A Turbulent Priest

by J M Gregson

  An exchange of glances between man and wife; a tiny nod of encouragement from Pat before Keith Hanlon answered. In that moment, Peach and Blake knew that they had rehearsed this together, had worked out that he would answer and what he would say. Well, there was nothing surprising in that: they must have expected this question from the moment that they heard that Bickerstaffe’s body had been found. Hanlon’s words had the ring of a prepared statement as he said, “It threw us right off balance, as you would expect. We knew these things went on in the world, but the last person we’d have expected them from was a priest.”

  So all the current debate about celibacy, all the discussions of the psychological impacts of a solitary life for people who were not living in an enclosed community, had passed this couple by. There were none so blind as those pious innocents who did not wish to see, thought Percy, indulging for a moment his own prejudices. He said, “I expect you went up to the Sacred Heart presbytery to have it out with Father Bickerstaffe.”

  “No. I wanted to, but Pat persuaded me that it wouldn’t be wise.” He looked at his wife again to gather the confidence to continue. And with that look, Peach believed that there had indeed been no confrontation between the two men, for he realised suddenly that it had been a relief for this man not to go to see the offending priest, that he would not have known how to confront the agent of the unthinkable.

  “You did nothing?”

  “Oh yes, we did something. We went through the proper channels.” There was a ring of irony in the way he said the phrase, from this least ironic of men. Perhaps he regretted now that he had not raced off to confront the man who had abused his son, that he had let the boy down in a situation that called for emotion, not reason. “I rang Canon O’Leary at St Mary’s. He gave me the name of a man in the diocese whose job it was to deal with such things.” He looked as if he was surprised even after his eyes had been opened that there should be such a man available.

  “And he saw you quickly?”

  “Very quickly. He came over from Manchester the same night. I rang at seven-thirty and he was with us within two hours.”

  I’ll bet he was, thought Peach grimly — rushing to put the lid on this before it got to the ears of the police. Lucky for him he was dealing with so dutiful a Catholic as Keith Hanlon. But perhaps not so lucky for Bickerstaffe, in the long run. He said sardonically, “I expect he asked you not to contact the police.”

  Hanlon caught his tone, rushed even in this to defend his Church and its servants. “No. He said that was our right, if we chose to use it. That we could still choose to use that right, even if what he proposed didn’t work to our satisfaction. But our first thoughts must be for Jamie and the impact this would have on him. He said he had experience of court cases where children had to give evidence. In his experience, it had usually been traumatic for them. He said he would go and talk to Father Bickerstaffe, see what he had to say for himself. Then he’d come back to us and discuss what should be done next.”

  Percy was compelled to a reluctant admiration for this unseen negotiator. He seemed a clever bugger, which was almost the highest accolade accorded in the Peach catalogue. He said neutrally, “So you agreed that that was what he should do?”

  “Yes. You must remember that at this time we thought Jamie was the only boy involved.” Bet this clever bugger who came to see them didn’t, thought Peach. Bet he knew the pattern, knew what to expect underneath when he turned over the stone. Hanlon went on, “Mr Farrell was as good as his word. He rang the presbytery from our house, went up to see Father Bickerstaffe that night, although it was after half-past ten. I don’t know how long he was up there, but he came back to see us the next day, as promised. We found then that there were other boys involved, that Jamie wasn’t the only one, apparently not even the first.”

  “And he persuaded you that you should not go to the police.”

  “Yes. He said he was a kind of trouble-shooter, that he had experience of these things. The less publicity involved, the better for the children, he said.”

  And the better for Holy Mother Church, thought Peach sourly. Sweep it under the carpet; behave as though it hadn’t happened, as though priests were not subject to the temptations and the failures of other men, as though this was a one-off case. “And obviously you went along with that advice, or we shouldn’t now be hearing about it for the first time. I’m still trying to get a clear picture of this. I’m sure my own reaction would have been to race off and thump the man who had done this to my son. Would you please tell me again, Mr Hanlon, what your feelings were about Father Bickerstaffe when you found out that this had happened?”

