Shadow Sins (DCI Wilson Book 2)

Copyright © Derek Fee 2014

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the author.

For Aine, Bobbie and Sean

Now the god of vengeance yields to me his power to punish the wicked

Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo

I hurt myself today

To see if I still feel

I focus on the pain

The only thing that's real

The needle tears a hole

The old familiar sting

Try to kill it all away

But I remember everything

Hurt, Johnny Cash

CHAPTER 1

The lights in the church were dim. The reduction in the wattage available a clear indication of the drop off in revenues from the collection boxes. Saturday evening was for confession and one of the few weekly periods when the church was open to the public after six pm.  The church was not large. There were ten double rows of pews with a metre wide gap between them. Each pew could hold a maximum of six devotees that would mean that the capacity of the church would be one hundred and twenty souls, a figure that was seldom attained. The pews themselves were of aged wood, many bearing the marks gouged by the penknives of generations of bored disciples. The altar was at the top of the church and the red lamp flickering before it indicated the presence of the host. A small wooden pulpit stood to the left of the altar.

A man sat at the back of the church in the left-hand corner on the opposite side from the entrance door. The collar of the heavy black coat he wore was up ensuring that his face was covered from both those entering and leaving the church. He had been sitting quietly at the rear for more than an hour watching the relatively few penitents making their way to the ornate wooden confession box in the centre of the church. They waited heads bowed in prayer for their turn to enter the box and confess their sins to the man who had the God-given ability to cleanse their souls in His name. When they left the box, they made their way to the centre of the church and bowed their heads in prayer as they acquitted themselves of their penance. The man at the rear understood the procedure. He was brought up following it religiously. Every Saturday evening he was marched to the church. To confess what? What sins had a child committed? Father, I told lies. Father, I had impure thoughts. But he was different. There was a deep black sin on his soul but he was totally unable to confess it. It was a sin that could not speak its name. So he played the game. He had been disobedient to his parents. He had lied and stolen sweets from the local shop. Please forgive me Father. He watched the penitents leave the box. They walked with a lighter gait now that their sins had been excised from their souls. It was a lightness he had never felt because he had at no time left the confessional with a clean soul. The guilt he had felt as he had taken the host in his mouth at mass on Sunday morning had almost made him gag, and he had forced himself to swallow the representation of the body of Christ. Lord I am not worth that you should enter under my roof, but only say the word and my soul shall be healed. It was a phrase that was intoned by all the recipients of the host, but he had really meant it. He needed God to heal his soul. As the host had slid down his throat, he was aware that he had compounded his sin by receiving the body of Christ with an unclean soul. He was destined to burn in hell for all eternity.

The man at the rear glanced around the church. The early rush for confession was over. After all, Britain’s Got Talent was on television, so it was best to have one’s soul cleansed early so that one could watch in peace. It had been more than 15 minutes since the last person entered the church. A lady of indeterminate age sat outside the confession box and further in the body of the church an old lady had finished her penance and was sitting quietly staring at the altar. The door of the confessional opened, and the last client made her way through the door. The man who exited moved to where the older lady was sitting and knelt beside her.  His penance was light and after two minutes he made the sign of the cross and rose. The lady at his side rose with him. The man at the rear of the church raised his head slightly as the couple rose to leave. They passed him without giving him a second glance. He was certain that none of those in the church would be able to give a description of him. It was almost time.  A shiver of anticipation ran through him. The body of the church was empty except for him. He looked around the interior. The stained-glass windows, the wooden stations of the cross that adorned the walls, the empty worn pews that had seen so many backsides and knees, the altar. God was watching. God would be the only witness to the terrible deed he would accomplish. He glanced at the jerry can at his feet and felt his resolve waiver. Would fire expunge the pain he felt in his soul? He had planned so meticulously and now that the moment was about to arrive, he was subsumed with Catholic guilt. Except that he hadn’t been a catholic for a very long time and the road that he had decided on had nothing to do with the teaching of the church. He looked at his hands and saw that they were shaking. Was his resolve really so weak? Was all that planning and practicing in vain?

The cloth curtain of the confessional quivered as the door of the confessional opened and the final parishioner left the box. She moved slowly to the centre of the church and knelt in one of the pews.

Leave for God’s sake, the man at the rear of the church said under his breath. The longer he waited the more his resolve would crumble, and he had come too far along the road to retreat now.  All his attention was focused on the confessional. Sooner or later, the priest would realise that he had no further clients. A quick glance outside the hanging cloth curtain would confirm that his work for the day was over, and he could retire to his room to prepare tomorrow’s homily. Except this priest would never give another homily. 

