Sins of the Fathers

by Sally Spencer

  What the bloody hell was going on with these two, he wondered.

  Thirty

  Whoever had last been using the two chairs in the vestry had placed them much closer together than they had been previously, and though both Father Taylor and Paniatowski could have repositioned one of them before sitting down, neither of them chose to.

  ‘This is becoming something of a habit of ours, isn’t it, Monika?’ Father Taylor asked.

  ‘Is that some tactful way of saying that I’m taking up far too much of your time?’ Paniatowski wondered.

  ‘No, no, not at all,’ Father Taylor said hastily. ‘I meant that it was becoming a habit in the nicest possible sense of the word.’

  ‘And what sense is that?’

  ‘It’s a rather cosy habit, if you see what I’m getting at.’

  Yes, she did see what he was getting at, Paniatowski thought. It was becoming a cosy habit because, in many ways, he was a cosy man.

  She could almost picture him – after a hard day’s work in some office or other – sitting in his favourite armchair in his pleasant suburban living room. He would be wearing worn carpet slippers and an old cardigan – which was going at the elbows, but which he could not bear to throw out – and he would be listening happily while his children, gathered around at his feet, described their day’s adventures to him.

  ‘Why did you become a priest?’ she heard herself saying.

  ‘I thought I’d already answered that question the other night.’

  ‘Maybe you did.’

  ‘Well, then?’

  ‘And maybe I wasn’t entirely convinced by what you told me.’

  ‘I assure you, Monika, I—’

  ‘Or it could be that I’d like to hear it all again, just to make certain I heard it right the first time.’

  Father Taylor hesitated for a moment, then said, ‘I suppose the simplest way to explain how I came to be what I am is to say that I became a priest because I felt – I believed – that that’s what God wanted me to become.’

  ‘So you had no choice – no free will?’

  ‘We all of us always have a choice. What would be the point in striving to become virtuous, if we didn’t have the free will to choose not to be?’

  ‘What made you so sure that this was what God wanted you to do?’ Paniatowski asked.

  ‘The gifts He appears to have bestowed on me.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Even when I was very young, people seemed to have this urge to confide in me.’

  ‘So you’re a good listener. That doesn’t mean—’

  ‘And more than that, they took what I said in return very seriously. I had the power to comfort them – to lighten their burden. There was a time – in my teens – when I saw it more as a curse than a gift. But gradually I came to see God’s purpose working through me.’

  ‘In other words, you became a priest simply because you had a talent for it?’ Paniatowski asked. ‘In much the same way as you might have become a concert pianist if you’d had a natural aptitude for the piano?’

  ‘Are you mocking me now?’ Father Taylor asked, looking hurt.

  Paniatowski shook her head, vehemently.

  ‘No, I promise you, I’m not,’ she said.

  ‘Then what are you doing?’

  ‘I’m trying to understand how a man like you could turn his back on a normal life. You should be married! You should have children. Even if they weren’t your own. Even if you had to adopt them!’

  ‘If it had been God’s plan for me to fall in love before I entered the priesthood, then that is what I would have done,’ Father Taylor said, simply.

  ‘And once you had entered the priesthood, it was no longer possible?’

  ‘If I feel any stirrings – and I have already confessed to you that I do – I know it is only God’s way of tempting me.’

  ‘He must be a very cruel god, then.’

  ‘No, He is a infinitely loving God, and He only does it to help me to strengthen my faith.’

  They had strayed on to very dangerous ground Paniatowski realized – and it was all her fault.

  ‘I have a problem you might be able to help me with,’ she said, trying to sound more businesslike. ‘And before you jump to any conclusions, Father Fred, it’s professional – it’s not about God at all.’

  Father Taylor smiled. ‘Most things are about God,’ he said, ‘but if you wish me to keep Him out of the conversation, I promise to try my hardest. What is it you want to know?’

  ‘Say that there were three men cut off by the weather on a mountainside, and that before their rescuers could get to them, one of them had already died,’ Paniatowski began.

