The Good Priest (19 page)

‘Yes?'

‘If a book – your book – stolen from the Bishop's office, ever came to light, came to your attention, would you let me know? At present, as you'll appreciate, we can do
nothing. Devote neither time, money nor sweat to the matter. With no theft reported, I can devote no resources to it – however much I might like to. But I would like to help – to see it, whatever it may contain.'

‘Yes, I'd let you know immediately,' Father Vincent replied, without a moment's hesitation. If the Church's attitude to paedophilia had genuinely changed, as was asserted on an almost daily basis by the hierarchy from the Pope downwards, there could be no reason to withhold the thing from the police. Not that there ever had been one, in his view, whatever those who covered up such things in the past might say. It would contain evidence, be evidence, just as much as fingerprints, DNA or fibres of fabric. Anyway, if Rome had, not before time, decided that the Augean stables were to be cleaned out, he would wield a dung-shovel eagerly, along with the rest of them, whether they wore cassocks, uniforms or plainclothes. In fact he would do it, even if Rome had not changed.

Abruptly, the policeman stood up, walked towards him and, to Vincent's surprise, extended a large ham of a hand towards him. ‘Good luck, Father,' he said. ‘You're a good man. If you need my help, just ask.'

Pleased that Keegan seemed to have understood his predicament, and appeared to trust him, he took his hand and shook it gladly. At last, he thought to himself, he was not on his own. He had found an ally, and a powerful one at that.

In the garden of the Bishop's office in Dundee, Monsignor Drew was seated at one end of the white cast-iron bench
and Father McBride sat at the other. Both men were enjoying the warmth of the spring sunshine, their eyes shut, arms folded over their bellies and legs crossed. The sun glinted off their highly polished black leather brogues, as if they were made of jet. Neither was actually asleep but both were uncomfortably full, weighed down by a steak and kidney pudding, courtesy of Sister Celia. Like a mother blackbird, all of her maternal urges were channelled into feeding them, attending to their gaping beaks. And happily, unlike any other fledglings, they would never leave the nest.

The petals of the snowdrops in the garden had withered, leaving behind green seed heads on spindly stalks. A single daffodil had forced its way through the hard earth and stood erect, head tight, still furled, like a lone bather unwilling to remove her towel and expose her body to the cold air.

Just as the Monsignor was about to drop off, his mobile rang and, rubbing his eyes, he answered it. ‘I see, Alison. Yes. He's got no appointment? Then send him away. Insistent, was he, indeed! Oh, he'll wait, will he – till Kingdom come if need be. Aha. No, no, not to worry. If you've got to go, you've got to go. Send him out. Yes, now. I've a few minutes to spare before I set off for St Andrews.'

‘Botheration!' he said to himself as he stuffed his mobile back into his pocket.

‘What is it?' Father McBride asked, his eyes still closed, basking in the unseasonal warmth.

‘Vincent Ross is on the rampage again. Honest to God, you'd think
I
was the one who'd done wrong, the way he's taken to hounding me.'

‘That's the one that had a woman on the side, eh? Will I leave the pair of you alone?'

‘If you please, Kevin.'

The young priest rose, stretched his arms skywards, yawned noisily like a dog and wandered off in the direction of the Bishop's office. Vincent nodded at him as they passed one another, aware that the other priest offered no greeting in return.

‘Vincent!' the Monsignor said, patting the space on the bench beside him in an avuncular fashion, but not leaning back as before. ‘Lovely day, eh,' he added affably, ‘and rare enough for this time of year.'

‘Lovely, Dominic. It is a lovely day,' Vincent began, ‘and thanks for seeing me. You'll be in a rush, Alison told me. I just came to let you know that I saw the police again, earlier today.'

‘Mother of God! What have you done now?' Monsignor Drew exclaimed, blinking hard and looking at the man beside him with horror.

‘Nothing. I've done nothing,' Vincent replied, antagonised, catching a glimpse of his superior's real opinion of him. ‘I went there of my own accord. I went because Nicholas Rowe told me that when the Bishop was assaulted, a book was taken by his attacker.'

‘You went to the police about that! How did you come to be seeing Nick in the first place?'

