The Good Priest (20 page)

‘Yes,' Sister Frances replied, nodding her head, ‘the early seventies, I'd say. The girls were clumping about in those ridiculous platforms.'

‘In the early seventies Father Patrick was with us for, I don't know, about five months or something like that. He left unceremoniously. We learned years later that he'd become “too fond”, as the powers that be put it, of Joseph, one of the local altar boys. Before he left he asked me to say a prayer for a special intention of his. I never heard what happened to him.'

‘You didn't hear,' Sister Frances interrupted, ‘in those days. It was all different then, it was all swept under the carpet then. Whoosh! All we knew was that one day he was there to celebrate the Mass and the next he wasn't. He was replaced by Father … Father … it's no use, it's gone. That great big, freckly redhead. Anyway, he was replaced tout suite.'

‘MacLeod. Father Robert MacLeod. You should take your Vitamin B6, Sister, it would help your memory. I got you a bottle only a couple of months ago.'

‘I forgot to take it. Anyway you are my B6, dear,' Sister Frances replied. Adjusting the cover over the parrot's cage to make sure he got enough air, she added, ‘And a little nicer than a pill. So, as long as you're around, I'll know who I am.'

No one in the village of Cleish was aware that the elderly resident of Crabtree Cottage had ever worn a dog-collar. He kept himself to himself. They knew that he had once owned a garage, regularly enjoyed a game of bowls and was more than partial to Bell's whisky. At the Kinross Show, he regularly won the Fisher Bowl for his dahlias. The police questioned many of his neighbours and discovered those few fragments of biography. But no connection between the three murders was made by the different forces investigating them in Edinburgh, Bo'ness and Kinross-shire respectively.

This was not surprising. Neither fingerprints nor DNA were found in Colinton. Carla had, inadvertently, destroyed any traces left by her master's attacker, and the forensic evidence from Crabtree Cottage had not yet reached the lab. But, with the report of Yule's death, Father Vincent was almost certain what bound them together. Their offences would be detailed in the same leather-bound volume. One, he mused as he climbed into his bed that night, which did not exist; and which had not been reported as stolen. Or so his masters maintained. And if his suspicion was correct, in the confessional he had been inches away from the murderer.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The first call came at 7 a.m. Hurriedly, wiping away the shaving foam from his cheek with a towel, he put his mobile to his ear. It was Barbara Duncan and she was apologetic for ringing so early, explaining in a breathless gabble that she was booked on the nine o'clock London train but thought that she ought to speak to him before leaving.

‘I got the impression,' she continued, ‘from our last conversation that you were interested in Father Bell's parish work for some reason or other. Of course, with him in hospital at that point you couldn't talk to him, could you?'

‘No, that's right. He was in I.C.U.'

‘Well, if you are still interested, I think I can help. He's back, apparently. I haven't seen him myself, but Flora said that Ashley said that she'd seen lights on in the presbytery. So, he must be back, mustn't he? Unless, of course, you know differently. Incidentally, I wondered if you'd heard anything about Christopher Avery? Or about his partner, for that matter? Sonia thinks they're arranging a petition about you. Someone who arranges the models for the art club told her.'

‘Is it for or against?'

‘For, silly.'

‘No, I've never heard of him or his partner. But thanks for the tip, Barbara.'

‘I just thought I'd let you know. In case … you know, it helps.'

‘Are you seeing family in London, or is it a little holiday or what?'

‘Joan's been summoned there, back to the Department. I'll stay in the Royal Overseas League with her. We're planning to go to the Hockney and the Freud exhibitions, although I gather tickets are like hen's teeth. But I have my ways, as you know. I'll arrange it through a “Friend”, they can get into everything. Any news on when you'll be getting back to Kinross?'

‘No, not yet.'

‘There was something else I wanted to tell you,' she hesitated, trying to remember what it had been, ‘but … it can't have been important. Never mind. Father Roderick's been complaining, he says that he had never expected to be in the parish for such a long haul. He's over seventy-five, Mamie says, did you know that?'

