Murdering Ministers (20 page)

“Uh-huh.” Where was all this leading? Welkin wanted to breathe normally again sometime in this life.

“I was wondering if you'd let Oliver talk to Paul Piltdown while he's in custody. Piltdown may feel more comfortable with someone he knows.”

“Technically, Piltdown's not in custody,” said Welkin cautiously. “He hasn't been charged with anything yet. If he tries to leave, I probably will arrest him on suspicion, but he hasn't asked to go. Hasn't asked for a brief, either, which suits us down to the ground. He just sits there, refusing to answer our questions.”

“All the more reason for putting Oliver in with him,” Effie replied, steering Welkin back to the point with ease. “It sounds as if Piltdown's covering up for someone, with some half-baked idea about the sanctity of the confessional, although he told me his denomination doesn't practice confession. On principle, he's not going to break down and reveal all to a copper, but a friend may persuade him otherwise.”

“I don't know, Eff. This Swithin's not one of us.”

“Oliver's not on our team, but he's on our side. You have the discretion to let him in as a visitor,” Effie insisted. She was privately optimistic that Piltdown would reveal more about Tina's disappearance than about Tapster's death, although she wondered how closely the two events were connected.

“All right,” Welkin conceded. “Bring him on. What harm can it do? Just as long as you understand that as far as I'm concerned, when somebody won't cooperate with the police, I assume they're hiding their guilt, not their innocence. Piltdown's our prime suspect, and it's not my job to prove him not guilty if he can't be bothered to declare it for himself.”

“Thank you, Sir,” she said, beaming at him gratefully and playing with a curl. She did not stand up.

“Is that all?” he asked fearfully.

“Well, there's just one other thing…”

Five minutes later, Effie emerged from Welkin's office and strode over to Tish Belfry's desk.

“Let me have the address of that doctor,” she commanded. Tish looked surprised.

“I was just leaving,” she answered defensively. “If you want to come with me, we can use my car.”

“I'm going on my own.”

Tish tried to keep the sense of personal offense off her face. Of course, it was probably unreasonable to be possessive over a lead, even though she had discovered it, but she hadn't expected Effie to pull rank quite so abruptly. “Is there some reason why you're excluding me?” she demanded.

“Yes, DC Belfry. You're off the case,” Effie told her sternly. Then she laughed. “Tish, you have to work on keeping a straight face. You're off this case because, from now on, DI Welkin wants you to be his principal assistant on the inquiry into Tapster's murder.”

Tish rose slowly from her seat. “You're kidding,” she said, awestruck.

“Nope.”

“I thought he'd stick with one of the lads.”

Effie glanced back. Through the glass wall of Welkin's office, she could see him sitting at his desk, staring vexedly into space as if he'd tried to stand up but had winded himself on an unexpectedly open drawer.

“He asked for you,” she said simply. “Why don't you go in and report for duty?”

Tish dropped her handbag on her desk, grabbed a notepad and Biro, hugged Effie briefly, and scurried into Welkin's room. Effie picked up the telephone.

***

Unlike Underwood Tooth, Oliver would not have made a good burglar.

Despite his parents' conviction that the most dangerous creature on the planet is a bored child, there had been a few occasions in their earlier lives when they had been forced to take their offspring with them on prolonged visits to a childless friend or a rarely seen distant relative. Inevitably, a young Oliver would have to use the toilet, and his trip upstairs to the “third door on the right” would take him across the border between the public and private zones of the strange home. Through half-open doors, he could glimpse the old dark furniture and dull wallpaper of uninviting bedrooms, and he would relieve himself while gazing with distaste at baths and basins that were chipped and stained with lime scale, unable to envision his hosts using these chilly rooms with any sense of comfort or fun. He never lingered in this alien world, which smelled of mothballs and washing soda and lavender, and which conveyed an odd sense of guilt and intrusion.

