by Jack Higgins
'I can imagine.'
Meehan smiled. 'That's why I thought it might be a good idea to get together like this morning. You could find it very interesting. Who knows, you might even see some future in the business.'
He put a hand on Fallon's knee and Fallon eased away. Meehan wasn't in the least embarrassed. 'Anyway, we'll start you off with a cremation,' he said. 'See what you make of that.'
He poured another coffee, topped it up with more Cognac and leaned back with a contended sigh.
* * *
The crematorium was called Pine Trees and when the car turned in through the gate, Fallon was surprised to see Meehan's name in gold leaf on the notice-board, one of half-a-dozen directors.
'I have a fifty-one per cent holding in this place,' Meehan said. 'The most modern crematorium in the north of England. You should see the gardens in spring and summer. Costs us a bomb, but it's worth it. People come from all over.'
The superintendent's house and the office were just inside the gate. They drove on and came to a superb, colonnaded building. Meehan tapped on the glass and Donner braked to a halt.
Meehan wound down the window. 'This is what they call a columbarium,' he said. 'Some people like to store the ashes in an urn and keep it on display. There are niches in all the walls, most of them full. We try to discourage it these days.'
'And what would you recommend?' Fallon demanded, irony in his voice.
'Strewing,' Meehan said seriously. 'Scattering the ashes on the grass and brushing them in. We come out of the earth, we go back to it. I'll show you if you like, after the funeral.'
Fallon couldn't think of a single thing to say. The man took himself so seriously. It was really quite incredible. He sat back and waited for what was to come.
The chapel and the crematorium were in the centre of the estate and several hundred yards from the main gate for obvious reasons. There were several cars parked there already and a hearse waited with a coffin at the back, Bonati at the wheel.
Meehan said, 'We usually bring the hearse on ahead of the rest of the party if the relations agree. You can't have a cortege following the coffin these days, not with present day traffic. The procession gets split wide open.'
A moment later, a limousine turned out of the drive followed by three more. Billy was sitting up front, beside the driver, Meehan got out of the car and approached, hat in hand, to greet the mourners.
It was quite a performance and Fallon watched, fascinated, as Meehan moved from one group to the next, his face grave, full of concern. He was particularly good with the older ladies.
The coffin was carried into the chapel and the mourners followed it in. Meehan joined on at the end and pulled at Fallon's sleeve. 'You might as well go in. See the lot.'
The service was painfully brief, almost as synthetic as the taped religious music with its heavenly choir background. Fallon was relieved when the proceedings came to an end and some curtains were closed by an automatic device, hiding the coffin from view.
'They pull it through into the funeral room on a movable belt,' Meehan whispered, 'I'll take you round there when they've all moved off.'
He did a further stint with the relatives when they got outside. A pat on the back where it was needed, an old lady's hand held for an instant. It was really quite masterly. Finally, he managed to edge away and nodded to Fallon. They moved round to the rear of the building, he opened a door and led the way in.
There were four enormous cylindrical furnaces. Two were roaring away, another was silent. The fourth was being raked out by a man in a white coat.
Meehan nodded familiarly. 'Arthur's all we need in here,' he said. 'Everything's fully automatic. Here, I'll show you.'
The coffin Fallon had last seen in the chapel stood waiting on a trolley. 'Rubber doors in the wall,' Meehan explained. 'It comes straight through on the rollers and finishes on the trolley.'
He pushed it across to the cold oven and opened the door. The coffin was at exactly the right height and moved easily on the trolley rollers when he pushed it inside. He closed the door and flicked a red switch. There was an immediate roar and through the glass peep-hole, Fallon could see flames streak into life inside.
'That's all it needs.' Meehan said. 'These ovens operate by radiant heat and they're the last word in efficiency. An hour from beginning to end and you don't need to worry about pre-heating. The moment it reaches around a thousand degrees centigrade, that coffin will go up like a torch.'
Fallon peered through the glass and saw the coffin suddenly burst into flames. He caught a glimpse of a head, hair flaming, and looked away hurriedly.
