Evil Intent (10 page)

‘I’m afraid,’ he said firmly, ‘that won’t be possible. This church is a crime scene. No one will be allowed in past the tapes.’ A thought struck him. ‘For that matter, how did
you
get in?’

‘It’s my church,’ stated Leo with unassailable authority. ‘I have a right to be here.’

Neville could well imagine that no one would have dared stop him. ‘Well, I’m afraid that a service is out of the question. No one else is coming in here for the moment.’

Leo inclined his head in silent acknowledgement.

‘And I
will
need to talk to you. In a few minutes.’ As soon as he’d done the necessary in the vestry. ‘Do you have an office somewhere? Or a room where we can talk in private?’

Neville told himself that he might have been imagining it, but he thought he detected, for just a fraction of a second, a tiny flicker of
hesitation.

‘At the rectory,’ said Leo. ‘I’ll wait for you there.’

The Reverend Vincent Underwood – Father Vincent to his flock – was up early on Wednesday. This was not unusual; he was up early every day, and in church by eight. It was his duty as a priest to say Morning Prayer daily, and while he could have done that at home, in the sanctum of his study, he preferred to do it in church, especially as Morning Prayer was always
followed
by Mass. Some days he took the service, and on other days it was Father Jonah. Father Vincent liked to be there even when it was Father Jonah’s turn; it was a joy to him to be at the altar – the essence of what priesthood was all about, as far as he was concerned.

Father Vincent lived at some distance from St Mary the Virgin, Marble Arch. The church was north of Marble Arch – though it still boasted a respectable W1 address – while Father Vincent lived south of Oxford Street, indisputably in Mayfair, in a gracious Georgian townhouse facing onto a tiny green square.

It wasn’t that St Mary’s didn’t possess a clergy house. Indeed, there was one, and Father Jonah lived there. But Father Vincent was in the fortunate position of having a wife with private means. Marigold Underwood’s father had been an Honourable, and had died at a relatively young age, leaving her – an only child – the family house with all its goods and chattels. The early years of their marriage, living in tied clergy housing, were long forgotten; since inheriting the Mayfair house they had resided there. Father Vincent had served his entire career in the London diocese, and had been Rector of St Mary the Virgin for more than twenty years. It was longer than priests usually stayed at a church. Father Vincent knew that, yet he felt that he had found his niche, the place where he belonged, and it would be foolish to move on just for the sake of moving.

He would not, however, have been averse to preferment. If nothing else, it was the Church’s mark of esteem, of recognition, for a priest of
outstanding
gifts. After all, when he was a mere ordinand at theological
college,
he had always been the one tipped to be a bishop one day. But the mitre had not come, nor had a canonry at the cathedral, nor even an
honorific
like a prebendal stall. Several times he had been passed over for the
office of Area Dean, and plum livings in the diocese had been bestowed on those far less worthy and experienced than he.

It was well known, though, he consoled himself, that the Church had an overt if not official policy of discrimination against priests like him: priests, that is, who vocally and actively opposed the abomination of women’s ordination. The Act of Synod had decreed ‘two integreties’ and promised that no distinction would be made when it came to appointments and preferments. On paper it sounded fine; in practice it had not worked out that way. Anyone who held membership in Forward in Faith, who led their congregations to pass the resolutions which made their churches
no-go
areas for women clergy, was sure to be overlooked when the good jobs were being dished out.

Father Vincent tried not to be resentful about it. But it seemed bitterly unfair that he should be punished for adhering to the true faith.

Still, if he had to be stuck in a job, it was preferable that it should be in W1 rather than somewhere in the East End.

On that morning, as usual, Father Vincent had ridden his bicycle through the streets of Mayfair and across Oxford Street to the church. He’d said Morning Prayer and celebrated the Mass. There was a
congregation
of six that day. Father Jonah was not among them, which was unusual but not unprecedented. No one had remarked on his absence.

The rest of the morning had seen Father Vincent at his desk, working on his sermon. His study was at the front of the house on the ground floor, overlooking the leafy square. He always enjoyed watching the people
passing
by, as well as observing the changing of the seasons as reflected in the little patch of green and its trees. October was now underway, and although it would be a while before the leaves fell, they had begun to change hue.