The man lifted his head slowly as the final parishioner rose, made the sign of the cross and marched down the centre of the church. He felt rather than saw her pause at the rear of the church and look in his direction. He shrank deeper into the folds of his coat and continued to look down. Simply another poor wretch trying to communicate with his God. He heard the door at the rear open and then slam closed. He was alone. The curtain of the confessional would move at any minute, and the head that he hated so much would protrude to examine the empty church. He raised his head and concentrated on the confessional. Minutes passed feeling like hours until at last the cloth curtain quivered, and the grey head of the priest emerged. A quick flick of the head confirmed that the church was empty except for the dark figure of a man at the rear. The door of the confessional opened, and the priest emerged prayer book in hand.

The man at the rear of the church raised his head as the priest exited from the confessional. He suddenly felt very calm. He found himself surprised by the calmness. Normally, he required medication to arrive at this state. The resolve that had been withering as he had waited had returned in full force at the sight of the priest. He knew what he needed to do and he knew that there would be no redemption for him if he faltered.

The priest genuflected before the altar. He was a well-built man of about fifty-five with a full head of steel grey hair. His black cassock was not sufficiently large to hide a paunch. He looked around the church again and his gaze fell on the solitary parishioner in one of the rear pews. The man looked like a vagrant although it was difficult to make out his features in the dim light. The raised collar of his coat obscured his face. The priest was initially wary. The world had changed in the past thirty years and assaults in church were now commonplace although collection boxes were a thing of the past. The man’s head dipped once again, and he appeared to be praying. The priest looked at his watch; seven fifty-five. In five more minutes he would be able to close up and head home. He genuflected for the second time and moved along the aisle towards the rear pew. As he drew close he noticed the bright red can at the man’s feet.

“Good evening,” the priest said as he drew level with the last pew. “I’m afraid confessions are over and I really must lock up.”

The man’s head remained bent for a moment, and then he looked up into the priest’s eyes. “Sorry,” he said. “I was on another planet.”

The priest looked down at the face staring up at him. The man might indeed be a vagrant. His face was covered in a three-day stubble, and his hair hadn’t seen neither water nor a comb in some time. His eyes were striking, dark-brown pools that glistened even in a faint light thrown by the low wattage bulbs. The priest wondered whether the man had been crying.

“Can I help you with anything?” the priest asked.

“Maybe,” the man replied standing up. The two men were now facing each other. The priest was a good ten inches taller. “Don’t you remember me?” the man asked as he brought his face nearer to the priest.

The priest stared down into the stubble-covered face. His apprehension had returned and he was genuinely scared of this slight individual. He knew that his fear was irrational. “I’m sorry,” his voice was halting. “I have no recollection of you. I’ve moved around quite a lot. Where did we meet?”

The priest felt a sharp pain in his side beneath his heart. He stood back and looked down in time to see a jagged knife retracting from his side. Before he could react, the knife was pushed forward again, and he could feel the warm rush of blood beneath his cassock.  His nose was immediately aware of the coppery smell of blood. He knew that he had been stabbed and that his life was in mortal danger but he was transfixed by the brown eyes with the teary glaze.  The knife was retracted again and was once more plunged into his stomach. He slid to the floor of the church.

“Why?’ his voice was a croak.

“So I can be redeemed,” the man with the knife said quietly. He stood over the priest watching the lifeblood drain from him. The priest’s cassock and the floor of the church were covered in blood. The man felt no elation or remorse. He had done what had been necessary. He had never taken a life, and he reflected for a few seconds on how ordinary it had felt. The coppery smell of the blood and the sight of the dead man at his feet didn’t turn his stomach and didn’t make him want to vomit. He had dreamed of this moment for such a long time that all he felt was a sense of anti-climax. He bent and put his fingers on the neck of the priest just like he’d seen in the cop shows on television. There was a slight throb but it was so minor as to be imperceptible.  He picked up his jerry can and began to douse the priest and the surrounding pews with petrol. He locked eyes with the prone figure and saw the eyes flicker. The bastard was still alive. He continued along the church until all the petrol had been expended. After taking one last look at the dead, or certainly dying, priest, he removed a small box of matches from his pocket, opened it and struck one match. He placed the unlit end in the matchbox and left it on the pew beside the prone priest.  He picked up his can and walked to the entrance door. He stood there for a few moments until the match finally ignited the box and there was a whoosh of air as flames engulfed the side of the church where the priest lay. He closed the door after him and headed out into the night.

CHAPTER 2

DCI Ian Wilson woke up slowly. His eyes became used to the darkness in the bedroom, and he felt slightly discommoded. Then he remembered where he was. He turned and looked at the head on the pillow beside him. Kate McCann’s blond hair was tousled, and she had a beatific smile on her face as she slept. The previous evening they had gone to the theatre before dinner and dancing. They had returned to Kate’s apartment at about 2 a.m. and had spent the next hour making love.

