Cherringham: A Deadly Confession (2 page)

No pain, no gain,
he thought.
Which saint said that, now?

He forced himself to think technique. Breathe deep, control the exhalation, every step another metre. Chest up. Head high.

Look ahead — focus on the top of the hill, just a couple of hundred yards ahead through the forest path.

He thought back to the New York Marathon — that final blistering mile, the crowd cheering him on, the finish line just a blur, his whole body like jelly, his spirit flailing.

And then — that rush of faith which had seemed to lift him off the ground, propelling him as if a pair of angels had been tasked with saving him.

The Flying Father does it again!

Nearly ten thousand he’d raised — he handed the Cardinal the cheque himself, right on the steps of St. Patty’s! His final time incredible —
unworldly
.

The memory of that triumph spurred him on now, his feet driving into the hard clay, the tall trees seeming to whoosh past as he squeezed through the overhanging branches and tall shrubs.

Just fifty yards to go to the top then it would be a race downhill to the convent, the wind on his face cooling him, a long shower, hot coffee, a cooked breakfast—

Only minutes away!

And then:

He didn’t see what tripped him. But something caught his foot and he went down hard, his chest crashing into the unforgiving ground, his arms and legs scraping raw as he tumbled.

He landed with his back slamming hard against a tree and groaned in pain.

What the hell? Was that a rope?

For a second, he lay there mentally checking — arms, legs, broken bones. Heart…

Jeez, that’s pumping like a good ’un, better calm down, breathe slowly.

He looked up through the tall trees to the watery blue sky above. If his heart packed up on him now, nobody would find him up here for hours. He was on his own.

But no, he wasn’t. For now he could hear movement in the trees right behind him.

Thank God.

But as he lay on his back staring at the sky, a figure stepped in front of him, peering down at him.

Someone he knew.

And someone who knew the things he had done.

Oh God,
thought Father Byrne as the face loomed close.

And he began to pray, but suddenly God seemed to have vanished.

Jack sipped his coffee, leaned back in his camping chair and checked again that the old fishing rod by his side was nicely secured.

Twenty yards out into the river he could see the little yellow float bobbing innocuously — no sign of a fish yet.

But heck — he had all morning with nothing to do but relax.

And what a morning he’d picked for a day off all chores.

There wasn’t a hint of a breeze. And although it was only nine, already he felt a little heat in the spring sun, a soothing warmth on the back of his neck.

He looked over at Riley, his Springer Spaniel who lay snoozing in the long grass in the sunshine: he’d given up chasing rabbits and taken the day off too.

Apart from the mooing cows in the meadows on the other side of the river, and bustling birdlife all around, there wasn’t a sound to disturb the peace. Although today was Easter Sunday, it was still too early for the holiday crowd — picnickers, walkers, kayakers — to have gotten this far upstream.

He peered out at the float again: the river was flowing softly — in fact, he couldn’t recall it having rained for at least a week.

Now that’s gotta be some kind of English record,
he thought.

He watched a pair of swans glide downstream towards his home — the squat Dutch barge, the Grey Goose, last in a line of barges and houseboats that stretched half a mile down to Cherringham Bridge.

Home for two years now, since he’d retired from the NYPD and followed his and his wife Katherine’s dream of retiring to England and living on a river barge.

But then…

But then…

So fast, she became ill, the cancer so aggressive. And then their shared dream ended before it began.

It wasn’t until months later, months where he barely left the home they had shared, that Jack knew what Katherine would have wanted.

So he came here, to Cherringham, on his own.

Jack reached down to the basket at his feet and chose one of the local biscuits he’d grown so fond of. He crumbled a bit of biscuit and threw it into the water.

He wasn’t sure if that worked but he’d seen the real fishermen do it, so why not?

He’d brought his rod and line up here to a little kink in the river where last year he’d had his first go at fishing since he was a kid — and caught two small fish which his neighbour Ray had identified as dace.

Not big enough to eat so he’d thrown them back.

One day he was going to go fish for trout with the little flies he’d made during the winter, and Ray had promised to give him some tips.

