The Good Priest (28 page)

Sickened by what he was reading, Vincent closed the book with a bang, picked up his telephone and dialled.

‘Hello?'

‘Is that Detective Chief Inspector Keegan?'

‘It is. Who am I speaking to, please?'

‘Father Vincent Ross.'

‘Vincent, good to hear from you. Are you all right? You sound different. Have you any news?'

‘Yes, and I'm sorry to disturb you because I know it's late. But you are the only … the obvious person to call. I need to speak to you. That missing property, the stolen property, which you and I talked about, it's come to light,. It's come into my hands, and I think it should be in yours, Donald. For lots and lots of reasons.'

‘Where are you now?'

‘At home in Kinross, in the presbytery.'

‘Fine. Perfect. Have you told Dominic yet?'

‘I want to get rid of it, get shot of it. Shall I bring it to you?'

‘No, no. Just stay where you are, Vincent, OK? It'll take me twenty minutes at most. I'm getting in my car now, but put it somewhere safe for the moment, eh? I'll be round as quick as I can.'

He did as the policeman told him, and then poured himself another large glass of white wine and sat in his
armchair, with Satan purring on his lap. He felt numb. Touching the book, turning its pages had made him feel dirty, soiled, as if he had touched sewage and would never again be clean. It was a chronicle of evil. Judging by the book, everywhere, all the time and all around him, close by, this evil had been going on and, somehow, he had failed to see it. In Ireland, in America, yes, but elsewhere in Scotland, even here, right here in Inchkeld? Once, a few years ago, he'd heard a rumour about someone he knew, someone that he had been on retreat with in Edinburgh, but he had chosen to ignore it, had given the man the benefit of the doubt. After all, he knew the man, and he was a priest like him. And he had continued as the chaplain at a school. So there could have been no foundation, no truth in the rumours. If there had been, he would have been got rid of, removed from the Church by the Church. He would have been reported to the police. That was what happened nowadays. Well, so in his naïvety, he had thought. But he had been blind.

Because the book told a completely different story. In it was recorded, revealed, the true concerns, the continuing concerns, of the Church. His church. What had been done had been done by them, first and foremost, to prevent scandal and, secondly, to protect their own. The concerns of the victims were incidental, were accorded minimal importance. The names of most of them had not even been thought worth writing down. In all the entries he had seen, the ‘Action' had not once included reporting the allegations to the police, counselling the children or compensating them. And the book was not simply a historical
document recording sins committed in the distant, dusty past. The last entry he had seen had been for a year ago. Connor Bell and his like could still keep their secrets. The book might be thin on recording previous convictions, but it bulged with previous complaints. It was crammed with a series of narratives establishing patterns of behaviour over many years. Armed with its contents a complainant might not be a lone voice calling in the wilderness. Hal, whatever he might think of him, had been right in that respect. Kyle's story more than likely would have been believed, if it had been supported by the rest of the complaints recorded against Father Connor Bell.

The town clock chimed eleven and he took another sip of wine, keen to dull the turmoil of his emotions. How could they have done it? The Church, his church, had protected its own rather than the innocent, the children. And right here in Inchkeld. It had no heart, and there could be no excuse. The whole host of Heaven must have wept, be weeping still.

When the doorbell rang he went to answer it eagerly, keen to rid himself of the repulsive volume, to hand it over to the police, to his ally. But he did not immediately recognise the man who confronted him on his doorstep.

‘Hello,' he said, taken aback.

Without a word, the pony-tailed stranger pushed past him and walked right through into his sitting-room. Father Vincent followed, alarmed by the forced intrusion into his territory. As he stood and watched, the young man paced about the room, pulled a drawer out of his desk, briefly inspected his bookcase and then yanked a
couple of leather-bound volumes out of it, letting them crash on to the floor.

‘What on earth d'you think you're doing?' Father Vincent said angrily, coming over to the stranger and, as he appeared to be about to continue to ransack the room, grabbing hold of his arm to restrain him.

