Murder in Court Three (15 page)

That day Osborne had wakened early, sunlight streaming through half-pulled curtains. His encounter with Baggo had stimulated him, got the juices flowing. He wanted to solve Knox's murder from the sidelines, show the politically correct bureaucrats infesting the top ranks of today's police force that old-fashioned methods really were the best. And more of this consultancy work would spin out his pension wonderfully.

To keep Baggo on side he had told Pizza, through gritted teeth, that Fortune was doing a difficult job very well. He needed to know what was really happening in the investigation in order to keep
Good News
at least apparently ahead of the game. The previous evening, Pizza had sounded strange on the phone and had then admitted he had been contacted by someone who wanted to claim the reward. The mystery caller had insisted that neither Osborne nor the police should be involved, and Pizza could not be persuaded to ignore that condition. It had been very frustrating.

As he devoured another fry-up he wondered how he should pass the day. Listening to lawyers in the fraud trial would drive him to drink, but there was not much else he could do. Unless …

After a couple of hours Googling the Catholic Church he changed into a purple shirt and dark jacket and trousers and took a train to Glasgow. It was not a long walk from the station to the High Court and cheery Glaswegians were happy to direct him. By mid-morning he found himself at the back of the public benches, watching the legal debate in the assisted suicide trial.

It was easy to spot
Vita Dei.
Dark-clothed, with tense body language, some paid close attention to the case while others bent their heads in prayer. Osborne looked carefully at them. There was a young man with sharp features whose lips moved as he read the book on his knee, presumably The Bible. His swollen, red knuckles showed Osborne he was a fighter. This would be the suspect. As he watched he was aware of another man turning to look at him. This man wore a dog collar and had an inquiring expression. Osborne smiled at him then pretended to listen to the lawyer's argument.

When the court rose for lunch, Osborne waited behind with
Vita Dei
. After the other spectators had filed out, the police waved the priest and his flock to follow. Osborne went with them. Out in the street he approached the priest, who appeared to be the leader.

‘Are you
Vita Dei
?' he asked.

‘Why yes,' the priest replied pleasantly. ‘How do you know about us?'

‘Good news spreads as well as bad news,' Osborne replied.

The priest looked him up and down. There was intelligence and scepticism in his eyes. He was not someone to underestimate.

‘And we are good news, I hope?'

‘Oh yes. We must take a stand against suicide.'

‘Which we do. Will you join us for lunch, my friend? Nothing too fancy, but in the church hall the blessed Marjorie will have soup and sandwiches and perhaps even a chocolate cake. I'm Father Neil.' The Irish brogue came across clearly.

‘Er, thank you, Father. That would be wonderful.' Osborne shook his hand warmly, wishing only that there might be something alcoholic. He felt the need for Dutch courage. ‘I'm Noel,' he added.

The priest's smile revealed shining teeth. ‘So you share your birthday? What a blessing!'

‘Share my … oh yes, of course. Jesus.' He felt he had recovered in the nick of time. As a child, a Christmas Day birthday had meant fewer presents. Definitely not a blessing.

On the way to the church hall Osborne told Father Neil that he was a retired publican from the East End, currently visiting Scotland on holiday. Remembering the Catholic view of divorce, he said his wife was dead, silently wishing he could have persuaded her to commit suicide. He said he had seen newspaper reports of the assisted suicide case and felt so strongly that, when a priest in Edinburgh's St Mary's Cathedral told him about
Vita Dei,
he wanted to come through to back them up. He hinted that he might be able to give some money.

By the time they reached the upstairs room in the hall, Neil was friendly and relaxed. ‘Would you like to become one of us?' he whispered.

‘Very much,' Osborne replied. He looked at the others, trying to identify the undercover police officer, but no one stood out. Whoever it was, they knew what they were doing. He couldn't see the suspect, the young man with the fighter's knuckles. He guessed he was helping in the kitchen.

Two young men carried in a big pot of soup and set it down on a trestle table beside a dozen or so mugs which a woman proceeded to fill. She had curly red hair and had she made more of an effort Osborne might have fancied her. Mentally undressing her, she was not unlike Maria, but she had a pure, bovine, trusting expression that did nothing for him. The soup was good, though, full of vegetables and barley.