He had the same feeling of trespass now, as he walked through the upstairs rooms in the empty manse, a feeling that was aggravated by seeing how little Piltdown had imposed his own personality on the old-fashioned furnishings that must surely have been in the house before he moved in. Nobody of his generation would have selected that eiderdown, neatly molded to the shape of the bed, or those frilly pillow covers lined up on top! It made him eager to spot something he and Piltdown still had in common, such as the same brand of toothpaste or the same editions of Wodehouse or Golding on the bedroom shelves. Others might have succumbed to the temptation to pry: Did the minister keep a packet of condoms in the bedside table? Was there porn in the bottom of the chest of drawers?

Oliver hurried on, mentally rehearsing a nervous explanation of his presence, in case anyone surprised him, although he was there with his friend's full permission. He had almost called out an apology a few minutes earlier, when he thought he heard movement downstairs. He listened, but there were no further noises.

He found the clean shirt, socks, and underwear he was looking for in Piltdown's untidy drawers, and moved on quickly to the bathroom to pick up his friend's shaving equipment, reflecting that Piltdown's habits—neat on the surface, chaotic underneath—were the exact reverse of his own.

Oliver paused in front of the medicine cabinet. Was his over-scrupulousness preventing him from searching for evidence that would connect Paul to Nigel Tapster's death? Would he find an ancient tin of tincture of nux vomica, left by an earlier minister, or a suspicious packet of seeds that could have supplied the strychnine? Or would he just face the usual disconcerting clues to the secret state of Piltdown's feet, breath, or digestive tract? Already convinced of his friend's innocence, he left the cabinet closed, and went downstairs.

The kitchen was surprisingly tidy, with the plates from Piltdown's last meal washed and stacked on the drainer. That must have been Sunday's breakfast, Oliver speculated, calculating that his friend was certainly due for a change of clothes after more than a day at the police station. Should he go back for pajamas, or would that smack of pessimism? He slipped out of the side door, which Piltdown had admitted was permanently unlocked, and walked round to the front of the house. A policeman was removing the crime scene tape from the church next door.

When the telephone had rung in Edwardes Square earlier that afternoon, Oliver had answered using his celebrated impression of Geoffrey, in case it was his uncle again. Effie's voice was a welcome surprise—he overlooked the fact that she recognized him immediately—and he was overjoyed to have another opportunity to see her, even if it meant trading his planned afternoon of Christmas shopping for yet another tube ride to Plumley. It also gave him an excuse to put off thinking about the direction of his article—now potentially revamped as “Death of a Deacon.”

At the police station an hour later, he had been greeted gruffly by Inspector Welkin and informed that Effie was out. He took a seat in the waiting room, glancing at one of the paperbacks that he habitually carried in his battered school satchel and chatting amiably with an elderly man until Tish Belfry led him to an interview room. A bleary-eyed, unshaven Paul Piltdown was waiting for him.

“Let me guess,” Piltdown said immediately. “Effie Strong-itharm suggested that I might open up if you were brought in to talk to me.”

Oliver took a chair across the table from his friend. Tish had left them alone, and the tape recorder wasn't running, but he could almost feel her eyes on the back of his neck through a suspiciously large mirror set in the wall behind him.

“Let me guess, too,” he countered. “You had nothing to do with Tapster's death, but you're convinced you know who did because of something you were told in confidence, and you feel it would be a betrayal of your calling as a minister of God to betray that confidence. Furthermore, you are certain that the poison was meant for Tapster.”

“How do you deduce that?”

“Because if Tapster were an accidental or even a random victim, that leaves the possibility that the murderer will strike again. And I don't believe you would stay silent if that were the case.”

Piltdown studied the end of his fingernails. “I see we continue to know one another pretty well, after all this time. Now did you bring a cake with a file in it?”

“Paul, why don't you just declare your innocence and ask to leave? The police can't argue with the sanctity of the confessional. Or what do you call it in the United Diaconalist Church, minister-client privileges?”

“No, but they'll arrest me. I imagine my lack of cooperation with their inquiry has given them reasonable grounds.”

“Even if they do arrest you, they can only hold you so long before your case goes before a magistrate. You'd make bail before Christmas.”

