Fear of the Fathers (19 page)

Cronin was up a ladder taking down a banner. “Takes you back a bit doesn't it?” he shouted down, as if reading her mind.

“I was just thinking that,” she said. “I remember going to quite a few parties at the local hall. It seems so long ago though.”

“Doesn't it just,” said Cronin. “But it also seems like yesterday. Innocent times, eh?”

It took them over an hour to return the hall to its former austerity. When they were done Cronin suggested Stella join him for a glass of wine in his office. She accepted gratefully.

The church itself was quiet and impressive. An old woman sat at the front whispering her prayers, and two rows back a man bowed his head in thought. Candles flickered and lit the huge space with an ethereal radiance. Stella followed Cronin down the nave. She looked across at the man with his head bowed and a glimmer of recognition caused her to double take. He had dark hair, but his features were mostly obscured by the shadows. She thought hard but couldn't place him.

Cronin led her to a door to the left of the chancel. They walked through into a small passageway that contained three further doors. He opened the one on the right and she followed him in.

His office was medium-sized and unfussy, with a desk and a computer at one side, and a couple of filing cabinets at the other. The far wall was adorned with a brace of religious paintings: one depicting the Resurrection and one of the Madonna. Two comfortable chairs were positioned by the desk, and Cronin offered one to Stella.

She sat down and relaxed, her eyes alighting on a pile of newspaper clippings that lay next to the computer keyboard. Cronin noticed and casually removed them, placing them in the top right-hand drawer of the desk and locking it. Stella caught a snippet of a headline: ‘BODY SN…'.

“Sorry about the state of the place,” he said. “I'm doing a lot of research at the moment. I'm here on a secondment from the Vatican.”

“The Vatican?!” said Stella, mildly impressed.

“Yes. I've been sent over to do a study on inner-city churches. We want to find out exactly what's going on. Why congregations are falling and stuff like that.”

“I can tell you exactly why your numbers are falling,” said Stella. “You're completely out of touch.”

Cronin laughed. “I suppose we are. But it's my job to try and stop the rot. To find ways of bringing the Catholic Church into the 21
^st
century. To establish our relevance once more.” He opened the bottom drawer and produced a bottle of red wine and two goblets.

“Is this the holy stuff?” Stella asked.

“No, I couldn't drink that rubbish,” he grinned. “This is a nice claret that I picked up at the local vintners. It comes highly recommended.” He filled the goblets and they both took a drink.

“I hope you don't think I'm being rude,” said Stella. “But how did someone as young as yourself end up at the Vatican? I thought it was full of old men. I thought you had to have been around for years to get a position there.”

“Not really,” said Cronin. “It is quite a privilege, but there are lots of positions over there, even very junior ones. I was a very keen student and got recommended by my teacher. And I'm probably not as young as you think I am.”

“It must be very exciting, being part of something so big. Do you have access to all their libraries and artwork.”

Cronin nodded. “There are obviously a few places that you can't go, but in the main you can wander as you please. I must admit it is awe-inspiring, working in such a beautiful place. I don't think I could ever get bored of it, not in a thousand years.”

“I can see what you mean. I went there a few years ago. The whole place is just so breathtaking. The Sistine Chapel was out of this world.” She paused and drank some wine. “But do you really think that all the splendour is necessary. I mean doesn't it go against everything that Jesus preached and believed in?”

Cronin set down his goblet and sat back in his chair. “It's a very good question, and I don't think I can give you a definitive answer. You have to look at it as a testament to his divine glory. Honouring him and the Father by producing works of sublime beauty. The Lord wants us all to thrive and be the best we can, to go beyond ourselves and create a world of heavenly magnificence.”

“Yes, I can see that. But the Catholic Church is stinking rich. Does God really want a group of people sitting on a fortune of billions in his name, whilst others in the world starve. It all seems like a load of hypocrisy to me. What it comes down to is power, that's what Stratton always said to me. And I can see his point. I mean, what gives the Pope the right to tell the world to live honest and frugal lives when he's sitting on a pile of riches that would put Croesus to shame. He claims to have divine authority, but I haven't seen God come down and tell us that the Pope is his representative – have you?”

Cronin turned his palms up. “No, you've got me there, I haven't. But everything happens according to God's will, and so when a Pope is appointed it's obviously through God.”

“Or so you'd have everyone believe.” She laughed. “Anyway, I don't want to get into a heated theological discussion, I'd rather just drink this.”

“Absolutely,” said Cronin, and picked up his goblet. “Cheers!”

They continued to talk, carefully avoiding the subject of religion. Stella found Cronin humorous and extremely knowledgeable. She imagined that if he hadn't been lost to priesthood then he would have been quite the ladies' man. Like many of his compatriots he had an indefinable twinkle in his eye, and could talk fluently and articulately without seeming to pause for thought or breath. His cassock could not hide the mischievous Erse blood coursing through his veins.

After twenty minutes he excused himself and left the room to go to the toilet. Stella immediately put down her goblet and reached into her handbag for her little nail file. The manner with which Cronin had removed the newspaper clippings from the desk earlier on had made her suspicious. The words ‘body snatchers' had been running through her mind. She had to find out what was hidden the drawer. Sticking the pointed file in the lock, she manoeuvred it until she heard a soft click. She opened the drawer and rifled through the cuttings.

The top one did indeed have the headline ‘BODY SNATCHERS'. It was a story about Stratton's body being taken from the morgue. There were other stories along the same theme, but from different newspapers. After these she found one with ‘VICAR FEELS HAND OF GOD' as the headline. She quickly scanned it. Underneath this there were a whole load of stories from the Mulholland incident. She glanced through them and then, fearful of taking too long, she closed the drawer and locked it back up.