‘Where's the book?' the young man asked, seizing Vincent's wrist and banging his hand hard on the bookcase, making him yell in pain. Getting no other answer he glared at Father Vincent and then, not shifting his gaze, he aimed a kick at the television. The screen shattered into hundreds of pieces of glass, flying into the air, hitting a nearby table and showering the carpet.

‘Where's the holy book?' the man shouted, staring the priest in the eye. Getting no response, in a single, swift movement, he swept all the papers off the nearby desk. A second later, he picked up a china table lamp and threw it against the wall, smashing it to pieces and gouging a hole in the plasterwork.

‘The book?' he repeated.

‘The police are on their way here …'

‘Sure they are.'

‘Who are you?' Father Vincent asked, knowing already, trying desperately to make him pause, distract him, delay him. His heart was throwing itself against his ribcage, his breath hard to come by. The door was closed, shards of jagged glass were within easy reach, and in front of him, his pale face contorted with anger, was a killer. Trying not to make it obvious, Vincent scanned the room with his eyes, frantically searching for a suitable weapon with
which to defend himself. If this man did not get what he had come for, perhaps even if he did, he would turn on him. Murder him, as he had others. His best hope seemed to be the half-empty bottle of wine that was on the floor by his armchair. Unconsciously cradling his damaged hand against his chest, he began to edge towards the bottle, but the flow of adrenaline in his bloodstream was hampering him. Everything was too bright, too fast, too colourful, too loud, confusing him so that he couldn't think straight. As he made a lunge for the bottle, a sickening blow hit the side of his head. At the weight and the shock of it he fell forwards on top of a low stool and landed heavily on the floor. Something warm and wet began to pour down his forehead and into his right eye, pooling in the eye itself, blinding him.

‘Get me the fucking book!'

Dazed, and before he could say anything, he felt another blow from the man's heel. This time it struck his nose, causing instantaneous agony and a gush of blood which spouted and streamed down the back of his throat and made him gag. Gasping for breath, trying to concentrate, he saw the man pick up the bottle that he had been trying to reach. Utterly defenceless, he looked up into his face, hoping to find some trace of humanity, believing, despite the blows he had already received, that he would, and that the assault would stop. Surely nobody, no human being, could kill another while looking into their eyes. Some meeting of souls would take place. Breathing in loudly, uncertain any more where he was, he gazed into the man's deep brown eyes, searching desperately to make the bond
that he believed must save him. But only a cold, pitiless stare met his. Glorying in his absolute power, the man slowly raised his weapon.

In the distance, in another world, a shadow seemed to be travelling across the room. A large figure, as solid as a house, suddenly loomed up behind the attacker, grabbed his raised arm and yanked it behind his back, wrenching upwards until he yelped in pain. A swift kick to the back of his knee collapsed his long legs and he crumpled to the floor. In a moment, Donald Keegan was on top of him, astride his back, pulling both his arms behind his back and handcuffing him. The youth squealed, making a high-pitched, breathless noise, sounding more like a wounded animal than a human being.

‘I can make my own stew,' Father Vincent said querulously, sinking back on his pillow and watching as Sister Monica, with difficulty, picked up the newspaper that he had inadvertently kicked off his bed onto the floor.

‘You couldn't before – what's changed now?' she said briskly, gathering up the sheets, scrunching them into a ball and stuffing them into the waste-paper bin. Tutting to herself, she picked up an empty wine glass from the bedside table and tapped it.

‘A head injury means no drink, you were told that.'

‘You wouldn't know about my stew. You've never had it.'

‘No,' she conceded, looking at him, ‘but Sister Frances has. She says your talents lie elsewhere. Now, no more drink.'

‘I don't know where, then …' he said, feeling cantankerous and unwilling to please anyone. He was determined to regain control of his life, and more importantly his home, as soon as possible. Pampering, which he had regarded as bliss in the first few days after the assault, had soon became tiresome.

‘I'm sure I don't either,' she said. ‘No doubt you keep them well hidden. Now, would you like peas or cabbage with your stew?'

As if she was a waitress, she licked an imaginary pencil and held it poised above an imaginary pad.

