Dead Secret (15 page)

Da’s work schedule for that week, the reports said, showed he was working alone the afternoon she died, driving to a project out of town. According to a spokesman for the company he was visiting, he arrived an hour late for his appointment. He could have detoured. He had time to kill her. They both had.

I don’t go looking for the church. I come out of the library and walk round and round the town in a daze until my feet are sore, ending up down by the river watching swans. Graceful, elegant swans who mate for life. I have walked by the building several times, a traditional stone-built church with a spire. Then I walk back and walk in. There are a handful of people waiting for
confession
before morning mass.

I sit in the confession queue, mechanically moving up a seat as each person in front of me disappears inside the confessional. I tell myself I don’t really intend going in. There is time to leave. I haven’t been to confession since I was fourteen.

But part of me wants to talk to a priest. The old Catholic part, that I thought was long buried, rises from the dead and tap dances inside my head. My turn next. I can skip out the side when I get to the first seat. Instead, I open the confessional door, close it, stand in the dark.

I can hear a newspaper rustle from behind the grille as I close the door. A slight movement behind the black curtain. Now there’s a thing. Does the priest only stop doing the crossword if you have an interesting enough confession?

“I’m not here for confession,” I say. There is a short silence, a rustle. I can hear a sniff, the kind of sniff when you are trying to breathe through a blocked nose.

“Okay,” says the priest. The voice is young, nasal. I detect a note of interest, a hint of playfulness. “What shall we do instead then?”

I smile in the darkness, in spite of myself. You think your world’s crashed and within a couple of hours you can smile. What is that? Resilience or shallowness?

“I’d like to talk to you if that’s okay. Ask you something.”

“Fire away.” There is another sniff, a small gasp of breath. I know how he feels.

“You’re a hay-fever sufferer,” I say, kneeling down in front of the curtain like I did when I was a child. I couldn’t very well stay standing at the door.

“How did you know that?”

“I’m a clairvoyant.”

“You won’t need me then.”

“I thought confession was about the past, not the future.”

“I thought you weren’t here for confession.”

Smart ass. I like him. Sarah says I make decisions about
people
too quickly but I say it’s primeval instinct and some people have lost theirs. When you were standing on the savannah
millions
of years ago, a stranger was either friend or foe and you needed to make up your mind quick.

“So,” he says, gently. “What
are
you here for?”

I stare into the curtain, my eyes growing accustomed to the dark. I can pick out a shadowy outline behind the partition.

“I’ve just been told… just discovered… that my father might have murdered someone.” How strange those words sound
together
. I can hardly believe I am hearing them, saying them. “I don’t know what to do.”

Bet that unblocked his nasal passages. I try to imagine his face on the other side. Is he shocked? Have his eyebrows shot
up, his mouth opened slightly? How often do priests hear talk of murder in confession. Once in a lifetime? Twice? Never? If I hadn’t wanted to kneel in front of the grille, I could have sat on the chair that was positioned on his side for those who preferred to see the priest. I suppose I could have watched his face. But then he could have watched mine. Miss Edwards, who was into the ‘new’ confession at school, recommended that we girls just face the priest and “talk to him like you’d talk to God”. She was barking, Miss Edwards.

“When you say you don’t know what to do,” says the voice
behind
the curtain slowly, “do you mean you don’t know whether to confront your father about it? Or maybe whether to go to the police?”

“No, no, I couldn’t do either of those.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s dead.”

“Who’s dead?

“My dad.”

“I see,” he says, but of course he doesn’t see at all.

“When did he die?”

“Last Friday.”

“Oh… so recent… I’m sorry.”

“The thing is, my dad might not have done it. I don’t know.”

“Who do you think he might have killed?”

“My mother.”

I don’t need to see his face to know the silence that follows is a shocked one. I tell him it all then, in the darkness, the words
tumbling
out in a jumble of thoughts and suspicions and ideas and fears. Da. Mother. Sarah. He says little apart from an occasional prompt, a question, a clarification. I cry but it feels good. I am
telling everything to a stranger who I will never have to see again. Dumping. Unloading.

Someone for whom this discussion has absolutely no
consequences
. That is the beauty of it.

“Priests and counsellors,” I sniff eventually. “You’re
indispensable
.”

“But only one of us is free, eh?”

“Oh good. I wasn’t sure.”

I hear him laugh, a wheezy laugh.

“All sorts of people come into confession,” he says. “Are you a Catholic?”

“Yeah, a Catholic atheist.”

“Want a Polo mint?” he says.

“No, you’ll see me if I come round for it.”

A packet of Polo mints appears round the side of the grille.

“Here.” It makes me laugh seeing the disembodied hand. It is young, white, thin, clean. Well-shaped nails. The hand of a man whose work involves brain, not brawn.

“What’s your name?”