Wilson felt his penis erecting as he remembered their multiple couplings of the early morning. He turned into Kate’s back pushing his erection into her buttocks. Sleepily she reached her hand backward and took his erection and placed it inside her. Wilson moved gently back and forward as Kate moaned quietly in her sleep. The movement gradually increased until Wilson finally ejaculated. Kate made a sound deep in her throat and then relaxed. She put her hand on his thigh and pulled him to her. Slowly, Wilson’s erection wilted and he removed himself from between her buttocks. He kissed her on the shoulders and pulled the duvet up to her neck. Kate responded by burrowing down and falling back to sleep.

It was Sunday, and Wilson was off shift so there was no real reason to get out of bed. Except that he was fully awake. He slipped out of the bed and made his way into the living room. The apartment was still new to him. He had moved in with Kate two weeks previously, and he was trying to figure out what went where. He moved to the large picture window that looked out across the Lagan River and over much of Belfast. Kate’s apartment was just like herself – top drawer. It was located in a modern six-story monstrosity built to house the upper-middle classes of Belfast and Kate’s income from her legal practice had been more than enough to purchase the penthouse. Wilson stood at the window wondering whether anyone far below was capable of seeing that he was completely naked. He found the whole situation incongruous. An end of career copper shacked up with a beautiful top-notch barrister who earned ten times his salary and who could have had her pick of the eligible and not so eligible males in the province of Ulster.  Within the past month, he junked much of his previous life to be close to her. The house he had inhabited with his deceased wife in Malwood Park had bee was sold and the furniture given to a charity to dispose of. The trophies from his rugby past, the jerseys, caps and medals were donated to his former club. There was far too much to hang in the clubhouse and a gala evening was held to auction off the excess. He was embarrassed that so many of the great and the good had turned up and bid outlandish money for his memorabilia. Kate chipped in by paying two thousand pounds for a framed painting of him in full flight during one of his first games for Ireland.

He pulled the curtains cutting off the view of the river and the city beyond. He turned and looked around the smart living room with its ultra-modern furnishings. This was certainly Kate, but the question was whether it was him or not. He loved her. That was the easy part. The question was whether he could become part of someone else’s life. Kate had been one of the United Kingdom’s youngest Queen’s Councils. She had a high-powered career moving easily in the top echelons of the Province. Although he was well known both as a sportsman and a policeman, he would always be seen as an addendum to his more famous partner. This was solely his problem. Kate was merely Kate, and she didn’t give a damn for fortune or fame. She simply cared for justice and the law.

“A penny for them,” Kate stood at the doorway to the living room. Unlike Wilson, she located a towelling dressing gown.

“How long have you been standing there?” Wilson asked moving to her.

“Long enough,” she replied. “I still want to know what you were thinking.”

He put his arms around her. “I was thinking how lucky I am to have such a fantastic partner.” He kissed her lightly on the lips.

“I could see how you might be thinking that, but I’m an expert at knowing when people are lying to me. So out with it. You were thinking about the bitch who has turned your life upside down. Am I right?”

He hesitated momentarily.

‘Ah ha. I am right.” She grabbed his penis. “This lump of flesh does all your thinking for you.”

“You make the coffee,” he said pulling back and forcing her to relinquish her grip on his penis. “I’ll wander around trying to find where my clothes are located these days. I just hope I haven’t scandalised the blokes with the telescopes trained on our windows.”

“Agreed. However, we’re going to have a little talk about you being broody about selling your house and moving in with me.”

Wilson was putting on a tee-shirt and shorts when his mobile phone rang. He looked at the caller ID.

“It’s Sunday and I’m off shift,” he said as he answered the phone.

“Good morning to you, Boss,” Detective Constable Harry Graham’s voice came over the line.

“You’re taking this acting Sergeant business too seriously Harry,” Wilson said. “As far as I’m aware you’re off shift too.”

“Call out, Boss. A Catholic church was torched last night.”

“And that concerns us how?”

“The parish priest is missing.”

“Maybe he torched it and ran?”

“Doesn’t seem so.”

“Then why are you calling me?”

“The building is still too dangerous to enter and the Fire Service guys reckon it will take a few hours to sift through the rubble. Alarm bells are ringing about the missing priest if you know what I mean.”

“Let’s not jump the gun. Get someone down to the church. Keep me informed.” He turned and saw Kate standing at the door. The woman must have Apache blood she could move so silently. He didn’t like the frown on her face.

“Harry,” he said turning again to the phone.

“Yes, Boss,” Graham said.

“Only if it’s important. Got it.” He pressed the off button before Graham could reply.

“Coffee’s ready,” Kate said from the door.

“Great,” Wilson said.

“And we can have that little talk,” Kate said smiling.

Come into my parlour said the spider to the fly. Wilson had seen Kate in action. He was about to get the third degree but in the most pleasant way. The burned church didn’t even register on his radar.