The Blood That Stains Your Hands (11 page)

He's talking about God.

Usually I'd have switched off by now and would be letting my mind wander to get me through to the end. And yes, Detective Inspector Gostkowski, it's not entirely unlikely that I'd be thinking about having sex. That usual fantasy of mine, lying back on a sofa, one woman sitting on my face, another watching us, masturbating, before coming over and taking my aching erection into her mouth.

Church. We're talking about church.

I probably shouldn't be thinking stuff like that in church, should I? There's bound to be a commandment covering that. Because there weren't just ten commandments, you know. I think I learned that on
QI
. There were like fifty or something. Or fifteen. Can't remember exactly. But one of them was pretty much guaranteed to be along the lines of, when you're in the house of the Lord, thou shalt not fantasize about having sex with more than one woman at a time.

Anyway, I don't even need to let my head disappear into the usual clouds to get me through the sermon. This guy is good. I mean, he's still talking about God as if he actually exists, and he talks about Heaven as though it's an actual place where people end up, so you know, the subject matter is bonkers, but he knows how to hold an audience.

It's a bit like listening to Hitler. What he's saying is nuts, but you can't help but admire the delivery.

Usually on Sunday mornings I have other things to do, like lie in bed, or crawl to the bathroom to vomit, but if I didn't, I can think of worse things than coming to listen to this fellow. This guy is charisma in a dog collar.

He almost has me believing that if I devote my day and my life to helping others, and think not of myself, that I will sleep more easily at night. Weird.

However, like all these people, like all leaders whose attraction is based on charisma, there's something about him. Something that doesn't quite click. I wonder how many don't like him, how many people decided to switch to the amalgamated churches.

And yet the attendance here belies the feeling about the church in general that we've been picking up the last few days. This place is almost full. And the notices that are read out at the start, and that are also printed at the back of the order of service, list all sorts of other services and events around the church. A Sunday evening service. A Wednesday morning service for young mothers. The Church Guild meeting. The Bible Group. The Sunday school. The monthly Sunday school outing. The church trip to York Minster. Choir practice. And that choir at the back isn't the usual collection of octogenarians, slowly dying off as the years pass. There are teenagers in there.

Coming to this place is like hoofing it back to the 1930s.

The service ends with a call to arms, or at any rate, a call to a cup of tea in the halls at the back. I have my orders. And where else am I going to go this afternoon?

Well, I'm going to sit in a pub and watch Dundee United versus Kilmarnock, that's what. Dundee United versus Kilmarnock. Booyah! What choice have I got in this empty, unrelentingly miserable life? Sit in the pub watching lousy football – with Newcastle United versus West Ham to follow! – or sit at home and chew my leg off.

Nobody would sooner chew his leg off than anything. Not really.

*

T
he coffee is provided by Costa. Really. They have someone from Costa serving hot drinks at the back. I guess the church picks up the tab. I wonder if anyone just pitches up after the service to grab a latte. It's the kind of thing that people do.

The hall is pretty busy, and there are people grabbing a coffee and going to stand outside. Lovely autumnal afternoon, slight chill in the air, but just the right amount of chill. Beautiful day.

The minister is doing the rounds. Not sure if I'm going to talk to him here. Playing it by ear. We'll come and have a chat with him in the next day or two.

I stand on the periphery, taking in the scene, but it's not long before someone comes to talk to me. These church people have an eye for the newbie. There's a stranger in town, so they want to talk to him, and establish whether he's passing through or whether there's an opportunity to absorb him into the collective. Sure, the Church of Scotland aren't Scientologists, they're not going to get psychotic on me or try to plant a chip in my ass, but it's similar.

'Hi,' she says.

See, they know who they're dealing with. They sent over an attractive woman in her thirties as their envoy. Attractive women in their thirties are my kryptonite.

No, really. Even more than all those other attractive women. Still got the body, but not stupidly young, not inexperienced, less likely to be hurt by my commitment-phobia, more likely to be attracted to my seeming indifference and that strange melancholic quality.

