Cemetery Lake (36 page)

‘I’m the man who just killed your daughter, Father. Her name

was Rachel Tyler. She died slowly, Dad. She was my sister, and she died slowly.’

‘Jesus,’ Father Julian says, the word coming out in a whisper, and I can hear the pain in his voice. I know that pain. I think I even said the same thing when I picked up the phone to learn

Emily was dead and my wife gone for ever.

‘I told her about you. She never knew her dad, but in the

moments before she died I told her. She knew everything she wanted to know and then more than she could handle. Do you think that knowledge comforted her?’

‘I… I…’

‘You what, Father? You don’t know? You don’t know what to

say? How do you think I felt, finding out who I was? How do you think it felt being abandoned?’

‘Please, please, don’t…’

‘Don’t what? You don’t even know what to do, do you, Father?

You feel helpless. Do you suddenly feel as though God has abandoned you? I know all about abandonment. You feel helpless and that’s exactly how Rachel felt in those last moments. Tell me, Father, do you still want to do something good for her?’

Father Julian doesn’t answer. I can hear his breathing. It sounds louder than it ought to be on a tape recorder with such a small speaker. The vocals are tinny, but that breathing is deep, like a wounded whale.

‘You can’t kill her,’ he says at last, but it’s such a ludicrous thing to say to a man who has already committed the act. ‘Please, please, tell me this is wrong.’

‘Bury her,’the. killer says.

‘What?’

‘I’mgiving you a chance, Dad. You can bury her and you can

pray over her. You can visit her as often as you want — something you never did while she was alive.’

‘This is madness,‘“Father Julian says.

‘ What other choice do you have? I have kept her for you to bury.

She is here, at your church. You cannot go to the police, because you can’t afford your parish to know she was your daughter. Or that you have others.’

‘Ihave no other children.’

‘You have me. All you can do now is bury her and pray and

maybe we’ll talk about it next time.’

‘Next time?’

But the man doesn’t answer. The confessional door opens

then closes. Father Julian cries out for the man to wait: there are footsteps, then nothing. A few seconds later the tape goes quiet, and ten seconds after that a new voice comes through the speaker, confessing to an attraction to somebody who isn’t his wife.

I rewind the tape and listen through it again. The words of

Rachel’s killer are chilling and form knots in my stomach. Hearing them again is almost enough to take me there, to be inside that confessional booth. I wonder where Rachel’s body was left,

whether she was placed on a pew or dumped on the doorstep.

I picture Father Julian cradling her, part of him wanting to call the police, a greater part not wanting his secrets exposed. He was a coward who could not betray the confessional, a coward who

asked Bruce, his son, to bury the girls and to bury the truth.

I check the log and find the date the second girl went missing.

I start forwarding through the corresponding tape, going through snippets of dialogue until I hear the same voice. I rewind it a bit and find the beginning of the conversation.

‘You lied to me, Father.’

‘I lied to you how, my son ?’

‘My son? That’s very accurate, isn’t it.’

‘Oh my God.’

I pause the tape and check the time stamp against the log.

This time Father Julian has written down Luke Matthews. Last

time it was Paul Peters. I check off the rest of the dates and find more names that stick out: John Philips and Matthew Simons.

Four names that are mixtures of names of the Apostles. Father

Julian never wrote down his son’s real name. Did he not know

it? Was it a son he paid child support to? Or one he completely abandoned?

‘I knew there were others. And now Julie is the second.’

‘What have you done?”Father Julian asks. ‘Did you know her?’

‘What have you done?’Father Julian repeats. ‘You probably never saw her, did you.’

‘No.’

‘Then thank me. You can give her the same burial you gave her

sister. My sister.’

Father Julian starts to cry. His sobs through the tape are the hardest things I’ve ever had to listen to.

I press pause and go into the kitchen. I make some coffee.

