The Blood That Stains Your Hands (29 page)

I glance back at her. She's not looking too impressed. I don't think I even get a look of grudging acknowledgement.

'The man was dreadful, and if that's what being a Christian means, then I want no part of it. I'm glad he's gone.'

'There's the difference, I suppose. I'm not looking at it from the point of Christianity or the Church.'

'Well, under the circumstances, Sergeant, forgive me if I do.'

Look down at the floor. The nagging doubts are breaking through the barricades of wilful blindness. Words come out, even though I ought to be keeping them to myself.

'It doesn't make sense, though, does it? He has this immaculate plan which he carries out to perfection...'

'I wouldn't use the word immaculate.'

'He'd been bang on in everything he'd done, didn't care whether or not he made enemies. You can see that he was the kind of man who accepted antagonism and bitterness as part of the way he carried out his business. So, why now? Now that he had what he wanted, he'd won, everything was settling down, why now avenge himself in such a public way? Why, when you've done all the hard work, open yourself up to ruin?'

I turn and look at her. She doesn't seem impressed.

'Well, whether it was you personally or not, Sergeant, it was your lot who arrested him, so maybe you want to go and speak to that policeman who was on the television last night.'

Perhaps not him.

'No one will thank you if you get Cartwright released, however,' she adds.

I should shut up about the case. Every name is on the table, after all, and why wouldn't Mrs Buttler be on the list? The e-mail thing reeks of a scam or a set-up.

'There's a headstone out there,' I say, moving the conversation off the contentious subject of Cartwright. 'The lettering seems clearer than most of the others.
And they that be wise shall shine as the brightness of the firmament
. I mean, it's not been done particularly recently, just looks...'

She's nodding.

'I know the one,' she says. 'It's always been like that. I mean, the thirty years or so that I've noticed it. I presume one of his family had it added at some point. Maybe after the war? I don't know if anyone ever looked into it.'

'The quote is...?'

'Daniel 12:3.'

'Daniel. There's a lot of Daniel.'

'It's one of the popular books,' she says, smiling. 'Sometimes even when people don't realise it. Stories of oppression and apocalyptic visions.'

'A box of frogs,' I say. 'I know, I've read it.'

'Frogs?' She shakes her head, smiling.

'That's what they say,' I reply, returning the smile.

I sit for a little while longer. I think I just about rescued my relationship with Mrs Buttler. She might still welcome me back the next time.

Out the church and stand for a few moments in the late morning tranquility of the graveyard. Look over at Webb, who is there with her hands behind her back, a long few hours ahead of her. Take a few moments, check the time, and then decide to extend the offer of a fifteen-minute break that I previously gave to Wallace.

She accepts, and I stand at the graveside of Maureen Henderson while Wallace grabs a coffee.

––––––––

I
n the coffee shop across the road from the station. Lunch. Went back in, filed my report on the angry neighbours; wrote it in fifteen minutes, spent close on forty-five before I finally managed to upload it. Made a couple of calls in relation to a small betting shop stramash from a couple of nights ago, will have to follow up one of them with a visit later this afternoon. Sat and stared at my desk for five minutes trying to think what we'd do about the toilet vandalism situation. Contemplated dipping further into the melancholic world of lost children. Finally decided to come across the road to grab a sandwich.

Mind is blank as Taylor pulls the other seat out at my table. My mind was blank because Philo Stewart keeps intruding, and I'm not ready for that yet. I'm not ready to embrace the tragedy of doomed romance.

'Tom,' he says.

I nod. 'You looking for me in particular, or did you just come out for a break and think it'd be rude not to sit down?'

He gives this a little thought and then shrugs. 'Neither,' he says. 'How's your morning been?'

'The usual kind of thing. A bit of UN peacekeeper, a bit of paperwork, a lot of getting fucked off at the dumb-ass, piece-of-shit filing system.'

He smiles briefly.

'You all right? At a guess, I'd say you're wearing the same clothes as yesterday, which is rarely a good sign.'

'I'm fine. Just couldn't bring myself to go home.'

'Why?'