Meehan was standing beside the oven where Arthur was busily at work with his rake. 'Have a look at this. This is what you're left with.'
All that remained was a calcined bony skeleton in pieces. As Arthur pushed at it with the rake, it broke into fragments falling through the bars into the large tin box below which already contained a fair amount of ash.
Meehan pulled it out, picked it up and carried it across to a contraption on a bench by the wall. 'This is the pulveriser,' he said, emptying the contents of the tin box into the top. He clamped down the lid. 'Just watch. Two minutes is all it takes.'
He flicked a switch and the machine got to work, making a terrible grinding noise. When Meehan was satisfied, he switched off and unscrewed a metal urn on the underside and showed it to Fallon, who saw that it was about three-quarters full of powdery grey ash.
'You notice there's a label already on the urn?' Meehan said. 'That's very important. We do everything in strict rotation. No possibility of a mistake.' He pulled open a drawer in a nearby desk and took out a white card edged in black. 'And the next of kin get one of these with the plot number on. What we call a Rest-in-Peace card. Now come outside and I'll show you the final step.'
It was still raining as they moved along the path at the back of the building between cypress trees. They came out into a lawned area, criss-crossed by box hedges. The edges of the paths were lined with numbered plates.
A gardener was working away beside a wheelbarrow hoeing a flower-bed and Meehan called, 'More work for the undertaker, Fred. Better note it down in your little black book.'
The gardener produced a notebook into which he entered the particulars typed on the urn label. 'Number five hundred and thirty-seven, Mr Meehan,' he said when he'd finished.
'All right, Fred, get it down,' Meehan told him.
The gardener moved to the plate with the correct number and strewed the ashes across the damp grass. Then he got a besom and brushed them in.
Meehan turned to Fallon. 'That's it. The whole story. Ashes to ashes. A Rest-in-Peace card with the right number on it is all that's left.'
They walked back towards the chapel. Meehan said, 'I'd rather be buried myself. It's more fitting, but you've got to give people what they want.'
They went round to the front of the chapel. Billy and Bonati had gone, but Donner was still there and Varley had arrived in the other limousine. The crematorium superintendent appeared, wanting a word with Meehan, and Fallon was for the moment left alone.
The stench of that open grave was still in his nostrils. Just inside the main door to the chapel there was a toilet and he went inside and bathed his face and hands in cold water.
A pane of glass in the small window above the basin was missing and rain drifted through. He stood there for a moment, suddenly depressed. The open grave, the toeless feet protruding from the rotting coffin had been a hell of a start to the day and now this. A man came down to so little in the end. A handful of ashes.
When he went outside, Meehan was waiting for him. 'Well, that's it,' he said. 'Do you want to see another one?'
'Not if I can help it.'
Meehan chuckled. 'I've got two more this morning, but never mind. Varley can take you back to Jenny's place.' He grinned broadly. 'Not worth going out on a day like this unless you have to. I'd stay in if I were you. I mean, it could get interesting. She's a real little
firecracker when she gets going is our Jenny.'
'I know,' Fallon said. 'You told me.'
He got into the rear seat of the limousine and Varley drove away. Instead of going down to the main gate, he followed a track that was barely wide enough for the car and round to the right through trees.
'I hope you don't mind, Mr Fallon, but it saves a good mile and a half this way.'
They came to a five-barred gate. He got out, opened it, drove through and got out to close the gate again. The main road was fifty yards farther on at the end of the track.
As they moved down towards the centre of the city, Fallon said, 'You can drop me anywhere here, Charlie.'
'But you can't do that, Mr Fallon. You know you can't,' Varley groaned. 'You know what Mr Meehan said. I've got to take you back to Jenny's place.'
'Well, you tell Mr Meehan, with my compliments, that he can do the other thing.'
They were moving along Rockingham Street now and as they came to the Holy Name, Fallon leaned over suddenly and switched off the ignition. As the car coasted to a halt, he opened the door, jumped out and crossed the road. Varley watched him go into the side entrance of the church, then drove rapidly away to report.
