by Scott Hunter
Moran braced himself for the conclusion.
“For nothing!” The broken-veined nose swam into Moran’s line of vision. His optic nerves were functioning, albeit in a reduced capacity, but Dalton’s voice was a funnelled roar. The veins on the Irishman’s forehead stood out like fat worms, sweat erupting from his pores like lava. Moran counted every one, trying to give his brain context and focus. Dalton wasn’t going to walk out of here, not while he was still breathing. He clenched at the semi-automatic nestled in his palsied grip. If he could just lift it and squeeze . . .
But Dalton had had enough rhetoric. He was at the door. “I don’t expect you to understand,” he said in a harsh whisper. “But I do want you to know that I’m not finished here yet. Not by a long way. Goodbye, Brendan.”
The door shut with a click that echoed in the dome of Moran’s consciousness like an analogue reverb. When the noise had died away he considered his predicament: two metres from the corpse of Father Oswald, in possession of the murder weapon, and unable to move. Not what you’d call an advantageous position. But at least he was alive – if the stroke was going to kill him it would probably have done so by now. He might even recover his faculties if he could just keep a cool head.
Moran concentrated on his breathing, sucking in slow, calming draughts of air. He had to get mobile fast. Dalton’s last words were etched into his memory like the bullet holes in the wall behind Oswald’s spreadeagled body: I’m not finished here yet . . .
The first hammer blow fell and Neads’ body spasmed, his face contorting in a rictus of agony. His hand was on fire, the nerve endings blazing electrical signals of panic up to his brain. There they stopped, short-circuited by his body’s defence system; shock set in and the pain receded.
There was a pause as his tormentor selected another nail, and then the procedure was repeated with his other hand. At this point Neads’ mind disconnected from reality and he passed out. When work began on his feet he felt nothing. He left the present behind for happier childhood days – the sun was shining and his mother, dressed in a light summer dress, held out an ice lolly. As he reached for it his hand sprayed blood in a wide arc, covering the pretty dress from top to bottom.
He woke up, screaming through the gag as loudly as his lungs would produce air. Above the noise he was vaguely conscious that the person crucifying him was humming.
Phelps eased his way along the cloister towards the abbey church. The bad feeling had got worse since he’d entered the blacked-out school. What was he expecting? More signs of life than this, he muttered under his breath. He passed the chapel entrance with a shiver and entered the Court of Arches. Not a soul about. The singing grew louder, and eventually he found his way along the long corridor known as the monks’ cloister, which joined the school to the abbey and led to the abbot’s quarters.
The abbot’s door was ajar. Phelps hovered, listening to the monks’ sonorous voices echoing in the high arches of the abbey church. He decided to grab the bull by the horns and interrupt the ceremony. If they didn’t like it, tough. They had the rest of the week to sing if they wanted to. No sign of Moran, no sign of DS Neads; that and Moran’s insistence that he had a suspect in his sights confirmed Phelps’ decision. He squared his shoulders and marched purposefully towards the church entrance.
He had only progressed a short distance before he heard what he interpreted as a strangulated shout. Phelps was a big man, but he could move fast when speed was required. He turned and glued his back to the wall, scanning the cloister for danger. The cry came again. This time he pinpointed the source to the abbot’s office.
Phelps shimmied his way along the wall and put his ear to the door. Then he heard something he recognised: Moran, clearly unhappy, berating himself with the sort of language Phelps imagined would meet with disapproval should one of the monks happen to pass by. He gave the door a hefty push, automatically casing the room as it swung open.
“Late again, Phelps,” Moran said in a voice that was barely a whisper.
“Sorry, guv. Inclement weather.” Phelps took in the prone body and the spreading pool of blood. And Moran, sitting bolt upright in the visitors’ leather-upholstered chair, a silenced semi-automatic clasped in his left hand.
Phelps felt for Oswald’s pulse. “I take it this wasn’t your doing, guv?” He dropped the monk’s wrist. Oswald was as dead as a doornail.
Moran was trying to get up and Phelps didn’t have to be medically qualified to see that something was very wrong. He gently pressed Moran back into the chair. “Easy, guv.”