He waves away the question almost as soon as it is out of his mouth, a slight look of guilt on his face at the intrusion into my grief. Perhaps an acknowledgement from him that that's what I'm suffering. Grief. Unlike the usual suffering.

'Went to the Premier Inn over at the zoo. Watched some TV. Got up this morning, came into work. I should go home tonight. Just need to get on with it.'

'I heard you were at the church.'

News travels... well, you know the rest.

'I was just along the road. Still getting my head together. Went in for a moment's peace.'

'Did you get it?'

'Yes.'

'Have you found God, or are you just going to start listening to
Slow Train Coming
and
Saved
?'

'Funny. Neither.'

'Thank God for that. You speak to anyone while you were there?'

'Mrs Buttler, the church warden.'

'You discuss the case?'

'A little. You pissed off about that?'

He shakes his head. Takes a sip of coffee. Black filter. Hot as fuck, it looks like. He takes the regulation glance over his shoulder to see who else is around. There's no one that we particularly need to avoid.

I take a bite of my cheese and tomato ciabatta with Italian basil, whatever the fuck Italian basil is compared to any other kind of basil.

'What did she think about Cartwright?'

'She's delighted. She hates him. Immediately, and you know, this is what bothers me about it, immediately you can see she's thinking,
maybe this'll be the catalyst for us to get our church back.
So why would Cartwright do it now? Why crack now? He had everything where he wanted it. He'd nailed the fucker with an inch-perfect, geometrically precise plan. Every eventuality thought of and schemed for. Nailed it. Absolutely fucking nailed it. So, why now? Why do this thing where he's not only taking a chance by murdering people, but he's doing it in this ostentatious manner, this balls-out, look at me you fuckers, look what I'm doing with all my fucked-up, crazy Book of Daniel shit? Makes no sense whatsoever.'

Taylor doesn't answer. Looks at the table, winces as he burns his lips.

'You get any more out of Cartwright?' I ask.

'Not a huge amount. Sticking to his story which, if it's true, slightly contradicts your perfectly reasonable assertion that he would've been stupid to risk anything else, because he'd already won. This guy had let the glory of success get to him. Still chasing St Stephen's. He even had actual architectural plans for how he'd redesign St Stephen's church to allow him to get planning permission, with a view to selling it off. This guy was ahead of the game. Which doesn't mean, of course, that he killed anyone, because there's a difference between scheming and, as you say, balls-out murder.'

'But what about the rest of the gang? At least two of those people hated him. And the kid? He was there because he liked granny porn?'

'He called them a committee of all the talents.'

'He didn't.'

'He did.'

'Wanker.'

'Quite. You know, you said it yourself, Sergeant. There's something about the guy. Sure, he comes across as, you know...'

'A total douchebag.'

'Aye, that. But he knows what he's doing. He's in control. He had this fired-up woman from Halfway, just desperate to make a difference to something, and duping her with the possibility of getting her church back. He had an influential woman on the inside at St Stephen's. He had the crazy woman from the Kirk, who was just dying for someone to bring her into a circle, to make her part of a team. To be somebody in this business, rather than the outsider, screaming at the moon. And the kid... quite legitimately, he was going for all ages. There are more young people at St Stephen's than in the parish now, so the kid was there to get the youth vote. So, overall they had this plan to undermine and brief against the Reverend Jones, while spreading pro-merger propaganda amongst the congregation, and he had these people briefing and lobbying for him right across the congregations of the town. The guy was good. So, yes, it really doesn't make sense that he would then kill these people.'

'And Philo Stewart was in on this?'

He nods. Finally ventures another sip of coffee.

I bite into the ciabatta and think about what she'd said. She hadn't been very forthcoming on that, but really, we'd hardly known each other.

'Why didn't she say something? You know, I... I slept with the woman. If three of five people in a little group of hers had been murdered, wouldn't it have occurred to her that she might be next?'

'They didn't know who the other members were. He wonders if they thought they knew, guessed perhaps, but they wouldn't have known for definite.'

'Fucking internet,' I mutter. 'It was so much easier when people just met in dark corners to plot and scheme.'

'Well, I don't know that it was, but it is a bag of spanners. It could go off in a thousand directions.'

