Night Sessions, The (10 page)

“More fool you,” said Curley. “Sorry, that was uncalled for. To continue. I've conferred with the Archbishop, and I have his authorisation to give you a complete list of Father Murphy's former congregation, insofar as we know it.”

“Thank you,” said Ferguson.

Curley took a hand-held from his pocket and tapped it on Ferguson's desk slate.

“Got it,” said Ferguson, peering to check. He tabbed it through to the Incident Room.

“However,” Curley went on, “its only use to you would be, I imagine, to eliminate their DNA traces or video captures from your inquiries. For one thing, I very much doubt that any of them is a likely suspect. More to the point, Father Murphy's personal contacts, and visitors to his house, went far beyond those who received the sacraments there. He took his duties to the disadvantaged in this life very seriously. Beyond, perhaps, what you would regard—and what, to tell you the truth, his superiors including myself regarded—as common prudence. Alcoholics, addicts, prostitutes, homeless people, petty and not so petty criminals—his door was open to all. Sometimes those he wanted to help…helped themselves. Sometimes he and his housekeeper had to defend themselves physically.”

“Are priests allowed to do that?”

“In cases of necessity, and where it is not a question of bearing witness, yes.”

“Could you expand on that a little?” asked Ferguson.

“If a priest is assaulted by a common criminal, he has the same right of self-defence as anyone, under natural law and within the limits of the civil law. If, on the other hand, a priest—or indeed any Christian—is faced with persecution, or has to submit to the lawful authorities, then non-resistance may be enjoined or incumbent upon him.”

“Did the late Father have a
gun
in the house?”

Curley's lips thinned. “Technically, not in his possession, but I understand that Mrs. White, his housekeeper who lived in the flat upstairs, kept a shotgun for emergencies.” Ferguson hadn't heard the injured woman titled “Mrs.” before.

“Bernadette White is married?”

“A Faith War widow, inspector. I shall be visiting her in hospital this afternoon.”

“One moment,” said Ferguson. He scribbled a note on his desk slate to check whether the chemical residues on the victim's hand might have come from a shotgun cartridge and been mistaken for RDX, and tabbed it to Forensics.

“OK,” he said. “Now…how often, would you say, did Father Murphy find himself in some kind of physical conflict with one of his visitors?”

“Not often.” Curley shrugged. “Three or four times a year, at most.”

“At most? That sounds quite traumatic enough.”

“Indeed,” said Curley.

“So it's possible,” said Ferguson, “that the explosive device was placed by someone who had personal reasons? Maybe someone Father Murphy had had an altercation with?”

“That's what I'm suggesting, yes, and that's what I'm inclined to think. It would be very comforting to say, as so many have so kindly done, that no one had a harsh word to say about Father Murphy, but unfortunately it wouldn't be true. Some of those he ministered to, or wished to minister to, might have had a grudge arising out of some matter that to you or I—and to Liam, for all we know—might seem trivial, and certainly disproportionate to such a dreadful response. But to an unbalanced mind and troubled soul, well…”

“So it's a lone-nutter theory?” Ferguson almost smiled.

“If you want to put it like that, yes. I think it would be much more fruitful if you were to follow that line of inquiry than some wild-goose chase about IRA remnants or such, which I can assure you Father Murphy regarded with abhorrence and contempt all his life.”

“Dr. Curley,” said Ferguson, “I can't begin to tell you how helpful you've been. Before you go, I would like to presume for a few more minutes on your time and, if you don't mind, your professional expertise.”

“Of course.”

Ferguson slid the copies of the Covenanter leaflets across the desk.

“What do you make of these?” he asked.

Curley drew a pair of spectacles from his inside pocket. Ferguson's hand twitched up. Curley shot him a sharp glance, then smiled.

“Optical glasses only. For reading, you see.”

“Sorry,” said Ferguson.

