by V Clifford
***
Once back inside she booted up her laptop and began a new search. She’d discovered a few different options for sneaking behind cyber walls and, although the Catholic Church had gone to more expense than the Pentagon to secure their communications, it shouldn’t take too long to get inside. When doing her PhD she’d become a member of the Vatican Library, not at first an essential source but it had turned out to be invaluable when she got to researching wounded healers. Everyone was wounded in one way or another but some scars were more visible than others. Priests and therapists often wore their scars like invisible cloaks.
She had an idea of the kind of system to expect, but the damn thing had been upgraded. Not an insurmountable problem just a touch more time consuming. The tougher the system the more fun it was to break, or if not break at least become a voyeur.
Mac was right, there wasn’t any notice anywhere of a cardinal visit to Scotland, if the Vatican diary of events was to be believed. When a cardinal was going out and about it was almost as big a deal as if the Holy Father himself was going on a visit. The security planning and detail must cost the faithful an arm and a leg. All the more reason to think that the dead man in St Jude’s was an imposter. Poor sod. But if he was just a punter out on the lash in fancy dress how did he end up in the cathedral? It was hard to tell from a few photographs but it didn’t look messy. There hadn’t been much blood and the set-up on the altar looked undisturbed. Maybe he’d been killed elsewhere and there was another actual crime scene. There hadn’t been anything said about how he died but she’d presumed the injury to his head was what caused his death.
She rang Mac. ‘Hey, do we know exactly how our mock cardinal died? Was it the blow to the head? And if so was the weapon found?’
‘I’m on my way back to Doune. Let’s get dinner and go over it.’
‘Sure. What did Fiona want?’
‘Blood.’
‘Metaphorical or real?’
‘Real. Not difficult. See you in an hour or so. I’ll bring food.’
She smiled. He knew if he wanted decent food he’d have to supply it. She turned her head back to the screen. The killing had to be planned. So who was the guy in the red frock? Was he a real member of the clergy after all? She checked St Jude’s own website and scrolled through the list of priests, nuns, deacons and auxiliary staff. The dead chap looked like their newest recruit, a priest who’d come to Edinburgh after working on the social media staff for the Vatican no less, James O’Brien aka Judas Iscariot. With a little help from Google she discovered that before he’d been ‘called’, he’d worked as a stockbroker in the financial sector in Glasgow: also not a good combo for a gambling addict. Why did he give it up? There had to be something sinister going on to give up a high earning position for the lowly lifestyle of a parish priest. Also, how and why did Father James get into that outfit?
She did another Google search on the company he’d been with in Glasgow and up came a load of stories about them going to the wall. Receivers eventually moved in when all potential buy-outs failed. Was there the possibility that his death was business related and nothing to do with the Church, apart from its theatricality? His shoes were well worn, highly polished posh leather, ironically rather too Church’s or Loake’s for the budget of a priest and at odds with the polyester of the robe. Gammarelli, the Vatican’s tailors would be horrified by such inferior quality. Something definitely weird going on. She read on. He’d ruffled a number of feathers but that was quite some time in the past. Would someone hold a grudge for ten years then kill him? Of course they could but it depended on how their lives had been affected and how unhinged they were. Crime was never simple. It didn’t sit outside a social or economic situation; it was always right at the centre of someone’s world. Whether they’d intended it to be that way or not, that’s what happened. Even if they didn’t get caught for the crime it would be with them every single day. Maybe the sociopath was an exception to this but she wasn’t convinced. There was only one photograph of him with a woman. Nothing that looked like family; no parents, brothers or sisters. Being gay was an issue for a priest, so if he was he’d have gone to great lengths to hide it. She leaned back, ran her hands through her hair and thought herself back into the cathedral. He was a big man, so it wouldn’t have been easy to manoeuvre his body into the robe. It would have taken time and the building was open to the public, so also a high risk strategy. If someone else put the robe on him they had to have done it elsewhere. Was he robed and then bumped on the head? The photographs only gave up so much information. She filed that question for Mac when he pitched up.