“Phelps – would you mind very much–” Moran’s voice was getting stronger. He reached for Phelps’ hand.
“Just a sec, guv.” Moran hadn’t shot Oswald, surely? Phelps fervently hoped he hadn’t.
“Phelps, look at the state of me.” Moran was reading his mind. “I couldn’t hit a lorry at ten paces, let alone place two bullets dead centre in Oswald’s forehead.”
“Can you move your right hand, guv?”
“Of course I damn well can’t – what does it look like to you?”
“Well . . . it’s just that the gun’s in your left hand, and you’re right-handed.”
“Good. And–?” Moran broke off in a fit of coughing.
“And you can’t move your right arm. So, you couldn’t have shot him.”
“Bravo, Phelps.” Moran cleared his throat with a noise that reminded Phelps of a care home he had once visited. “Now, get me up, would you? Rory Dalton is about to add to his tally, and Holly is in the firing line. So is Neads, for that matter.”
Phelps made a sour face. “Holly? Holly who? Slow down a sec, guv.”
“No. I bloody well won’t slow down.”
“Okay.” Phelps said, keeping his tone low and reasonable. “So, tell me what happened.”
“Help me up and I will. And stop treating me like a suspect.”
Phelps relented, watching Moran anxiously as he found his balance. The guv was deathly pale, but his eyes were clear and focused.
“Thank you, Sergeant Phelps. Right. Chapel. Let’s go.”
Phelps frowned. “What about Oswald?”
“He’s not going anywhere. He can wait. Dalton can’t.”
Chapter 16
“Rory Dalton? The guy who–”
“That’s right, Phelps.” Moran was playing a hunch, that said Dalton would visit the chapel before carrying out whatever else he was planning. Why? Because it was his last chance to pay his respects to Fergus.
“Fergus?” Phelps’ face creased in consternation.
Moran stopped and took a deep breath, leaning on a pillar for support. His right arm dangled uselessly but everything else appeared to be working. He felt terrible, but he wasn’t dead, and as Dr Purewal had pointed out in her usual caring fashion, that wasn’t such a bad thing.
“Guv – you should be on your way to hospital, you–”
“Later.” Moran straightened. As he did so the lights flickered again. He spoke tersely. “Fergus is Dalton’s brother; the body in the vault. He was accidentally killed in some kind of prank that went wrong.” They set off walking again, hurrying through the Court of Arches until they were at the chapel door.
“Sir – I need to tell you about the abbot.” Phelps’ hand was on Moran’s shoulder.
Moran nodded, fumbling in his pocket awkwardly. “I know. His name is Hugh Phillips. He was one of the gang who killed Fergus. Attempted suicide but failed. Horgan got him into the monastery – then mentored him for high office.”
Phelps looked impressed. “Okay. Old news, then. Sorry. Here. Let me look.” He fished a key ring out of Moran’s jacket pocket. “Sure?”
Moran nodded. “Sure as I can be.”
Phelps hesitated, his doubts resurfacing. What if Moran was lying? Maybe he had killed Oswald. Maybe his mind had gone off the rails . . .
He unlocked the chapel, pushed the door gently and stepped back, indicating that Moran should go first. Moran gave him an irritated glance a
nd went in. Phelps followed, and they saw torchlight flickering on the chapel ceiling from the funnel of the vault’s entrance. A voice, low and lilting, led them cautiously to the altar. Phelps picked up a brass candle holder and hefted it. Moran blocked the stairwell.
“Hello Rory. Sorry to interrupt.”
Dalton spun round. “Brendan? By God, a miracle recovery, is it? Well, I suppose you’re in the right place for that sort of thing.”
“There’s no way out, Dalton. I have backup.”
“Have you indeed? Come down and fetch me out, then.”
“That’s the plan.”
Moran felt a nudge. Phelps had produced a small semi-automatic pistol. Moran nodded and accepted the weapon. It sat awkwardly in his left hand, but it was better than nothing. Finger on the trigger, he took the first step. “Put your hands up, Dalton. Where I can see them.”
