The Dublin Murder Mysteries: Books four to six

by Valerie Keogh

  West pulled disposable shoe covers from a box behind his seat and handed a pair to Andrews. ‘I suppose we’d better go and have a word with him.’

  As they climbed the steps towards the door, they heard a hum that made both stop and look around. ‘What is that?’ West said, eyes scanning the surroundings.

  It was Andrews who identified the cause. ‘It’s coming from the sacristan. I think he’s praying.’

  The sound grew louder as they reached the top step. Andrews, of course, was right. West couldn’t hear the words, but he recognised the cadence. The sacristan was indeed praying, his lips moving incessantly, the rest of his face and body rigid.

  West felt the muscles in his belly clench. The sacristan looked to be in shock. It seemed Blunt had underestimated the situation. This was going to be much worse than “bad”.

  ‘Mr Ryan?’ West addressed the sacristan quietly.

  It was a few seconds before Ryan’s eyes focused, and a few more before the recitation stopped.

  ‘Can you tell us what happened?’ West said into the heavy, uncomfortable silence. He was used to dealing with members of the public who accidentally became involved with crime, but it never got easier and he wasn’t surprised when the sacristan’s lips twisted in horror, one of his bony hands creeping up to cover them as if afraid of what they might say. His other hand, trembling uncontrollably, pointed through the open door behind him.

  West looked at Andrews and shook his head. They’d get a statement from the man when the shock had worn off.

  ‘I can’t see past the entrance hall.’ Andrews peered into the church.

  ‘Vestibule,’ West corrected him automatically. Not that it made any difference what it was called. It was a dull, grey day and the little light that managed to slide through the outside doors dispersed the darkness within but not the shadows. The inner double doors on the far side of the vestibule were shut. Whatever had shocked the sacristan so badly, lay beyond.

  West and Andrews slipped on shoe covers and headed through the open door. They moved slowly, checking the darker corners of the small vestibule, their hands resting lightly on their holstered weapons. When they reached the inner doors, they stopped and listened for any sound from within.

  West slipped on a pair of vinyl gloves, met Andrews’ eyes in silent agreement and reached for the brass handle. It opened outward and immediately there was the recognisable smell of every church West had ever been in, a mix of furniture polish and incense that brought him back to childhood years of compulsory churchgoing. Nowadays, his á la carte Catholicism rarely brought him inside a church but the scent continued to invoke old memories. Good ones mostly. He brushed them aside and stepped into the body of the church with Andrews close behind.

  St Monica’s Church was designed in the way of most traditional churches. A wide central aisle ran from the entrance doors through rows of wooden pews to the altar. On each side, between the pews and the walls of the church there was a narrow side aisle. High stone pillars, six to each side, supported the high concave ceiling over the central aisle while what looked like oak beams stretched across the ceiling over the side aisles.

  It was all very traditional.

  But what wasn’t, and what drew a gasp of shock from both men, was the body suspended over the central aisle in front of the altar.

  ‘Jesus,’ Andrews said softly.

  West was going to make a smart remark about it definitely not being him. It was a reactionary remark, humour in the face of horror. But it wasn’t the place for it. He wasn’t a churchgoer, but Andrews was, and this was his church.

  Despite the shock, both men knew the drill and went into automatic mode. There was no point in rushing to assist the victim. Even from where they stood, they could tell it was too late for him. First rule in this case, secure the premises: the perpetrator of this macabre act could still be in the building. Drawing their weapons, they did a quick search of the main church, moving down the central aisle, checking each pew as they passed.

  Although regular firearms training was compulsory and West considered himself a good shot, he’d never fired his weapon outside the shooting range. Every time he unholstered his regulation SIG Sauer, he knew that situation could change.

  But there was nobody lurking in the pews and seconds later they were a few feet from where the dead body was suspended.

  ‘Not crucified,’ Andrews said quietly and West heard the relief in his voice.