I hesitate. The beauty is anonymity. No consequences.

“Julie,” I say.

“Okay.” I know that he knows I am lying.

“Yours?”

“Peter.”

“I call you Father Peter?”

“Just Peter. Or Pete.” He breathes hard, takes a gasp of air, blows his nose. “The thing is, Julie, I’m happy to talk to you but I’m not sure your reason for telling me this and what you want from me. People normally talk to me about things they have done themselves. This is about something someone else
has done. Or may not have done. You say your parents are both dead. So is your concern that if your father didn’t do it, the real killer is not being brought to justice?”

“No, no, no,” I say, almost fretfully. He is missing the point entirely. “No, I don’t care about
him
.”

“What do you care about then?”

“About Da. I worry that…
if
he did it… what might have happened to him now. Now he’s dead.”

“To his soul?”

“I suppose so.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in God?”

“Let’s not split hairs,” I say, bringing my teeth down on the Polo mint. Sounds like gunfire in the stillness of the
confessional
.

“Sorry. I’m a cruncher.”

“I’m a sucker.”

“Yeah? Well that’s priests for you. How do you eat your After Eights?”

“If nobody’s looking, in one, sideways.”

I smile and wipe a tear away at the same time. .

“You?” he said.

“Nibbles, right corner first.”

“Right.”

Silence.

“Julie,” he says, “we’re having a laugh but I can tell you are actually really upset out there. Do you want to sit in the chair beside me? Just talk normally where we can see one another?”

“No thanks. I’m not being rude. It’s just… easier this way.” Anonymity was always easier. That’s why I kept moving. Once, when I was working away, I went out with a man for six weeks
and never told him my real name. I’d said it was Sue the night we met, just for a laugh, thinking we’d never see one another again. I dumped him rather than tell him the truth. I wasn’t sure if I was fed up of him or fed up of Sue.

“I honestly don’t know why I am here,” I continue. “Except grief makes you do funny things, instinctive things, you know? Things that aren’t rational and that in six months’ time you won’t be able to believe you’ve done. Like try to find out what a God you don’t think you believe in may, or may not, do to your dad who may, or may not, have murdered your mother.”

“Okay,” Peter says, and his voice has a sense of purpose. Like he’s been presented with a problem and he is going to solve it. “Let’s say – for the sake of argument – that your father
committed
a murder. There are two theological issues we have to consider: repentance and penance. Would your father have been sorry?”

“How can I know that?”

“I don’t know if this helps,” he says slowly, “but St Thomas once said, ‘Considering the omnipotence and mercy of God, no one should despair of the salvation of anyone in this life.’ Or something like that.”

“My father was a good man.”

I hear his chair creak as he sits back. “Well, you do know how he felt then. A good man who does a terrible thing feels horror and sorrow and repentance. So now ask, did he do
penance
for the wrong? Obviously he couldn’t give your mother back her life, like a thief could give back stolen property. But do you think there were other ways in which he paid? Did he pray? Did he make sacrifices?” He paused. “Maybe that’s harder to answer.”

“Harder?” I said, “No, easier. He paid his whole life. He paid
with
his life. Everything was about me and Sa… about me and my sister. And my sister… she wasn’t even his. He took another man’s child and he looked after her because she was my mother’s. No, he did more than that. He
loved
her because she was my mother’s. And every time he looked at her, it must have been like looking at him. When he looked at me he saw my mother, and when he looked at my sister he saw her lover. I call that penance.”

“So do I. He sounds… well… he doesn’t sound like a man who would have committed murder easily.”

“He wasn’t.”

“Maybe that’s your answer then.”

“I wasn’t saying he did it.”

“I know that. You were just… checking the position.”

“That’s it.” I can smell mint in the air.

“If he had come to you and confessed, and you had given him absolution, what words would you have used?” I am curious. It’s so long. I can’t remember.

“The words we always use in confession.” He begins to recite them softly.

“Amen,” I say. Even I don’t know if I am being sarcastic or not. Pardon and peace. It sounds appealing even to a sometimes atheist. I want that for Da. Maybe I can be his stand-in.

“The thing is,” he says, “you are confused just now, but
perhaps
you believe in more than you think.”

“That sounds good,” I say. “What does it mean?”

“Well, right now you don’t know what to believe. I can
understand
that. But remember, if you have certainty you wouldn’t need faith. And we all need faith.”

I have the feeling he is about to move in on the God bit. I can skip the hard sell. I stand up.

“You’re going now?”

“I’d better. I’m sorry I’ve taken up so much time. There will be a big queue now.”

“If you could just see your way to crying a bit when you go out, it’ll help. They’ll wait till Father Dunn is on because he’s a soft touch.”

“I’ll do my best.” We both know that morning mass has
started
out there, that there will be no further confessions just now.