  A quick glance again at his wife before he replied, as if he needed the reassurance of her support before he spoke. “I told you: I was devastated. At first I couldn’t believe it. Then, when I had to, things moved so quickly. All within the same evening we had heard the news, we were visited by people who seemed to know all about these things and we had agreed to go along with the solution they suggested. There — well, there didn’t seem to be time to digest anything, somehow. I remember us both sitting in this room at one o’clock in the morning, not saying much to each other, still not quite able to believe what had happened.”

  “And what about the following morning, and the days which followed that?”

  Suddenly, without anyone turning to her, Pat Hanlon took up the dialogue. “Keith was angry, very angry, as anyone would be. I was as furious as he was, but in a different way, almost as if I had myself been defiled by what that man had done to Jamie. Keith wanted to go up to the Sacred Heart and have it out with him, but I knew that he wasn’t rational, that he might actually strike the man who had disgraced his cloth and defiled our son.” Even now, Peach thought, the magic of the priesthood held strong in this pious household, so that it was not clear which of these two things had shocked her more.

  “So you persuaded him not to confront Father Bickerstaffe.”

  “Yes. We’ve all worshipped at St Mary’s since then. We shall go back to the Sacred Heart now that we know that it will be served by a different priest.”

  Now that it is cleared of that malign influence, thought Peach. Or now that you have eliminated this man who has done the unthinkable from God’s earth? He said tersely, “I must address this question to both of you. Had you anything to do with the death of John Bickerstaffe?”

  This time they did not look at each other. They stared straight ahead and said, “No,” almost in unison. Hanlon added an “Of course not” which sounded peculiarly lame in this dramatic context.

  “You will have gathered that we are treating his death as murder. Have you any idea, then, who might have killed him?”

  On this, they did accord each other that now-familiar look of mutual support. Then Keith Hanlon said, “No. We were as shocked as anyone when we heard the news. We know that others have suffered as we have done, but I can’t think that anyone would do this.”

  To a priest, he had almost said, thought Percy. He was suddenly sick of this suffocatingly pious atmosphere, wondering what it obfuscated, how much it was being used to mask the naked human passions of hatred and revenge. He said harshly, “We need a full account of your movements on Thursday the twentieth of August. Both of you.”

  This time Pat Hanlon gave her husband a little smile as they looked at each other, as if to say, ‘Don’t worry! We anticipated this. And it means the ordeal is almost over’. But even if that is indeed what she intended, thought Lucy Blake as she prepared to write down the details, it could all be perfectly innocent: the guiltless as well as the guilty felt the tension of involvement in a murder investigation.

  Keith Hanlon didn’t make the pretence of being uncertain, of not having anticipated this question. He said, “I was in the office for most of the day. At about three thirty, I took some documents over to Preston, to Arkright and Sons, Solicitors, in Fishergate. You can easily check it with them, but I must have arrived there soon after four, stayed for about ten minut
es, and then left. My boss in Brunton had said it wasn’t worth going back into the office that afternoon, so I did a little shopping in Preston and then came back home. I suppose it must have been five to five-thirty when I got back here.”

  There was scarcely a pause before Pat Hanlon said, “You can’t check on me quite as easily as Keith. I work three mornings a week in a pre-school nursery. Thursday isn’t one of them. So, as far as I can remember, I was in the house or the garden here almost all day on that Thursday. I think I went down to the bakery near here for some bread early in the afternoon, and then I was here until Keith came in as he said — I can’t be any more precise than he is about the exact time that was, but it was certainly some time after five.”

  They looked at each other for confirmation, with the air of inexperienced amateur actors, relieved to have delivered their lines without a prompt. Lucy Blake, hoping she would be able to decipher her improvised shorthand later, said, “Is there anyone who can verify these late afternoon times?”

  Pat Hanlon shrugged. “Only the children. And I’d rather they weren’t brought into this, if it can be avoided. The whole thing has been quite disturbing enough for them.”