Dalton moved away from the earth of his brother’s disturbed grave and leaned against the crypt wall. Moran descended warily. Dalton had both hands in the air. He nudged something with his leg – the next moment the wall had tilted sideways, taking Dalton with it. One moment the Irishman was there, the next, he’d vanished.
Moran threw himself forward and ran his hands quickly up and down the brickwork. Where was the lever? Phelps joined him, stamping the flagstones with his boot heels beside the altar where the Titulus had rested in its case. Nothing.
“Come on – he’ll be out before we know it.” Moran hurried up the vault’s staircase, ignoring the throbbing in his temple and the numbness in his arm.
“Wait!” Phelps called him back. His hand was resting on a protruding nail in the wall; it moved vertically, and the wall slid aside. They ducked their heads, and found themselves following a narrow passage that wound in a gentle curve. Phelps shone his torch into the darkness ahead but there was no sign of Dalton.
By the time they saw the dead end ahead Moran had guessed where they would emerge. His feet snagged on something. He bent and picked it up. A bundle of clothing. No: a scapular – bloodstained. Oswald’s . . .
Moran left it on the floor. It could wait, too. “Now I know why I thought there was someone watching me in the sacristy. They could come and go as they pleased – to and from the chapel chamber. This was Oswald’s escape route the night of the murder. Come on, Phelps; there must be an exit lever – quickly–”
They fumbled in the torchlight. Moran’s heart was beating unevenly now, his breathing becoming more of an effort. And then again it was Phelps who found it: a loose brick at the wall’s base. A gap opened, the masonry moving on silent hinges. Phelps clicked his tongue in admiration. “Not bad, guv, eh?”
But Moran had already stepped down into the sacristy, wrenching at the door handle. “He’s locked it from the outside.”
“Step aside, sir, if you please.” Phelps applied his shoulder and the lock splintered, spilling them into the connecting corridor between chapel and sacristy. Seconds later they were racing past the locker room and into the main cloister. As Moran rounded the corner he saw Dalton by the staff room.
Holly . . .
He’d told her she’d be safe in the staff room, but now the commotion would entice her into Dalton’s path. However, Dalton had come to a standstill, halted by something coming through the double doors by the study hall.
Phelps made a groaning noise in his throat. “Oh no.”
Moran had seen it too. The double doors clattered shut and Abbot Boniface, hauling some kind of wooden construction behind him, came into view. It looked, at first sight, to be a sledge-like bier, but with an elevated section like a sail rising from its centre.
Moran’s blood went cold. “I think we’ve found Neads.”
Dalton hesitated, rooted to the spot. He shot a backward glance, almost as if he were checking Moran’s reaction, before returning his attention to the abbot.
“I knew you’d come.” Boniface said in a loud, confident voice. “I am ready. I have prepared for this moment. Look–”
Moran watched in horror as Boniface swivelled the sled and revealed the extent of his madness. DS Neads was impaled on the cross section of the sail. The policeman’s eyes were closed, his mouth slack. Blood ran from wounds in his hands and feet, collecting in pools on the cloister’s polished tiles.
Dalton raised a hand as if to ward off the sight. Moran knew the Irishman had instigated countless retributions of his own, but even they hadn’t topped the barbarity scale like this.
“Guv–” Phelps grabbed Moran’s arm. “The pistol–”
“Not yet – stay with me–”
They crept along the cloister like ballet dancers on rice paper, Dalton apparently oblivious to their advance. The abbot threw himself to the floor before Dalton. “A life for a life – you must accept my sacrifice. It is right and fitting.”
“Who the hell are you?” Dalton had found his voice.
Boniface looked up, his face radiant in confession. “Why, I am Boniface, the abbot of this abbey. I know who you are – you are his kin.”
Dalton looked confused. The Irishman’s eyes flicked between Neads and the prostrate Boniface. Moran’s finger rested on the semi-automatic’s trigger. He could sense Phelps’ impatience as the big man held himself in check.
“What? Are you a madman? Are you Hugh Phillips? I thought–” Dalton’s voice had a nervy quality to it. He was evidently as baffled by the confusion of identities as he was sickened by the spectacle before him.