'So, is it possible that Maureen and Agnes didn't even realise it was Cartwright who was running the operation, given that they hated him?'

'As a matter of fact,' he says, now more confidently swigging down coffee, 'that's right. He had a front man, who the others all thought was heading up the operation.'

'Jesus?'

He laughs.

'Sadly, no. The vicar who presided over the illicit burial of Mrs Henderson.'

'Really? I spoke to that guy yesterday.'

'Tell me about it. I'm about to head off there now.'

'We didn't get into any kind of discussion about the church and the merger and all that. Just talked about the burial. How it had come about, et cetera. He pitched the exact same story as Mrs Buttler.'

'Did you buy it?'

'Seemed legit.'

He glances at his watch, takes another swig.

'What's the plan for Cartwright?' I ask, through a mouthful of cheese and tomato.

'Hasn't changed. Still getting ourselves together. We can certainly make a case, just not sure it'll hold up. You want to come?'

'To interview the vicar?'

'Sure,' he says.

'You're not very good at kicking me off the case.'

'You have a different air about you,' he says. 'Just for this interview, see if you pick up anything different from this guy now you know there's something to look for. After that I'm speaking to Mr Stewart. Chances are I won't let you sit in on that one.'

I'm no stranger to guilt, although not usually in connection with the husbands whose wives I've slept with. Guilt, nevertheless, chooses its moment to arrive.

Taylor takes another slurp of coffee, leaves half of it and gets to his feet, perhaps sensing that I may be about to take one of my regular trips to Melancholy Street.

'Come on,' he says, 'let's move. You can finish that in the car.'

––––––––

W
aiting in the sitting room for the old guy to make a cup of tea, in amongst the total debauchery of the collected ornaments of his life. Thousands of little figures in crystal and china, and teacups and plastic flowers and wooden flowers and photographs in frames, and photographs out of frames, and frames without photographs, and wooden animals and porcelain dolls and bronze Adonises.

Adonises? Adoni?

Wonder if he's gay. Hmm. I'm not, you know, going to say that out loud. Just thinking it now as I look around the collection of stuff. Several naked male bottoms, that's all that put the thought in there.

Perhaps he's not gay, and he's got like fifty grandchildren and every Christmas they all think, what the fuck are we going to get Grandpa? Then they think, oh, I know, he likes all that boring ornamental shit, like Greek dudes with their tackle out or, I don't know, a fucking Smirnoff crystal figure of a fucking dolphin.

It's not Smirnoff, is it?

Jesus, sometimes I wish I could just switch off my head.

'This is like old person Hell,' says Taylor.

'I know.'

'Gay or recently widowed?' he asks.

I laugh as the door opens and the old fella comes in. I'm talking like he's a hundred and ten, but the guy is in his late seventies probably and still reasonably fit. There's something about him that doesn't tie in with the total bunfight of ornamentation. He's carrying two cups of tea in saucers. No biscuits.

Don't like tea without a biscuit. Taylor would probably lamp me if I asked for one of the bourbons he brought me previously.

'Chief Inspector,' he says, taking a seat. Taylor is still standing. 'What can I help you with?'

'You know Mr Paul Cartwright?' asks the boss, cutting to the chase.

'Yes.'

'In what capacity?'

'Through the church, of course. I must admit I wasn't terribly familiar with him before the merger, but we got to know each other over the last few years. And, of course—'

'And what do you think of him?' asks Taylor, cutting him off. I'd warned Taylor of the man's tendency to ramble.

He pauses, takes a loud sip of tea, gives me a glance and then smiles as the tea cup comes away from his mouth.

'He can be trying,' says the Reverend Forsyth.

'When was the last time you spoke to him?'

He lays his cup down on a side table, somehow managing to find space among all the crap.

'Last week,' he says. Taylor indicates for him to keep talking with a perfectly timed eyebrow. 'A small matter we've been discussing.'

'You want to tell us about it?'

And now you can see the thought processes running. They're all the same, whether they've got something to hide or not. Doesn't matter, the same thing goes through everyone's head when they're talking to the police: how much do the Fuzz already know?