***
The following day she had hair clients. Pressure to get back to them was increasing exponentially. She missed them. Who among them might have connections to Edinburgh’s Catholic royalty? She made a call but there wasn’t any answer. She didn’t leave a message. She leafed through her paper diary. Got to be someone in there whose connections she could exploit. There was one woman with many connections, but she was unlikely to help, such was her devotion. Worth sending an email; that way she’d have the option of refusing. Sal’s death had thrown her and Mac together. Dinner almost every night was as good a way as any to catch-up but it was weird, and, delicious though it was, she wasn’t used to actually eating a proper meal at the end of every day. She was more of an eat-all-she-could at Bella’s when she was hungry, kind of person. Then she’d go days on oatcakes and not much else. If she was going to spend more time in the country she’d have to find another way of having her food needs met, and be careful not to slip into habits with Mac that would be difficult to get out of. She countered this with the notion that Mac would soon get bored with the current inequality of cooking, although he had said it was therapeutic since she always did the washing-up.
She emailed another couple of hair clients. As Viv waited for their replies Mollie whimpered and trotted to the study door. She heard tyres on the gravel outside. They both went down to open the door. Mac stood in the porch with a familiar bag of groceries under one arm and a file of papers in the other.
‘I come bearing info and food.’
‘Great combo. Want a hand?’
He handed her the file. ‘That’s more your kinda thing than what’s in here. It might go some way to answering the shooter’s motive.’
She took the file and began to leaf through it. Each page was marked with a red ‘Secret’ stamp. She smiled. He’d get his arse kicked if anyone found out he’d copied these and brought them out of the office. She rubbed his arm. ‘You’re a good man. On the right side of the angels.’
‘Tell that to my mother. She thinks otherwise.’
He dumped the groceries on the worktop.
‘What’s for dinner?’
‘Aubergine Parmigiano.’
She raised her eyebrows.
‘You got a problem with that?’
‘God, no. Sounds fab. But we carry on like this I’ll be the size of a house.’
He shook his head. ‘Trust me. The amount of energy you expend there’s no chance. You could power your own electricity.’
She ignored this and laid the file on the kitchen table while Mac made a fuss of Mollie.
Chapter Fifteen
Viv pressed the buzzer and within seconds the catch was released to let her in. Lesley McKenna was waiting in her hall and pointed to a door on the left, ‘He’s in there. Go ahead. He loves your visits. You must let me know what your secret is.’
She smiled, knocked on the door and entered before being invited to.
‘Ah, Viv. Always a joy.’ Michael McKenna stood and came round from behind his desk. He lifted his hand to his head. ‘Do I need your attention or what?’
‘I think you do. But as ever it’s not so much the hair on your head that’s desperate.’
He batted away the implication. ‘Don’t you go bringing my nose and ear hair into an open conversation.’
She ran her finger over her lips. ‘Discretion is the bette
r part of valour, or is it?’
‘That’s what I like about you. Always challenging the ordinary. The things that most people take for granted.’
‘I don’t know what you’re after but whatever it is I’m unlikely to give it to you for flattery alone.’
He laughed. ‘Coffee?’
‘No, thanks. I think I’m already persona non grata with Lesley and if you make her get coffee for us she’ll be apoplectic.’
‘She’s just bored and trying to find ways of getting me to do stuff. Here let me shift this chair.’
Viv spread out her tarp and he lifted a heavy chair onto it. Once wrapped in the gown he said, ‘I’m guessing you shunted me up the list for a reason, so you’d better spill before the hairdryer goes on.’
He had a glorious mane of dark wavy hair but a high crest of recession on his forehead. She combed it back.
‘Still got some left at the top there?’
He always asked this. His sensitivity to losing it never wavered and she was used to answering with tact. ‘Hasn’t changed in a decade. If it was going to go it would have gone by now. I think you’re safe.’