Hey, it is what it is.

'I'm Philo Stewart. I run the Bible study group with my husband on a Saturday evening. How are you?'

Bible study group on a Saturday evening? Holy shit. Never realised this place was such a party town.

And Philo? Hmm. The fuck kind of name is that? Short for Philippa, maybe? Shit, Philomena, that'll be it. Jesus, poor bastard.

I hope all that runs through my head without getting anywhere near my face, but my history in that respect ain't so great.

As she speaks she indicates a fellow in a shirt and tie in deep conversation with a couple of old women. He's not looking over.

Unlike some, I see marriage making the woman even more attractive.

'Very well, thanks. Great coffee,' I add. Bibble babble.

'Yes, isn't it? It's only been going a few weeks, but it's a great idea.'

'Seems kind of odd. I presumed there'd be tea and biscuits made by old women with blue hair rinse, wearing tweed.'

She glances around her, presumably checking that none of that lot are listening – she needn't worry as most of them will be deaf – then smiles as she turns back.

'Well... it was like that until fairly recently. But with this whole merger thing... You know, sorry, I didn't get your name? Are you new to the area?'

Rats. It was all going so well. A decent cup of coffee, kryptonite-lady, and there she was, starting to burble on about the merger, which was why I'd come. And she's just caught herself in the act, and stopped her tongue before it picked up a head of steam.

As discussed with Taylor, there's no point in pretending to be something I'm not. No point in being undercover. It's a small town, with every chance of stumbling across someone that we know, or someone that we've arrested.

'Detective Sergeant Hutton,' I say.

The cloud crosses her face. Such a shame.

'You're working?'

'Not really. I mean, I'm not here to interview anyone, nothing like that, but equally I'm not here because of religious reasons. Just... my boss wanted me to check things out.'

'Related to the suicide of that old woman?'

'Yes.'

'Or was it murder?'

I smile but don't answer. She seems to relax a little, glances around the busy room of churchgoers. She gives me a look that seems a little conspiratorial. Bang on, that's what we need.

'You think someone here might have had something to do with her death?'

'Not really.'

'OK... so why the visit?'

'Covering all angles,' I say.

'Due diligence?'

'Nicely put.'

She smiles. Naturally I smile back. Grateful that I didn't drink anything last night, so consequently don't look like three kinds of shit this morning.

'So,' I say, because I might as well run with this to see where it gets me, 'you know everyone here? Is there anyone who, if you suddenly heard they'd been arrested for the murder of old Mrs Henderson, you wouldn't automatically think, holy shit, I didn't see that coming? You know, someone who'd have you nodding sagely and saying to your husband who runs the Bible group,
I said, didn't I? I said he had the cold eyes of a killer
.'

There's the smile again.

'
I
run the Bible group, and my husband helps,' she says.

I nod, but leave the conversational stick in her hands.

'Not here,' she says. She glances around the room, turns back, shaking her head. 'It's not like I'm going to say to you, oh yes, old Mr Crackjaw, he'd been banging old Maureen for years and wanted her dead. Just... I think we've talked enough. We're in the phone book. Top end of Glenvale Road. Give me a call, and maybe you could come to the house.'

I nod, stop myself saying anything which implies that I like the fact she's inviting me on a date.

'Would you like me to introduce you to the minister?'

What the Hell. 'Thank you.'

*

I
n the office of the Reverend Jones. Unfortunate name for a vicar. I keep thinking of Jim Jones, and all those poor fuckers he had put to the sword in Guyana. Maybe that's just me. There are probably hundreds of Reverend Joneses around the world who have never been responsible for the deaths of nine hundred people.

Like this guy.

'But you didn't know right from the off that you'd be able to break away? You were in the mix for the amalgamation at the start?'

He considers this for a while as he lightly plays with the teaspoon in his saucer.

