The Trinity (35 page)

There is a common thread—the racist nature of the crimes and the use of the word “Trinity”—that links the attacks on the synagogues instantly with the murder in Dundee earlier in the winter.

“Our friend is at it again,” says Holliday. Robertson immediately recognizes his voice. The two haven’t spoken for several months. Their paths haven’t crossed; the cares of Dundee are many miles from the bucolic life of Lutherkirk.

Holliday fills Robertson in on the details of the crimes in Aberdeen and Edinburgh, and the bloody signature left on each door. Evidence technicians reveal nothing. The fingerprints are unknown, and the blood on each door is of a different type, indicating the activity of more than one person.

“Well,” Robertson replies, “I have driven by the priest’s place now and again. Haven’t noticed anything unusual, you know, no signs of gatherings or anything, though he is a peculiar bloke. I’ve seen him standing about in his garden wearing nothin’ but a bathrobe when it’s cold enough to see your breath. Maybe this is just a recent act of imitation; maybe some lads got the idea from what happened in Dundee and decided to have a go at a few synagogues, just for laughs, you know. No damage has been done, just graffiti, not murder, like what happened in your town.”

“Maybe,” replies Holliday in a brogue much less thick than Robertson’s, his pronunciation a little more urbane. “Still, most lads apt to copy something like that would have been brought in before, and their prints would come up. You’re right, there are a lot of blokes who don’t like anyone but Scots, and they don’t even care for
them
most of the time. Maybe it is an imitation, but my gut tells me different. This priest is testing the water, stirring the pot, seeing what kind of ripple he comes up with.”

“Worth paying him a visit?”

“Absolutely.  Even though nothing has happened in Tayside, there is no law against knocking on his door and seeing if he’s home. I’ll be up there tomorrow.”

Holliday and Robertson agree to meet the following evening, a Saturday. Robertson will find out what time the Saturday Mass is and plan accordingly. They will drive to the priest’s house as the afternoon approaches evening. If he’s not in, they’ll wait.

 “You’re off again this weekend, aren’t you?” Brad asks Chris as they sit alone eating supper.

The galley is nearly closed, and the sound of the dishes being sprayed and the cutlery being sorted in the scullery echoes in the nearly empty dining room.

“Yes.”

“Good, I thought so.” His voice lowers to a whisper. “Father Crowley called me this afternoon. He wants us to go to Glasgow on Saturday, early. He has to be back in time for evening Mass. Have you been to Glasgow?”

“No.” Chris shakes his head, excited about the prospect of travel to Scotland’s largest city. “What are we going to do?”

“Not sure. There’s something he wants us to look at. He wants to take the first train because he doesn’t feel like driving this time. He’ll pick us up at the gate at 0700. You’ll have to make sure I get up.”

Chris rolls his eyes. His roommate is not an early riser on the weekends and often sleeps through breakfast.

“Sure, no problem,” Chris says reluctantly. “Where do we catch the train?”

“Montrose.”

“Cool.” Chris has never traveled by train.

On Saturday, Chris tugs Brad out of bed. Due to the constraints of time, they forego breakfast and wander out the front gate of the base and walk a quarter mile down the road, past the eyes of the suspicious MoDP officer posted at the gate.

Chris can hear the Allegro before it is visible. It arrives followed by a cloud of blue smoke that hangs thick in the foggy morning air that hovers over the crystal and dewy ground.

“Good morning, good morning,” Crowley says quite pleasantly. “Beautiful morning for a train ride, wouldn’t you say?” He points to a hole in the clouds over the rim of the valley, sunlight trying to inch its way across the sky.

“The car’s acting up, and I don’t want to risk taking it on such a long trip,” explains the priest. The car shows its own evidence, as it tends to hesitate all the way to Montrose, fifteen miles to the east of the base, a larger town on the North Sea.

Crowley purchases their tickets and they walk out onto the barely covered platform, where a collection of Scottish people of various ages wait for the next southbound train.

Chris, in his excitement, cranes his neck around the bend of the track, looking north, waiting for the train to come.

The fog has now lifted and the sun is nearly risen. A northeasterly wind blows the scent of the sea Chris’s way, and he inhales the dampness and the salt and feels worldly again. He is traveling across the country, and though it is only two hours away, it is still across the country. He is going to a big city. He recalls the thrill he felt upon spying the edge of New York, its seemingly infinite number of skyscrapers jutting out of the lower end of Manhattan between what he knew from his television-provided education to be the Empire State Building and the World Trade Center.

He is looking forward to that thrill again, and feels it is much better to travel with company. If he were traveling alone, he would feel scrutinized by all those unfamiliar faces staring at him on the platform. Now, in the strong presence of the priest, he barely notices them. They are just part of the landscape, like the train tracks themselves.

The train arrives and Crowley and Chris board, armed with paper cups of steaming tea from a vending machine on the platform. Hinckley foregoes tea and buys a small can of Coke with 30p he borrowed from Chris. The car, marked Scot Rail, is somewhat shabby on the inside but more comfortable than Chris expects. They sit in a berth not unlike a restaurant booth, cloth benches on either side of a white linoleum table.

They sit as far as possible from the other passengers, and talk in near-whispers.

The train rolls away and Chris looks out the window as Crowley begins to speak.