‘You just humour me. Come on tell me what’s troubling you.’
She cleared her throat. ‘Well this might be a bit of a touchy subject, but I was wondering if you had any inside info on the hierarchy at the cathedral?’
He roared with laughter. ‘Good God, Viv, what are you getting into this time?’
‘Nothing that I can’t handle, but I thought with you being . . .’
‘An ex-priest an all that.’ He laughed again and she wondered what it must have been like to have confession with him. One of the things about confession was that, like psychoanalysis, you didn’t get to look into the eyes of your listener so you couldn’t take any social cues from their body language. She imagined sitting in a booth behind a screen trying to work out what mood he might be in before bearing her soul. Michael was certainly a good listener, but there was more to him than that, otherwise he would never have given up his vocation.
‘I hope you know me well enough to believe I wouldn’t exploit you.’
He interrupted her. ‘Yes, I do know you well enough, but only in one context . . . So if I do know about the cathedral . . .’
Her pulse accelerated, but she didn’t interrupt him.
‘I would want to know what you might be doing with the information.’
‘Fair enough. I’ve been asked to investigate a missing person, and in the course of that investigation I’ve come across an abundance of eight-pointed crosses.’
‘Ah. In that case the best person to speak to would be . . .’
Just as he was about to give her a name there was a tap at the door. Viv gritted her teeth.
Lesley tucked her head round the door. ‘I was wondering if you’d like me to make coffee?’
‘I told you she was bored. If I’d dared to ask her for coffee she’d have gone all huffy. But now that she’s asked would you like some . . . We’ve had a recent consignment from Vienna. Best Turkish. I wouldn’t refuse if I were you.’
Viv nodded. ‘Sure, I’d love some. Thanks, Lesley.’
‘Milk and two I suppose?’
‘Black for me.’
‘Usual for me.’ He raised his eyebrows as his wife left. ‘Don’t know what we’ve done to deserve that, but never look a gift horse and all that.’
‘You were saying who I ought to speak to.’
‘Yes, although I don’t recall using the word “ought”.’ He grinned.
She lifted her scissors and demonstrated their action. ‘If I were you I’d remember who in this room has command of the sharp blades.’
He grinned. ‘His name is Daniel and he’s a deacon. Very keen on the Maltese Cross. Are you going to tell me what’s happened or shall I have to wait and read about it in the press?’
‘How did you guess? I could be back to pick your brain a bit more, but for now I’ll have a go at speaking to Daniel.’
She continued to cut his hair and after a few minutes their coffee arrived. Lesley’s wide grin lit up the room as she entered, her countenance transformed. Viv marvelled at the complete contrast of her face with a simple smile. It also made her think about the difference that a smile could make to a person’s identity. The dead man from St Jude’s had died with a grimace imprinted on his face. No sign of bliss or peace in evidence for him. If she saw a photograph of him in a police mug shot or a holiday snap of him having fun at the beach could she be sure he was the same person? Yes, probably for her, but not for many people. Her test results in the super recogniser exam were 98 per cent. Only 0.5 per cent of people who took the test got above half-marks. Lesley laid the coffee on a side table and said, ‘How are you, Viv?’
There was something accusatory in her tone that made Viv wary. ‘I’m fine. Spinning plates but that’s the way I seem to survive.’
Lesley stroked her husband’s shoulder. Definitely an ownership gesture that had Viv confused. Did Lesley think that she had designs on Michael? How stupid would that be since she’d known him for years and that had never crossed her radar? He was more like a father figure; although not quite old enough for the role, that’s how she’d describe him. Lesley left the room again but not before looking at Viv with her eyes screwed up.
‘Is Lesley okay?’ she said, as she lifted one of the cups of coffee and handed it to him.
‘I’m not sure. She sees things where there is nothing to see.’
