Sins of the Fathers (7 page)

‘Why would he have wanted to do that?'

‘I am no psychologist, but it seems to me that the attack which ended the victim's life – and the mutilation which followed it – were both spurred on by very deep emotion. The aim of mutilation, I think, was to humiliate Bradley Pine – even in death.'

‘Why?'

‘I don't know,' the doctor confessed.

‘But you could make a guess?'

‘Perhaps. Did you know that when the British pulled out of India, and my poor country was partitioned, I was living there myself?'

‘No, I didn't,' Woodend admitted.

‘The sectarian violence which broke out, once your soldiers and policemen had withdrawn, was terrible to behold. Moslems massacred Hindus, and Hindus massacred Moslems. No one was spared – not the old, not the young, not the crippled and infirm. And in some cases, the massacres were followed by mutilation of the corpses. I saw some of those mutilated bodies. The outrages committed on them were not a perfect match with what was done to Mr Pine, but I sensed the same kind of rage at work.'

‘So our killer was a very angry man?'

‘Our killer, I believe, felt an anger such as you and I have never experienced – and hopefully never will.'

H
er mind and emotions firmly back in the present – though still deeply scarred by the events of the past – Monika Paniatowski took up a strategic position next to the font and – even though she knew that Father O'Brien was long dead – found herself scanning the church for signs of the old enemy.

Not a member of the clergy in sight, she noted. In fact, the only people in the church at that particular moment were several old ladies – and one old man – who were knelt stiffly in prayer in the pews in front of the high altar.

She felt the urge to smoke – partly to calm her nerves, partly as an act of defiance – but then she remembered something that Charlie Woodend had told her early on in their working relationship.

‘Whatever you do, don't go rubbin' up potential witnesses the wrong way, Monika,'
Woodend had said.

‘Never?'

‘Never!'
Woodend had confirmed sternly. Then he'd chuckled, and continued.
‘Unless, of course, you think you can squeeze some advantage out of makin' them lose their rag.'

But there was no advantage to be gained from rubbing up the priests of this church the wrong way.

At least, not yet!

She found herself wondering how Woodend would have reacted if he'd been the priest sitting on the other side of that confessional grill of her childhood.

Would he have sat back, and done nothing to save her?

Would he have gone out and drunk a few friendly pints of Guinness with her abuser?

Of course he wouldn't. He'd have been more likely to take the man round the back of the church for a few quiet words, and when they returned, the abuser would have both a black eye and a pronounced limp.

Yes, that was how Charlie Woodend would have handled it if he'd been that priest. But then, Charlie would never have contemplated becoming a priest in the first place.

She heard a set of heavy footsteps approaching from her left, and turning, saw that a youngish priest – certainly not more than thirty or thirty-one years old – was walking towards her.

He smiled warmly. ‘I am Father Taylor,' he said. ‘And who might you be, my child?'

‘I'm far too old to be your child,' Monika said, thinking, even as she spoke, that she was certainly
sounding
childish.

‘I didn't mean to offend you,' the priest told her, his smile still firmly in place.

‘And, as regards your question, I
might
be any number of people,' Monika continued, trying to sound more adult – trying to sound more
sophisticated
. ‘But, as it happens, I'm a detective sergeant from Whitebridge CID.'

The priest did not even look at the warrant card she was holding out to him, nor did he seem the least put off by her deliberate rudeness.

‘What's your name?' he asked gently.

‘It's on the card.'

‘I'm sure it is, but I haven't got my reading glasses with me.'

‘I'm Sergeant Paniatowski.'

‘Do you have a Christian name?'

‘Not being a Christian, I'd have to say that I don't. But I do have a
first
name.'

Why was she acting like this, she asked herself. Father O'Brien had been an ugly old man with bad teeth, a squint and a wart on the end of his nose. Father Taylor had fine white teeth, and the nose and eyes of a Hollywood leading man. They had nothing in common – except, of course, that once you'd learned to detest one priest, it was very easy to learn to detest all of them.

