I’ll just lay here for a little while, Grace will be home soon.
Chapter Twenty Five
The distant aroma of incense suspended in air cooled from the stone architecture greeted him and an instant feeling of calm and peace soothed his frayed nerves. He had lost his faith over the years. Dealing with crime on a daily basis had made him cynical and spiritually tired, only attending mass when his mother had used it as an excuse for hosting a dinner party. Easter had been the last time he had stepped inside but the swathe of emotions which had passed through him when Father Michael had touched his head had drawn him back. The church was nearly empty with only one person taking confession and so he sat near the front and relished the silence.
Confession is good for the soul, his mind kept repeating the old cliché. He needed something to relieve the burden of the last year, anything to help him gain back control over his thoughts and the mess his life had become. Too many secrets had taken their toll. Too many burdens to carry. The gentle face of Jesus looked down upon him from behind the altar, his golden hair and outstretched arms taking on life as the daylight shone through the coloured glass which made up his image. His eyes seemed to focus on him, almost trance-like as they met with his and saw his problems.
Does he know everything? Will he give me the answers I need?
The emotions which overwhelmed him at the last communion returned and he blinked rapidly to disperse the increased fluid in his eyes.
What’s wrong with me?
Quelling emotions was a form of art and one he had gained mastery of during his time with The Met but the atmosphere in the church took away his ability. It was comforting despite the vulnerability and he recalled the feeling of relief after taking his first confession. To walk out of the small confessional knowing he had been forgiven and all his sins absolved was a feeling he had never forgotten. It was a small sin for a boy but at the time it had tormented him, invading every waking thought. Guy had never discovered he had been the reason for the spanking from their father. He had been too much of a coward to own up to it being him who had unlocked the glass cabinet and played with his grandfather’s war medals. Although Guy must have known it was him the subject was never mentioned, only the guilt had stalked him until after the confession. Maybe it would be the same this time?
The door of the confessional opened and Phil looked down. His mother had always told him not to stare at people once they had confessed as it was rude and would make them feel ashamed. As a child he had always found it difficult, the natural nosiness of youth tempting him to peek at who had sinned. This time felt different, not because of his age but more due to wanting to keep his own privacy. The still cool air swirled as they passed by him and he noticed a pair of feet encased in forty denier tights stuffed into low heeled tan court shoes. A few seconds later the high notes of talcum powder touched his nose. Soft steps as she walked on the carpet down the aisle changed to taps as they reached the mosaic tiled floor. The door closed, echoing around the hollowness of the building and reassuring him there was only himself and the priest.
Should I be doing this?
His bravery left him and he questioned whether he would be better to follow the previous confessor as he stared at the empty confessional box. He knew it would be confidential. The Seal of Confession forbids anything he were to disclose from being repeated, yet he felt an unease crawling up his back and settling in his stomach. He stayed, routed to the spot for several minutes but Father Michael didn’t appear.
He must know I’m here.
Embarrassment gripped him, as if walking out of the church would be a sin and it propelled him forward from the pew and up the aisle to the confessional box. The shadow out the priest’s outline was just visible through the intricate wooden lattice work as he approached and he opened the door at the side and sat down. A silence fell as the priest waited for him to speak, only the small sliding partition separating them, softly opened.
He cleared his throat and fidgeted on the velvet box cushion which had become flattened over the years with use, and he wondered how many crimes had been disclosed within the confines of the small cubicle. Murders, rapes, violence? Words which would solve crimes now deemed cold cases? He placed his hand gently over his mouth and exhaled as the enormity of what he was about to disclose made him shudder.
“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.”
Words tumbled from his mouth as he clambered to find an appropriate starting point and after several corrections he outlined his increasing mistrust toward Jason. It felt good. The burden lifting from his shoulders as he expressed all the aspects of what he had learned during the period of time he had been tracking his colleague. The relaxation through his body opened him up to offload more and more detail and it wasn’t long till he had confessed everything he had been doing to unearth the truth about Jason’s shady dealings. Father Michael listened without interrupting, only making the odd soft sympathetic grunt at intervals where it felt natural to do so Phil had eventually told him the full story. His words drew to a close and a silence fell for a moment, then the Father spoke in a kindly tone to absolve his sins.
The church was empty when he stepped out, his footsteps light as he made his way to the back of the church to leave. It wasn’t as if he really believed he had been forgiven, not truly. The relief he felt from being able to talk about the situation and that by sharing it, despite no solutions being found, he was no longer alone with his troubles. When he reached the top of the aisle he turned and made the sign of the cross then proceeded to the large solid oak door to leave. Rain steadily poured, tricking down the pipe directly outside the entrance, crystal clear as it washed over a clump of moss on its way to the drain. He watched it for a moment, admiring the simplicity of its beauty as he sheltered underneath the stone archway while he fastened his coat and lifted his collar.
“Philip.”
The soft voice of Father Michael appeared behind him and a gentle hand touched his shoulder.