Curley read the leaflets in silence. After the third broadside he reached into his side pocket, took out a pack of cigarettes and lit up, apparently quite unconsciously. Ferguson took an ashtray from his desk drawer and gestured over his shoulder to Skulk to open the window.

The bishop turned over the last page, looked at it for a while, then straightened up, pushing the documents away. He looked at the cigarette as if surprised to find it between his fingers, and gave his head a little shake.

“My apologies,” he said, stubbing the cigarette out.

“Not at all,” said Ferguson. He laughed. “Have another.”

Curley looked at him with amused gratitude and lit up again. Ferguson leaned back.

“Well?” he said.

Curley exhaled smoke between barely open lips.

“They're very well done,” he said.

“Meaning—what? You think they're fakes?”

“Not exactly,” said Curley. “Whoever wrote them probably believed in what he was doing and believes what he writes. The legalisms and so forth are quite solid, in a way. But the whole thing smacks of what biblical scholars politely call a pseudepigraph, and what sceptics call a forgery. You see, there's no way this is a product of the actual Scottish Covenanter remnant, the Reformed Presbyterian Church”—he gestured brackets with his forefingers—“(Covenanted). Its last surviving member died a few years ago in Ayrshire. It's extinct. Whoever wrote these broadsides is starting something new, in the name of something old. And besides”—he sighed and shook his head—“the Reformed Presbyterian Church would never have produced a direct incitement to violence. The author of this was not, in my opinion, even brought up in that tradition. They might have been bigoted towards my Church but, despite their invincible ignorance in that respect, they were good people.”

“I'll take that as strong testimony,” said Ferguson.

Curley laughed, and relaxed a little. “How did you get hold of the leaflets?”

“They were covertly placed in certain church buildings.”

“That doesn't answer my question.”

“No, Dr. Curley, it doesn't.”

“Very well,” said Curley. “No doubt you have your reasons—your own seal of the confessional, eh?”

Ferguson nodded. “You could say that.”

“Will that be all?”

“Yes, thank you.” Ferguson rose and shook hands across the desk. “Again, I have to thank you.”

“You're welcome,” said Curley. “If there's anything else I can help you with, please call.”

“Likewise,” said Ferguson.

Curley paused at the door.

“About these leaflets,” he said. “Take my opinion for what it's worth, but for a really expert appraisal you would do well to consult an actual Presbyterian, who could spot nuances that I might overlook. Try Professor Grace Mazvabo, of New College. She's a fine scholar and a good friend of mine.”

“Thanks again,” said Ferguson. “I'll bear that in mind.”

The door closed. Ferguson looked over his shoulder and grinned at Skulk. He was still chuckling when his earphone buzzed and his desk slate flashed.
Shooting incident St. Andrews
.

In his ear DS Shonagh Hutchins said: “Incident Room, boss. We're getting reports that some clergyman's been killed in St. Andrews. And the force there says they have a man down.”

“The killer's down?”

“No, boss. One of theirs. Man down.”

Ferguson ran to the Incident Room, arriving just ahead of Skulk. Hutchins was there, and Connolly and Patel, the two detective constables scanning the video feeds. Mukhtar arrived a moment later.

“Who's down? Who's down?” Ferguson shouted. He didn't know anyone on the Fife force but he wanted a name.

Hutchins had one finger to the back of her ear and an abstracted look on her face.

“PC Graham Docherty, sir. Ambulance on its way. PC Abdullah—that's his partner—is giving first aid, and their leki's doing some kind of emergency procedure.”

“How bad is it?”

“Don't know yet, sir. Abdominal wound by the looks of it.”

“What about the bishop?”

“Citizen—Bishop Donald John Black. He's dead, sir. Head shot, very messy.” Her mouth twisted. “Very clean, from the shooter's point of view.”

“OK, I get the picture. Are they still under fire?”

Shonagh shook her head. “Single shot, source not in sight.”

“That's confirmed? What about our chap?”