‘So what's this
first
name of yours?' Father Taylor asked.

‘It's “Sergeant”!' Paniatowski said, still refusing to soften to this man of the distrusted cloth.

The young priest laughed easily. ‘Now that is an unusual name, whether you're a Christian
or
a heathen,' he said. ‘So let me see if I've got this straight – you're Sergeant Sergeant Paniatowski, are you?'

Paniatowski laughed too, despite herself. ‘No, not really,' she said. ‘I'm Monika.'

‘And my Christian name is Fred,' the priest told her. ‘You may call me Father Fred, if you wish.'

‘How about if we forget the “Father” business and I simply call you Fred?' Paniatowski asked.

‘That would be fine,' the priest conceded. ‘Though most Catholics do normally put a “Father” in front of it.'

‘I've already told you I'm not a Catholic,' Paniatowski said.

The priest laughed again. ‘Of course you are,' he insisted. ‘I spotted you as belonging to the True Faith the moment you walked through the door. And I'm never wrong.'

‘You are this time,' Paniatowski insisted.

The priest slowly shook his head from side to side. ‘You may deny it – you may not even know it to be true – but you're tied to Mother Church by bonds of faith as strong as steel.'

‘I'm investigating a murder,' Paniatowski said.

The smile drained from Father Taylor's face, and was replaced by a troubled expression.

‘Ah yes, poor Mr Pine,' he said. ‘But I've already told the other policemen everything I know.'

‘
What
other policemen?'

‘The ones your Inspector Rutter sent to talk to me, after I'd phoned the police station and told him Mr Pine had been here last night.'

Oh God, with everything that had been going on, she'd almost forgotten that Bob was back, Paniatowski thought.

But he
was
back, and she'd have to see him later – however much she might dread the prospect.

‘Is something wrong?' Father Taylor asked.

‘No. Why should there be?'

‘You've suddenly gone rather pale.'

‘Maybe that's because I don't like churches,' Paniatowski said aggressively. ‘Would you mind going over the same ground with me that you probably went over with them?' she continued, a little less harshly.

‘Not in the slightest,' Father Taylor replied. ‘I want to do everything I can to help.'

‘Did you notice anything odd about Mr Pine last night?'

‘We're all odd in our own ways. It's the way God made us. But I certainly wouldn't say that Bradley Pine was any more than his “normal” odd – which is to say, just about as odd as you or I.'

‘How well did you know him?'

‘Not well at all, I'm afraid.'

‘Because he's not a regular church-goer? Because he didn't start putting in appearances at this church until he'd clinched the Conservative nomination and worked out he'd need the Catholic vote?'

‘I wonder if you can really be as cynical as you seem?' Father Taylor asked, looking pained. ‘I pray that you aren't.'

‘You still haven't answered my question,
Fred
,' Monika Paniatowski said flatly.

‘You're right, of course. The answer that you're looking for is that I didn't know him well because he chose not to know
me
well.'

‘I understand every word in that last sentence, but put them all together and I'm still not sure you've actually told me anything I wanted to know,' Paniatowski said.

‘Then I'll explain it in another way, which hopefully you'll find clearer,' Father Taylor said. ‘Most of our parishioners have one particular priest with whom they feel especially comfortable, and Mr Pine felt especially comfortable with Father Kenyon.'

‘Why is that? Don't you have much pull with the older parishioners? Are you here mainly to attract the younger set?'

Father Taylor laughed good-naturedly again.

‘It's nothing like as simple as that, Monika,' he said. ‘As you can plainly see for yourself, I'm a priest, not a pop star. Some of the older parishioners prefer to talk to me, and some of the younger ones are much happier with Father Kenyon. I like to think that each makes his or her own choice, although, of course, we are
all
guided by God.'

‘So how long would you say Bradley Pine was here?' Paniatowski asked briskly.

‘I wasn't keeping a record, but I would guess it was a little more than half an hour.'

‘That's an awful lot of praying,' Paniatowski said.