  Up close, they could see how the arms were extended and tied to a long piece of wood, ankles tied together with rope, the body naked apart from a pair of stained white boxer shorts.

  ‘Not crucified,’ West agreed, ‘but close enough.’ He pointed to the beam that crossed the roof of the side aisle. ‘It looks as if they threw a rope over that and fixed it with a slip knot. The victim was already tied to the wood, they threaded the loose end around it, then–’ he pointed to the aisle on the far side ‘–threw the end of the rope over that beam and used it like a pulley system to raise the body.’

  Nodding, Andrews moved closer until he was almost underneath the body.

  The victim’s head hung down, chin resting on his bare chest, the skin dark and mottled. Andrews pointed towards the body as West joined him. ‘See there on the left side of his chest? Looks like a wound.’ His voice had regained its usual composure.

  West agreed. ‘There’s no blood.’ He scanned the floor. To the naked eye, it looked clean. ‘Nor any other bodily fluids. He was killed elsewhere.’

  ‘And the body was brought here.’

  ‘Let’s finish our search.’ West dragged his eyes from the victim and jerked his chin towards the confession boxes on the left side of the church. ‘We’d better check out the confessionals.’

  They were obvious hiding places and the two men approached them cautiously. The only sound in the quiet church was their breathing, their footsteps, but they kept alert.

  The sacristan had switched on the main lights but the side aisles were dimly lit. West stopped at the first of the two confession boxes. With his gloved hand he grasped the door handle of the first penitent’s box and at Andrews’ nod, wrenched it open. There was little light within, but enough to show it was empty. They quickly moved to the central priest’s boxes and the penitent’s box on either side and followed the same process with the second confessional. Each box was empty.

  ‘Smells strange,’ Andrews said, stepping away from the final door.

  ‘I don’t think they’re used much anymore: they’re probably musty.’ West looked back towards the altar. ‘Let’s move on.’

  The working, behind-the-scenes part of the church – the robing rooms, sacristan’s office, and offices used by the priests – were accessed from the church through a door behind the altar. The two Gardaí covered one another with practised efficiency, checking the rooms thoroughly in their search for potential hiding places. The rooms were empty but at the end of a short corridor a single exit door to the outside hung open. It swayed in a breeze too gentle to slam it shut.

  ‘The sacristan must have come in this way, but he’d hardly have left it open, would he?’ Andrews said, going through the door and looking around. He stepped back inside, slipped a disposable glove on and shut the door. ‘It opens into a courtyard, but there’s a gate leading into the car park.’

  West frowned. ‘Maybe whoever did this escaped this way when the sacristan went to open the church door?’ He shook his head. Supposition. There’d be a lot of that in the hours ahead. The important thing was to keep an open mind and not jump to conclusions.

  Andrews flicked the catch that secured the door and they returned to the body of the church, holstering their weapons as they went.

  Circling around the suspended victim, they stopped and looked up. West took a few steps backward, then frowned and took a few more. ‘This isn’t good.’

  Andrews took a few steps backward to join him. ‘Someone wanted to make a point.’

  From where they stood now, the
victim was posed directly in front of the life-sized crucifix that hung on the wall behind the altar.

  ‘Yes,’ West agreed. ‘And look at the spear wound on the corpus.’

  Andrews looked at him. ‘Now you’re pulling my leg. There isn’t a spear wound on the corpse.’

  West heard the tension in his partner’s voice despite his attempt at levity. ‘Corpus, not corpse. It’s the correct term for a three-dimensional portrayal of a body on a cross.’

  ‘If you say so.’ Andrews took a step closer and squinted upward. ‘Yes, I see what you mean, the wound on our vic correlates with the spear wound on the… corpus.’

  West almost smiled at Andrews’ acquisition of the new word. Instead, he stepped closer and joined him staring up. This was going to be a tough one. Someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to make a point. He hoped they wouldn’t need to go to an equal amount of trouble to find out who had done this terrible thing, and why. ‘We haven’t seen any sign of a break-in. Don’t they have an alarm?’