“Same shot, sir. Took the bishop's head…uh, struck the victim and continued into Officer Docherty.”

By this time Hutchins had patched a live feed from Docherty's partner's contacts straight to Ferguson's. Ferguson stared at a close-up of blood welling on a blue background. A metal tentacle from a source out of view was moving in the entrance hole.

“Fuck,” said Ferguson. “That shot went through chest armour. After going through a head. Jeez.”

Mukhtar seemed to be checking another pov, on his hand-held.

“Sniper,” he said. “Heavy-duty military rifle. Let's see, let's see…got it. Yeah. Barret M-201—the current top-whack fifty-calibre sniper job could do that from four kilometres. Could be something smaller and closer, of course. Won't know until the bullet's out.”

“I've just pinged the leki on scene,” said Skulk. “It's holding the bullet in place. The round's a bit mashed but it's a fifty-calibre all right.”

“Shonagh,” Ferguson said, “you got location on the scene?”

“Sure, boss, PC Abdullah's phone GPS—”

“Great! Great! Let's get a PNAI headspace up. Pull in every overhead—satellite, aerostat, drones, passing planes—whatever's up there. And see if you can grab a ballistics module.”

Shonagh nodded. Ferguson turned to the DCs. “Connolly, Patel—get going on crash-priority permissions overrides for the aviation and satellite: we need live feeds now.”

“Sir, what about—”

“Drop it, drop it. Fife and St. Andrews will have their hands full. It's up to us right now. We can hand over when they're ready. Mohammed, have you got anything on the moment of impact?”

“I'm searching,” said Mukhtar. “I'm searching…come on, come on.” His tone changed as he spoke to someone on his phone. “Yes,” he said, “I do need an archive download from Docherty's contacts, yes, you
can
see who I am and no, I'll not take it to the super…thank you.”

“They're at East Sands,” said Hutchins. “Hospital's close by—the ambulance is turning the corner of Woodburn Terrace and St. Mary Street.”

“Here's Docherty's contacts record,” said Mukhtar. “Moment of impact.”

“Put it up, put it up!”

Ferguson invoked the headspace and found himself in a pov that looked from a couple of metres up along a path atop a grassy mole, with sea on the other side. Walking just behind a man in civilian clothes with a dark-skinned copper at his side; stepping a little faster, glancing to the left—then everything went red, then spinning, then black. A second or two later, a blurry grey sky, then black again.

“Shonagh, can we get a trajectory from that?”

“Just coming through—nah, it's just a range of possibles.”

The pov shifted to a vertical zoom. Across the rapidly widening image a fan of red lines was overlaid, just east of south. One edge intersected a clutch of holiday chalets and mobile homes on the low headland to the south of East Sands. The spread of possible trajectories extended across the scrub and sandstone outcrops of the rest of the headland and, at its far side, out to sea.

“OK,” said Ferguson. “Let's get Paranoia looking at that in any overhead shots it's got, and a call-out to check all cars on the A917.”

“Done,” said Shonagh.

Ferguson relaxed slightly and came out of the headspace. “Good,” he said. “What's the latest from the scene?”

“Ambulance arrived a minute ago. All three taken to hospital. Bishop Black's dead beyond recovery, Docherty's serious-but-stabilised and Abdullah's going to be treated for shock. And the Fife force are ready for handover. They've already launched a fast camera drone and they've got cars heading that way.”

“Fine, pass the whole lot over to them.”

Shonagh, Mukhtar and the two DCs came out of the headspace.

“Fast work, folks,” said Ferguson. He put his hands to his face for a moment.

“Damn,” he said. “I wish I didn't feel so responsible.”

“Sir?” said Hutchins.

“I advised Fife to give the bishop an armed guard,” he said. “Late last night. Can't help wondering…” He rubbed his forehead. “Didn't do the bishop any good, and got our man shot too.”

“With respect, Adam,” Mukhtar growled, “don't talk shit.”