“I was,” Boniface admitted. “In another life. But I have paid for my sins in part, and he shall pay the balance.” Boniface stroked the foot of the cross where Neads’ feet had been pinned. “He is so like Fergus, is he not? They can rest in the earth together. It is right and fitting.”
Dalton’s eyes narrowed and his hand went to his pocket. Moran raised his pistol. “Drop it, Dalton.”
The Irishman laughed and turned. “And what? This place is history after tonight, Brendan. It’s all going to go up. Look what they’ve done.” He pointed to Neads’ twitching body and the abbot in turn. “Go on – look, will you, and tell me these people deserve to live. Shoot me and you’ll never know where the bomb has been planted.”
Bomb.
Moran kept his voice steady. “What bomb, Rory? Listen to me; we need to help that boy.” He swallowed hard. How much blood had Neads lost? How much pain could a body take? Moran knew that seconds counted if they were to save him. His left hand gripped the semi-automatic, his emotions roller-coasting between horror at Neads’ predicament and the red rage of revenge that was prompting him to shoot Dalton where he stood.
At that moment Boniface launched himself at Dalton’s feet, wrapping his arms about his legs, sobbing like a child. “I beg your forgiveness! Give me your benediction . . .”
Dalton pulled away in disgust and his hand came out of his pocket holding a short, businesslike knife. The knife came down and Moran heard Phelps’ intake of breath – a curse or exhortation, Moran couldn’t tell, but it was the decider. He fired a single shot and Dalton fell, his body rolling on the floor. The abbot cried out, scrabbling to pull the knife from between his shoulder blades, his face contorted in a mixture of pain and grim satisfaction. He looked Moran in the eye.
“Blessed,” he said. “I’m blessed at last.” He fell forward, the knife protruding from his back like an accusing finger.
Dalton was writhing, trying to get up. At that moment there was a clatter of feet and a series of shouted commands from the Court of Arches. Three uniformed police officers appeared and hurried towards them, torches flashing.
Moran let out his breath in relief. The cavalry . . . He leaned against the staff room door and indicated Neads’ inert body. “Phelps, for God’s sake get the boy off that thing, will you?” And then he turned his attention to Dalton, who had propped himself against the opposite wall, trying to staunch the flow of blood from his thigh where Moran had sited the bullet.
“You bastard, Moran.”
Moran put his foot o
n Dalton’s leg and applied pressure. Dalton screamed. The WPC who had led the backup team down the cloister put a horrified hand over her mouth, and then hurried to assist Phelps and the two uniformed officers who had begun to prise the nails gently from Neads’ flesh.
“The bomb, Rory, there’s a good man.”
“Take a hike, Brendan.”
Moran applied more pressure and Dalton threw up, spraying the tiles with vomit.
“Come on, Rory. I wouldn’t want you to get hurt – again.” He ground his teeth in bitter satisfaction, venting his rage. It felt releasing, cathartic. His foot pressed down harder.
“Underneath the church,” Dalton gasped. “You can’t stop her now. I’ve told her what to do.”
“Who, Rory?”
“Two words, Brendan.”
Moran brought his heel up but Phelps grabbed him by the lapels and pulled him away. “No, guv. I’ll deal with him, all right?”
Moran was breathing hard. He wanted to kill Dalton, to maim him, carve him into pieces and scatter the debris to the wind.
“I’ll go with you, sir,” the blonde WPC said. “To the church, I mean.” They had removed Neads from the makeshift cross. He was unconscious, but he was breathing deeply.
Damn good thing too, Moran thought as he gathered himself. His palms were sweaty and his heart was on the second page of Ravel’s Bolero. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes and his vision swam back into focus.
“Thank you, Officer but I need to do this on my own. You’d better stay with Sergeant Phelps.”
Moran checked the staff room. Holly had gone. He left the team attending to Neads and set off for the abbey church.
The monks were still singing as he made his way along the gloomy cloisters. Moran briefly wondered if Vagnoli was among them. No time to worry about him now. Somewhere nearby, Moran remembered, there was a service door that led to a cellar, the switch room that governed the distribution of electricity in and around the church and monks’ quarters. There it was – an unobtrusive arched rectangle cut into the cloister wall. He pushed gently and met no resistance; the door was unlocked.