‘I didn't either. Is he …'

‘He started life as a naval officer, attended Dartmouth and everything. Anyway, must dash. The parking's diabolical in Inverkeithing nowadays and I've still to lock up the house.'

He finished shaving but, now preoccupied with the thought that a paedophile might be back in circulation, made a poor fist of it. Blood poured from a nick on his lip and another by his ear. Looking in the mirror as he was applying pressure with a twist of tissue, he noticed that he had missed a clump of bristles to one side of his Adam's apple. Just as he had the skin taut and the blade
of the razor against them, his mobile rang again. It would be Barbara, having suddenly remembered the bit of gossip that had escaped her, and desperate to impart it before she headed south. With his left hand he fished his mobile from his trouser pocket.

‘Hello, Barbara.'

‘Is that you, Father Vincent?'

‘Yes.'

‘It's not Barbara. Do you know who I am?'

He had no idea. On balance, he reckoned that the voice was probably female, but it was hard to tell. It had a low, gravelly quality, as if its owner's vocal cords were as rough as sandpaper, and chafed against each other as she spoke.

‘No, I'm afraid not. I'm sorry, but should I?'

‘I'm just another Mary Magdalene – another loving woman who fell for a priest.'

‘Right …' he began guardedly, unsure what to expect next but bracing himself in case she suddenly turned on him, began spitting a froth of abuse into his ear.

‘Like women, do you?'

He said nothing, conscious that for him there could be no right answer. Yes, and he would be a sex maniac. No, and he would be a misogynist.

‘Don't be shy now. Any idea what I think you are?'

Now, whatever he replied, however emollient he tried to be, he knew that she was going to tell him. And that it would not be pleasant. In the silence between them he could sense the tension in the woman rising, her breathing becoming faster as she prepared herself to let rip.

‘No?' she said, unable to contain herself any longer, her voice loud with suppressed excitement.

‘No,' he replied, aware that his answer would be the cue for her to release her spume of bile, all her misdirected rage. But, until she started her diatribe, he could not put the phone down on her. Not while there was a chance, however remote, that he might be wrong. She might be phoning him, needing him, hoping for help from him in some way.

‘I don't know how to love him …' she sang, every slurred word extended unnaturally, the extra syllables caressed by her tremulous vibrato. ‘He's a man, he's just a man …'

‘I'm not sure what you want from me,' Vincent said.

‘Yeah, you do, pal. You're a fucking, molesting …'

He dropped his phone onto the hard, tiled floor, careless whether it broke or not. In the mirror in front of him, he saw reflected a gaunt, pale face with a haunted expression. He hardly recognised himself.

His head hurt. A pulse seemed to have started up at the base of his skull, pounding it, beating him, hammering his skull, as if his own flesh had turned against him and wanted to batter him, punish him.

Making a deliberate effort to relax, to breathe, he looked out of the window, a pair of buzzards catching his eye. They were no more than dots in the sky, circling slowly together, ascending into the pale blue nothingness, moving clockwise above the dark crowns of some Scots pines. In the silence, he watched them, hypnotised, calming himself, as they revolved, moving ever upwards in the cold morning air. Eventually, they disappeared altogether and he looked again at the pine trees. Those trees, he thought, although
battered and misshapen by the elements, had somehow managed to keep their shallow roots anchored in that hard and stony soil. Generations of birds had flown above them or roosted in their branches and, after he had gone, more would do so. World wars must have been declared, and fought, as they added ring to ring. Man's footsteps on the moon had not altered the rhythm of the seasons for them. In the face of everything, they remained utterly and monumentally impassive, oblivious to mankind and all its petty concerns. Contemplation of them restored a proper sense of proportion.

Glancing again at himself in the mirror, he breathed out slowly and noisily. Breakfast would be ready. He had places to go, things to do, crucial things, and this morning's caller and her venom would be forgotten. Connor Bell must be seen and then St John's inspected. But first he must speak to Donald Keegan.

After less than seven rings, the answerphone in the man's empty office clicked into action, prompting him to leave a message. ‘Donald,' he began, ‘I really need to talk to you. I think they're connected, these murders: May, Taylor and Yule. They were all priests, you see, eons ago. All child-abusers too, or so I've heard. Suppose they were all listed in that book, the one that wasn't stolen? Ring me back as soon as you can, please. It's Vincent, Father Vincent Ross, and I need your help.'