‘But why now? I’ve known you for God knows how long and it wouldn’t occur to me.’
He gave a great belly laugh, ‘Just you say it as it is, why don’t you.’
She flushed. ‘Well she must be imagining . . .’
‘It’s not you. It’s me. She has trust issues.’
‘Does she have reason not to trust you?’
He hesitated. ‘No. Not really.’
‘Bullshit. She either does or she doesn’t. Does she?’
‘Well there has been a minor indiscretion.’
Viv was shocked. She’d always thought of him as a paragon of virtue. Tears pricked her eyes. She turned away to prevent him from seeing her disappointment. Why on earth would it matter to her? She started the hairdryer. She could be out of there in five minutes.
She sensed his eyes on her as she wound up the flex on the dryer then stored her scissors in their leather pouch.
‘I never claimed to be an angel. In fact, as soon as I gave up the priesthood I realised what a lie I had been living. I was just as flawed, more flawed than anyone whose confession I’d heard. That’s the problem you see. We were expected to be beyond human and that just set us up for failure. If you’ve got a line of enquiry that concerns the Church you know you should be following the money and if that’s a dead end, follow the sex. It’ll be one or the other.’
She was no longer in the mood to take counsel from him but she nodded and took out her phone. ‘You want to make another date?’ She couldn’t look at him.
‘I think you’d better come to terms with my fall first. Email me when you do. I’d miss seeing you if you decided to give me up but it has to be your call.’
A message pinged into her inbox. She slipped her phone back into her pocket. ‘I’ll see myself out. And if you could tell Lesley I appreciated the coffee.’
‘But you didn’t have it.’
She shook her head and quietly let herself out. Being regarded as a threat had been a hazard in the past, but she’d had no idea that that’s what was going on between those two. If he’d been playing away from home it was no wonder Lesley had doubts about other women that he saw behind closed doors. Once she arrived back at the car she slammed the door and shouted, ‘Bastard! How could he do that to her?’ She thumped the steering wheel and wondered which ‘her’ she really meant. Her disappointment was palpable. She’d believed in him, had expectations of him. Were they unrealistic? No. They were based on their conversations. She understood that he’d left the priesthood beca
use he’d met Lesley and decided she was worth the sacrifice. But maybe philandering was a pattern for him.
Viv pressed in a number. She’d emailed before but not had a response. Shaz Stevenson was a four-times-a-year client, nervous as a church mouse but utterly devout. ‘Hi Viv, I noticed that you’d called but didn’t leave a message. We don’t have a booking so it made me wonder.’
‘No, we don’t have a booking, but d’you think we might have a chat?’
‘Sounds ominous. When people want to chat they usually want to break up or . . .’
‘No break ups I promise. Coffee?’
‘Sure. When did you have in mind?’
‘Right now would do me. How about you?’
Viv could hear traffic in the background, so there was a chance that Shaz was already out and about. A siren sounded and Viv could hear the same sound. ‘You must be close to where I am. That’s the same siren.’
Just then someone tapped Viv’s shoulder. She spun round. It was Shaz.
‘I can guess what you want to ask me. Edinburgh’s telepathic. You know that I’m involved in a charity that has just lost one of its most efficient fund raisers?’
Viv’s ears pricked up, ‘Are we talking about the man killed in the cathedral?’
Shaz nodded. ‘He’ll be missed.’
Viv pointed to a café on the street opposite. ‘Shall we?’
They crossed the road. Relieved to shut out the traffic noise, Viv went to the counter and ordered two flat whites.
She’d known Shaz long enough to remember how she took her coffee, but maybe not long enough to know exactly how committed she was to her charity work. They sat at a table by the window and made small talk until the coffee arrived.
‘So, who would want him dead? And why make such a public spectacle of him?’
‘Charities are strange organisations. People want them to make money, they want to give people credit for helping them, but not too much.’
‘Was our corpse seeking more attention than they wanted to give him?’
