The DCI David Fyfe Mysteries

by William Paul

  ‘Shut up, will you?’ Billy shouted, chopping down through the newspaper with the side of his hand.

  ‘Fuck’s sake, Billy. There’s no need for that,’ he said, trying to reassemble the torn paper. ‘There’s only one way in and out. We’ll get the bastard soon enough. Loosen up.’

  Sandy shook his head and pulled nervously at his earring. ‘It’s been too long. What do you think they’re doing in there?’

  ‘What people usually do in pubs. Picking their noses.’

  ‘I don’t like it when priests get involved in our business.’

  ‘He’s not involved. We wait until he moves out of the picture and then lift Adamson. He won’t be involved.’

  ‘Supposing they seek sanctuary in a church?’

  Sandy giggled. He smoothed out the sports pages of the newspaper and began reading again.

  ‘What happens if the priest doesn’t leave him? Supposing they stay together all night? What do we do then?’

  ‘We’ll just have to lift both of them,’ Sandy said without looking up.

  ‘Oh no. Oh no. I’m not topping any priest. I’m not having anything to do with that.’

  ‘You going to tell the boss of your sudden attack of conscience?’

  Billy leaned forward and bumped his forehead off the windscreen three times. He snatched the newspaper from Sandy, shredded it and tossed it over his shoulder into the back of the van. Then he slapped his brother on the back of the head. Sandy slapped him back. Billy pressed the palm of his hand against Sandy’s nose. Sandy twisted his head away and tried to grab Billy’s wrist.

  ‘I don’t like it,’ Billy said, backing off.

  ‘I don’t like the fucking weather but there’s bugger all I can do about it,’ Sandy replied. ‘We need Adamson. If the priest gets in the way we can nudge him gently to the side. We don’t have to hurt him.’

  ‘We could hurt him just a little bit.’

  ‘Whatever’s necessary. Let’s wait and see.’

  Sandy rescued a page of the newspaper and began reading again. Billy leaned over the wheel and rested his forehead on the windscreen. He stiffened when he saw Adamson emerge from the pub. Byrne was right behind him, putting on his dog collar.

  ‘Waiting’s over,’ Billy said.

  15

  Fyfe went to the local police station in Leith after his meeting with Archbishop Delaney. It was a converted town hall full of dark wood panelling and high ceilings. From there he phoned the retreat on the Tayside coast. Brother Patrick answered and confirmed he was expected. Complicated directions to get there by road were repeated twice.

  ‘Out here in the back of beyond we are very hard to find,’ Brother Patrick said. ‘Isn’t it marvellous?’

  Fyfe agreed. He wrote down the information and checked the route on a road map that gave no indication of the existence of the place. Then he read over the report prepared by the taciturn accountant Fleming. It was pretty damning. The main scam was to have a legitimate Church drug rehabilitation project pay cash into a bank account as rent for accommodation which already belonged to the Church and wages for employees who did not exist. Cheques drawn on the account had bought jewellery, membership of a book club and numerous cases of expensive claret among other assorted items, the most exotic of which was a silver-plated chess set with pieces representing Satanic and Heavenly forces. A full-page advertisement for the set torn from a glossy magazine was included in the file. Nice touch, Fyfe thought, warming to the deviant sense of humour that could do such perversely flippant things.

  The cheques and credit card slips were signed with Richard Quinn’s name, less his holy designation. Quinn, naturally, was the leader of the rehabilitation project. Comparative handwriting samples left little doubt who had written the signatures, apart from some that were illegible scrawls. Amounts of two hundred and fifty pounds had also been withdrawn in cash at regular, almost daily, intervals on a cash card dedicated to Quinn. Only eighteen thousand out of the hundreds of thousands of pounds was unaccounted for. Fleming had nailed the swindler good and proper.

  ‘Not much imagination, Father Quinn, apart from the chess set,’ Fyfe said. ‘Looks like an open and shut case. I wonder what you’ve got to say for yourself.’