‘It's a long story. Too long, trust me; you'll not have the time. I know you're due to leave for St Andrews, Alison made a point of telling me. Suffice it to say, I visited him, at his request, in Perth Prison.'

‘He's a blessed troublemaker, that one,' the Monsignor said, shaking his head. ‘A bad apple – ready to infect the whole barrel with his horrible brown mould.'

‘He told me about the book, the record which detailed the misdeeds of the priests of the diocese. He said that it had been stolen.'

‘Rubbish. It's all complete rubbish, Vincent. You should know better. He's a troublemaker. I told you he simply wants to blacken the Church, besmirch it.'

‘So it hasn't been stolen?'

‘He's a bad one, him. He'll say anything …'

‘The book wasn't stolen?'

‘There is,' the Monsignor snapped, rising to his feet and looking down at his colleague, ‘
no
such book!'

‘But,' Vincent said, genuinely taken aback by the response, ‘there's bound to be, surely? You employ these people, us … apart from anything else, you'd need a record of such things. You decide where they go, when they go, whether they go …'

‘Vincent!' Monsignor Drew retorted, ‘I've heard enough, really,
enough
! You misbehave – do wrong, in short, and then harry me, and there's no other word for it – demanding, yes, you did, you demanded to be reinstated. I'm finding this intolerable, quite intolerable …'

‘Monsignor Drew,' Vincent replied hotly, rising to his feet and facing his colleague, ‘I didn't come here to “harry” you about anything. I never even mentioned my own case.'

‘Your case, your case,' the Monsignor muttered, ‘all you can think about is your case. You're obsessed. You did wrong and you simply have to accept the consequences.'

‘As I said,' Father Vincent continued, ‘I haven't come about my case. I've come about the theft of the book. The police say …'

‘There is,' Monsignor Drew said, his face now flushed with temper, ‘no such book. No such record. How dare you, you of all people, set yourself up in this way? Out of good manners, I agreed to see you. You have made no appointment but, nonetheless, I see you. I'm supposed to be somewhere else already, but for you I made an exception And here you are harrying me about yourself, about some non-existent book …'

‘You have no record of the misdemeanours of any priests in the diocese then? Let's see, shall we? Suppose in 2006 Father … Father Christmas, a known alcoholic, abuses a child in his parish of Gateside, a complaint is received and dealt with. The man goes to prison. When he comes out, after counselling and whatever else you give them, he applies to you for another job in the diocese. Are you telling me that you, his employers, have kept no records about him?'

‘How dare you attempt to cross-examine me!'

‘No,' Vincent retorted, ‘how dare you hide things, after all that has happened …'

In his cold fury, he could not bring himself to finish his sentence, or even look at the other priest.

The Monsignor suddenly sat back down on the bench, eyes closed and head bowed. He put his hands together as if in prayer, but hooked his thumbs under his chin, breathing slowly in and out between his fingers, as if to calm himself.

‘Vincent,' he said quietly, the sound of his voice muffled by his hands, ‘sit down.'

‘No.'

‘Who did you see at the police station?'

‘A Detective Chief Inspector Keegan.'

‘Fine. Good. I repeat – no such book was stolen. It was not removed.'

‘That,' Father Vincent replied, turning his back and walking away in disgust, ‘is not what you said.'

Sister Monica, giving way to Vincent's pressure, and taking his sorry state into account, had finally relented and accepted a glass of his best South African Cabernet Sauvignon. They were sitting, side by side, in the communal lounge with only Bertie for company. The bird was scuttling up and down its cage continuously, patrolling it as if annoyed that nobody was paying any attention to it and intent upon remedying the situation.

‘What d'you taste?' Father Vincent asked, swirling the wine around his glass, putting his nose to the rim to catch its full bouquet. He would make a connoisseur of her yet.

‘Sweetness, earthiness, fruitiness, nothing very unexpected.'

‘No hint of cherries – no undertone of violets? No breath of damp grass?'

‘Have you had anything to eat tonight, Vincent?'

‘No. No trace of vanilla oak spice? Not a smidgeon of tobacco?'

The parrot came to a halt at the level of the nun's ear and bellowed, ‘
Not a smidgeon of tobacco
?'

‘Sssh, Bertie!'