11
The Gospel according to Fallon
The Right Reverend Monsignor Canon O'Halloran, administrator of the pro-cathedral, was standing at his study window when Miller and Fitzgerald were shown in. He turned to greet them, moving towards his desk, leaning heavily on a stick, his left leg dragging.
'Good morning, gentlemen, or is it? Sometimes I think this damned rain is never going to stop.'
He spoke with a Belfast accent and Miller liked him at once and for no better reason than the fact that in spite of his white hair, he looked as if he'd once been a useful heavyweight fighter and his nose had been broken in a couple of places.
Miller said, 'I'm Detective-Superintendent Miller, sir. I believe you know Inspector Fitzgerald.'
'I do indeed. One of our Knights of St Columba stalwarts.' Monsignor O'Halloran eased himself into the chair behind the desk. 'The bishop is in Rome, I'm afraid, so you'll have to make do with me.'
'You got my letter, sir?'
'Oh yes, it was delivered by hand last night.'
'I thought that might save time.' Miller hesitated and said carefully, 'I did ask that Father da Costa should be present.'
'He's waiting in the next room,' Monsignor O'Halloran filled his pipe from an old pouch methodically. 'I thought I'd hear what the prosecution had to say first.'
Miller said, 'You've got my letter. It says it all there.'
'And what do you expect me to do?'
'Make Father da Costa see reason. He must help us in this matter. He must identify this man.'
'If your supposition is correct, the Pope himself couldn't do that, Superintendent,' Monsignor O'Halloran said calmly. 'The secret nature of the confessional is absolute.'
'In a case like this?' Miller said angrily. 'That's ridiculous and you know it.'
Inspector Fitzgerald put a restraining hand on his arm, but Monsignor O'Halloran wasn't in the least put out. He said mildly, 'To a Protestant or a Jew, or indeed to anyone outside the Catholic religion, the whole idea of confession must seem absurd. An anachronism that has no place in this modern world. Wouldn't you agree, Superintendent?'
'When I consider this present situation then I must say I do,' Miller told him.
'The Church has always believed confession to be good for the soul. Sin is a terrible burden and through the medium of confession people are able to relieve themselves of that burden and start again.'
Miller stirred impatiently, but O'Halloran continued in the same calm voice. He was extraordinarily persuasive. 'For a confession to be any good as therapy, it has to be told to someone, which is where the priest comes in. Only as God's intermediary, of course, and one can only expect people to unburden themselves when they know that what they say is absolutely private and will never be revealed on any account.'
'But this is murder we're talking about, Monsignor,' Miller said. 'Murder and corruption of a kind that would horrify you.'
'I doubt that.' Monsignor O'Halloran laughed shortly and put another match to his pipe. 'It's a strange thing, but in spite of the fact that most people believe priests to be somehow cut off from the real world, I come face to face with more human wickedness in a week than the average man does in a lifetime.'
'Very interesting,' Miller said, 'but I fail to see the relevance.'
'Very well, Superintendent. Try this. During the last war, I was in a German prisoner-of-war camp where escape plans were constantly being frustrated because somebody was keeping the German authorities informed of every move that was made.' He heaved himself up out of his seat and hobbled to the window. 'I knew who it was, knew for months. The man involved told me at confession.'
'And you did nothing?' Miller was genuinely shocked.
'Oh, I tried to reason with him privately, but there was nothing else I could do. No possibility of my even hinting to the others what was going on.' He turned, a weary smile on his face. 'You think it easy carrying that kind of burden, Superintendent? Let me tell you something. I hear confessions at the cathedral regularly. Not a week passes that someone doesn't tell me something for which they could be criminally liable at law.'
Miller stood up. 'So you can't help us then?'
'I didn't say that. I'll talk to him. Hear what he has to say. Would you wait outside for a few minutes?'
'Certainly, but I'd like to see him again in your presence before we leave.'