  Jewellery. The idea of a priest buying women’s jewellery intrigued him. Did that mean Quinn was helping himself to some of the pleasures of the flesh at the same time he was ripping off his Church? What a hypocrite, but as well to be hung for a sheep as a lamb. Fyfe shook his head and grinned, conjuring up a mental picture of a naked priest wearing nothing but a dog collar separated from a naked woman wearing nothing but a crucifix by a table supporting the silver chess set. The priest fingered his Satanic king considering his next move while the woman anxiously surveyed her flights of defending angels. ‘Checkmate,’ the priest would whisper when he finally made his move.

  Fyfe decided he would drop in by the priest’s house to see if Quinn’s assistant was around. It was on his way out of the city and if there was no one there he would try again the next day. It might be useful to get a perspective on the man and what might be expected. It would be interesting to see what a close colleague’s view of his outrageous behaviour would be. All forgiveness and understanding probably, unlike the Archbishop.

  Fyfe shared some gossip with the duty inspector. Another two murders reported that morning, both garrotted like the dead man on Portobello beach. Cheese wire slicing through skin and blood and bone, a drug war trademark. It looked like a particularly nasty falling out among criminals. Fyfe felt a brief twinge of envy for whoever would be in charge of the case but didn’t let it show. Real crime, a real touch of malice. Juicy stuff. The media were howling for action. There was a rumour that everyone was going to be told to drop everything and work on the case. Fyfe checked the pager on his belt. They knew how to get him when they needed him.

  He drove to the church. It was on the border between an exclusive leafy area of big trees, big houses, and big gardens, and a sprawling council-built estate where the satellite dishes sprouted like mushrooms from the rows of window-dotted walls. The building was a relatively recent concrete monstrosity, all clashing curves and soaring verticals and rain-stained concrete panels. Scaffolding covered one wall with a huge banner advertising the building firm, Windfall Construction, tied to it.

  The priest’s house was tacked on at the rear, a bit like a lean-to shed. Fyfe knocked and waited. An elderly woman opened the door, wiping her hands on an apron and peering suspiciously at him. There was a wedding ring that was too big for a bony finger. No other jewellery except gold ear studs. Little make-up. The only real concession to vanity was a permed hair-style so perfect it might have been a wig. It wasn’t though. The blue-tinged roots came from the scalp. Definitely a widow, this one, Fyfe thought. The faith had need of an endless supply. Where did they find them all?

  ‘Can I help you?’ she asked.

  ‘I was hoping for a word with Father…’ The name escaped him for a few seconds and he felt stupid, annoyed at his amateurism. ‘Father Byrne. Is he here at the moment?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Pity. I’m Chief Inspector Fyfe. I need to talk to him.’

  ‘Oh.’ The housekeeper seemed to grow taller, squaring up as if ready to fight. Her mouth grew smaller, her chest bigger. ‘The police.’

  ‘Yes. I have a few questions to ask.’

  ‘I suppose you do,’ she agreed, relaxing and shrinking. ‘Well, the Father will be back at any moment. I thought it was him at the door when you knocked. Would you like to wait?’

  ‘No. I’ll come back tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m sure he won’t be long.’

  He looked past her along the corridor and saw into a study crammed with books on sagging shelves and an ancient mahogany breakfront bookcase with leaded glass doors that was out of all proportion to the size of the room. Cardboard boxes full of papers were stacked up against the walls. A window looked out on a lawn. The grass needed cutting.


  ‘Will you tell him I’d like a word, Mrs…?’

  ‘Of course. The name is Mrs McMorrow.’

  ‘Mrs McMorrow. He’ll probably know what it’s about.’

  ‘I’m sure he will. It’s about Father Quinn, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right. I suppose you were Father Quinn’s housekeeper too?’

  ‘Oh yes. I was with him in his last parish. This church is only a few years old. The last one burned down. You can see that they’re still building it. It was meant to be finished two years ago.’

  ‘You know him well, then?’

  She nodded thoughtfully and lifted her head to stare at Fyfe. ‘I know him well,’ she said defiantly.

  ‘It would come as a great surprise, then. This trouble over this money.’

  ‘A surprise? Yes. I’m surprised that people who should know better think the worst of Father Quinn.’