The disordered state of Connor Bell's sitting-room in Scotlandwell took Vincent by surprise. The walls were painted scarlet as he had been told, but the emulsion on the ceiling
was faded and powdery, peeling in parts, and the skirting boards looked in sore need of a coat of gloss. Only three pieces of furniture remained in the room: a couch, a table and an old-fashioned armchair. Half a dozen cardboard boxes had been deposited around the unlit gas-effect fire, and in one of them could be seen the ship picture that the boy, Kyle, had described. Its glass was smashed, a star-shaped fracture radiating from the centre. Old copies of
The Times
were stacked on the stained cushions of the couch, and on a tray beside them were packages, each wrapped in a single sheet of newspaper. The brown carpet on the floor was pocked by the imprints where chairs had stood, and in the middle of it was a perfect, fawn-coloured rectangle where a rug had once been. The rug itself had been rolled up and laid across the arms of the one remaining armchair. The air was cold and damp, and condensation ran down the inside of the picture windows to collect on their ledges.

‘Would you like a coffee? Or something to eat?' Connor Bell asked, taking a forkful of cold baked beans from a tin on top of the pile of newspapers. One of his arms was in a sling, and on his left cheek, above the edge of his black beard, he had a red scar. It looked as if someone had slashed a knife across his skin.

‘No thanks. Are you moving or something?'

‘Yes.'

Still holding the forkful of beans, the man did not look up to meet his eyes.

‘When did you get out of hospital?'

‘Yesterday. They let me out yesterday. Well, I asked to go, actually. I discharged myself. Having had a double
fracture, pins, plates and everything in my leg, they said I should wait for the consultant but I walked away – hobbled, really.'

Father Vincent said nothing, watching the man as he ate and then attempted, with one arm, to wrap a glass ornament in a sheet of newspaper.

‘Need a hand? Sorry, tactless of me, but could I help?'

‘No thanks, I'd rather do it myself. I've got a system, you see. I needed out,' Bell continued, head down, biting his lip with concentration. ‘I'm out of here, I said. No time to spare. Need to get home and go. Vamoose, eh? One of the nurses, she can only have been seventeen, twenty at the most, she said to me, “Father, be responsible.” But I didn't listen.'

‘Are you in a hurry, off to a new parish, then?'

‘No. Nope. Not me. I'm done … giving up, setting off on a new life, a different life. No one can talk me out of it. I've had enough of this – life. In someone else's crappy house. No life. No life at all, actually. Always at everyone else's beck and call. No time to yourself, no time for yourself. Unappreciated …'

Father Vincent stood by the window, looking out onto the garden. Concrete slabs covered the small area and a couple of frost-chipped ceramic pots were dotted about its dismal expanse, weeds and moss growing in them. The front of a newly cleaned VW Golf peeped out of a wooden garage that was parallel to the main road. Looking at it, suddenly something struck him.

‘Is that your car?' he asked idly, keeping his back to the other man. ‘The one in the garage?'

‘Yup. That's her, Lydia, my pride and joy, a gift from my dad,' Bell replied, stowing his most recently wrapped parcel into one of the boxes and turning his attention back to his visitor.

‘Do you know,' Vincent asked, turning round to face the man, ‘a boy called Kyle?'

‘Why?'

It was the answer that a guilty man would choose, the response of the defensive or the afraid. A simple yes or no would not, in themselves, have betrayed him as much as that question had. He was hiding something.

‘You weren't in a car crash, were you?'

‘What d'you mean? What are you talking about, Vincent? I was … I was going along on the back road to Stirling, you know, the one by Vicar's Bridge. I was going on the downhill stretch and, from nowhere, a car came out of the junction on my right and went straight slap-bang into my car! Then he drove off, just drove off, leaving me there. I told them in the hospital, you know. I said that often quiet country roads are much more deadly than motorways with a seventy miles an hour limit and so on. Because, well, because …'