  ‘Is this some sort of moral theoretical question, or is it real?’ Father Taylor asked.

  ‘It’s theoretical,’ Paniatowski lied.

  ‘I see. Well, in that case, do carry on.’

  ‘Say that when the rescuers do get there, one of the men who’s survived is speaking in Latin. Why would he be doing that?’

  ‘What is it he’s saying?’

  ‘I don’t know. But he’s not a classical scholar, or anything like that. He’s an accountant and—’

  ‘Are we sure this a theoretical example?’

  ‘Does it matter if it isn’t?’

  ‘I suppose not. Is this man a Catholic?’

  ‘He is.’

  ‘So you think that he was speaking what, for want of a better phrase, we might call church Latin, do you?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘And you’re wondering what particular piece of church Latin might have come to his mind in the situation you describe?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Well, I suppose he could have been saying a prayer for the soul of his dead friend.’

  ‘I don’t think that was it at all.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. From the way he was described to me, he seemed to be more concerned about himself than his dead friend.’

  ‘Then he could have been praying for forgiveness. Perhaps he felt responsible for his friend’s death.’

  ‘Responsible how?’

  ‘I can’t say. It would be impossible to say, without knowing more details. But perhaps – and this is only a suggestion – he felt guilty because he was the one who had come up with the idea of the expedition in the first place.’

  ‘I don’t think it was his idea.’

  ‘Then I’m at a loss.’

  ‘Is it possible that he felt guilty because he could have done something to prevent the friend’s death, but chose not to?’

  ‘Certainly,’ the priest said.

  Paniatowski stood up. ‘Thank you, Father.’

  ‘Are you going so soon?’ Father Taylor asked.

  ‘Well, yes,’ Paniatowski said. ‘You answered my questions – at least as far as you’re able to – so I won’t take up any more of your time.’

  Father Taylor stood up, and placed his hands on her shoulders.

  ‘Is that truly the only reason that you came here tonight, Monika?’ he said. ‘To ask me your theoretical questions which we both know were not really theoretical at all?’

  ‘Yes. Well, mainly.’

  ‘Are you sure about that?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure.’

  Father Taylor’s hands ceased to merely rest on Paniatowski’s shoulders, and instead began to grasp them. She could feel his fingers digging into her flesh with an urgency which demanded the truth.

  ‘Look into my eyes – look deeply into them – and tell me again that you’re sure,’ he said.

  Monika raised her head, so that their eyes met. ‘I’m sure,’ she said, unconvincingly.

  And before either of them really knew what was happening, they were kissing one another.

  Beresford still felt a desperate need to talk to Sergeant Paniatowski, and on the way to the pub he had been racking his brains for some ruse he might employ to detach her from the rest of the team. It was almost crushingly disappointi
ng to find that she wasn’t even there – and more than disturbing to see that the only person who was actually sitting at the usual table was also the one person who he really didn’t want to talk to at all.

  He was already backing towards the door when Woodend spotted him, and gestured that he should join him.

  Beresford walked reluctantly over to the table and sat down in the chair opposite the chief inspector’s.

  ‘What’s the matter, lad?’ Woodend asked. ‘You look like you’ve lost a pound an’ found sixpence.’

  ‘I don’t think I’m cut out for CID work, sir,’ Beresford blurted out. ‘I don’t think I’m cut out for it all.’

  There! He’d said it! It was finally out in the open!

  Woodend shook his head slowly from side to side.

  ‘Oh dear, it’s the old crisis of confidence raisin’ its ugly head, is it? Don’t worry, lad, we all suffer from that now an’ again.’

  ‘That’s easy enough for you to say, sir,’ Beresford told him. ‘When you have any doubts, you’ve got a rock-solid track record to reassure you. You can always remind yourself that you’ve arrested more murderers than I’ve had hot dinners. But what have I got?’

  ‘You’ve had your own modest successes, even if you don’t quite realize it yet.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Well, for example, bringin’ Thelma Hawtrey into the picture. Why did we go an’ see her in the first place? Because of what you’d learned about her husband’s death from the people in the factory!’

