A Turbulent Priest (11 page)

“You did nothing?”

“Oh yes, we did something. We went through the proper channels.” There was a ring of irony in the way he said the phrase, from this least ironic of men. Perhaps he regretted now that he had not raced off to confront the man who had abused his son, that he had let the boy down in a situation that called for emotion, not reason. “I rang Canon O’Leary at St Mary’s. He gave me the name of a man in the diocese whose job it was to deal with such things.” He looked as if he was surprised even after his eyes had been opened that there should be such a man available.

“And he saw you quickly?”

“Very quickly. He came over from Manchester the same night. I rang at seven-thirty and he was with us within two hours.”

I’ll bet he was, thought Peach grimly — rushing to put the lid on this before it got to the ears of the police. Lucky for him he was dealing with so dutiful a Catholic as Keith Hanlon. But perhaps not so lucky for Bickerstaffe, in the long run. He said sardonically, “I expect he asked you not to contact the police.”

Hanlon caught his tone, rushed even in this to defend his Church and its servants. “No. He said that was our right, if we chose to use it. That we could still choose to use that right, even if what he proposed didn’t work to our satisfaction. But our first thoughts must be for Jamie and the impact this would have on him. He said he had experience of court cases where children had to give evidence. In his experience, it had usually been traumatic for them. He said he would go and talk to Father Bickerstaffe, see what he had to say for himself. Then he’d come back to us and discuss what should be done next.”

Percy was compelled to a reluctant admiration for this unseen negotiator. He seemed a clever bugger, which was almost the highest accolade accorded in the Peach catalogue. He said neutrally, “So you agreed that that was what he should do?”

“Yes. You must remember that at this time we thought Jamie was the only boy involved.” Bet this clever bugger who came to see them didn’t, thought Peach. Bet he knew the pattern, knew what to expect underneath when he turned over the stone. Hanlon went on, “Mr Farrell was as good as his word. He rang the presbytery from our house, went up to see Father Bickerstaffe that night, although it was after half-past ten. I don’t know how long he was up there, but he came back to see us the next day, as promised. We found then that there were other boys involved, that Jamie wasn’t the only one, apparently not even the first.”

“And he persuaded you that you should not go to the police.”

“Yes. He said he was a kind of trouble-shooter, that he had experience of these things. The less publicity involved, the better for the children, he said.”

And the better for Holy Mother Church, thought Peach sourly. Sweep it under the carpet; behave as though it hadn’t happened, as though priests were not subject to the temptations and the failures of other men, as though this was a one-off case. “And obviously you went along with that advice, or we shouldn’t now be hearing about it for the first time. I’m still trying to get a clear picture of this. I’m sure my own reaction would have been to race off and thump the man who had done this to my son. Would you please tell me again, Mr Hanlon, what your feelings were about Father Bickerstaffe when you found out that this had happened?”

A quick glance again at his wife before he replied, as if he needed the reassurance of her support before he spoke. “I told you: I was devastated. At first I couldn’t believe it. Then, when I had to, things moved so quickly. All within the same evening we had heard the news, we were visited by people who seemed to know all about these things and we had agreed to go along with the solution they suggested. There — well, there didn’t seem to be time to digest anything, somehow. I remember us both sitting in this room at one o’clock in the morning, not saying much to each other, still not quite able to believe what had happened.”

“And what about the following morning, and the days which followed that?”

Suddenly, without anyone turning to her, Pat Hanlon took up the dialogue. “Keith was angry, very angry, as anyone would be. I was as furious as he was, but in a different way, almost as if I had myself been defiled by what that man had done to Jamie. Keith wanted to go up to the Sacred Heart and have it out with him, but I knew that he wasn’t rational, that he might actually strike the man who had disgraced his cloth and defiled our son.” Even now, Peach thought, the magic of the priesthood held strong in this pious household, so that it was not clear which of these two things had shocked her more.

“So you persuaded him not to confront Father Bickerstaffe.”

