Grief Encounters (25 page)

Jonathan Leary was intrigued and invited me over to see him there and then. Tell someone you’re a cop and need some help from them and they’re hooked. It works with women and it worked with the vicar of St Ricarius. Dave wasn’t in the office but Serena was, so I asked her if she could tear herself away from what she was doing and come for a ride.

‘Oh, it’s not important,’ she replied with one of her smiles, ‘and I’m always ready to go skiving off.’

‘We’re not skiving off,’ I told her. ‘We’re pursuing investigations. How’s your mileage, this month?’

‘I haven’t reached my quota yet.’

‘Good. We’ll go in your car.’

Serena’s parents came from Bangladesh when we needed workers for the wool and cotton industries who would accept low wages so we could compete with cheap imports from places like, well, Bangladesh. It didn’t work, but they were an enterprising race and her father opened one of our first corner shops where you could buy a pint of milk and your cornflakes right up to midnight. Soon he had a string of them, and he became a strong voice for integration and moderation. Some didn’t like it, and he suffered the usual broken windows and graffiti, but he always retained his dignity and worked hard on behalf of his community. Two years ago he was elected mayor of Heckley.

Serena is the smallest policewoman we have. I think the tape measure must have slipped when she joined, or maybe someone realised we needed her and turned a blind eye. When she was in uniform I used to see her on duty in the town centre when the pubs closed and admire her courage. She took a lot of flak, out on the streets, facing up to boozed-up racist yobs that many of her colleagues would think twice about tackling, but always came through it with a smile. Some, though, came from within the force, implying that she was our token Asian, only recruited to make us look good, and that hurt her. She started looking for another job until someone noticed the fall-off in her performance and put two and two together. They had a word with me and one day I just happened to meet her in the car park.

‘How’s things, Serena?’ I said.

‘Oh, fine, Mr Priest. Just fine.’

‘Still enjoying the job?’

She hesitated, then said: ‘Yeah, it’s fine, sir.’

‘There’s an aideship coming up,’ I told her. ‘Why don’t you put in for it?’

Her big eyes grew even bigger. ‘To be a detective?’ she said.

‘Can’t make any promises,’ I told her, ‘and you’d get all the shitty jobs. The rape victims, abused children and worse, you know the score.’

‘I could do it, Mr Priest. I could do it.’

‘I know you could, Serena. I wouldn’t have mentioned it, otherwise.’

So she flew through her six months attachment to CID and was put on the books, but never quite considered herself one of the team, always being very proper in her speech and behaviour, and taking a back seat in meetings or during lighter sessions in the office. Until her father was made mayor, and everybody started treating her like royalty. Dave and Maggie made a paper chain for around her neck, and she told them to piss off. That was the breakthrough, although she still refuses to call me Charlie. She says it’s disrespectful, so I don’t mind.

As we drove over the tops I told her about Gillian Birchall and the possibility that she was the victim of some sort of conspiracy to discredit her. She listened, then said: ‘I haven’t heard this being discussed at briefing. Have I missed something?’

‘No. It’s all low-key at the moment. There may be nothing in it, or she may be pulling the wool over our eyes, but her story holds up.’

‘Is she a friend of yours?’ Serena asked, as if that would explain everything. I sometimes wonder what they think of me.

‘No, Serena,’ I stated. ‘She’s not a friend of mine. There’s a possibility that she may be a victim of a campaign by anti-evolutionists or someone, if that’s the word. Anti-evolutionaries, would it be? If that’s so, we’ve got to stifle it in its infancy.’ Not the most appropriate metaphor I’ve ever spoken, I was to learn, but accurate.

When you’re a passenger you get to see the scenery. The moors were brown and desiccated due to lack of rain, looking more like Australia or Arizona than the wet north of England. The sheep would be dying of thirst and any time now the fires would start. I could see right down into Derbyshire, mile after mile of rolling moorland that had shrugged off man’s puny efforts to make some use of it, barely showing the scars of his endeavours over countless millennia.

The scars of man’s endeavours over a much shorter time were plainly obvious ahead, though, as we crested the brow and looked down into Greater Manchester, sweltering under a pall of smog. Fortunately we weren’t going that far. We made a left turn and dropped down into Oldfield, towards St Ricarius’s, Miss Birchall and the Reverand Jonathan Leary.