  ‘We’d better get the sacristan to talk to us, I’ll go and see if he’s up to it.’ Andrews turned for the exit as he spoke.

  ‘You’d better give the station a buzz: we’re going to need more manpower as well as the Garda Technical Bureau and the state pathologist.’ West watched Andrews raise a hand in acknowledgement and knew that whatever needed to be done would be done.

  West moved closer to the victim again. Identification from this angle was impossible. The musculature and tautness of the victim’s skin indicated a younger rather than older white man, maybe early thirties. He wouldn’t have been easily overpowered.

  With no sign of a break-in, they had to have been hiding somewhere inside when the church shut for the night. West looked around the cavernous church. They. His eyes narrowed. Instinct told him this was the case. One clever man might have overpowered the victim, brain succeeding where brawn couldn’t, but to hoist him up like this… Even using the beams as a pulley system, that took a lot of strength and more than one pair of hands.

  The powers-that-be would want this case solved quickly. Despite recent scandals, the church was still a powerful force to be reckoned with. West would have bishops and archbishops breathing down his neck along with Inspector Morrison. It was all he needed. He sat on one of the pews near the exit and let his mind relax. But if he hoped for divine intervention it hadn’t come fifteen minutes later when the quiet of the church was broken by the sounds of voices coming from the vestibule. Loud voices, and lots of them.

  Andrews would have given Blunt the details and the desk sergeant would have pulled in all the favours he was owed to get the manpower he knew they’d need for this case. West heard one voice raised in laughter. That would stop when they opened the door. Even the hardiest, the toughest of them couldn’t fail to be shaken by this. Many, like him, would be lapsed Catholics, but the teachings of their childhood ran deep and few had managed to completely erase it. They’d be silent when they came through. But they’d work together and they’d get this son-of-a-bitch. West turned away from the body and headed towards them.

  2

  West was right. The loud voices faded to a shocked silence when he opened the door and the assembled uniformed Gardaí had their first glimpse of the macabre sight. Their voices were more subdued as they gathered around him. He gave directions for some to canvass the housing estates that circled the church and others to guard the pedestrian and vehicular entrances. They dispersed without further ado and West joined Andrews who was standing beside the sacristan speaking in low tones that didn’t carry across the short distance.

  Whatever Andrews was saying to the shocked man was having a positive effect: he looked less frail, and some colour had returned to his grey cheeks.

  ‘Mr Ryan is positive he closed the door to the courtyard after him this morning,’ Andrews said as West joined them.

  ‘Closed and locked.’ Ryan emphasised the two words. ‘There’s a problem with that door, if you don’t press the catch down to lock it, it swings open.’

  West met Andrews’ eyes. They knew how their killer got out; now they needed to figure out how he got in. ‘Is there an alarm?’

  ‘On the doors but not the windows.’

  ‘No internal motion detectors? No CCTV inside or out?’

  The sacristan frowned. ‘No, they went for the simplest system they could to keep the cost down. Anyway, it was people breaking in to steal we were worried about, not…’ His voice broke and he lifted a trembling hand and waved toward the church.

  ‘Can you talk us through what happened from the time you arrived?’ West asked.

  ‘Yes, of course. Whatever I can do to help.’ Ryan gave them a quick rundown of his arrival, the unlocking of the door, disarming of the alarm. ‘I made coffee and drank it while I checked the diary for today’s events.’ He stopped abruptly and looked at West, wide-eyed. ‘There’s a funeral at ten.’

  West shook his head. ‘I’m afraid we’re going to need to keep the church shut for a few days.’

  The sacristan sighed as if it had been what he expected. ‘I’ll contact the undertakers, see what they can do. They can speak to the family.’ He returned to his description of the morning’s events. ‘When I finished my coffee, I came into the church and switched on the main lights. My mind was occupied with the details that needed to be organised so it wasn’t until I was at the bottom of the altar steps that I saw him.’ The colour leached from his face again and he staggered slightly with the force of the memory.

