by William Paul
Fyfe had discovered a problem with all authority figures from an early age. Elders and betters, he was told, and the finality of that statement created the strong suspicion that while the first description might be accurate, there was no guarantee the second one was. He worked out for himself that respect should be earned, not simply expected, in the adult world. That was how he judged his teachers and all the others he came into contact with.
The police constable who failed him the first time around in his cycling proficiency test but then took the trouble to explain exactly where he had gone wrong would never know how much influence he had on Fyfe’s decision to join the force years later. It had been a strange experience for Fyfe, transforming himself into an authority figure. He liked to think he should have been a terrorist, a resistance fighter, a maverick politician, a lonely long distance runner, or one of those guys who rowed the Atlantic in an open boat. He should have been the archetypal loner looking from the edge of society in towards the centre. He fancied himself as a brooding pool of still water running deep, but the trouble with that was that he didn’t really enjoy being alone at all. He needed to have people around him.
‘Mr Fyfe?’
He looked up, frowning, annoyed to be woken from his pleasant daydream. He had forgotten where he was and the sun was hot on the back of his neck. He reached round with his hand and touched the warm flesh there, as warm as newly baked scones fresh from the oven, feeling it radiate into his palm. In front of him stood a small woman of maybe sixty with eyes hugely magnified by the thick lenses of her glasses to be out of all proportion to the rest of her face. The black pupils gaped at him like those he had seen so often on spaced-out drug addicts.
‘Chief Inspector Fyfe?’ she repeated in a scratchy voice. ‘I’m Miss Lyle, Archbishop Delaney’s personal secretary. The Archbishop will see you now.’
‘Of course.’
He followed her across the foyer to the lift and they had to wait for it to arrive. She was wearing a black skirt and stiff white shirt buttoned up to the neck. She made some comment about the weather and he muttered a noncommittal reply. The red-haired receptionist smiled at him as he looked around, fighting the urge to whistle.
‘Lovely day, isn’t it?’ Miss Lyle said loudly.
‘Beautiful.’
‘We should thank God.’
Does that mean we should blame him when it rains, Fyfe thought more cheerfully, applying the frustrating theological argument that had made his old Sunday school teacher blush because she could never answer it properly. The lift doors opened with a sharp ping and Fyfe went in after the woman, standing well away from her in the confined space so as not to seem threatening.
‘It’s a terrible thing,’ she said when the doors scraped shut and the lift began to rise.
‘What is?’
‘When somebody steals money from the Church.’
Fyfe was taken aback. The secrecy conveyed by Sir Duncan had made him assume the Archbishop’s suspicions were privileged information. Just how personal was this personal secretary if she shared such a sensitive secret? She had introduced herself as Miss Lyle. A spinster then, he thought negatively. A female version of the Archbishop without the fancy dress and shepherd’s crook, finding solace only in her faith as she steadily got older. No children of her own, no grandchildren, just the Church and its childlike priests to fuss over.
Miss Lyle looked back at him over her shoulder. The glasses flashed under the lights as she turned her head. ‘Don’t be so surprised,’ she said. ‘I’ve worked here for more than thirty years and have seen four Archbishops laid in their graves. This is my fifth. He’s not bad but definitely a bit of a ditherer. Archbishop Michaelson would have stopped it by now. He wouldn’t have bothered with all this investigation business. He would just have stopped it.’
Fyfe felt compelled to say something. ‘I’m not here officially. I have just come to listen and offer advice.’
‘That’s right, son. We don’t want a scandal.’ She gulped breaths between sentences. ‘Just remember that Our Lady sees everything. Nothing can be hidden from her.’
One huge eye closed in a dramatic slow-motion wink. For a moment Fyfe saw her as she must have been when she was a younger woman, smooth-skinned and attractive with her big doe eyes and compact figure. It was not hard to imagine what she must have looked like as a young girl and to think of her lying in a rumpled bed after sex, stretching sinuously like a cat. Or maybe she was still a virgin after all these years, never having known a man in the biblical sense, shrivelling up as she grew older like an over-ripe fruit left untouched. Or maybe she had suffered a bad experience and turned to God as an alternative. A person’s desire for religion, Fyfe could almost understand. But the parallel need for celibacy was totally beyond him.