“Yes. We’ve all worshipped at St Mary’s since then. We shall go back to the Sacred Heart now that we know that it will be served by a different priest.”

Now that it is cleared of that malign influence, thought Peach. Or now that you have eliminated this man who has done the unthinkable from God’s earth? He said tersely, “I must address this question to both of you. Had you anything to do with the death of John Bickerstaffe?”

This time they did not look at each other. They stared straight ahead and said, “No,” almost in unison. Hanlon added an “Of course not” which sounded peculiarly lame in this dramatic context.

“You will have gathered that we are treating his death as murder. Have you any idea, then, who might have killed him?”

On this, they did accord each other that now-familiar look of mutual support. Then Keith Hanlon said, “No. We were as shocked as anyone when we heard the news. We know that others have suffered as we have done, but I can’t think that anyone would do this.”

To a priest, he had almost said, thought Percy. He was suddenly sick of this suffocatingly pious atmosphere, wondering what it obfuscated, how much it was being used to mask the naked human passions of hatred and revenge. He said harshly, “We need a full account of your movements on Thursday the twentieth of August. Both of you.”

This time Pat Hanlon gave her husband a little smile as they looked at each other, as if to say, ‘Don’t worry! We anticipated this. And it means the ordeal is almost over’. But even if that is indeed what she intended, thought Lucy Blake as she prepared to write down the details, it could all be perfectly innocent: the guiltless as well as the guilty felt the tension of involvement in a murder investigation.

Keith Hanlon didn’t make the pretence of being uncertain, of not having anticipated this question. He said, “I was in the office for most of the day. At about three thirty, I took some documents over to Preston, to Arkright and Sons, Solicitors, in Fishergate. You can easily check it with them, but I must have arrived there soon after four, stayed for about ten minutes, and then left. My boss in Brunton had said it wasn’t worth going back into the office that afternoon, so I did a little shopping in Preston and then came back home. I suppose it must have been five to five-thirty when I got back here.”

There was scarcely a pause before Pat Hanlon said, “You can’t check on me quite as easily as Keith. I work three mornings a week in a pre-school nursery. Thursday isn’t one of them. So, as far as I can remember, I was in the house or the garden here almost all day on that Thursday. I think I went down to the bakery near here for some bread early in the afternoon, and then I was here until Keith came in as he said — I can’t be any more precise than he is about the exact time that was, but it was certainly some time after five.”

They looked at each other for confirmation, with the air of inexperienced amateur actors, relieved to have delivered their lines without a prompt. Lucy Blake, hoping she would be able to decipher her improvised shorthand later, said, “Is there anyone who can verify these late afternoon times?”

Pat Hanlon shrugged. “Only the children. And I’d rather they weren’t brought into this, if it can be avoided. The whole thing has been quite disturbing enough for them.”

“It shouldn’t be necessary for us to speak to them,” said Peach. He frowned from one to the other of the parents, his black eyebrows beetling beneath the shining dome of his baldness. “Not at this stage, anyway. What about the rest of that evening?”

Keith Hanlon was straight in on the heels of the question, as if he had been waiting for his cue. “We were here. Did half an hour in the garden, tidying up the borders, then watched television for the rest of the night, as far as I can remember.”

You can remember, thought Peach grimly. You could give me the programmes, probably describe their content, if you were pressed. But what did all that mean? This pair were so versed in piety, so controlled by religious behaviour for years, that it provided a natural shield for them against outsiders, one of which they were probably not even aware.

He said, “If either of you thinks of anything which might help us to arrest a murderer, it’s your duty to let us know immediately.” He was at the door before Lucy Blake had closed her notebook and stood up. He had only just avoided saying ‘your Christian duty’.

***

In the front garden of Superintendent Thomas Tucker, the roses bloomed in their September glory. Roses were a cliché of well-being in the police world. An established bed of them betokened that their cultivator had enjoyed a certain degree of success, felt that he would not have to move house again, and was looking towards his pension and a serene retirement. And Tommy Bloody Tucker’s roses certainly wouldn’t be short of bullshit, Percy Peach reflected, as he walked between them to the front door of the solid Edwardian house.