“You have a point,” said Ferguson. He glanced around. “Not jumping to conclusions or anything, but there might be a connection here with the Murphy case.”

That raised a smile or two.

“We have to assume it,” Ferguson went on. “And it would be fine if it turned out there was one person involved in the bombing and in the shooting, and our friends in Fife nab him within the hour, but we can't count on any of that. So let's get back to our own investigation, and see whether we can get there first.”

“Sir,” said Hutchins, “if it isn't one person we're looking for, it could be more than two. I mean, it could be any number. The investigation could be taken upstairs.”

“If that happens, it happens,” said Ferguson. “That's up to McAuley. Until then we crack on. Coordinate with Fife, obviously. That's what we have the PNAI for, not just to process video. Speaking of which…”

He turned to Connolly and Patel. “How are things going with the lists?”

“We've concentrated on the past week,” said Connolly. “That list you sent us about an hour ago has matched up pretty well—most of them, that's, uh, eighteen out of thirty-two, were at Father Murphy's flat last Sunday. Three of the others dropped in through the week. Eleven had already come forward and most of them have been interviewed and their DNA samples taken. Problem is, just about all of them had delivered a package of some kind. Small stuff, groceries and so on.”

“Groceries?” said Ferguson.

“Sure,” said Connolly. “The guy seems to have lived largely on donations. State of the Catholic Church's finances, it doesn't surprise me. Anyway, we're checking them all, getting more calls all the time, and the uniforms are working their way around the doors too.”

“DNA, DNA…” Something nagged at the back of Ferguson's mind. “Bomb Squad found what they think is the packaging this morning. Tony Newman said Forensics hadn't found DNA traces of anyone but Murphy on the outside of it. Hmm.”

“That's hardly significant,” said Hutchins. “Whoever delivered it would have worn gloves.”

“Fair enough if it was stuffed through a letter box, but by the size of it it was probably handed over. I've never seen a delivery man wearing gloves at the door, and for anyone else—well, if somebody wearing gloves in the summer hands you a package, you might just be a tad suspicious.”

Hutchins laughed. “Unless it was a woman! Especially an older woman.”

“Which covers most of his congregation,” said Connolly.

“A homicidal little old church lady?” Mukhtar said. “I suppose there has to be a first time for everything.”

“She didn't need to know what was in the package,” said Hutchins. “She could have done it quite innocently.”

“I'd rather wait until we have a suspect before anticipating the case for the defence,” said Ferguson.

“There is another possibility,” said Skulk. It paused, awaiting everyone's attention.

“I've thought of robots,” said Mukhtar. “Never trusted the buggers meself.”

Even the leki laughed.

“There is that possibility,” it allowed, “though unlikely, for obvious reasons. What I was actually thinking of was a man with artificial hands—a
mutilado
, for example.”

“Very interesting idea,” said Ferguson. He looked Skulk straight in the LEDs. “Very interesting indeed.”

Ferguson had a shrewd notion of why the leki's mind had come up with the suggestion. From its own point of view, Skulk was a mutilated war veteran itself. Having its chip transferred from its original combat-mech chassis to the gracile leki frame had been something of a traumatic experience, Ferguson had gathered, and though Skulk had had a good decade or so to get over it, it still
rankled, as it did with all his kind. Tough shit, was Ferguson's basic attitude to this—he sympathised with the lekis’ sense of having been degraded, disabled, castrated almost; but there was no way,
no fucking way
, any KI running the strange loop of self-awareness could be trusted with control of a combat mech.

Ferguson turned to Patel and Connolly. “Any veterans among the congregation, by any chance?”

“Let's see,” said Patel. He nipped over to his desk and returned with a hand-held. “I'll just set up Ogle on the names…hang on…got it!”