Father Vincent prided himself on being a fine preacher, with his
mellifluous
voice and his incisive grasp of theology. Today, though, he was aware that his mind was not really on his sermon. The words flowed
effortlessly
from pen to paper with the fluidity of long practice, but his thoughts were elsewhere.

He was aware of noises in the house: the tick of the carriage clock on the mantelpiece in the study, the distant sound of the daily hoovering the
stairs, the even more distant rumble of the washing machine somewhere beneath him. And then there was that wretched cat, meowing for her lunch. Already.

Father Vincent threw down his pen with a bad-tempered grunt.

When Marigold was out at lunchtimes, which was almost every day, the daily was supposed to feed the cat. It didn’t always work out that way: she would get involved in whatever she was doing, and if she were running the hoover, she didn’t always hear the insistent meows.

He made his way downstairs to the kitchen, resisting the impulse to kick the cat as she twined round his legs. Usually she had no time for him, but she knew that he had it in his power to feed her.

Father Vincent didn’t like cats in general, and he most certainly didn’t like Jezebel, a sleek Siamese. In the first place, he thought her name highly unsuitable. And he hated her air of smug superiority, regarding the world – and him – with disdain. She was Marigold’s cat, not his, though she wasn’t noticeably more friendly towards her mistress than she was to him. Except at feeding time. This didn’t seem to faze Marigold, who lavished an
inordinate
amount of affection on the beast.

He tore open the pouch of expensive cat food and dumped it in her bowl. In spite of her frenzy of hunger immediately before, she inspected the food with a fastidious sniff, nibbled it tentatively, then walked away, her tail in the air.

‘Blasted cat,’ said Father Vincent under his breath.

He looked at the clock: almost midday. There would be a news
broadcast
on the television at noon.

The only television set in the house lived down here, in the kitchen. Marigold considered it an abomination to have a television above stairs, so if they ever wanted to watch anything, they had to descend to the kitchen. That didn’t happen very often; it was mostly used by the daily, who kept it on as a background to her work in the kitchen, or settled down in front of it with a periodic cup of tea.

He switched the set on and sat down in the lone arm chair, long since discarded from upstairs.

The broadcast began with the usual: wars and rumours of wars. Then
there was the latest government scandal, a funding crisis in the NHS, and the Queen’s state visit to some far-flung country where they wore funny hats. At the end they got round to a few minutes of local London news.

Father Vincent leaned forward and stared at the screen. It showed St John’s Church, Lancaster Gate, and there was blue-and-white crime scene tape stretched across the door. The voice-over named the church, then reported that the body of a man had been found inside. Although official identification was unavailable, pending notification of next-of-kin, sources indicated that the man was a priest. The circumstances were suspicious, and police were at the scene.

It lasted for just a few seconds, no more. And then the relentlessly chirpy weather girl was there, standing in front of a map and talking about isobars.

Father Vincent allowed her to witter on for a minute. Then he switched off the television and went back upstairs to his study. This time there was no question of working on his sermon. He was waiting for the police.

Neville Stewart, trailed by DS Cowley, who was smoking a quick cigarette, walked the short distance to St John’s Rectory, his head filled with the image of the dead man in the vestry. The first glimpse of the body had been a shock from which he was still recovering. It was at moments like that one that his Catholic childhood reared its head unexpectedly. ‘Holy Mother of God,’ he’d breathed at the sight of the murdered priest.

His witness, Willow Tree, had said that Father Jonah had been strangled with a stole, and what Neville had expected to see, had pictured in his mind, was the sort of stole which women wore round their shoulders – perhaps a pashmina. But the stole which had permanently stopped the breath of the dead priest was nothing like that: it was a ceremonial vestment of a type worn only by clergy.

Strangled with his own stole, he’d thought, then he’d taken a closer look. The stole was white, with blue writing on it. The writing turned out to be names: Ruth, Rebecca, Naomi, Rachel, Mary, Eve, and a host of
others.
All women’s names, he observed. A very odd thing to have on that sort of garment.

Some echo of his childhood resonated in his head, and Neville realised that the names belonged to women in the Bible.

Perhaps Leo Jackson would be able to enlighten him.

The rectory door swung open almost before Neville had rung the bell, and Leo Jackson loomed above him.