  Fyfe hesitated, wondering how much fact and rumour were intertwined in her understanding of the affair, how much loyalty blinded her to the reality. Fyfe pulled his coat tighter around him and tried to think of a polite excuse to end the conversation and get away.

  ‘I know it’s no business of mine,’ said Mrs McMorrow in a tone that implied it should be. ‘But I think it is disgraceful the way Father Quinn is being treated. A man is innocent until he is proved guilty, isn’t he? Isn’t that the way it works?’

  ‘Definitely,’ Fyfe agreed. ‘That’s the way it works.’

  ‘Then why have they locked him away?’

  ‘He’s at a retreat. No one forced him to go.’

  Mrs McMorrow looked at him and the corner of her top lip twitched as though she was going to growl like a dog. Fyfe felt a mild blush spread over his face. When she shook her head almost imperceptibly in sad recognition of his naïvety he blushed even more. Her head was suddenly shaking violently, her eyes blinking. It continued to shake for several seconds, slowing down like a clockwork toy. She looked as if she was about to burst into tears. The poor woman must have had the last of her illusions shattered when Quinn was found out. The person she had chosen to invest her emotions in, whom she had looked after, respected and trusted for so many years, had turned out to be a crook. The man who must have been a combination of father, son, husband and brother to her had lied repeatedly, abused her trust and betrayed her loyalty. No wonder she refused to believe it.

  ‘Well, I must be going,’ Fyfe said. ‘Please tell Father Byrne I’ll be back tomorrow.’

  ‘Tell him yourself,’ Mrs McMorrow replied. ‘Here he is now.’

  Fyfe turned and saw an athletic man get out of an old car with rust streaks along the wing. His hair was slightly dishevelled, eyes staring slightly, like a villainous character from a Victorian melodrama if it wasn’t for the dog collar. He didn’t try to hide his irritation until Fyfe introduced himself. Then an artificial smile flickered momentarily and changed into a grave expression more suiting to the occasion. This guy’s a gold-plated hypocrite, Fyfe thought. I wouldn’t trust him with the collection money.

  ‘Chief Inspector, I’m afraid this is a bad time. Bit of an emergency on at the moment. Can’t stop. Got a problem in the car that won’t wait. Sorry about this. I don’t mean to be rude.’

  Byrne brushed past Fyfe and Mrs McMorrow and disappeared into the study. He searched in the drawers of the bookcase. Mrs McMorrow’s face was completely blank. Fyfe looked back at the car to see who was the origin of the priestly emergency. There was somebody in the passenger seat, keeping his head down, one hand covering his eyes.

  Byrne came rushing out, stuffing something into his pocket. ‘It is important that we talk fully on this matter,’ he said. ‘But I don’t have time just now. There are souls to save out there, you know.’

  ‘I know. I know.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘Fine. I’ll come back.’

  Byrne hurried on to join the sinner in his car. Fyfe instantly decided that he did not like this priest, sensing a zealot who enjoyed seeing the downfall of others because it confirmed his own cleverness in avoiding such a fate in the material world. By comparison, Father Quinn’s feet of clay were a much more attractive prospect. Let him who is without sin cast the first stone and all that kind of stuff.

  The sinner kept his head bowed, rubbing the bridge of his nose so that his face was obscured. An adulterer, Fyfe speculated? Or an abortionist? Or just somebody who hadn’t been to church for a while? A breaker of the religious rules anyway. A soul to be saved.

  The car drove off, spewing oil-blackened smoke from its exhaust.

  ‘Busy man, your Father Byrne,’ Fyfe said to Mrs McMorrow who was still standing in the doorway. ‘I’ll catch him later.’

  ‘Yes. That will be best.’

  ‘I’m going to see Father Quinn now. Any messages for him?’

  ‘Tell him I still believe in him if nobody else does,’ she said.

  ‘You believe he is innocent, don’t you?’

  ‘I know who is responsible for all these goings on.’

  ‘You do? Tell me then.’

  She looked away from him towards a patch of grass dividing the church grounds from the main road where wind-blown litter gathered itself into a tidy pile against a fence. Three metal tree guards stood in a line on the grass. None of them contained a tree.