‘Do you think so?' Father Taylor asked, with just a hint of reproach in his voice. ‘It seems to me that since we're all such miserable sinners, we can never have too much prayer.'

‘After he'd prayed, did he go to confess his sins?' asked Paniatowski, who was starting to feel uneasy – and was not quite sure why.

‘Yes, he did.'

‘To Father Kenyon?'

‘To God. Although Father Kenyon was certainly there in the confessional with both of them.'

‘Do you know where I'll find Father Kenyon at the moment?' Paniatowski asked.

‘I saw him go into the vestry about five minutes ago.'

‘And do you think it will be all right if I disturbed him?'

‘I don't see why not. I think he only went in there for a smoke. He's a terrible slave to the weed.'

‘I think I could use a cigarette myself,' Paniatowski told him.

‘I've no doubt you could. It's always a strain.'

‘What is? A murder investigation?'

‘I wouldn't know about that. But I
do
know it's a strain setting your feet on the right path again.'

‘The only path I'm looking for is the one that leads to the vestry,' Paniatowski said tartly. ‘Which way is it?'

‘Straight through that door,' Father Taylor said, pointing.

‘I'll see you again, Fred,' Monika said.

‘Yes, I rather think you will,' Father Taylor agreed.

Paniatowski was halfway between the priest and the vestry door when she heard Father Taylor call out, ‘Oh, Monika, one more thing.'

She stopped, and turned around. ‘Yes?'

‘I just want you to know that when you
do
return to the Church, I won't take offence if it's Father Kenyon whom you choose to welcome you back.'

T
he green Ford Cortina, which had belonged to the late Bradley Pine, was parked in the alleyway which ran between the backs of the houses in Gladstone Street and the backs of those on Palmerston Row.

The car, like its late owner, had been put through some very unpleasant and disfiguring experiences. It no longer had its windscreen wipers or indicator lights, and was resting wheel-less on piles of old bricks. The boot had been forced open, and whatever it might once have contained had been removed. And a quick glance under the bonnet revealed to Bob Rutter that the car no longer had an engine.

‘Round here, they'll nick
anything
that's not actually nailed down,' Sergeant Dix said in disgust. ‘In fact, even if it
is
nailed down, these buggers will find some way to prise it up.'

‘Do you think this could be the spot where Pine was killed?' Rutter wondered.

‘I doubt it,' Dix replied.

‘Why?'

‘Well, for a start, what reason would he have had for even
being
here in the first place?' the sergeant said.

Then he chuckled to himself.

‘What's so funny?' Rutter asked.

‘I was just thinking – a posh gentleman like Mr Pine wouldn't be seen
dead
in a place like this.'

Dix had a point, Rutter thought. Policemen came to Greenfields. Debt collectors came to Greenfields. But anybody who didn't actually
have to
visit it steered well clear of the area.

Besides, it was over two miles to the lay-by where Pine's body had been found, and it seemed improbable that the killer would have taken him from here to there, and then driven the car back to the scene of the crime. It was much more likely that abandoning the car in the alleyway was no more than the last in the chain of events which began with the actual murder.

The vandals who had wrecked most of the car had kindly left the door handles in place, so Rutter was able to open the back door and look inside.

‘Do you think that's blood?' he asked, pointing to a brownish, half-moon shaped stain on the back seat.

‘Certainly looks like it to me,' Dix said.

Rutter glanced up, first at the back bedroom windows in Gladstone Terrace and then at the ones in Palmerston Row. As his gaze fell on several of the windows, the curtains twitched.

He was being watched from nearly every one of those bedroom windows, he thought.

‘What do you think are the chances that, even though there was a thick fog last night, a few of the people who are watching us now also saw the killer abandon the Cortina?' he asked Dix.

‘Very high,' Dix told him. ‘It's almost a racing certainty. A decent car like this one couldn't go a hundred yards through this area without being spotted. And once it
had
been spotted, it would be tracked. It was probably being dismantled within a minute or two of the killer abandoning it.'