“If you need to see me again, you know where I am.”

“Thanks. Thanks for talking.”

“Good luck, Julie. And I’m sorry… sorry about your father. I’ll pray for him.”

I bite my lip.
I’ll pray for him.
It stirs something in me. I
suppose
the old Catholic who joins the drunks and goes to mass at midnight on Christmas Eve.

“‘If someone said on Christmas Eve, Come see the oxen kneel…’” I say softly, quoting a Hardy poem we learned at school. But I can’t remember exactly how the last bit goes. His voice cuts in.

“‘I should go with him in the gloom, Hoping it might be so,’” he finishes.

“You missed a bit,” I say, frowning, trying to remember.

“That’s the important bit. Hope.”

“You’re going to make me cry again.”

“I’m only thinking of my confession queue.”

“Here, take this.” I stick my hand round his side of the
confessional
. “It’ll change your life.”

“What is it?” he asks, taking it.

“Clarityn. One a day. Clears the tubes.”

I hear him laugh as I close the door.

Heads swivel as I come out of the confessional, right in the middle of the Creed. My eyes must be red. I wonder what they think I am guilty of, to come out looking like this. I walk quickly down the side aisle with my head down, and out through the swing doors at the back. I look back through the window of the church door and see Father Peter appear from the confessional. Mid thirties, thin, dark hair. Nice. My type, even. But then you know my track record.

He looks around casually but I can tell he is curious; he is scanning faces looking for Julie. I walk quickly down the steps and back into town.

“So,” I think, exhaling deeply. “What the hell was all that about?”

No doubt he is wondering the same.

Time for facts. The small notebook in my handbag contains a few scribbled names from the cuttings in the library. Jackie Sandford. Chief Inspector Terry Simons. David Carruthers. Of all of them, Jackie Sandford is the one I really want to talk to. She was obviously my mother’s confidante. There are only two Sandfords in the book, neither of them based in Lochglas. There is an answer at both numbers when I ring, but neither knows Jackie. I phone Lochglas Post Office and asked if anyone there knew a Jackie Sandford who once lived in the village. The voice at the other end sounds young.

“I’ll ask,” she says, and I hear her call across the shop. “
Maggie
, have you ever heard of a Jackie Sandford in Lochglas?”

There is an exclamation of surprise.

“Jackie Sandford! She moved away years ago.” I hear the voice moving closer to the phone, as if the person is going to take over the receiver. “Who’s asking?” I put the receiver down with a click – I’m not sure why – and it rocks slightly in the cradle.

The disappointment cuts me. But I have only a couple of days. I can’t waste time following up leads that might go nowhere. The number for David Carruthers and Co., chartered accountants, is easy. I hesitate about whether he’s worth phoning.

And he’ll tip Cory off about the fact that I’m here. But then, Cory’s going to know soon enough. I dial.

“Good morning, Carruthers and Co.”

“Hello. Is it possible to speak to Mr Carruthers, please?”

There is a short silence. “David Carruthers?”

“Yes please.”

“I am very sorry, but David Carruthers died about a year ago.”

“Oh I see. I’m sorry… I…” What do I say now? I feel a
momentary
panic, am unable to think.

“Who’s calling please? Perhaps I can redirect your call for you.”

“No… Well, actually… is Mr Carruthers’s wife still alive?”

I cross my fingers that Mr Carruthers had a wife.

“Yes, she is, but could I ask your name please?”

I am reluctant to give my name. I always am.

“Rebecca Connaghan. Would it be possible to get a number for Mrs Carruthers?”

“I am sorry, I can’t give that information out, but I could pass on a message for you.”

“Yes please. Could you tell her that Rebecca Connaghan would like to speak to her please? Ehm… If you could just say that her husband knew my mother, Kathleen Connaghan.”

“Okay.”

She hasn’t repeated the name. Has she written it down?

“The name is very important.”

“I’m sorry?”

“The name. My mother’s name, Kathleen Connaghan. Can you make sure you give her the name Kathleen Connaghan?”

“And do you have a number Mrs Carruthers can reach you on?”

I give her my mobile then fish in my pocket for the landlady’s card to give her. I want to make sure. I put the phone down
feeling dispirited. None of this is going well. I don’t expect to hear from Mrs Carruthers and I don’t know how useful she’d be anyway. One moved. One dead. One unavailable. Not a great hit rate. Maybe Cory is dead, too. But I don’t think so. How do I know? I just do.

I go for a coffee in a posh coffee shop, buy a cake for the price of an entire lunch, and eat it without tasting it. I’ll phone Terry Simons next, but I can’t try and phone Mother’s relatives. If I look up MacKenzie in the Highland phone book, I’ll be here all day. And anyway, it’s not exactly the kind of conversation you can have by phone, is it? Excuse me, do you know who killed my mother?