  “It shouldn’t be necessary for us to speak to them,” said Peach. He frowned from one to the other of the parents, his black eyebrows beetling beneath the shining dome of his baldness. “Not at this stage, anyway. What about the rest of that evening?”

  Keith Hanlon was straight in on the heels of the question, as if he had been waiting for his cue. “We were here. Did half an hour in the garden, tidying up the borders, then watched television for the rest of the night, as far as I can remember.”

  You can remember, thought Peach grimly. You could give me the programmes, probably describe their content, if you were pressed. But what did all that mean? This pair were so versed in piety, so controlled by religious behaviour for years, that it provided a natural shield for them against outsiders, one of which they were probably not even aware.

  He said, “If either of you thinks of anything which might help us to arrest a murderer, it’s your duty to let us know immediately.” He was at the door before Lucy Blake had closed her notebook and stood up. He had only just avoided saying ‘your Christian duty’.

  ***

  In the front garden of Superintendent Thomas Tucker, the roses bloomed in their September glory. Roses were a cliché of well-being in the police world. An established bed of them betokened that their cultivator had enjoyed a certain degree of success, felt that he would not have to move house again, and was looking towards his pension and a serene retirement. And Tommy Bloody Tucker’s roses certainly wouldn’t be short of bullshit, Percy Peach reflected, as he walked between them to the front door of the solid Edwardian house.

  The door opened as if by some electric signal as he approached. Tucker’s head appeared beside it like that of an apprehensive tortoise surveying the world beyond its shell. “Come into the front room,” he said, and led his Inspector stealthily across the high hall.

  “He hasn’t told that harridan of a wife I was coming. He’s frightened to death of a bollocking for bringing his work home at the weekend,” Percy Peach divined happily. Percy had nicknamed Mrs Tucker the great auk. Most people thought it was simply a reference to her large and prominent Roman nose, but Percy would point out to whoever would listen that the formidable Barbara was obviously ‘fowl’ and should certainly be extinct. She must be perched in the rear regions of this large house, or Tucker would not have been so furtive.

  “What’s all this about visiting our MP without my permission?” the Superintendent began when he had shut the door. He found it difficult to be angry in a low voice.

  “Been buggering about with children, sir. I thought it my duty,” said Peach stiffly, standing to attention like a young constable. Then he added, “And almost literally, we believe, sir!” He smiled with a sudden contentment that his language should be so accurate.

  “Now look, Peach, if you’re going to convince me that Mrs Bradbury has been assaulting children, you’ll need to be very sure indeed of your ground. If I’m—”

  “Oh no, sir! Ha, ha, ha!” Peach’s theatrical laugh set the chandelier tinkling and made Tucker look fearfully towards the rear of the house. “Not Elsie Bradbury. The very idea! Ha, ha! You mustn’t go spreading rumours about our Elsie round the town.” Elsie Bradbury had been the Labour MP for Brunton for thirty years, holding her seat narrowly through the dark days of Thatcherism and triumphantly with the revival of the party under the man she called affectionately ‘Our young Turk, Mr Blair.’ She was a model MP, in her seventies and respected by all parties in the house. The town’s large health centre and other amenities stemmed from her tireless championing of the area. “You mustn’t attack our Elsie, sir, however much you feel tempted. Unless you have genuine grounds for suspicion, of course. If you’d like me to make a few inquiries into her background, in my own discreet way, then I’ll—”

  “Peach, shut up and tell me who the hell this MP was!”

  Tucker’s voice had the intensity of a man near to his breaking point, and Percy took heed. “Charles Courcey, sir. MP for the Hodder Valley. Oh, he tried to come the ‘de Courcey’ with me, but I wasn’t having that. I reminded him about his father’s bankruptcy and—”

  “Peach! You haven’t been annoying Charles Courcey?”

  “Yes, sir. I have, sir!” Peach, who still hadn’t been asked to sit down, moved to the sheepskin rug in front of the green-tiled fireplace and beamed, like a schoolboy awaiting the approval of a fond parent.