  ‘Don’t you understand?’ she asked, genuinely puzzled. ‘Isn’t it obvious? Can’t you see?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The Devil, that’s who. It is all the Devil’s work.’

  16

  ‘Who the fuck was that?’ Adamson demanded, looking back unnecessarily once the car was round a corner. ‘I know him. He’s a policeman, isn’t he?’

  Byrne worked hard at remaining calm, forcing his expression into a fixed smile. He had been expecting the police for a while now. He had discussed it with the Archbishop and prepared his reaction carefully. It was unfortunate they should decide to show up at this particular moment, just when he was about to collect the main prize. It was unfortunate that he had gone back to get the spending money he had promised Adamson, having forgotten it that morning. Adamson had been resigned and compliant before but now he had suddenly become agitated and upset.

  ‘He’s a fucking policeman. I recognise him. He was one of the ones that arrested me. He kept chucking questions at me in the nick. What’s his name?’

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Fyfe, I believe.’

  ‘That’s him. Fyfe. A real smart bastard. He had this trick of massaging your shoulders, real friendly like, then he dug in his thumbs.’

  ‘You remember him after nine years?’

  ‘I remember everything about that day. I carry it around with me like a bloody photograph album. I remember Fyfe all right. What’s he doing here?’

  ‘It’s unrelated. A totally different matter. Pure coincidence.’

  The church was out of sight. Adamson turned round, shaking his head. His hair touched the roof and stuck there, held by static electricity.

  ‘It’s too much of a coincidence. They must be watching me. They have been waiting till I get out in the hope that I’ll lead them straight to the cash. They must have followed me.’

  ‘No,’ Byrne insisted, worried by the simplicity of the interconnecting logic. ‘It is nothing to do with you. It is something totally different, I assure you.’

  Byrne saw Adamson’s eyes narrow, his forehead wrinkle, his expression darken. He was assessing the options, trying to think it through. Maybe he was right, Byrne thought nervously. Was it too much of a coincidence?

  ‘Why would Fyfe make himself obvious like that?’ Byrne asked, trying to convince himself. ‘If he was following you he would surely have waited until you had your hands on the cash before making his move. Why would he show his hand just now?’

  ‘Exactly. Why would he?’

  ‘Because it has nothing to do with you. He came to see me on an unrelated matter. It is a coincidence. It is.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘Som
ebody I know who got into trouble over money. Different money.’

  ‘What about the sanctity of the confessional?’

  ‘It wasn’t a parishioner. It was a colleague.’

  ‘A colleague? You mean a priest?’

  ‘Yes. A fellow priest.’

  Byrne almost choked on the words as he said them. His confidence in the efficacy of his plan waned suddenly and dramatically. He had wanted to reassure Adamson that Fyfe wasn’t a danger but hadn’t meant to tell him so much. Too late now, he realised. His hold over Adamson was slipping. His controlling influence was being swamped by the rush of warm blood that made his face glow red.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Adamson said slowly. ‘Another fucking crooked priest. Is nothing sacred any more? What has happened to the world since I left it?’

  Byrne didn’t say anything. The skin crawled unpleasantly on the back of his neck and his intestines coiled into an uncomfortably tight knot. The altered tone of Adamson’s voice was like a razor blade slicing across the surface of his brain. Their relationship had changed totally in the space of a few minutes. Superior and subordinate had switched places. He no longer dictated what was to happen but instead had become a martyr to the circumstances he had created. It must be God’s will, he thought objectively, and a partially stifled upswelling of laughter made his body shudder.

  ‘Stop the car,’ Adamson said.

  Byrne obeyed without protest. He felt hollow, his skin so fragile that a finger poked against it would go right through. When Adamson patted him gently on the arm the slight pressure was like a blow with a heavy hammer.

  He winced involuntarily. Adamson took the envelope and removed four five-pound notes from it.

  ‘I’ve got to think,’ Adamson said, getting out of the car.

  ‘But what about our arrangement?’ Byrne pleaded.

  ‘I’ll see you later tonight. At the flat. I’ve got to have time to think.’

  17