  His voice was frail and reedy when he spoke again. ‘I remember backing away, then I ran and opened the front door. There isn’t a good phone signal inside, you see. My mobile was in my pocket. I have Foxrock station on speed dial so I rang them and spoke to Sergeant Blunt. I’m not sure I made much sense but he said he’d send someone. Then I rang Father Jeffreys. He’s the parish priest,’ he explained.

  ‘You didn’t go back inside?’ West asked.

  The sacristan shook his head.

  A car pulling into the car park drew their eyes and a sigh of relief from the sacristan. ‘That’s Father Jeffreys now.’

  The man who rushed from the car wore the traditional garb of a priest, the black suit, worn and shiny in places, the white collar looking too tight in the fold of his neck. A thick shock of grey hair flopped forward over a forehead creased with lines of anxiety. He strode past the detectives and enfolded the sacristan in his arms. ‘Father Dillon is on his way,’ he said, pulling away slightly to look at him. ‘He’ll take you home and stay with you until your wife gets there.’ He gave West and Andrews a nod of acknowledgement and, in a tone of voice that said he wasn’t willing to enter into debate, he said, ‘If you have any further questions, you can speak to Mr Ryan tomorrow.’

  ‘One final question for now,’ West said. ‘What time was the church shut last night?’

  ‘At ten,’ Ryan said. ‘I shut it myself.’

  Another car turned into the car park. It was stopped briefly by the uniformed Gardaí before being waved on, coming to a halt beside the parish priest’s car. The man who got out and hurried forward was dressed in jeans and T-shirt.

  ‘It’s Father Dillon,’ Andrews said quickly, recognising him despite the casual clothes.

  The younger priest’s eyes swept over the detectives and the open church door, a puzzled line appearing on his smooth forehead as he took in the picture of the sacristan still held tightly in the parish priest’s arms. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Take Joe home,’ Father Jeffreys said, ignoring the question. ‘He’ll be able to fill you in on the way. Stay with him until Millie gets home from work.’ Loosening his grip on the sacristan, he pushed him gently towards Fr Dillon.

  ‘What about the funeral… at ten,’ Ryan said. ‘I need–’

  ‘You need to go home,’ Jeffreys insisted. ‘Tell Father Dillon the name of the undertaker. He can sort it out.’

  ‘Of course I will.’ Father Dillon took the sacristan’s arm and
led him to his car, opening the door and settling him inside as if he were a child.

  Jeffreys turned to West and Andrews. ‘I assume from Mr Ryan’s shocked expression that he wasn’t exaggerating the seriousness of the situation, gentlemen?’

  West shook his head. ‘I’m Detective Garda Sergeant West, and this is my partner, Detective Garda Andrews.’

  ‘Joe mentioned a dead body. I want to know the details.’ The parish priest’s tone indicated he was used to having his questions answered without delay. The likeness to the manner of Inspector Morrison was uncanny… and unwelcome.

  West was saved from having to answer by the arrival of two white vans. ‘That’s a forensic team from the Garda Technical Bureau,’ he explained. ‘I’ll need to go and speak to them for a moment. I promise I’ll come back and fill you in.’

  With Andrews at his side he went to greet the team manager, relieved to see the man who stepped from the first van was someone he knew, and with whom he had a cordial working relationship. It always made it easier.

  Detective Sergeant Maddison, a tall, thin man with a ready smile, stretched his hand out as the two detectives approached. ‘I’d like to say it was good to see you both,’ he said and jerked his head towards the church. ‘So, tell me.’

  ‘It’s a bad one,’ West said. Leaving Andrews to fill in the rest of the team on the little they knew, he walked with Maddison to the church door. He slipped another disposable glove on and pulled the interior door open.

  Maddison said nothing for a few seconds. ‘Someone wanted to make a point, didn’t they?’

  ‘They did a pretty good job.’ West released the door and it swung shut. ‘Dr Kennedy is on his way,’ he explained as they made their way down the steps.