The door opened as if by some electric signal as he approached. Tucker’s head appeared beside it like that of an apprehensive tortoise surveying the world beyond its shell. “Come into the front room,” he said, and led his Inspector stealthily across the high hall.

“He hasn’t told that harridan of a wife I was coming. He’s frightened to death of a bollocking for bringing his work home at the weekend,” Percy Peach divined happily. Percy had nicknamed Mrs Tucker the great auk. Most people thought it was simply a reference to her large and prominent Roman nose, but Percy would point out to whoever would listen that the formidable Barbara was obviously ‘fowl’ and should certainly be extinct. She must be perched in the rear regions of this large house, or Tucker would not have been so furtive.

“What’s all this about visiting our MP without my permission?” the Superintendent began when he had shut the door. He found it difficult to be angry in a low voice.

“Been buggering about with children, sir. I thought it my duty,” said Peach stiffly, standing to attention like a young constable. Then he added, “And almost literally, we believe, sir!” He smiled with a sudden contentment that his language should be so accurate.

“Now look, Peach, if you’re going to convince me that Mrs Bradbury has been assaulting children, you’ll need to be very sure indeed of your ground. If I’m—”

“Oh no, sir! Ha, ha, ha!” Peach’s theatrical laugh set the chandelier tinkling and made Tucker look fearfully towards the rear of the house. “Not Elsie Bradbury. The very idea! Ha, ha! You mustn’t go spreading rumours about our Elsie round the town.” Elsie Bradbury had been the Labour MP for Brunton for thirty years, holding her seat narrowly through the dark days of Thatcherism and triumphantly with the revival of the party under the man she called affectionately ‘Our young Turk, Mr Blair.’ She was a model MP, in her seventies and respected by all parties in the house. The town’s large health centre and other amenities stemmed from her tireless championing of the area. “You mustn’t attack our Elsie, sir, however much you feel tempted. Unless you have genuine grounds for suspicion, of course. If you’d like me to make a few inquiries into her background, in my own discreet way, then I’ll—”

“Peach, shut up and tell me who the hell this MP was!”

Tucker’s voice had the intensity of a man near to his breaking point, and Percy took heed. “Charles Courcey, sir. MP for the Hodder Valley. Oh, he tried to come the ‘de Courcey’ with me, but I wasn’t having that. I reminded him about his father’s bankruptcy and—”

“Peach! You haven’t been annoying Charles Courcey?”

“Yes, sir. I have, sir!” Peach, who still hadn’t been asked to sit down, moved to the sheepskin rug in front of the green-tiled fireplace and beamed, like a schoolboy awaiting the approval of a fond parent.

Tucker’s jaw had dropped, and for a moment it looked as if it would stay dropped. Then he said in anguished woe, “But Charles Courcey is a Grand Master!”

“Yes, sir. Master of trouser-dropping, if you ask me. Master of rent-boys, perhaps. Master of—”

“Grand Master of his Lodge, I mean, you fool! Courcey is a very important man, Peach, who can do you and me a lot of damage.”

“Ah, the Masons, sir.” The puzzlement lifted in slow motion from Percy’s face and was replaced by a beatific smile, as he simulated comprehension of this news. “But that doesn’t leave him free from prosecution, sir, does it? Not unless I’ve missed some circular from the Crown Prosecution Service, which is always possible, of course, the rate they fire bumf out these days. The computer and the photocopier have a lot to answer for, if you ask me, and it’s not impossible that—”

“
Peach
!” Tucker’s shout stemmed the torrent of words from his abominable visitor, but he was immediately aware that it must have penetrated the nethermost regions of the house. He lowered his voice again. “Of course Masons have no special privileges when it comes to the law. I’m just saying you have to be careful, that’s all. My God, man, you’ve no grasp at all of public relations.”