The lift stopped with a soft bump. The doors pinged open and Miss Lyle led him out into a corridor lined with pictures of churches. Their footsteps made no sound on the thick carpet. A door at the end of the corridor stood open. She moved to one side and waved him on, taking his coat and draping it over her arm. He winked as he passed and she smiled. No virgin her, Fyfe decided. There was a lot of knowledge behind that smile, a lot of understanding. Some priest somewhere would have heard the details of her confession and dictated what penance she should do. No one else would ever know.
The room Fyfe went into was large with an old-fashioned marble fireplace straight ahead and windows on two sides making it almost uncomfortably bright. A tray with coffee and biscuits was on a low table circled by four chairs. The edge of the tray lay on a thin grey folder. Archbishop Delaney came out from behind his desk, holding out a hand in greeting. He was wearing a black suit and dog collar and there was a fresh scar on his chin where he had cut himself shaving that morning. Fyfe, already prejudiced after seeing his photograph downstairs, saw no reason to change his mind.
‘Chief Inspector Fyfe. Glad you could come.’
‘I just hope I can help.’
‘So do I. So do I. You’ll take some coffee? Or perhaps you would prefer tea? I tend to like very strong coffee.’
The offer was made in the spirit of a wine waiter who has opened the bottle and does not expect rejection. ‘Coffee is fine,’ Fyfe said, disappointed that he did not have the guts to be contrary.
‘This is Mr Fleming, our accountant.’
A small, thin man was standing between the windows. Fyfe hadn’t noticed him before. He was elderly and hunchbacked so that his head was permanently tilted to one side and one arm hung down towards the floor. He had huge ears and a flat nose. When God was handing out good looks, he had been trampled in the rush. When he shook hands his grip was limp and deferential. His doleful expression emphasised the gravity of the situation he had been responsible for uncovering. He took a cup of coffee and sat down in a chair at a slight remove from Fyfe and Delaney.
The Archbishop talked about the weather, inevitably, and then about his friend Sir Duncan, a charming bloke, and the lot of policemen generally, not a happy one. The conversation moved on seamlessly to moral standards, declining, and the prevalence of criminal behaviour, growing. He helped himself to a chocolate biscuit and decried the blatant materialistic tendencies of modern society.
‘I held a Mass yesterday,’ he said, staring blankly into the middle distance. ‘It was in a church in a terribly poor part of the city. The people were poor. They have no money but they have rich souls. They may be at the bottom of the heap but they matter. Oh, how they matter.’
Fyfe sipped the bitter coffee and waited for the Archbishop to come out of his reverie, thinking that the Catholic Church was the biggest, most efficient money-making machine on earth and if it wasn’t for the poor people it wouldn’t be half so successful.
Don’t be ungracious, he told himself. Would you condemn yourself to a lifetime of celibacy for a guaranteed supply of communion wine and chocolate biscuits? Certainly not. Fyfe cringed at the thought and felt his face colour when he began to wonder spontaneously if the
Archbishop had ever slept with a woman. Delaney’s head turned slowly towards him, eyes suddenly coming into focus.
‘All right?’ he inquired.
‘What?’
‘The coffee?’
‘Fine. Just fine,’ Fyfe assured him, taking another sip to demonstrate its acceptability.
Delaney laid down his own cup and saucer. He was coming to the point. The sermon was over and the moral message was next. Fleming rose to put his cup and saucer back on the tray. They rattled noisily.
‘Sir Duncan has briefed you on our problem?’ Delaney said.
‘He has.’
The Archbishop nodded and his eyes took on a faraway look again. ‘It is a terrible thing when the Church cannot trust its own people. The Church’s money is God’s money and a crime against the Church is a crime against God. A terrible thing.’
‘Quite. Do you have any idea how much might be missing?’