Churches are easy to find. There were three spires puncturing the sky, and he’d told us to aim for the middle one.

‘What religion are you?’ I asked as Serena negotiated a cobbled alley that bordered the cemetery. We were in the old part of town, where the houses were made of stone, as solid as bunkers, and full-grown trees stopped what was left of the light from reaching ground level. Their leaves were already falling, victims of the drought.

‘Lapsed Hindu,’ she replied, stopping at the end of a row of parked cars, half on the pavement. ‘Will this do?’

‘That’s fine.’

He lived in the vicarage, at the far end of the cemetery. We walked on the flagstone path, between the gravestones, and submitted to their fascination. Here lies somebody, the inscriptions read, who was the beloved wife or husband of somebody else, and mother or father of their children. Two hundred years later we were wondering who they were, why they were singled out for commemoration instead of the countless, nameless others who’d lived and died here? It’s the children who stop you in your tracks, make you question what it’s all about. Died in infancy, or aged one, two, four, and so on.

‘Look at this one,’ Serena said, softly. It was a previous vicar, and he and his wife had buried three daughters before she finally died in childbirth, aged twenty-nine. He made it to eighty-four. Beyond the church was a big hall, and adjacent to that some modern, flat-roofed buildings that I imagined were the school where Miss Birchall would be hard at work on the Nativity play.

The Reverend Leary didn’t answer the door when we knocked and leant on the bell-push. After a few attempts we waited a minute or two, in case he was on the toilet or halfway through some religious rite that vicars have to do, and then tried again. Still no answer.

‘What did he say?’ asked Serena.

‘That he’d a pastoral visit to make but it would wait until after he’d seen me. I suppose he could have been called out to administer the last rites to one of his parishioners.’

‘Or abducted by aliens.’

I looked at her. ‘Have you been working with Brendan?’

There was a sudden burst of hammering from down the garden. We turned and saw where it was coming from: a huge wooden shed that had probably been a garage before the brick one was built nearer the house. ‘Wait there,’ I said, and strolled down towards it. The hammering stopped as I approached, and was replaced by a sawing sound. The door was closed. I rattled it and knocked, calling: ‘Is anyone home?’

The door opened a few inches and a flustered face peered around it, through the gap. He was wearing a dog collar. ‘DI Priest,’ I said, ‘from Heckley CID. I rang you earlier this morning.’

‘Ah yes,’ he replied, and squeezed out without opening the door any wider. He pushed it shut behind him and hooked the Chubb padlock through the catch but didn’t lock it. ‘Sorry about that, Inspector. I wasn’t expecting you so soon.’ He brushed the sawdust off his hands and offered a shake.

‘Speed limits,’ I explained. ‘We ignore them. One of the perks of the job.’

‘Ah! I bet they are.’ He gestured for me to lead the way towards the house. ‘Let’s go inside. I’m fascinated to know how I can help you.’

I introduced him to DC Gupta and we were soon sitting in his front room, sipping tea. It was cool in there, and I suspected the temperature never rose above barely comfortable. No doubt the vicarage would soon be replaced by a modern bungalow and either demolished or sold to some enterprising couple who didn’t believe in ghosts, and renamed the Old Vicarage. Serena and I were in short-sleeved shirts, he was in a baggy grey suit, and I gave an involuntary shiver.

‘I came over here, away from Heckley,’ I began, ‘to get away from the local culture, to find an unbiased opinion, if possible. Fact is, we’ve had a couple of crimes and the finger has been pointed at Christian fundamentalists. I’m afraid I can’t be more specific than that, but I’d appreciate your views on the subject. I’m aware, of course, that you are a man of God and may have certain fundamentalist leanings yourself.’

He breathed in, puffing his chest out, gathering his thoughts. I’d asked him a big one. His lips were pursed and he gazed past me. There was a wooden crucifix above the fireplace, with a figure of Christ hanging on it. Red paint in the usual places emphasised His suffering, just in case you hadn’t noticed.