  Tucker’s jaw had dropped, and for a moment it looked as if it would stay dropped. Then he said in anguished woe, “But Charles Courcey is a Grand Master!”

  “Yes, sir. Master of trouser-dropping, if you ask me. Master of rent-boys, perhaps. Master of—”

  “Grand Master of his Lodge, I mean, you fool! Courcey is a very important man, Peach, who can do you and me a lot of damage.”

  “Ah, the Masons, sir.” The puzzlement lifted in slow motion from Percy’s face and was replaced by a beatific smile, as he simulated comprehension of this news. “But that doesn’t leave him free from prosecution, sir, does it? Not unless I’ve missed some circular from the Crown Prosecution Service, which is always possible, of course, the rate they fire bumf out these days. The computer and the photocopier have a lot to answer for, if you ask me, and it’s not impossible that—”

  “Peach!” Tucker’s shout stemmed the torrent of words from his abominable visitor, but he was immediately aware that it must have penetrated the nethermost regions of the house. He lowered his voice again. “Of course Masons have no special privileges when it comes to the law. I’m just saying you have to be careful, that’s all. My God, man, you’ve no grasp at all of public relations.”

  Percy shook his head sadly. “No, sir, I’m sure you’re right. It’s just that I thought paedophiles weren’t good news, and paedophile rings should be tackled as soon as possible. I seem to remember a memo from you on those lines a few months ago. If there’s been a change of policy, I missed it.”

  He had lost patience with the game now, and the two men stood eyeing each other for a moment in open hostility. Then Tucker said, “If he’s a paedophile, of course he must be pursued. I’m only saying that we must proceed with a little caution and—”

  “Courcey’s a paedophile, sir. And a member of a ring exchanging child pornography. And involved in a murder case. I didn’t think it was a moment for too much caution.”

  Tucker stared at his DI in horror. His own modest ambition to be Master of his Lodge seemed to him to be washed away on this flood of bad news. “Courcey is involved in the Bickerstaffe murder?”

  “Involved, sir, certainly. Not necessarily guilty of pulling the cord round the poor bugger’s neck himself. Perhaps not involved at all in the murder: that remains to be seen. But he’s already tried to suppress evidence.”

  Tucker sat down, suddenly and heavily, on the brass-studd
ed leather armchair by the fireplace. “You’d better tell me all about it,” he said dully.

  Peach did. When he had enlarged upon his views of the Courcey paedophilia ring, he also brought his chief up to date on the news from Downton Hall, and reported on the interviews with Kate Maxted and the Hanlons. He remained standing with feet astride on the sheepskin rug throughout. Then he took his leave of Tommy Bloody Tucker.

  As the man led him covertly back across the hall, Percy called cheerfully towards the distant door to the kitchen, “Goodbye, Mrs Tucker. Sorry I didn’t have time to renew our acquaintance.”

  Ten

  There is a connection between intensity and psychological disturbance. There are too many exceptions for the association to be very useful, and psychiatrists find intensity far too wide and all-embracing a term for it to be valuable. Percy Peach affected a fine contempt for both psychologists and psychiatrists, but he had met a few very intense psychopaths in his time, one of whom had made a violent attempt to emasculate him with a meat hook.

  He therefore noted with a wary interest that one of the men whose sons had been assaulted by the late Father John Bickerstaffe seemed very intense indeed. David Kennedy was older than any other of the parents involved in this affair. He was fifty-seven, a research chemist who worked in the laboratories of the electrical company which was a major employer in Brunton since the decline of the cotton industry.

  Although he had agreed the time of this interview on the phone with Lucy Blake, he opened the door no more than three inches and peered at the police duo with dark suspicion. He inspected their warrants, gave no answering smile to DS Blake’s assurance that they had spoken on the phone earlier that morning, and treated them like a determined atheist beset by Jehovah’s Witnesses. He was a man with crinkly grey hair, a lined, worried face and years more appropriate to a grandparent than a parent. Eventually he said reluctantly, “I suppose you’d better come in.”