“Now, I suppose you want to know what we’re doing today.” Crowley has a sports bag on his lap, which he hugs as if it were as dear as an infant. Chris spies the word “Umbro” on the bag, and knows the priest purchased the bag in Scotland and rightly assumes it is a bag used by soccer players.

Chris nods and Hinckley smiles. Chris senses from his smile that Hinckley already has an idea about what they’re going to do.

“Well,” he says, smiling as broadly as Chris has ever seen, “we’re going to extend an invitation for the Jews to leave Scotland.” He pats the bag and scans the car, to make sure no one can hear him.

He unzips the bag and motions for Chris to lean over the table and take a look inside.   

Chris moves his cup of tea close to the window and arches his body over the table. He looks inside the bag. He can smell gasoline, and he sees short pieces of pipe with wicks sticking out of them and four or five corked wine bottles wrapped in rags with a thin and dirty liquid inside them.

Chris understands it all in an instant. He sits back as Crowley zips up the bag.

They ride in silence. The towns roll past, and as they go south and west, the scenery changes. The landscape is a bit more lush; the trees are starting to show green on the edges. The train rolls across high bridges over rivers and valleys with names Chris does not know. He stares out the window, trying to understand what Crowley has planned exactly, unsure what role he will be required to play when they disembark in Glasgow.

The train stops in Stirling, and Chris can feel the edge of Glasgow approaching, the lack of empty spaces visible from the train window, the endless array of power lines and telephone cables. They enter a cavern and emerge in the middle of the illuminated labyrinth that is the Glasgow train station.

Upon disembarking, Chris spies the multitude of trains, the growing throng of people, the large clock on the wall at the focal point of the station, and he feels he’s stepped into an old black and white movie.

They scurry up some stairs leading outside the station and step out into the heart of Glasgow.

Chris expects to see a city not unlike an American city, towers of glass and steel shrouding wide avenues, but not here. The scene is more like an overgrown Aberdeen or Dundee, blocks of low stone buildings barely casting shadows on the concrete and pavement underneath.

They enter a cab from a long queue outside the train station. The cab is unlike the Ladas or Skodas or Vauxhalls that buzz around the base. Again, he feels like he steps back into an old movie as they enter a black taxi that looks like an old car, like he imagines a Packard or Studebaker would appear, with large doors, a high roof and a rounded hood.

Crowley’s face is serene as he clutches the duffel bag against his chest. Hinckley nervously smiles and lights a cigarette, even though the priest looks at him with disdain. Chris looks out the window, studying the would-be skyline.

The driver assumes the odd trio are tourists, a father and two sons, perhaps. “So you here on holiday?” he asks, staring at the rearview mirror. Chris can barely understand him, as his brogue is even thicker and bit more lilting than the dialect spoken around the base. From his travels, Crowley’s ear is more in tune with the sounds of Scotland, and he answers right away.

“No, no,” replies the priest. “We’re here to rescue Scotland.” He looks out the window and taps his bag to make sure its contents are still intact. “Please take us to the Newton Mearns Synagogue, Beech Avenue, please.”

“You Jewish?” the cab driver asks. “You don’t look Jewish, none of you”

“No, no,” replies the priest. “We’re not Jewish, but thank you for the compliment.” He laughs, and the cab driver laughs with him. “We’re going there to take care of some unfinished business from the thirteenth century.”

The driver looks in the mirror and stares at Crowley, a look of confusion plain on his face.

“Read up on Edward I at your library, and then watch the news. You’ll know who we are after that.” This the priest says with pride, and Chris is alarmed. How can Crowley advertise what he’s planning? What if the police get involved and the cab driver comes forward somehow? He will recognize them, and though Chris himself hasn’t spoken, he is traveling with the priest. He is culpable.

Crowley looks at Chris and can read his thoughts by his expression. He winks at him. He pats Chris on the knee in reassurance and allows the hand to linger there for longer than necessary. Chris is reassured and realizes the priest knows what he’s doing. He is comforted.

The cab driver clears his throat. “I’m a quarter Jewish, on my mother’s side. She came from Warsaw just before the war.”

“Oh.” The priest squints as he stares at the rearview mirror and studies what is visible of the cab driver’s face. Chris watches as the priest scrutinizes the dark hair, the pale but ruddy face behind a normal sized nose, which supports a black-framed pair of spectacles. Chris can see the accumulated dirt and smudge marks on the cab driver’s eyeglasses, as if they haven’t been cleaned in some time.

“Well, that is interesting, that you’re Jewish. I wouldn’t have guessed that. You’re not a practicing Jew, are you?”

“No, Church of Scotland I was raised, but, you know, I always pull for Israel. Every time I hear about a squabble in the Middle East, I always cheer for them, sort of like rooting for the home side.”

“There is nothing wrong with loyalty to your ancestry.” Crowley looks out the window as the cab rolls to a stop.

“Here you are. That’ll be ten pounds,” the cab driver says with a bit of cheer, the change of conversation somewhat refreshing. It’s not every fare that dares to talk about something as occasionally cryptic as religion.

“I’ll take care of that.” Crowley hands his bag to Hinckley and tells the two young men to wait outside, to walk towards a cemetery that is next door to the synagogue, a drab building along a fairly wide avenue for European standards.

As Brad and Chris walk away, the priest pretends to search for his wallet, watching Brad and Chris walk until they’re out of earshot. Impatient, the cab driver turns to face Crowley.