Suddenly I don’t want to go back into my office. I don’t want

to listen to the rest of the conversation. I just want to burn the tapes and drive to the nearest bottle store and immerse myself in the bourbon that has kept me so numb for the last month. Father Julian’s sobs have brought tears to my eyes. I close them and the tears break away and run down the sides of my face. I am almost with him as he listens. I know how he feels hearing for the first time his daughter is dead. I went through it once. He has gone through it twice. Did he go through it more than twice? I think he did. I think he went through it four times. Did it get easier or harder? Did it age him, did it break him, did it make him

deny his God, or make his faith stronger? He could not break the confessional vow. Even when there was a pattern and he knew

what was happening, he did not break it. He could break it to

blackmail adulterers, but not to save his children. What twisted morals Father Julian had, but then churches are full of people preaching one thing and practising another. Every day he must

have struggled with the man he was. Perhaps he didn’t want to

struggle any more. He hadn’t been to his safety deposit box in the four weeks before he died. He knew the key was missing, and maybe he knew Bruce took it. Maybe he even figured out that it had been given to me. I think he knew that in some way this was coming to an end.

I don’t touch the coffee. I leave it on the bench and walk back to the office.

‘You can pray over them, Father. You can pray at the same

time.’

‘How did you know she was your sister?’

‘Perhaps God can tell you.’

The confession ends. I find the third one, and match the time

stamp to John Philips.

‘Why are you doing this?’ Father Julian asks as his son tells him he has met another of his sisters. ‘What did they do to you?’

‘It’s what they could have done.’

‘Why any of this? Why come here and tell me?’

‘Because you’re the only family I have.’

I keep listening. The dialogue is similar to the others. Father Julian’s sobs are just as loud. A name comes up. Jessica Shanks.

She was the third girl to have gone missing and the oldest. She was the one Father Julian started paying for in the beginning, five years before Rachel was born.

I stop the tape and find the last confession.

They are all dead now, Father.’

‘I don’t want you coming back here.’

‘All of the sisters. You can see them whenever you like. Do you now finally take the time to visit them?’

‘I want you to leave.’

‘Am I right?’

‘What?’

There are no more, are there.’

‘No.’

‘Ifyou’re lying to me, Father, I will find out.’

‘I know.’

‘And I won’t be happy.’

‘I’m not lying.’

‘If you are lying, Father, I will do two things. I will find the girls and I will kill them. I will make them suffer. Do you want to know what the second thing is?’

‘No.’

‘I will come back here, Dad, and I’ll cut out your tongue so you can never lie to me ever again.’

It’s about as official as it can get. The dead girls are Father Julian’s daughters. Their killer is Father Julian’s son. I look down at the photographs of Jeremy and Simon and Bruce. Then I look at

the photograph of the fifth girl, Deborah. Could be she is dead already, dead and buried and never found, or it could be she is living in another city in another part of the world, oceans and landscapes away from all of this.

Father Julian’s logs show who he was recording and

blackmailing, but they don’t show how many children he had.

The bank statements don’t show that either. There aren’t any

Aldermans in these statements for a start. There isn’t enough

information to know how many women Father Julian used his

position to take advantage of.

There are seven names on the bank statements. Four of them

belong to the families of the dead girls. Of the three left, two might be for Simon and Jeremy, and one might be for Deborah,

or it could be for different children I don’t know about. All I can do is hope the photographs match up with the bank statements.

I have three first names — Jeremy, Simon and Deborah — and

three last names from the bank statements. I grab a phonebook

and start matching the names up, hoping for a hit, and the first one comes when I end up speaking to Mrs Leigh Carmel. I

identify myself and she quickly asks what it’s about, and there is a hesitancy in her voice that suggests she thinks I’m about to try and sell her something. I tell her I’m trying to track down her son, figuring I have a two-to-one chance it’s a son rather than a daughter, and I’m correct.

‘What’s he done now?’ she asks.

‘I just need to talk to him. It’s important.’