Oliver stopped, a sudden idea dawning on him. “That's it, isn't it?” he exclaimed, his eyes widening behind the wire-framed spectacles. “You don't want any time limits. By staying here voluntarily, even without cooperating, you haven't forced the police to press charges or even formally arrest you. The habeas corpus clock hasn't started.”

“And why would I want to stay here indefinitely?” said Piltdown cynically, without looking at Oliver. “Even the cold old manse is more inviting than the cell they graciously let me use last night.”

“I can think of two reasons. The first is simple. You're afraid that the real murderer might want to kill
you
, and this is the safest place to hide.”

Piltdown showed no reaction.

“The second reason is more complex,” Oliver continued. “By concealing the murderer's identity, you're facing the biggest ethical dilemma of your life. So you figure that the most creative solution to this dilemma is to call somebody's bluff. You plan to stay here until the conscience of the killer kicks in, and he or she marches into the cop shop and confesses, just to save your sorry arse.”

Piltdown was shaking his head. “If you think this is the biggest ethical dilemma of my life,” he said quietly, “then you really don't know me.”

Good
, thought Oliver, it's reason number two. He really didn't want to believe that Piltdown was driven by mere cowardice. He stood up.

“Of course, there are two flaws in your plan. You've set a moral trap for the murderer and baited it with yourself. Forcing the issue this way hardly preserves your precious ministerial neutrality. So you really have no excuse for not coming clean.”

“And the other flaw?” asked Piltdown crossly, slowly stretching his cramped limbs.

“You're assuming the murderer gives a tinker's damn about that sorry arse of yours,” Oliver said blandly, checking his watch. “Let's see, you've been here more that twenty-four hours. When I came into the station a few minutes ago, there was only one man sitting in the waiting room. And he wasn't any of your deacons.”

The interview room filled with silence. Oliver thrust his hands into his pockets and affected a fascination with the ceiling tiles. Piltdown unbuttoned his clerical collar, removed the stud that anchored it to his gray shirt, and laid it on the table. It was grimy and stained, and he glared at it distastefully. Eventually, he cleared his throat.

“Have you said what you came in for?” he asked coldly.

“Not entirely,” Oliver replied swiftly. “I still want to know what happened to Tina Quarterboy.”

Piltdown sighed deeply. “As I told Effie on Saturday afternoon, I have no idea where Tina is. If I knew, I would certainly tell you.”

“I believe you. But that wasn't the question. Do you know what caused her to run away from home?”

“Yes.”

“What was it?”

“I can't tell you or the police without betraying a confidence.”

“How did you find out what caused her to run?”

“Same answer as the last question, Ollie. Now, if you've finished playing detective, can you do me a favor?”

***

Oliver returned with the change of clothes Piltdown had requested just as Effie arrived at the police station. He handed the clothes over to the station sergeant, and then she let him get a snack from the station vending machine before sweeping him into the incident room. Tish Belfry was waiting for Welkin to return from a meeting.

“I'm glad you're both here,” Effie said archly. “I have some important news. Ollie, tell me again why you thought Tina suffered from an eating disorder.”

“Oh, all right.” Good point, why had he thought that? And why ask now, when Effie had just returned from Tina's doctor? He supposed that the doctor must have confirmed his assumption about the girl's health, and Effie wanted him to repeat his reasoning to show Tish why she respected his intelligence. He leaned back in the chair. “Well, Tina said that a lot of food was making her throw up, and that she thought she had been gaining weight, but you only have to look at her to see she's a skinny thing. Plus I don't recall her eating anything at the manse that evening. So given her age, I wondered if these were the symptoms of early anorexia nervosa, or more likely bulimia, given the nausea and the possible vomiting.”

“Uh-huh,” Effie said. “That's a very perceptive diagnosis, Dr. Swithin. However, according to the school doctor, who examined her last week—”

“She's pregnant?” asked Tish immediately.

“She's pregnant.” Effie smiled broadly at Oliver, who dropped his cheese roll. She opened her notebook.