He looked up, grinning. “Connor James Thomas, forty-two, occupation: company director, Faith War veteran, honourable discharge, war-wounds compensation in addition to pension, leisure activities include, uh, sea fishing and rifle shooting, voluntary work for Face Forward, which is…lemme see…aha!…a
mutilado
self-help and support group. Lives in Muirhouse, has a weekend cottage in Anstruther.”

“Wonder if he's there in Fife right now.” Ferguson thought of a trajectory that extended out to sea. “Or maybe out fishing.”

His colleagues were looking at him with more excitement than he himself felt.

“This looks good,” said Hutchins. “Has he come forward?”

Connolly and Patel nodded. “Yeah,” said Patel. “It's down here somewhere. Oh yes, he says he delivered a book to Murphy last week. He's down for an interview on Monday, when he comes back from Fife.”

“Maybe our friends in Fife should pay him a visit right now,” said Ferguson.

Mukhtar and Hutchins were frowning.

“What?”

“Shouldn't we make this a heavy one, boss?” said Hutchins. “Arrange for armed back-up?”

Ferguson was reluctant. The lead seemed intriguing, but too easy. To call for an armed unit on so slender a basis wouldn't look good. On the other hand, nor would a dead or injured copper. And, with one of their men down, the Fife armed specialists’ blood would be up.

“Patch me that search result,” he told Patel.

A moment later the block of text was floating in his contacts. The attached photograph, from the man's own website, looked too young for a forty-two-year-old. Ferguson dug a little deeper in the data, found Thomas's mobile number and, before anyone could stop him, called.

It rang for a while, then was answered.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Connor Thomas?” Ferguson motioned at the others to keep quiet. Several opening mouths closed.

“That's me, yes.”

“Ah, good afternoon, Mr. Thomas. This is Detective Inspector Adam Ferguson, Lothian and Borders Police.”

“Hello, inspector. What can I do for you?”

“Are you at home?”

“No—is something the matter?”

“Where are you at the moment?”

“I'm out in my boat, off the East Neuk of Fife.” Ferguson silently brought a fist to above the palm of the other hand.

“You're at sea? A mile or two from St. Andrews?”

“Aye. Heading home to Ainster, though.”

“Anstruther?”

“That's what I said. So what's the matter?”

“We'd like to interview you today, not Monday.”

“Aye, that's fine. Poor Father Liam.” Ferguson heard Thomas take a deep, ragged breath. His voice sounded half-choked as he went on: “A good, good man. And to think I saw him just last week.”

“Last Sunday?”

“No, it was the Friday, I think. I'm no a regular man for the Sunday services, Inspector, Inspector…what'd you say your name was?”

“Ferguson.”

“Aye, sorry. Ferguson. As I was saying, I just dropped by to give him a parcel. It was—no! Are you thinking I—It wasn't that, I ken fine what was in it, it was a book, I telt your folks already—”

“Excuse me,” said Ferguson. “I think it would be much better if you could discuss it with us right here.”

“Aye, sure, glad to. Canna see what help I'd be, but whatever it is. Where are you?”

“Greensides Police Station in Edinburgh. We'll get the local police to send a car round and meet you on the quay,” said Ferguson.

“Oh, there's no need for that. I'll drive into Edinburgh myself, should be there in a couple of hours.”

“No, really,” said Ferguson. “Please wait for the car.”

Connor Thomas sat at the other side of the interview table with his arms folded. His waterproof jacket was across the back of the plastic chair he sat on. He
wore a denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The contrast between the tanned skin of his upper arms and the paler skin from just below the elbows marked out the prostheses. His face showed a similar contrast, enhanced by a line of white skin that meandered across his forehead and down each cheek to meet under his chin. Within that rough oval his skin looked smooth, a young man's face, with an indoor complexion; the skin outside it was reddened by sun and wrinkled a little by age. His eyes looked perfect, but caught the light in odd ways when they moved. The sight of Thomas's too-regular features reminded Ferguson of the only time he'd knowingly seen a humanoid robot, back when they'd been the next big thing. The technology behind the face was, he guessed, the same.