“Are you in a rush to be somewhere? Mrs Clayton’s brought round some of her homemade cake and I’m about to indulge in a slice with my afternoon tea if you’d care to join me?”
Philip felt a little awkward and Father Michael sensed his resistance.
“Please, it’s lemon drizzle,” he said, not taking his eyes from Philips.
“Well, if you’re sure,” he replied, reassured by the Father’s kind smile.
They ran the short distance to the vicarage through the rain with Father Michael leading the way. Inside, it was much as the previous priest had left it. The plain sage green carpet showing signs of wear still ran along the hallway and in sections of the old fashioned open plan stairs.
“Please, go inside and make yourself comfortable,” Father Michael gestured towards the front room in between shaking his rain soaked hands.
The dated G Plan settee stood in the same place and the room was painted in a depressing muted pale beige emulsion. Philip took off his wet coat and draped it over the arm of a chair and sat himself down while the Father busied himself preparing the tea and cake in the kitchen. He mentally compared the room to when the last priest had lived there until he had passed away from a heart attack. Only a long horizontal tapestry depicting The Last Supper hanging above the old gas fire in the hearth seemed to have changed. The weather did nothing to add any cheer to the drabness of the room and Philip understood why the Father had asked for some company.
“There we go.”
Father Michael returned to the room carefully carrying a tray and Phil removed a newspaper from the small wooden table between the sofa and chair for him to place it down on.
“The cake looks delicious.”
“Ah, she’s a good lady. Always looking after me,” Father Michael replied with a smile.
He poured the tea and handed a cup to Phil, leaving the cake on the tray for him to eat when he was ready. Sitting in the Father’s front room, drinking tea and eating cake seemed surreal after confessing a sh
ort while previously and Phil found the adjustment a little awkward.
“You know what I said in confession?—“
“There’s no need to mention it,” Father Michael interrupted. “Whatever you said is protected by the Seal and won’t go any further.”
Phil smiled and took a sip of his tea. He understood about the strict confidentiality laws which governed the church but all the same it still felt odd knowing the man he now sat with knew more about his life than his wife. Sat in the vicarage, he was a man carrying his inner most thoughts, deeds and secrets.
“So, what’s brought you to East Finchley from Peterborough?” Phil asked, needing to change the topic of conversation.
The Father appeared a little agitated at the question and deliberately took a bite of cake in order to delay his response.
“Well, as you know the last priest passed away which left a vacancy. I felt I needed a change so the church transferred me to this diocese.”
Phil nodded at his reply which was what he had expected when he had asked the question. They chatted as they finished their cake and drank the tea, making sure to keep the conversation to superficial topics, then Father Michael took the tray back to the kitchen. Phil glanced over the room while he put his damp coat back on and this time a small picture on the windowsill caught his eye.
“Adai-Mar-Addai…” he whispered, his mind remembering the pocket book he had found in Jason’s desk drawer.
“Pardon?” Father Michael asked as he walked back into the room.
“Oh, nothing. I just saw this picture recently and can’t think who the saint is. I never was any good at remembering their names,” Phil replied with a chuckle.
“Why, that’s St Jude. Patron saint of desperate cases and lost causes,” Father Michael replied.
Phil startled at the recognition of the saint’s name and remembered the notebook he had found in Jason’s drawer and the link with St Jude’s instantly fell into place.
“Are you alright?”
Father Michael looked at him with an expression of concern when he saw the startled look on Phil’s tired face.
“Father, I know you’ve not been here long but have you ever heard of St Jude’s over in Broxbourne that I mentioned in confession?”
He shook his head, cupping his chin as he tried to search for any recollection.
“I can’t say I have,” he replied.
Phil paused, aware he was no longer under the protection of the church’s Seal. With the weight of his troubles pressing down on his conscience, he decided to share a little more of the story. Father Michael listened, his usual expression switching from calm to one of shock and horror.
“I’ve not heard of the place but I’ll look into it and see what I can find out if you like? I know a priest who’s quite near that diocese and he’s bound to know.”
Phil said his goodbyes, thanking the Father for his hospitality and making sure to leave him a card with his contact details on.
“My diary’s pretty clear today,” Father Michael said, sensing an urgency in Phil’s demeanour. “I’ll give my colleague a call and get back to you.”
“Just be discreet. These people are organised and highly dangerous,” Phil said, giving Father Michael’s arm a gentle squeeze.
He smiled and nodded, placing the card in his top pocket and shaking Phil’s hand. The same sense of calm travelled through their contact and Father Michael stayed at his door as Phil ran through the rain back to his car. As he pulled out of the carpark and the priest disappeared from his view a twinge of doubt niggled in Phil’s stomach. Had he told him too much?
Chapter Twenty Six
Rain lashed at the windscreen and red tail lights dazzled as Phil made the journey back home. It was early. Far too early for headlights yet the black clouds and erratic October weather had managed to block out any natural light and he was relieved to pull onto his driveway. The house looked cosy and the first gripes of hunger rolled as he opened the front door expecting to be met by the aromas of Katherine’s cooking. A warm gust of air wrapped itself around him as he stepped into the hallway but within seconds of closing the door he sensed something was different. He sniffed the air.