‘Several hundred thousand pounds, I am told, Chief Inspector. Something of that order. The exact figures and an explanation of the circumstances are in that folder there on the table.’
Fleming nodded in confirmation. Fyfe pretended not to be surprised at the amount of money involved. At the same time Delaney was shaking his head, making his jowls flop from side to side. ‘It is, of course, as Sir Duncan will have told you, not the amount that matters — much of it is in tangible assets and can probably be recovered eventually. It is the breach of trust. You can imagine what a terrible discovery it was to make. I was physically sick when I realised what must have been happening.’
‘I think I can imagine,’ Fyfe said sympathetically. ‘And you know the name of the bad apple in your barrel?’
Delaney’s eyes snapped back into focus. ‘Oh yes. Mr Fleming has singled out the culprit. There can be no doubt of his guilt although he continues to deny it. The evidence is set down in black and white. We have him bang to rights, as might be said in the vernacular.’
Fleming nodded again. His cloudy eyes threatened to rain tears.
‘One of your priests, is he?’ Fyfe said.
‘I’m afraid so, Chief Inspector,’ Delaney replied. ‘Our Diocesan Chancellor, Father Richard Quinn.’
‘What does Diocesan Chancellor mean?’
‘He basically controls all the money that comes into the diocese. He pays the bills and underwrites charitable activities. He is, in effect, our banker. Every diocese has one.’
‘Is he a trained accountant?’
‘No. He just happens to be good with money. It would be ironic to call it a gift from God, but generally that is how our system works. Father Quinn is a man in his late fifties with a previously unblemished career. It grieves me terribly to find such self-seeking wickedness among men who are supposed to have pledged their life to God. It strikes at the very root of my faith in human nature.’
‘It would do, wouldn’t it? You are sure Quinn is guilty?’
‘Totally convinced.’
‘As guilty as sin, is he?’ Fyfe could not resist saying.
‘We’re all sinners, Chief Inspector,’ the Archbishop said, taking another chocolate biscuit. ‘It is but a matter of degree. I retain a profound sense of compassion for a man who has succumbed to temptation in this way. Satan gloats over those who fall to temptation.’
‘I take it you have confronted him with your version of events?’
‘I have. It was a most unsettling experience.’ Delaney wiped some crumbs from the corner of his mouth with his little finger.
‘And his response?’
‘He is unbalanced. He tried to blame it on the assistant priest in his parish, Father Donald Byrne. A most unsavoury attempt. The young priest was reduced to tears. It was he who came to me with the original suspicions that led to a closer examination of the figures. I have cross-examined him intensely and believe him to be innocent.’
‘You remain convinced of Quinn’s guilt?’
‘I do and I have not arrived at that conclusion willingly. I am afraid it is inescapable. Mr Fleming is a parishioner of mine. He has confirmed it. I am no psychiatrist but I believe the extent of his guilt is of such enormity that he does not want to, cannot, face the truth.’
‘There is the possibility that he may be innocent, of course. Perhaps this Father Byrne was involved.’
The Archbishop shook his head. ‘The evidence in this case is overwhelming, as you will see, and there is none against Father Byrne. I have prayed that I should be wrong about Quinn but I do not think so. However, I realise that all human judgements are fallible.’
Except one, Fyfe thought disrespectfully. Maybe we should invite the Pope to give his infallible opinion. There was also the pertinent point that if Quinn was the wrong man the real embezzler was still at large.
‘Father Quinn has lately been affected by a series of personal problems,’ the Archbishop said. ‘He has been seriously ill. I am sorry to say he started drinking heavily. If I sound harsh in my condemnation of him it is because I am disappointed his faith was not strong enough to support him.’
A whisky priest, Fyfe thought, trying to salt away some money for the long dark lonely days of his old age. Poor bastard would be too ashamed of what he had done to admit it.
‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘I understand.’
‘Anyway,’ Delaney said, standing up, ‘I discussed it with Duncan, Sir Duncan, and we agreed that the intervention of the police may extract the true story from him. The shock of an outside agency, someone not of the faith, may be enough to wring a confession from this man’s tortured soul.’