  ‘But I didn’t want us to go and see her,’ Beresford pointed out. ‘I didn’t think Thelma could possibly have had anything to do with Pine’s murder.’

  ‘An’, as it happens, you were quite right about that. But if we hadn’t gone to see Thelma, we’d never have found the spot on which Bradley Pine was murdered, would we?’

  ‘So if I helped the investigation at all, it was purely by accident,’ Beresford said glumly.

  ‘Half the time, any progress we make comes about as a result of a lucky accident,’ Woodend told him. ‘We stir up the pot, an’ see what floats to the surface. Sometimes what bobs up is of no earthly use, but if we don’t keep stirrin’, we’ll never get anywhere.’

  ‘I don’t think I’m even a very good stirrer, sir,’ Beresford said.

  ‘Of course you are. Tell me a few of the things that you’ve found that I probably don’t know about yet.’

  ‘I don’t see that’ll do any good, sir.’

  ‘Humour me!’

  ‘Well,’ Beresford said, reluctantly, ‘I found out that Alec Hawtrey had two children by his first wife, a boy and girl.’

  ‘Which was news to me.’

  ‘But is it news that’s going to be of any use?’

  ‘We won’t know until we’ve finally closed the case. Were they a happy family before Thelma came along?’

  ‘I think so. I saw this picture of them on their holidays. They all looked as if they were having a good time. Except for the son. He seemed miserable. Not, that’s not the right word. What he seemed was troubled.’ Beresford paused. ‘Honestly, sir, I don’t think this is doing any—’

  ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘Whatever happened later, Mr Hawtrey must have really doted on his first wife in the early years of their marriage, because he built this huge elaborate house for her, and—’

  Woodend chuckled. ‘Oh, aye. That house! “Tara”!’

  ‘Sorry, sir?’

  ‘“Tara”. It’s what other people used to call the house. An’ they didn’t necessarily mean it as a compliment.’

  Beresford looked at him blankly. ‘Tara?’ he repeated.

  ‘Aye, you know, after the house in Gone with the Wind?’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, I still don’t—’

  ‘You’ve never heard of a film called Gone with the Wind?’

  ‘No, sir. When was it made?’

  ‘Round about 1939, I think.’

  ‘That was an awfully long time ago, sir.’

  Woodend sighed heavily. ‘Sometimes you do make me feel very, very old, lad.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to—’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, don’t go apologizin’,’ Woodend told him. ‘Anybody who says they don’t envy you for your youth is a bloody liar – but that’s their problem, not yours.’ He paused to light up a cigarette. ‘They pulled that house down in the end. I was sorry to see it go.’

  ‘Why? I thought you said it was a bit of a joke.’

  ‘Well, I suppose it was, in an way.’

  ‘Well, then?’

  ‘But it was rather like the odd characters you sometimes come across in the pub – they can irritate the hell out of you when they’re there, but you quite miss them when they’ve gone. Still, that’s progress for you. The town planners – in their infinite wisdom – decided that the people of Whitebridge needed a new road much more than they needed a good talkin’ point, and so they … so they …’

  ‘What’s the matter, sir?’ Beresford asked, slightly alarmed by the change that had suddenly come over his boss.

  ‘“Tara” was pulled down because – like a lot of other properties – it stood in the way of the new Whitebridge to Accrington dual carriageway,’ Woodend said. ‘An’ I may be wrong about this, but when I think about exactly where it was, I get the distinct impression it must have been very close to that lay-by we found Bradley Pine in!’

  Thirty-One

  The visiting room in HM Prison Saltney was large and square, and the table in the centre of it looked as lost as a small island in the middle of a vast ocean. It was perhaps not quite as depressing as the interview rooms back in Whitebridge Police HQ, Woodend thought, but it certainly ran a damn close second.