'As you wish.'
They went out and Monsignor O'Halloran pressed a button on the intercom on his desk. 'I'll see Father da Costa now.'
It was a bad business and he felt unaccountably depressed in a personal sense. He stared out at the rainswept garden wondering what on earth he was going to say to da Costa and then the door clicked open behind him.
He turned slowly as da Costa crossed to the desk. 'Michael, what on earth am I going to do with you?'
'I'm sorry, Monsignor,' Father da Costa said formally, 'but this situation was not of my choosing.'
'They never are,' Monsignor O'Halloran said wryly as he sat down. 'Is it true what they suppose? Is this business connected in some way with the confessional?'
'Yes,' Father da Costa said simply.
'I thought so. The Superintendent was right, of course. As he said in his letter, it was the only explanation that made any kind of sense.' He sighed heavily and shook his head. 'I would imagine he intends to take this thing further. Are you prepared for that?'
'Of course,' Father da Costa answered calmly.
'Then we'd better get it over with,' Monsignor O'Halloran pressed the button on the intercom again. 'Send in Superintendent Miller and Inspector Fitzgerald.' He chuckled. 'It has a certain black humour, this whole business. You must admit.'
'Has it, Monsignor?'
'But of course. They sent you to Holy Name as a punishment, didn't they? To teach you a little humility and here you are, up to your ears in scandal again.' He smiled wryly, 'I can see the expression on the Bishop's face now.'
The door opened and Miller and Fitzgerald were ushered in again. Miller nodded to da Costa. 'Good morning, Father.'
Monsignor O'Halloran pushed himself up on to his feet again, conscious that somehow the situation demanded it. He said, 'I've discussed this matter with Father da Costa, Superintendent. To be perfectly frank, there doesn't seem to be a great deal I can do.'
'I see, sir.' Miller turned to Father da Costa, 'I'll ask you again, Father, and for the last time. Are you prepared to help us?'
'I'm sorry, Superintendent,' Father da Costa told him.
'So am I, Father.' Miller was chillingly formal now. 'I've discussed the situation with my chief constable and this is what I've decided to do. A report on this whole affair and your part in it goes to the Director of Public Prosecutions today to take what action he thinks fit.'
'And
where do you think that will get you?' Monsignor O'Halloran asked him.
'I should think there's an excellent chance that they'll issue a warrant for the arrest of Father da Costa on a charge of being an accessory after the fact of murder.'
Monsignor O'Halloran looked grave and yet he shook his head slowly. 'You're wasting your time, Superintendent. They won't play. They'll never issue such a warrant.'
'We'll see, sir,' Miller turned and went out followed by Fitzgerald.
Monsignor O'Halloran sighed heavily and sat down. 'So there we are. Now we wait.'
'I'm sorry, Monsignor,' Father da Costa said.
'I know, Michael, I know.' O'Halloran looked up at him. 'Is there anything I can do for you? Anything at all?'
'Will you hear my confession, Monsignor?'
'Of course.'
Father da Costa moved round to the side of the desk and knelt down.
When Fallon went into the church, Anna was playing the organ. It was obviously a practice session. Hymns in the main - nothing complicated. He sat in the front pew listening and after a while she stopped playing abruptly.
He walked up the steps between the choir stalls. 'The curse of the church organist's life, hymns,' he said.
She swung round to face him. 'You're early. Uncle Michael said one o'clock.'
'I'd nothing else to do.'
She stood up. 'Would you like to play?'
'Not at the moment.'
'All right,' she said. 'Then you can take me for a walk. I could do with some air.'
Her trenchcoat was in the sacristy. He helped her on with it. It was raining heavily when they went outside, but she didn't seem concerned.
'Where would you like to go?' he asked her.
'Oh, this will do fine. I like churchyards. I find them very restful.'
She took his arm and they followed the path between the old Victorian monuments and gravestones. The searching wind chased leaves amongst the stones so that they seemed like living things crawling along the path in front of them.