‘It's full-bodied like a … medieval kitchen maid, or an aged …'

‘Scottish nun? I thought I'd better get it in first!'

‘
Get it in first, get it in first, get it
…'

‘Sssh, Bertie.'

‘
Sssh, Bertie!
' the bird repeated, his head cocked to one side, fixing the woman with his unblinking stare, his pupils like pinpricks, his beak opening and closing silently as if struck dumb.

‘Bertie,' she said returning his gaze, ‘I'll only say this to you once, only once, mind. Any more of your antics and I'll get the cloth cover. The
cloth cover
, OK?'

Father Vincent's phone chimed, letting him know he had a text. As he read it, he laughed out loud.

‘Well, well,' he said, putting the phone back in his pocket, ‘there's a thing. That's Fergus McClaverty, the solicitor, the one investigating me, the whole mess. He's arrived here now. He'd like to see me this very minute.'

‘Good luck,' Sister Monica said, finishing her wine and adding, ‘take the Sophie Barrat room. It's not been used today because the reiki session was cancelled, but it was cleaned this morning in readiness for it. We'll put your supper in the oven.'

In his traineeship with Elliott & Elliott, Vincent had taken hundreds of precognitions. The skill in taking them, he had learned over time, was to know as much as possible about the subject matter before the first question was asked, but to keep an open mind. With even a little knowledge,
conflicting versions of events could more quickly be recognised and, sometimes, even reconciled. Differing perceptions could be properly explained, inconsistencies checked out and illogicality exposed. It was a sifting process. Sometimes there genuinely was more than one version of the truth. Fergus McClaverty, a bluff young fellow with a fashionably large-knotted tie and hair brushed flat over one side of his forehead, did an adequate job. But he did not attempt to hide his own complete ignorance of the facts, and asked, ‘The woman, was she married?'

‘Yes.'

Surprised that he had not known at least this, Father Vincent enquired quite mildly whether he had been given any information from on high about the situation he was supposed to be investigating. No, he replied artlessly, there had been a letter of instruction but in the afternoon rush he had not had a chance to go back to the office and reread it. Hector Alexander, his senior partner, had waylaid him on his way back from an employment tribunal and redirected him here.

‘So, this morning, you had no idea that we'd be speaking together?'

‘This morning,' the young man smiled, patting his smooth hair to check that it was still in place, ‘I thought I'd be taking my girlfriend to Nando's in Perth tonight. So someone on high must have fairly yanked old Hector's tail. Suddenly, this report has become
quam primum
!'

Three of the nuns were watching the television. Curled up like a dormouse, Sister Agnes had fallen asleep in a
large armchair, her spindly legs in their oversized slippers dangling an inch or two above the fawn-coloured carpet. Gentle snores emanated from her open mouth.

‘It's the news,' Sister Monica said, as he took the chair beside her, ‘it's nearly over. We're on the regional bit. Have you had a bite to eat yet?'

‘Yes, and I've washed up my plate …'

‘Murder, murder and more murder – in Glasgow,' Sister Frances chipped in, ‘or murder, football, more murder and more football – in Glasgow.'

‘The police were called today …' the newsreader began, batting her long eyelashes at her viewers, ‘to a house in the village of Cleish, Kinross-shire …'

‘My! An east coast murder?' Sister Frances murmured. ‘By a Glaswegian, no doubt.'

‘Sssh!' Sister Monica hissed, determined for once to hear the whole report.

‘… where an elderly gentleman, Mr Patrick Yule, aged eighty-two …'

‘Patrick Yule!'

‘Sssh!'

‘… was found dead. His death is being treated by the police as suspicious. And now to the football …'

‘Patrick Yule! Of all people – how dreadful! I thought he was already dead,' Sister Monica said, switching the sound down and turning to her colleague in amazement.

‘Yes, Patrick! Murdered. It's hard to take in.'

‘Who's Patrick Yule?' Father Vincent asked, picking up his half bottle of wine and recorking it. He put it under his arm and switched off the standard lamp next to him.
From under his cover the parrot drawled sleepily ‘Hail Mary, full of … rum 'n' Coke.'

‘It was when the convent was still going. That would be in the seventies, I suppose?' Sister Monica asked.