  The door to the corridor swung open, and one of the prison officers escorted Dr Pierson into the room. The doctor had been incarcerated for a little over two years. He had the unhealthy pallor of someone who is rarely out in the open air, but otherwise looked better than might have been expected in a man who had seen his whole life dis-integrate.

  Pierson sat down opposite the chief inspector, and said, ‘Have you got a cigarette, Charlie?’

  Woodend slid a full packet across the table. ‘You can keep them, Doc,’ he said.

  ‘So you think you can bribe me with a few fags, do you?’ Pierson asked, but even as he was speaking, he was sliding the cigarettes into the pocket of his prison overalls.

  ‘What makes you think that I was offering them as a bribe?’ Woodend wondered.

  Pierson shrugged. ‘What else could it be, Charlie? This is the first time you’ve ever been to see me, and you wouldn’t have come now if you hadn’t wanted something.’

  ‘Do you blame me for that?’

  ‘Blame you for what? For wanting something? Or for not coming to see me before now?’

  ‘For not coming to see you before now.’

  Pierson thought about it. ‘No, probably not. We wouldn’t have had much to say to one another if you had come. We could hardly have reminisced about old times, could we, when the “old time” that really stands out in both our minds is the one when you arrested me?’

  ‘Given what you’d been involved in, you didn’t leave me much choice about that, did you?’ Woodend asked.

  ‘No, I suppose I didn’t,’ Pierson agreed. ‘When all’s said and done, you were only doing your job. But you can’t blame me for wishing that you hadn’t done it quite so well.’

  ‘Why don’t you tell me about the autopsy you performed on Alec Hawtrey?’ Woodend suggested.

  ‘Alec Hawtrey,’ Pierson mused. ‘So that’s what this is all about. As I recall, Hawtrey fell off a mountainside in a blizzard, and broke his leg. His death was the result of exposure.’

  ‘Was it really exposure which killed him?’

  ‘Yes, it was.’

  ‘You’re sure about that?’

  ‘I know I’ve often lied to you in the past, Charlie, but please believe me when I say that, this t
ime, I’m telling you the truth.’

  I do believe you, Woodend thought. I don’t want to – because that means we’ve been following another false trail – but I do.

  ‘Why did Marlowe go to all that trouble of ensurin’ you were the one who carried out the autopsy?’ he asked.

  ‘You’ll have to ask Henry that.’

  ‘I’m askin’ you.’

  ‘I suppose it’s possible he did because he had no faith in the Cumberland medical examiner.’

  ‘Now you are lyin’ aren’t you?’ Woodend asked.

  ‘Maybe yes, and maybe no. But if I am lying, what are you prepared to offer me for telling the truth, Charlie?’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘My freedom!’

  ‘Come on now, Doc! You know I couldn’t get you released at this stage in your sentence, even if I wanted to!’

  ‘Then perhaps I’d be willing to settle for something a little more modest. A cell that I didn’t have to share with anyone else would be nice. I’d also like unlimited supplies of the finest old malt whisky. And if you could round off the package with a promise of gourmet meals which have been cooked especially for me in the finest restaurant in the area, you just might have yourself a deal.’

  ‘Aye, there should be no problem with any of that,’ Woodend said. ‘An’ while I’m at it, why don’t I see if Brigitte Bardot, Elizabeth Taylor and Sophia Loren are free at the moment – because I’m sure if they are, I can arrange for them all to visit you on the long winter nights.’

  Dr Pierson smiled wanly. ‘In other words, you can’t get me anything at all that will make my life in here a little pleasanter,’ he said.

  ‘Got it in one,’ Woodend agreed. ‘But I promise you this – if you committed any illegal acts durin’ the course of the autopsy on Hawtrey, I’ll personally guarantee that you won’t be prosecuted for them.’

  Pierson laughed. ‘All that boils down to is a promise that if I put my head in the noose, you won’t pull the handle and open the trapdoor. But why should I even think of putting my head in the noose at all?’

  ‘Because it’s the right thing to do.’

  ‘And do you seriously think I care about “doing the right thing”?’ Pierson asked, with derision.