In truth, though, he didn’t care if he caught something or not. Just sitting here in the English countryside with not a care in the world was the whole point of the exercise.

As any fisherman could tell you.

A movement further down the river bank caught his eye. Someone was walking slowly up the line of moored boats from the bridge. It wasn’t anyone he recognised, so Jack kept watching.

Boats were vulnerable to the opportunist thief, though Jack had been lucky so far.

First rule of barge life — look after one another.

He watched as the man reached the Grey Goose and stopped, then walked slowly the length of the boat, clearly peering into the windows.

Nestled in tight to the riverbank Jack realised he was probably invisible to the stranger. He saw that Riley was now standing next to him, ears alert, ready for orders.

Just snooping — or casing the place — or worse?
thought Jack.

He gently unhooked the rod and laid it to one side so he could move quickly if he had to.

Jack watched as the man stepped onto the gangplank, climbed aboard and disappeared from sight. Within seconds Jack was up and moving fast along the riverbank, Riley beside him.

But as he neared the boat, there was no sign of the uninvited visitor.

Jack and his dog silently stepped aboard. Jack could hear Riley growling.

“Not yet, Riley. I’ll tell you when.”

Jack edged towards the wheelhouse, cursing himself for having left it open — had the guy gone in? He edged forward and tried to see down the steps into the saloon…

“Mr. Brennan, is it?” came a voice from the foredeck. Jack stepped back and looked down the length of the barge — and there was the stranger facing him and waving.

Jack watched him walk down the side of the boat. As he approached, he thrust out his hand to shake Jack’s.

Jack didn’t take the hand.

“Ah. You’ll be thinking I was after the family silver,” said the man. “In the absence of a doorbell I invited myself aboard.”

“So I see,” said Jack, sizing him up. Tall and well-built, the man looked to be in his early fifties with a trim and confident air and a big affable grin.

“Liam O’Connor,” he said, squatting down to ruffle Riley’s ears. “And who’s this fella?”

“That’s Riley. We’re still working on the attack training as you can see.”

“Well, no need to attack me.”

“Jury’s still out on that one, Mr. O’Connor. Leastways until you explain why you’re on my boat.”

“Mea culpa, Jack,” said O’Connor, smiling.

Jack wasn’t in the mood for friendly chats.

“You are on my boat, uninvited. I still have half a mind to throw you overboard.”

“Since I can’t swim, I’d rather you didn’t do that.”

“So — you’d better have a good reason for trespassing.”

Jack watched O’Connor put up his hands in mock surrender.

“I’m here … because I need your help.”

“Go on.”

“Might we perhaps talk somewhere a little more private?”

“This’ll do.”

O’Connor shrugged: “I’m here because, well, a dear friend of mine died two days ago, on Good Friday.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

O’Connor hesitated. Then: “It happened less than a mile from here.”

Jack had been keeping to himself. The big old religious holidays could be hard for him … so he just stayed on the Goose.

“I think — not sure — that he might have been murdered…”

This … was news.
“And — word around the village is that you’re the man to find out who did it.”

“Murder? That is actually the police’s job,” said Jack, unconvinced. “And I hadn’t heard anything about a murder…”

“Well, right. You see they say he had a heart attack.”

“Maybe he did,” said Jack. “Just who are we talking about by the way?”

“Father Eamon Byrne.”

“A priest?”

“Yes.”

“What do the police say?”“Everyone thinks he died while out running. Overdid it.” O’Connor looked out over the river, out to the meadow as if he could picture the fallen priest. “Eamon
never
overdid it. At least, not the running, that is…”

“And so you think somebody killed him?”

“I do.”

“Why?”

“Father Byrne wasn’t … let’s just say, he wasn’t your average priest.”

“Back where I come from, there’s no such thing as an average priest.”

“Ah — so, you’ve known a few priests?”

“In Brooklyn? You might say that…”

“Are you a Catholic, Mr. Brennan?”

“I was. Once upon a time.”

“Like in the fairy tales?”

“Your words, not mine.”