‘Cabbage, please. When's he due?'

‘And for dessert, sir?'

‘What's on the sweet trolley today?'

‘Mmm. Much the same as yesterday. Ice cream.'

‘And? Or?'

‘And or ice cream.'

‘Are you trying to kill my palate? When's he due?'

‘Any time now,' she said, looking at her watch. ‘Are you sure you want to see him – couldn't it wait?'

Before he had opened his mouth to answer, they both heard the doorbell ring, and by way of reply he simply nodded his head. At the sound, Satan, who had been snoozing near the foot of the bed, leapt off it and slunk below into the dark cave made by the trailing bed cover.

‘I'll be off then,' she said, ‘to get your order, sir.'

Donald Keegan clumped up the stairs, hauling himself up the last few steps with the banisters, puffing loudly like a steam engine. As he came into the bedroom he looked round, saw only a chair laden with clothes and, shaking
his head, still breathing deeply, came and sat on the end of the bed.

‘I gather you're on the mend,' he said jovially, loosening his tie and looking at the priest expectantly.

‘I am. I'm allowed to get up tomorrow. Sister Monica's finally given me permission.'

‘Women, eh! Give them half the chance and they'll take over your life!'

‘It's all thanks to you that they've a life to take over, Donald.'

‘Aye, he was a nasty piece of work, that one.'

‘Mamie told me that he's Kyle's older brother. A junkie too. Apparently, he went off the rails when his mother walked out on them. She's a Catholic, couldn't take any more of Hal's womanising. He couldn't cope with the boys, gave up long ago. Let them run wild.'

‘Mamie's mighty well informed,' the policeman said, taking out a handkerchief and wiping his glistening brow with it.

‘Better than the BBC.'

‘Incidentally, I hope that no one from the force's been bothering you yet? Since the assault, I mean? You'll have needed rest.'

‘No. Sister Monica's been standing guard over me. No one's been allowed in or out. So you're the first.'

‘No one would get past her, literally. I'm glad you've been allowed a little time to recover. That doesn't always happen, you know. Have you any idea why the lad picked on you?'

‘Didn't he tell you?'

‘Yes, but I want to know he said to you.'

‘He wanted to get the book back. Looking at the entries in it, I think he'd been using it for blackmail – blackmailing the priests listed in it.'

‘What exactly was in the book?'

‘It was a record of crimes, misdemeanours … horrors. Child abuse, alcoholism, dishonesty – all committed by priests employed, or once employed, within the diocese. What began as blackmail for Rick turned into something else, I reckon. Maybe some of them refused to pay or threatened to go to the police. Maybe he'd bled them dry and demanded more when there was no more. Maybe he just hated them. I looked at Connor Bell's entry and Kyle wasn't his first. Maybe Rick suffered too. They'd moved from Helensburgh and so had he.'

‘Father Bell! Christ almighty, I had no idea that he was involved. And you think he abused the pair of them?'

‘I don't know. It's only a guess on my part. All I know for certain is that he abused Kyle, and that he was in the book. But not for abusing Kyle.'

‘Of course,' Keegan said, shifting his position on the bed and dabbing at the sweat under his eyes. ‘The good news is that we don't need the book for the purposes of the murder inquiry. So at least you needn't worry yourself about that.'

‘Worry myself?'

‘Well, they've already got their man, haven't they? He'll not be harming anyone else, thank heavens. They'll have his DNA, witnesses too, quite possibly. He may even have confessed by now. And you can tell them about the
existence of the book, a little about its contents even, if necessary …'

‘How do you mean?'

‘You know, the entries for Dennis May, Callum Taylor and so on. You saw them, didn't you? If Rick doesn't plead guilty, if there's a trial, you could say that you saw their entries about child abuse and so on, so you don't need to worry.'

‘Sorry, Donald, worry about what?'

‘About the loss of the book.'

‘But I've still got the book.'

‘You've still got it?'

‘That's what I said.'

‘I thought it had disappeared,' Keegan said, moving up the bed to get closer to the priest.

‘No, it's here.'