If he kept eating he didn't have to talk, so he helped himself to several egg sandwiches. He thought he was doing well, considering that until his Googling that morning he had known very little about the Catholic Church.

He was still eating when Father Neil stood facing the group and clapped his hands together for attention.

‘We have been joined today by Noel,' he began. ‘As well as sharing our Saviour's birthday, he wishes to share His suffering. He wishes to become one of our number. Do we welcome him in the time-honoured way?'

Osborne swallowed the last of his sandwich and saw that everyone was smiling and chanting, ‘Yes, yes.
Vita Dei. Vita Dei.
'

‘Thank you,' he said. ‘I'm honoured.'

Neil approached Osborne and took his hands. ‘Come before our congregation and kneel, facing me.'

They were an odd bunch, so this sort of nonsense was predictable. Osborne complied.

‘Now take off your jacket and shirt.'

This was more bizarre than he had expected, but he was too far committed to back out. Slowly, he removed his jacket and shirt, placing them carefully on the floor beside him. Feeling foolish now, he knelt before Neil, his back to the rest, naked from the waist up, wondering what on earth might happen next.

‘Let us pray,' Neil said. ‘Almighty God, our Father and Redeemer, forgive our sins and may we humbly do thy will on earth as it pleases you. Our lives have been given to us by you, not to be shortened to avoid suffering. Lord, we remember the suffering of Our Lord Jesus on the cross. We remember these words of Padre Pio: “Anyone who wants to be a true Christian must mortify his flesh for no other reason than devotion to Jesus, who, for love of us, mortified His entire body on the cross.” Lord, thy servant, Noel, wishes to share the suffering of the saints in the presence of this, Your congregation. Grant him his wish, we pray, and give him thy peace.'

As the others chanted
Vita Dei
again, Neil took from one of the group a cat-o'-nine-tails and handed it to Osborne, who stared at it, horrified. Made of leather, its thongs were knotted at the ends. Osborne wanted nothing to do with it.

‘What, how …?'

Swiftly, Neil took it and, with a practised move, flicked it over one shoulder then the other so the thongs struck his own shoulder blades. Then he handed it back to Osborne. ‘Or do you want one of us to do it for you?' he asked.

‘No,' Osborne said, unable to keep the panic out of his voice.

Part of him wanted to pick up his clothes and flee, but he did not know if he would be stopped. Another part of him thought that, once initiated, he would be well placed to observe this bunch of maniacs at close quarters. Perhaps the youth with the knuckles really had been ordered to kill the defence lawyer in the suicide case and had murdered the wrong man. He decided to go through with the self-flagellation.

The first flick, over his left shoulder, felt like being stung simultaneously by a small swarm of bees. The second, to the right, was not so sore. He gritted his teeth and after about ten on each side, applied as gently as he thought he could get away with, he stopped. By now the repeated blows had made his back very sore.

‘Ah, Noel, you are entitled to suffer more than that. Do you want one of us to take over?' Neil's voice was as smooth as honey.

‘No,' Osborne said, his voice catching. He closed his eyes and kept going, trying to think of anything except the agony stretching across his back from armpit to armpit. His knees also ached. After a time he could take no more, whatever the consequences. He collapsed on the floor in front of him, the cat underneath him.

Neil began another prayer. ‘Oh Lord, forgive thy servant Noel his sins. May he cease to tread the paths of duplicity and subterfuge and may he come to realise the error of his ways.'

Osborne turned and stood up. The members of the group were laughing at him.

Neil said, ‘I don't know what paper you're from, but you're obviously a journalist and I doubt if you've ever sat through a mass in your life. I look forward to reading your report on today's activities. Just remember, none of us has laid a finger on you. There is no law which says that very religious people are not allowed to have a sense of humour.'