‘You mean do a deal with him?’
‘The loss of his vocation will be punishment enough. The Church will be satisfied if we can get our money back. It may be recoverable, of course, through the science of accountancy because most of it apparently has been invested in stocks and shares and used to buy property. But if Father Quinn was to co-operate it would be recovered all the more speedily. I would hope to secure a withdrawal of his accusations against Father Byrne also.’
‘This troublesome priest is causing you a lot of anguish.’
‘He claims to be innocent of criminality. He says he will fight to clear his name but then contradicts himself by saying he only took the money to build an orphanage of all things in Eastern Europe.’ Delaney exhaled like a man blowing up a balloon. ‘I ask you. If this becomes public the shame could kill him. The embarrassment to the Church will be secondary.’
‘Perhaps you need a psychiatrist rather than a policeman.’
‘Perhaps. That will be our next step if you fail, Chief Inspector.’
Fyfe was not confident of success. If the perpetrator was not going to confess to a bloody Archbishop he was unlikely to be impressed by an agnostic detective.
‘When can I see him?’ he said. ‘Where are you keeping him?’
Delaney clasped his hands behind his back where he stood beside the mantelpiece. ‘He has agreed to stay at a retreat on Tayside run by one of our monastic orders. The rooms there are known as cells. An apt description. He will not be going anywhere until this matter is settled. I have taken possession of his passport. You can see him this afternoon.’
Fyfe acknowledged a grudging flicker of respect for Delaney’s pragmatic attitude. Muscular Christianity it might be called. Delaney kept repeating that he was more worried about the man than the money but that was purely for form’s sake. Quinn had been caught and was not going to be allowed to get away.
‘I went to my friend Sir Duncan for advice and he recommended you, Chief Inspector. We hope you can have some effect on this poor unfortunate, that you can somehow draw the poison from his soul. Of course, you will appreciate the delicacy of the situation. Only I and Mr Fleming and the assistant priest Byrne so far know what has transpired and that is the way it should remain. Let us keep this private.’
‘Just between us,’ Fyfe said, remembering Miss Lyle who had buried four Archbishops.
‘Free will is a cross humans have to bear. We mu
st be responsible for our actions and pay the price of repentance.’
Fyfe sensed the interview was coming to a close and stood up. ‘Obviously, I cannot guarantee that there will be no proceedings in this case. If a crime has been committed, the law may have to take its course.’
‘Chief Inspector Fyfe, I understand perfectly. The Church, too, has its laws. They must not be ignored and they must be interpreted correctly or all is chaos.’
They shook hands, Delaney maintaining his grip for longer than was necessary. Fleming also offered his hand and a business card.
‘I do not have to tell you that the fewer people who know about this the better,’ Delaney said. ‘For the time being at least. Call me and keep me appraised of any progress.’
‘You can trust me, Archbishop.’
‘Let us hope we can restore a little justice to our hugely imperfect world. Miss Lyle will show you out. She has the address of the retreat for you. It is less than two hours’ drive, somewhere north of Dundee.’
Miss Lyle appeared at the door on cue, holding his coat. Fyfe had not noticed Delaney do anything that might have summoned her. He repeated his goodbyes and took the folder, rolling it into a tube to carry it in one hand. Miss Lyle led him to the lift in silence. Inside she handed him a single sheet of paper with an address and phone number on it.
‘It’s a Cistercian order,’ she said. ‘Not a very talkative lot.’
Fyfe grinned and saw his twin reflections smile back from the convex lenses of her glasses. At ground level the doors pinged open and he stepped out past Miss Lyle. She reached out and touched his sleeve.
‘Go get him, boy,’ she said. ‘May Our Lady watch over you.’
14
Billy Jones drummed his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel of the van and stared at the pub entrance. He chewed the last of a takeaway bacon roll and dropped its wrapping on the floor beside the polystyrene cups and other debris. His brother Sandy sat beside him, reading a copy of the Daily Record and mindlessly humming the latest chart-climbing pop tune.