Ten seconds later Father Cronin reappeared. “Sorry about that,” he said. “I hope you haven't been bored.”

“Not at all,” said Stella, keeping her composure. “I was just thinking about going outside for a cigarette. If you don't mind, that is?”

“Of course not. I'll let you out of the back door. Shall I join you?”

“You don't have to do that Father, I'll only be a few minutes.”

The air was moist with drizzle, and Stella huddled into a corner to light up. Her head was a mess. What the hell was Cronin up to? Why had he collected all the clippings? He could of course have done it after he'd met her, but there were too many for him to have secured in only a few days. No, it was no coincidence that they had bumped into each other. Jennings had been suspicious from the start, and she wished that she'd listened to him. But what did Cronin have to gain from her? It just didn't make any sense.

She took a deep lungful of smoke and tried to calm herself. What should she do? Should she confront Cronin, or let it go? She weighed the options in her mind. If Cronin was up to no good then he might be dangerous. It didn't matter that he wore a cassock and a disarming smile, Stella knew from experience not to underestimate anybody. But on the other hand she couldn't let it go either. She decided to go home and sleep on it. She would see things more clearly after a good night's rest.

“That was quick,” said Cronin as she walked back into his office.

“Yeah, it's a bit wet out there,” she replied. “I hope you don't mind but I think I'm going to shoot off. The wine's made me a bit sleepy, I fancy a little snooze.”

“No problem,” said Cronin, sounding slightly puzzled. “I hope I haven't been boring you.”

“Not at all, it's been good fun talking to you. I just need a little catnap, that's all.”

“Okay then. Well, if you need anything before Sunday just give me a call.”

Stella promised she would and said goodbye. She walked through the now empty church at speed. Once she exited the front door she breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn't as if she thought Cronin was going to murder her, but the situation had turned awkward and she was glad to be away. She lit up another cigarette, flicked open her umbrella, and began to walk home, oblivious to the dark figure stalking her from the other side of the street.

The Prime Minister's bandwagon had moved on to Liverpool. It was 9.30pm and Jennings, Appleby, Stone and Davis were playing poker in the Presidential Suite of the Adelphi Hotel. Jennings was already twenty pounds down and thinking about quitting. Jonathan Ayres and his wife were taking advantage of some rare ‘alone time' and having dinner in their room.

“Not your day is it Jennings?” said Stone, as he flicked over a pair of aces to make a full house.

Jennings sighed and mucked his hand. “No it isn't,” he said. “I think I may as well give up now while I've still got my clothes.”

“Don't be like that,” said Appleby. “You know what poker's like. Your luck could change at any minute, mate.”

“Could it?” said Jennings sharply.

Appleby patted him on the back. “Of course it could mate, the night is yet young, as they say. You're only twenty quid down. You could make that back in a couple of hands.”

Jennings thought for a moment and then reluctantly agreed to carry on. Although he was losing money there was really nothing better to do. And besides, he was the newest member of the team and he didn't want them to think he was being unsociable. Integrating with your colleagues was essential in such a tight-knit situation, the bonds between them could save lives.

“Your deal then Jennings,” said Davis, handing him the deck.

He gave them a thorough shuffle and dealt each player two cards. Carefully he lifted the top edges of his own and took a quick look: the king of diamonds and the 8 of clubs stared up at him. It wasn't a great hand but he somehow felt good about it.

The blinds were small: 25p/50p. Davis was to bet first and he duly raised to one pound. Jennings called him, and so did Appleby on the small blind. Stone deliberated for a moment and then added an extra fifty pence to call.

Jennings burnt a card and then dealt the flop. It came up queen of diamonds, jack of hearts, eight of hearts. Jennings had bottom pair.

“Interesting flop,” said Davis, taking another look at his hand.

Appleby was to bet first and stuck a couple of quid in the pot. Stone folded, and Davis called. With Appleby and Davis looking confident Jennings was about to throw his hand, but then on a whim he put in his two pounds.

He burnt another card and dealt the turn. It was the king of clubs.

At that moment Stone's phone started to ring. He looked at the caller identity, and a small frown crossed his brow.

“Is it the old ball and chain?” laughed Appleby.

Stone forced a smile. “Something like that,” he said. “You'll have to excuse me for a minute.” He shot a quick glance at Davis and walked out into the corridor to take the call.

“It's your bet Appleby,” said Davis.

“I know, I'm just thinking.” He paused and then threw three pounds into the middle of the table.

“Three, eh?” said Davis. “Getting a bit confident are we? I'll match that.”

Jennings stared at his cards and mused over whether to call or not. He had two pair which was good enough, but the strength of the others' betting was making him edgy. There was a straight out there, and also a possible flush draw on the hearts. Both would beat him. There was sixteen pounds in the pot already though, and the allure of recouping his money tempted him into calling.

“Let's see the river then,” said Davis. Jennings thought he detected a false bravado in his voice.

He dealt the final card, the river. It was the king of hearts. Jennings stared at the table without emotion, frightened of giving anything away. He had hit a full house. The pot was his.

Appleby took one more glance at his cards and then put in a bet for five pounds.

“Any objection to me making it twenty?” asked Davis.

“Well, we did say a five pound limit,” said Appleby. “But if Jennings doesn't mind then I'm okay with it.”

Jennings tried not to smile. “I'm not really sure boys. I mean, it's only supposed to be a friendly game right? I don't want things to start getting out of hand.”