. He hoped he was wrong about Oswald, too, but he doubted that. Just one piece of the puzzle left and his theory would be proven . . .

  “Good evening, Chief Inspector.” The voice, coming as it did from the shadows, would have alarmed Moran but for the Italian accent.

  “Cardinal Vagnoli.” Moran halted and gave a formal nod, wondering at the monk’s ability to make him feel like a trainee altar boy. “Can’t stop, I’m afraid.”

  Vagnoli, seated on one of the wooden window seats that ran along the length of the cloister, raised an arm in acknowledgement. “I shan’t detain you, Chief Inspector. I am praying for the success of your investigation.”

  I’ll bet you are . . . Moran hurried on in the direction of the abbey church and Abbot Boniface’s office, the lilt of distant plainchant telling him that the community had already gathered for Compline, the last official service of daily devotion. The rise and fall of the monks’ voices filled the air, the words familiar to Moran’s ears:

  Convert us God our salvation, and be angry with us no longer.

  God come to my assistance, Lord, make haste to help me.

  Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit, as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen. Alleluia.

  The door to Boniface’s office was unlocked, as Moran had expected. His eyes, already accustomed to the dark, confirmed that he was alone. He shut the door gently behind him. Wind gusted briefly in the open fireplace, flapping a sheaf of papers on the desktop like a nervous nest of doves.

  Moran sat in the leather chair, flicked his Dunhill and slid open the first drawer. A stab of pain shot across his forehead. He dropped the lighter and clutched his head. Not for the first time he wondered if there was something seriously amiss under his skull. His skin felt clammy as he felt for his pulse, but the beat was reassuringly steady.

  The pain cleared and he refocused his attention on the abbot’s desk. Letters, orders of service, building plans and parish notices all underwent Moran’s brief but thorough scrutiny. And suddenly there it was: innocuous enough at first sight, but its contents had stirred up jealousy, hatred and, eventually, murderous intent.

  Moran walked to the window and parted the heavy curtains. The storm was easing. The grounds were virgin white. No sign of Neads tramping wearily from the abbey gates. A sliver of moonlight washed out the Dunhill’s weak flame as Moran read the memo for the third time:

  To: Oswald OSB

  Date: September 10th

  Oswald –

  Whilst I appreciate your commitment to the library and its archives, along with your undoubted enthusiasm for the upcoming building project, it is with regret that I have to inform you that I have decided to appoint Fr. Horgan as chief librarian and overseer of the building work. I know this will be a disappointment to you, but I trust that you will be able to work with Fr. Horgan – a brother of great experience in all things literary and architectural. I want you to know that I value your contribution to the abbey and its work, and this decision should in no way be seen as a negative reflection on your diverse and enthusiastic work at Charnford.

  Every blessing,

  Boniface OSB

  Abbot

  Three months had elapsed since the memo had been written. Three months of bitter, anguished, introverted anger. Moran folded the paper, found the guest’s armchair and sank gratefully into it. God, but he was tired. He closed his eyes, and the room receded like a blanket being pulled from under him.

  He was beneath the chapel, in the corner of the vault, looking in. Before him a life-sized crucifix had been erected. Father Horgan was standing beside it, pointing at the Titulus with a bloodied finger, stretching his arms wide in imitation of a crucified man. The base of the cross was surrounded by grinning skulls, one of which swivelled to stare at him accusingly. The skull belonged unmistakeably to DS Neads. Moran tried to back away, but he was seized from behind in a relentless grip. He turned to see John Vernon’s blanched face grinning into his. Moran opened his mouth to scream but nothing would come. The grip tightened and the cross loomed ever closer. Vernon opened his hands to reveal a set of ugly, broad-headed iron nails.

  At that precise moment the door opened and Moran jerked awake.

  It was not the abbot.

  Oswald closed the door behind him and moved silently across the carpeted floor. “Is the abbot expecting you, Inspector? I see you have made yourself comfortable.”

  “A little too comfortable, it would seem.” Moran’s heart was
racing but his voice was even.

  “Falling asleep on the job again? The Chief Constable won’t be very happy.”

  “And you’ve been in touch, obviously.” Of course Oswald knew Lawson. That made sense of Phelps’ hurried substitution. “What is it? Bridge club? Confessional favours?”

  Oswald chuckled. “Nothing so intellectual, Chief Inspector Moran.” The prior moved around the pedestal desk and sat himself comfortably in the abbot’s chair. “A common interest in fishing. The Kennet, you know? Early risers catch the best fish. We’ve passed many a happy dawn together by the lock.”

  “I’m touched.” Moran was overcome by a creeping paralysis. He could move his arms, but his legs were lumps of inanimate meat. His head throbbed a steady four beats to the bar.

  “How did you know? You do know, don’t you?” Oswald leaned forward and clasped his hands as if conducting a parental interview.

  “Know?” It had been an unusually fragmented path to knowledge, Moran reflected. What had been the key, the final combination that had sprung the lock? He couldn’t pinpoint it now. All that remained was the knowledge; the certainty. And the crumpled memo in his pocket. The past had threatened to obscure the present, something that Oswald had probably hoped for and no doubt exploited. Did he owe Oswald an explanation? Probably not. Perhaps for the late Father Horgan’s sake then, especially after the canny old monk had gone to such lengths to point the finger.

  Moran licked his dry lips. “About you, you mean?” He asked this more to test his faculties than to seek clarification. What was wrong with him? Had Oswald poisoned him? Not possible; he’d not had any food or drink since the morning. What, then? Purewal’s prophecy, his subconscious whispered. The brain is a very sensitive organ, Chief Inspector . . .