“He’s always done something,’ she says. ‘That’s always been

the problem with Jeremy. Why don’t you speak to his probation

officer? They seem to have a closer relationship than we’ve ever had.’

She gives me the number, and I hang up and call the probation

officer straight away.

‘You know that ain’t the kind of information I can give out

over the phone,’ he says. “Not to a private investigator.’

“How about I give you my number and he can call me?’

‘We’re not in this business to forward on messages.’

‘Okay, okay, let me think a minute. Right, can you tell me

where he was two years ago? Was he in jail?’

‘Two years ago? Yeah. He was in jail then. He’s been in for a

four-year stretch. Got let out two months ago.’

‘What’d he do?’

‘It’s public record,’ he says. ‘Look it up.’

I thank him for his time and cross Jeremy Carmel off my list.

It leaves me with two first names and two last names that could match up either way.

My next hit comes a few calls later, when a woman answers the

phone and I ask for Simon.

‘Who?’

‘Sorry, I mean Deborah. I’m trying to get hold of her.’

‘Well, so are we. We haven’t seen her since yesterday. Can I ask who’s calling?’

Her words make me tighten my grip on the phone. I tell her

who I am and that I’m a private investigator.

‘Investigating what?’ she asks. ‘Has something happened to

Deborah? Is she in trouble? Is that why we haven’t heard from

her?’

“No,it’s nothing like that.’

‘Then what?’

‘I just need to get hold of her. It’s important.’

‘I don’t like the way you sound,’ she says, and I realise my grip is so tight on the phone my knuckles have turned white. ‘You

make it sound like she’s in danger.’

I decide to go with the truth. ‘She might be. Please, you have to help me out here, I need to …’

‘What kind of danger? Tell me! What’s happened to my

daughter?’

I ignore her question and push on. It’s the only way, otherwise I could end up spending two hours on the phone with her. ‘Do

you know if she was seeing anybody?’

‘Is this some kind of joke? Has somebody put you up to this?

I’m calling the police.’

‘Wait, wait just a second. Does Deborah know who her real

father is?’

The woman says nothing, and I don’t jab her with another

question, just ride the silence out, knowing her shock at the

question may turn to anger or denial.

‘Who are you?’

‘I’ve already told you,’ I answer.

‘What is it you’re trying to ask? Tell me.’

‘Is her real father Stewart Julian?’

Again a pause. ‘Where’s my daughter? What aren’t you telling

me?’

‘Please, is Father Julian Deborah’s real father?’

“How is this important?’

‘It’s important because it will help me find Deborah.’

‘I’m phoning the police.’

‘Good, I want you to, but first tell me. Father Julian was

murdered because he was protecting secrets. They were his own

secrets. Was he Deborah’s father?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did he have any other children?’

‘Other children? I… I guess I’ve never really thought about it.

I suppose it’s possible, just like anything is possible. But I doubt it.’

‘Okay, I’m going to look for Deborah. I want you to call the

police and tell them she’s missing. But first I want you to tell me where she lives and give me her number.’

I write the details down, and try calling Deborah immediately

after I’ve hung up. She doesn’t answer. I leave a message.

That leaves me with Simon Nichols. He is the last person in

the photos, the last person to be paid for in the bank statements, and the odds are that makes him the killer.

There are a few people with that name and initials in the

phone book. I ring them all but get nowhere. In the end I’m able to track down his mother, who answers on the tenth ring, just

before I hang up.

‘I’m trying to get hold of Simon,’ I say.

‘Simon?’ she says. “Erm, can I ask who’s calling?’

‘My name is Theodore Tate. I’m a private investigator.’

‘What is this about?’

‘I just have a few questions for him, just some routine stuff

that might really help me out on a case.’

She doesn’t answer at first, then there are some soft sounds

and I get the idea she is crying.

‘You’re about a year too late,’ she says, and suddenly I know what’s coming up. Suddenly I know she’s about to tell me that her son was murdered.