Jack waited.

O’Connor’s grin had faded.

“I’m here because I’m hoping you can help me. Can you … will you?”

Jack waited — and wondered if he really wanted to get involved in another case. He looked upriver to the little sheltered spot where his coffee and his fishing rod were waiting.

“I can pay you,” said O’Connor.

“I’m not for hire.”

“I see. I do have a very old Lagavulin I’m looking to share with somebody.”

Jack smiled at that. “How old?”

“Thirty year.”

“The real McCoy?”

“Never been opened.”

“Not something most people have lying around.”

“It was given to me. A thank-you present.”

“Some thank you.”

“They needed help. I did what I could.”

Jack saw in O’Connor’s face the implied suggestion that he should do the same. That — but mostly the tantalising thought of the thirty-year-old single malt — persuaded him.

“Okay. Can’t turn that down. Come below and I’ll put some coffee on. And you can tell me why somebody should want to murder a priest.”

“Do I get ‘danger’ money?”

Sarah pulled up outside St. Francis’s church and gave her son Daniel a quick glance in the passenger seat next to her.

“Danger?”

“Yes, you know, going to a crime scene?”

Sarah laughed. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea bringing her son while she met Jack at the convent’s Easter fête.

“No,” she said. “But you can have a fiver to spend on the stalls.”

“Hmm. Dunno, Mum. Fiver’s not going to go very far.”

“Daniel — it’s a church fête not Alton Towers.”

“I bet you pay Grace more.”

“Grace is a grown-up. And she doesn’t come out on cases.”

“So this
is
a case.”

“It might be. And it might not. I think it’s mostly a fête — if we can find it of course.”

She looked at the Victorian chapel — Cherringham’s Catholic church — so unlike the old church of St. James in the heart of the village. A large house stood next to it. Was that the rectory? If so — where was the convent?

Back when she was a teenager living in Cherringham, the convent didn’t exist. But even then she didn’t remember ever visiting St. Francis’s church down here on the busy road out of the village.

To one side of the church was a track, the hedges on each side overgrown. Maybe the fête was down there?

“You think this is it?” she said.

“Might be,” said Daniel peering down the track. “I think I can see cars down there.”

Sarah had brought Daniel along at Jack’s suggestion. What better reason for visiting a fête than to give a twelve-year old a fun afternoon out?

Except this twelve year old would rather be on his PlayStation and had demanded payment for his efforts.

Least he has some business sense,
Sarah thought.

She steered her Rav-4 slowly down the gravel drive. On either side the shrubs and trees looked overgrown, but as they rounded a bend, bunting and flags hung across the track signalled she was in the right place.

She came to a gate and saw a nun sitting at a small card table by a sign marked “Spring Fête — Save St. Francis’s Convent!”

She drew up alongside and lowered her window.

“One adult, one child please,” she said to the nun who looked hardly older than a child herself.

“Three pounds,” said the nun smiling. “Have you visited us before?”

“First time,” said Sarah.

Sarah handed the money over and the nun dropped it into a little basket.

“Follow the signs to the retreat house and park by the old stables. You can’t miss it.”

“Thanks.”

The young nun gave Daniel a smile.

“Make sure you have the cream tea. The scones are truly miraculous.”

Sarah nodded, and drove on.

“This is cool, Mum. A real case,” continued Daniel. “Have the nuns murdered somebody? Is there a killer on the loose? Are we going to interrogate someone?”

Daniel was lost to his imagining of detective work, probably thanks to all the American TV he watched.

“I’d be good at that.”

“At…?”
 “Interrogating.” Daniel grinned. “I could get the killer to talk!”

Sarah shook her head. “Daniel — all I know is — there’s something ‘up’ and Jack wants to meet.”

“Yeah,” said Daniel. “Bet it’ll be murder, all right. Brilliant!”

“And he wants a low profile — which is why you’re here, remember? Just here to enjoy the fête?”

“Sure. I’m the cover. Make you guys look innocent.”

“Exactly.”

“Child exploitation,” said Daniel.