'I think I always knew. I know what you will likely think, that I didn't actually know, not in the way in which I was in possession of the facts. But I knew. We never really got involved with the project, not in the manner in which the others did. They fought it out between themselves while we remained on the periphery. I think they believed that we were trying to be above it, that we would bide our time and then produce some Machiavellian masterstroke, borne of artifice and deceit, to win the contest. Church of the Year 2013. Ha! It wasn't for us. No, I think we always knew that something would come up, that the Lord would help us in whatever way he saw fit.'

'It was the Lord who brought you the coffee franchise?' I ask.

Yes, that's big of me, isn't? Trying to be cooler than this guy.

'Some of our people aren't happy,' he says, 'but just wait until the Sunday morning when they come in and see the Reebok Church of St Stephen sign above the door. Then there'll be trouble.'

He delivers the line ruefully, and with perfect comic timing, so that just for a second he sucks me in.

'Funny,' I say. And it was. Add this guy to the list of people I was expecting to hate, and who are proving to be much more engaging.

'We won't get that far, but we have to look at different things. Congregations everywhere are going through the floor. It's how the town ended up in this awful situation in the first place. But what you can't do, what doesn't work, is trying to reinvent your product. They had a praise band up the road there for a while. A praise band? Nobody wants to see drums and guitars in church. It's wrong. Our core beliefs and traditions have to remain as they have for hundreds of years. That's who we are. We need to attract people using the sense of community, and with the message of God's love. We have to say to people, this is where you can come for help. This is where you can come to get away. Switch off your mobile phone. Leave the Blackberry at home.'

'Most people left the Blackberry in the shop...'

He holds up a hand.

'You're right,' he says, although I'm not sure what he's agreeing with. I was just making a glib comment, but that's pretty much what I always do. 'You didn't come here to hear the speech I gave the church session. You wanted to talk about Maureen.'

This fellow is smooth. And I'm not even getting the vibe that he's too smooth. He's got a way about him. If he hadn't found God, he'd make a perfect politician. Good thing we're not in America, or he'd have done both.

'Did you know her? Had you ever talked to her? Did she ever come to St Stephen's?'

He laughs.

'She was a life-long hater of St Stephen's,' he says, the smile slowly leaving his face. 'That's how it is around here, and in most towns with more than one church. People think that the great rivalry in towns in the west of Scotland is between the Protestant and Catholic churches. In reality, they have little to do with each other, and the real rivalry is in-house. There's been long-standing enmity and antagonism between the four churches for decades. It's how it's always been. How on earth the Church of Scotland expected it to be sorted out satisfactorily, no one knows.'

'What should they have done?'

'Let nature take its course. Let the churches pay their own way. Let them stand or fall by the amount of people they attract. If they can't get the people, they fold.'

'Which is ultimately what you're attempting here.'

'Indeed.'

'Would St Stephen's have broken off on its own if it hadn't been for you?'

He takes a moment with that, but I'm not picking up on anything from the guy. No artifice, no question-avoidance. He's happy to talk.

'It
could
have happened. Whether it would or not, I doubt.'

'And what happens when you go?'

A sigh and a parting of the hands gesture.

'That's for the future,' he says. 'I doubt any of us can say.'

'You haven't put anything in place yet.'

'One thing at a time, Sergeant Hutton,' he says. 'One thing at a time.'

––––––––

I
stand outside the church for a few moments. Check my watch. Just after one. The Dundee United-Kilmarnock game that everyone's been talking about will just have started. I look along the deserted stretch of Main Street and contemplate heading for the pub.

A bright, autumnal afternoon. Will be dark in just over three hours. There's something in the air, something more than the smell of wood smoke coming from the houses along Church Avenue.

There are one or two cars parked outside the church gates, but most people are long gone. I stood around having coffee until people were leaving, then went and had my fifteen-minute audience with his Holiness, the Reverend Jones; the only people left now, those clearing up the detritus of another riotous morning at the kirk.

I'm not going to the pub. Don't want to sit down. Don't want to be inside. For once in my stupid, wasted life, I can appreciate a pleasant afternoon.