With difficulty Osborne stopped himself from punching that mocking, shiny face. Tears of rage, pain and embarrassment stinging his eyes, he picked up his shirt and jacket and left the room. He turned and snarled, ‘You'll regret this,' then slammed the door. On the landing, he reached behind to feel the hot, painful weals then gingerly pulled on his shirt and jacket and made his way downstairs, already asking himself how he might get his revenge. Before going out on the street, he paused to wipe his face and collect himself. To his left was an open door. Inside the door was a pair of shoes, the toes pointing up. The wearer was the youth with the fighter's knuckles. He lay on his back, the brown handle of a knife sticking out of his front. It had been inserted beneath his ribcage, pointing up and to his left so it found his heart. Wet blood stained his white shirt with rivulets running down both sides. Osborne did not need a doctor to tell him that the youth was dead.

Now terrified, he rushed out into the Gallowgate breathing deeply and closed the door of the centre behind him. He told himself to think rationally. The local police would have to be involved, but it was Baggo that Osborne phoned on his mobile.

* * *

Baggo returned to the room where di Falco and Bothwell were waiting, puzzled expressions on their faces. Standing over Bothwell, his voice shaking, he said, ‘This is now very serious. People are being killed. You must answer my questions or I will arrest you.'

Bothwell said nothing but his eyes were wide with fright.

Baggo said, ‘Is your reward-seeker male with a Glasgow accent?'

Bothwell nodded.

‘Do you know his name?'

He shook his head.

‘Do you know if he is connected to a religious sect?'

Bothwell started as if given an electric shock. ‘Well, on the phone he said something about the forces of Satan bearing false witness against him.'

Baggo and di Falco exchanged glances then nodded. Baggo said, ‘Well you can stop protecting your source as your friend Mr Osborne has just found him dead. I need you to tell me everything you know. Now.'

Shaking, Bothwell remained silent as he tried to cope with a situation that was as far from his comfort zone as he could imagine. ‘I got a call yesterday evening,' he said quietly. ‘It was a mobile number which I can give you. The caller was a male, probably young, with a very strong Glasgow accent. He asked me lots of questions about the reward then said he wanted to speak to me face to face. I agreed to meet him and he said he'd be on Glasgow Green near the People's Palace at five-thirty today. I had to be alone and if the police or Osborne were there it would be all off. It was then that he talked about the forces of Satan bearing false witness. That's it, honestly.'

‘And he gave no name?'

‘No.'

‘Why did you put that bit in today's paper? Didn't you realise it could put whoever it was in danger?'

‘The boss insisted.' He nodded towards the door. ‘Since we've been featuring the Knox murder our circulation has gone up dramatically. We had to keep the pot boiling, he said.'

Baggo nodded grimly. He had been surprised how aware everyone was of what
Good News
had to say about the investigation. ‘You may have kept the pot boiling, but you signed one man's death warrant. You will hear more from us. Charges will be brought. And if anyone else tries to claim the reward, you must tell us immediately, and I mean immediately. Most importantly, you must print nothing more about this inquiry without police permission. Oh, and just make sure you remain available,' he commanded. Turning to di Falco, he said, ‘We have to go to Glasgow.'

* * *

A small crowd had gathered round the entrance to the church hall in the Gallowgate. Baggo and Di Falco ducked under the blue and white crime scene tape and looked for the senior officer. A young female officer in uniform pointed them towards a big man in plain clothes standing in bright sunlight beside the outer door. He was running a hand through his hair in an harassed manner.

‘Are you forensics or photographers?' the man barked at them, screwing up his eyes.

‘We are police officers like yourself,' Baggo said, smiling broadly and producing his warrant. ‘Detective Sergeant Chandavarkar and Detective Constable di Falco. We are investigating two murders which may be connected to this one. And you are?'

‘How did you hear about this?' he demanded, ignoring the question.

‘The fellow who found the body phoned me.'

‘Why the fuck did he phone you?' There was sweat running down the man's highly-coloured face. He did not look like someone who enjoyed hot weather.

‘It's a long story, which I can tell you. But we would like to see the body.'

The man's eyebrows shot up and he gasped. Then his eyes narrowed and he put his face up to Baggo's. His breath reeked of bad teeth. ‘I don't know if you are taking the fucking piss but you'd better stop now. This is a Glasgow crime scene and I'm not going to let people I don't know trample all over it just because they've had a phone call. If we let anyone who'd had a fucking phone call turn up and look at crime scenes we'd be in the National Trust for Scotland, and we don't do fucking cream teas either. So go away.'