“Hello?”
The lights were on and her car was parked up on the drive yet no reply came. Tension crawled across the tops of his shoulders as he tried to reason the strange atmosphere and a small ripple of panic triggered his adrenaline to throb through the veins in his temples.
“Hello? Katherine?” he called again, louder this time and directing it up the stairs with no response.
The door to the downstairs toilet was ajar and he tentatively pushed it wider, hoping to see her stood by the wash basin. Cold sweat flushed down his chest and arms finishing at his fingertips. The same response he had whenever he was about to enter a crime scene which he knew would be indelibly etched into his memory forever. He stepped forward, past his office until he reached the living room where he had seen the soft glowing light when he had arrived. Nothing seemed out of place and so he cautiously stepped closer to the entrance and peered around the open door.
“Oh, there you are,” he exclaimed in relief. “Why didn’t you answer? You gave me a fright.”
Katherine stared straight ahead and didn’t reply, her face ashen and framed with a hard, set expression.
“What’s happened?”
Phil moved towards her and knelt by her side as she sat, her legs curled beneath her, on the sofa. He touched her leg and she flinched a little, turning her head away.
“Katherine, talk to me. What’s happened? Is it…is it the baby?”
His eyes scanned her, focusing on her stomach for reassurance there was still a bulge beneath her oversized jumper. She chewed gently on her thumb nail as she focused on the window and he noticed her nose was quite pink as if she had a cold.
“Have you been crying?”
He stroked her long glossy hair attempting to reveal more of her face and she flicked her head away then turned to look directly at him. Phil knew the answer. Her eyes were glassy and her alabaster complexion was strewn with faint blotches.
“Where have you been, today?” she asked, her tone cool and strained as her eyes bore into his.
Phil let out a small nervous laugh, opening his mouth to tell her he was at work but stopping himself. Flashbacks of his mother throwing him questions as a child when he had done wrong shot into his mind. Questions she already knew the answers to but asked anyway, setting him up to lie so the punishment would be greater.
“What kind of question is that?” he replied, trying to hide his annoyance.
Years of chastisement and comparisons to his brother had taught Phil strategies on how to reframe situations. Answering a question with another question and turning the interrogation onto his accuser usually resulted in them feeling guilty and apologising. He waited for her response, frowning at her for added impact.
“The kind of question a wife about to give birth asks when she phones her husband at work and is told he’s booked a day off,” Katherine hissed.
Phil stood up and started to walk out of the room. He wanted to give her a simple answer which would make her feel bad for questioning him and he was annoyed with himself for not having one ready. Heading for the kitchen, he opened up a cupboard and slammed a pan onto the hob then opened up another, grabbed a tin of soup and sloshed it into the pan. He stirred it continuously, aware she had followed and was observing him from the doorway.
“Are you having an affair?”
Phil stopped stirring the soup and spun around, his expression both shocked and annoyed.
“Don’t be so bloody ridiculous. Of course I’m not.”
She walked softly over to the other side of the kitchen and pulled her calendar off the wall by the back door and placed it on the table next to a shoe box. Tears rolled down her face and she fought to compose herself as she thumbed over the previous months, each page framed with a cute picture of a Persian cat.
“What about here?”
She pointed to a date she’d marked with a red cross.
“Oh, and I know there was no night time raid the other night, too.”
“Who’s told you that?” Phil hissed.
“DS Cook told me when I tried to call you earlier today.”
Phil slammed the spoon into the pan and the hob sizzled as the soup splattered onto the hot surface.
“Bloody Jason!” he yelled. “What were you talking to him, for? And why were you even ringing me at work, anyway? You haven’t done that for months.”
Katherine stepped back and didn’t reply. He was usually so cool and calm, unemotional even. His response and level of anger when she mentioned DS Cook shocked and frightened her a little.
“Why are you shouting? Stop it!”
Seeing the fear on her face, Phil checked himself and clamoured to regain his aloof composure. The last thing he needed was for her to get upset at this stage of the pregnancy and so he deliberately softened his tone.
“I’m sorry,” he said, then turned back to the hob and continued to stir the soup to shield his anger towards Jason for interfering and causing trouble.
The splatters were forming hard lumps on the enamel surface and in an attempt to demonstrate he was calm, he went over to the sink and ran a cloth under the hot tap to clean it off.
“What’s that?” he asked, noticing the shoe box on the table. “It’s not like you to put new shoes on the table. Bad luck and all that.”
Katherine’s eyes welled up and she wiped a tear away with her sleeve as it rolled down her cheek.
“That’s why I called you.”
She walked over to the cooker, grabbed a piece of kitchen roll and used it to dab her eyes. Unable to understand her upset, he moved away from the sink with the wet cloth still in his hand and lifted the lid off the box.
The Death of Me Page 16