Neville was not easily intimidated, but Leo Jackson had that sort of effect on him. It wasn’t just Leo’s size, though he was massive; there was something about his very presence which radiated authority and power, in a spiritual rather than a physical sense. Leo Jackson was not someone to be trifled with.

His face, so distorted with emotion when they’d first met, had by now been composed into a mask of sombre courtesy. ‘Come in,’ he invited, and led the way into his study. He offered them coffee, which Neville was happy to accept; it seemed like a very long time since he’d downed that cup of coffee at his desk.

‘I’ll just be a minute, then,’ Leo said, and disappeared.

In a habit born of long practice, Neville looked round the room for clues to the man he was about to interview. It was clearly a room with a function, and that function was work. The walls were ranged with filled bookcases, there were two filing cabinets in a corner, and the large desk was covered with untidy stacks of paperwork. Not at all unlike his own desk, thought Neville ruefully. One corner of the desk held a stylish-looking iMac computer – switched on – but nothing could be seen on the screen except the shimmering waves of a screen saver.

Neville scanned the room for photos or other revealing personal mementoes. There was, as far as he could spot, only one photo, hanging on the wall in a space between the bookcases and the door. He stepped up to it for a closer look.

Leo was at the centre of the photo, a huge smile splitting his face. In the background was the façade of St Paul’s Cathedral. On either side of Leo, his long arms spanning their shoulders, stood two women, also smiling.

Something about the picture caught Neville’s attention. The woman closest to Leo on the left side was a pretty redhead, fair-skinned, so tiny that her head barely reached Leo’s shoulder. She was wearing some sort of
a loose white garment and a dog collar. And round her neck was a white stole with blue writing on it: the names of women in the Bible.

Leo was glad that the police had asked for coffee. It gave him a few precious extra minutes while the kettle boiled to complete what he’d started to do before they arrived. He’d already checked the sitting room and kitchen for anything which might betray Oliver’s presence, removing a few golden hairs from the sofa cushions and a magazine from the coffee table. Just in case. Now he picked up the cordless phone and carried it through to the kitchen. He dialled Frances Cherry’s mobile phone number and listened in frustration as an impersonal voice told him that the number could not be reached and he should leave a message. She was at work, then – the
hospital
required that mobile phones be switched off.

Speaking as softly as he could, almost whispering, he left a
message.
‘Frannie, love. It’s Leo. I have some bad news, pet. Jonah Adimola’s dead – he’s been murdered. The police are here. I’m going to have to tell them about last night – about the row. If I don’t, someone else will. I’m sure they’ll want to talk to you. I just wanted to warn you, pet.’

Neville heard Leo coming, and moved quickly away from the photo to take a seat.

‘Sorry to have taken so long,’ said Leo, pushing the door open with his foot and setting down the coffee tray on a small table. One corner of the study was arranged as a seating area, with three comfortable armchairs; it was where he would sit with people who came to see him for counselling or marriage preparation. He handed both policemen mugs of black coffee, and kept one for himself. ‘I suppose you have some questions you want to ask me,’ he said in a neutral tone.

Neville sipped gratefully at the scalding brew. It was strong enough to strip the varnish from the table – God, it tasted good. That gave him a moment to collect his thoughts, to decide what to ask first and how to ask it. There was nothing to be gained by being high-handed or demanding with this man, he realised. He would treat him with deference and courtesy.

‘First of all,’ he said, ‘I suppose I’d like to know what the man – Father
Jonah – was doing in your church. He wasn’t officially associated with it, I understand.’

‘Good Lord, no.’ Leo’s mobile face betrayed with a grimace what he thought about that scenario. ‘He was there for a meeting last night. Willow must have told you about it – she was there serving coffee.’

‘Yes, but…why would he have been in that part of the church? That wasn’t where the meeting was held?’

‘The meeting was in the church hall,’ Leo affirmed. ‘After a service in the chapel.’

‘Did this Father Jonah have a reason to be in the – what’s it called? – vestry?’

Leo spoke with deliberation, weighing his words. ‘I sent him there, after the meeting. There was…an incident. He needed to clean himself up. The vestry seemed the best place for that.’

‘What sort of an incident?’ Neville could scarcely imagine anything happening at a church meeting that would merit a description like that.