‘It all depends on what you mean by fundamentalist,’ he eventually pronounced. ‘I have certain fundamental beliefs, as do most of my colleagues, like the virgin birth, the Holy Trinity, and that Christ died on the cross and rose again to forgive us our sins. But I don’t believe in some of the more extreme views expressed in the Bible, particularly the Old Testament. It was a book of its time, and times change. We’ve had the good fortune to be born in a land where the rule of law is generally benign and fair, and a man is considered innocent until proved otherwise. In circumstances like that I’m happy for the law of the land to take precedence over canon law.’

‘What about Darwinism,’ I said. ‘Where do you stand on that?’

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘The glories of the universe are beyond our wildest comprehension. The fossil record supports evolutionary theory and most of us accept that. All it proves is that the work of the Lord is greater than we first imagined.’

‘So you can go along with it?’

‘I’m happy with the Church’s stance on the subject, as recently defended by the Archbishop of Canterbury.’

‘Which was what?’

‘Which was as I’ve just outlined.’

‘What about intelligent design? Where does that come in?’

He lifted the teapot, feeling its weight, and asked if we’d like a refill. I nodded and slid my cup his way. Serena declined.

‘ID,’ he said, when we were replenished. ‘It does have certain attractions to a layman like me, but the experts that I trust say it’s nonsense, and I respect their opinions. I’d guess that Darwin got it about ninety per cent right with his theory of natural selection, but there’s probably a bit of room for some fine tuning.’

‘But we weren’t designed by some supreme being who got it right first attempt?’

‘Most certainly not.’

Serena said: ‘So are you happy to believe that we are descended from monkeys?’

‘That’s what the evidence indicates,’ he replied, ‘and I’ll go along with it until other evidence indicates to the contrary.’

‘Do you have any fundamentalists in your congregation?’ I asked.

‘Fundamentalists in the sense used by the tabloids?’

‘Yes.’

‘Yes, one or two.’

‘What do you think of that?’

‘It’s a dilemma, Inspector. Sometimes I wonder if their faith is stronger than mine.’

‘Do you discuss it with them?’

‘No. These days we’re just happy that they come to church. And they’re harmless enough. They’re not the type to take direct action, if that’s what you’re looking for.’

‘What would you do if they were?’

‘I’m not sure. Have a word with them? Discuss it with my bishop? Call the police? I don’t know.’

I finished my tea and asked Serena if she had any more questions for the vicar, but she didn’t. I thanked him for his time and he saw us out to the path between the tombstones. On the way I said: ‘Now you can get back to your woodwork.’

‘Sorry?’ he said.

‘Your woodwork,’ I repeated. ‘You were hammering and sawing when we came.’

‘Oh, er, that. It’s nothing.’

In the car Serena said: ‘Well, I’d say he gave all the right answers, don’t you think?’

‘Couldn’t fault him,’ I agreed. She found the car keys in her trouser pocket but I put my hand on the steering wheel and said: ‘Don’t start the engine.’ I climbed out again and stood behind the wall, peering over it towards the vicarage. After a couple of minutes he came out and vanished behind the new garage, and immediately afterwards a blue Peugeot 307 drove away.

‘The main road is in front of the house,’ I told Serena, bending down to speak through the half-open window. ‘You brought us in the back way.’

‘Sorry, boss.’

‘I’ll have to put it on your record. Come on. Let’s have a look around.’

She scuttled out of the car like a startled rabbit and fell in beside me as I walked diagonally across the cemetery, between a different set of tombstones, through uncut grass, towards the big wooden shed. He wasn’t a Catholic, but he had guilt written all over him as he came out of the shed, and again when I asked him about the woodwork.

Over the church entrance was a huge banner with red lettering on it. I said: ‘Hey, look at that:
One a.m. The Resurrection
. That could be interesting.’

Serena looked from me to the banner and back at me again. ‘Um, I think it really says
I am The Resurrection
, boss.’

‘Does it? Shows how much I know.’

A sturdy galvanised hasp and staple held the shed door, with the lock still loosely hooked through it. I lifted the lock out and pulled at the door. It had sagged and was catching on the ground, so I had to double my efforts. When the gap was wide enough I stepped into the gloom with Serena about an inch behind me.

The fruits of his labours were all around us. He’d been cutting three-by-two softwood into three-foot lengths, and nailing a square board onto each piece. It was the wording on the boards that was most revealing. I touched one, and the paint was still wet. It said:
Abortion is Murder
, and another said:
Suffer the Little Children
.