“I am sorry,” it said, addressed to no one. “But the world should be too.”
Coulter’s empathy for him popped like a soap bubble.
Dan McKillop entered – Assistant Procurator Fiscal making things official. Coulter felt a pang of conscience – he was one of the reasons why it wasn’t Maddy taking charge. Then he reminded himself that Maddy herself was the real cause of her not being here, missing a crucial moment in the biggest case of her life. McKillop on the other hand was perfectly composed and professional. He turned to a uniformed officer. “Get me some gloves.”
“Hard to read it any other way than suicide,” he said to McKillop.
“Still, we have to proceed cautiously.”
The two men were cagey with each other – their worlds, their approaches, fundamentally different. When the Uniform brought a pair of plastic gloves, Coulter nodded towards the sink, seeking the PFs permission to retrieve the envelope addressed to Whyte’s mother.
“Carry on,” said Dan McKillop, shaking bathwater from the hem of his suit trousers. Coulter tapped the police photographer’s shoulder. He wanted to be snapped opening the letter. Belt and braces. They weren’t suited up for this, but he needed to see that note now.
“Mum. This is not as dire as it seems…”
A little respect for the dead man crept back into Coulter’s mood. There was nothing in the letter – at first glance anyway – of any relevance to the manner of the author’s death. It was a straightforward attempt to assuage a mother’s agony. Course, it would have been better still not to have topped himself. And not to have done whatever things he had done that led to such a drastic end. As if reading his mind, McKillop stepped closer to him. “You have some notion why he did this?”
Coulter nodded. He almost said “ask your boss” but stopped himself in time. The two men went out into the corridor so that Coulter could tell the Fiscal the whole story to date. As he followed the tall, beefy McKillop out, Coulter felt like a turncoat about to earn his thirty shillings.
She had to blink several times, thinking it was a weird dream. She was still on the sofa, Duvet pulled up tight under her chin. There was a faint glow from the window, a hint of dawn. Belinda was still in her chair, but sitting up nice and straight like a good girl, eyes open. But she was talking to someone now. And – like Maddy was dreaming again – the man was a black-cloaked shaman. Worse, Father Mike Jamieson. Cup of tea on his lap as if he was visiting a poorly parishioner on a Sunday afternoon.
It was too absurd. Maddy closed her eyes again. What time would it be? Must be the middle of the night, and there’s a chichi Catholic priest in your house chatting quietly to a New Age druid.
“It’s like asking a clever spaniel to understand history. It’s beyond their ken,” the pubescent priest said to the pagan. Seemingly serious.
Jesus. Why’d they choose her house to talk like this! Belinda sounded as if she’d been on a roll and was reaching the climax of her statement. “We get glimpses of something bigger, stranger, but only glimpses. To weave that big story of yours about a bearded God and rebelling angels and the Son of Man, and pass it all off as irrevocable truth is simply dishonest.”
“You’re like an occasional smoker, Belinda,” Mike was saying. “You think you’re in a better position than a heavy smoker, but actually your addiction’s worse.” Maddy was waking up properly now, intrigued to hear where this could possibly lead. “You get ‘glimpses’ but you refuse to follow them up, see where they lead. You haven’t the courage to leave the fug-filled smoking room. The gift of Faith, Belinda. You haven’t quite got it yet. You haven’t tasted clean air.”
Belinda had her mouth opened, ready to reply, but Maddy couldn’t stand it a moment longer.
“Shut up!”
Fr. Mike and Belinda looked round – apparently surprised to see Maddy in her own home. But as she swung her legs round and sat up, they glanced at one another. There might be an ocean of difference between them theologically, but faced with as muddled and unspiritual a soul as Maddy Shannon, they bonded.
“How do you feel?”
“Like Mia Farrow in Rosemary’s Baby. When does the Black Mass begin?”
“Not even in jest,” said the young priest sternly.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
Jamieson manfully shouldered the swear word, “Belinda told me you were going through a dark night of the soul. She thought – and I hope she’s right – that you would be more open to my spiritual balm than her own brand.”
“Dark night of the soul?” The attractive thing about religion, Maddy thought, was how it made little lives bigger, more dramatic. “I have one of those most nights, Father. Especially if I’ve cheapskated on the wine. Like Jesus at Cana.”
“Cana?” Mike Jamieson was perplexed.
“Surely you know what happened the day after the wedding feast, Father? Joseph woke up the worse for wear and called through from his bed, “Mary, bring us a glass of water. And don’t let that boy near it.’”
Mike and Belinda looked at her, uncomprehending. More so when Maddy began to laugh, a little madly, at the old joke of her dad’s.
“These have been difficult days for you, Maddalena.” Fr. Mike thinks of her as a modern-day Mary Magdalen. He uses her full name to get to some part of her he thinks exists without her knowing it. “Nothing more difficult to come to terms with than dead children. A dying grandfather is hard enough, but I understand there have been upheavals in your professional life… and your personal life.”
“Upheaval in one’s personal life” was clearly theologese for shagging a man who’s hightailed back across the Atlantic. Maddy got up and went to the coffee pot that sat on the hearth. At least her uninvited guests had been worldly enough to organise a brew. Must be for Mike; Belinda never touches caffeine.
“It’s important that you use these low episodes you experience. View them as gifts, opportunities to reassess where you are and where you wish to go to from here.”
Maddy zoned out automatically at the sound of Jamieson’s voice, falling into a Sunday morning sermon daydream. She kept a semi-interested look on her face but let the words pass her by, and picked up the telephone. When she started dialling, Jamieson faltered, but she turned to him with that practised expression and he carried on. “The darkness is there for a reason. It doesn’t just exist of its own accord.”
“It’s like dark matter in space,” Belinda put in her two-penceworth. “It has a function.” The priest didn’t look at her, disliking the comparison. “God only allows the Devil to exist to serve His – and our – needs.”
Coulter’s answerphone again. Damn. She considered leaving some garbled message about Irish accents and Sy Knight, but thought better of it in front of these two. She shouldn’t have fallen asleep. Louis’s information might not have any relevance, but she’d already erred too far on the side of reticence She should throw these idiots out of her house and get back to her own life.
“Mike thinks, Maddy – and I agree with him – that you could do with some time away from it all.”
“Away?”
“I’ve got my car outside,” Jamieson said. “There’s a beautiful monastery only an hour from here. In the Lomond Hills.”
“I’ve been there, Maddy. The views, and the grounds! It’s a healing place.”
“You don’t have to take part in any of the services. No one’s trying to proselytise. Belinda’s prepared a case for you.”
His eye glanced to the side of the hearth. True enough, one of Maddy’s cases had been packed for her.
“I took the liberty of throwing a few things together,” Belinda beamed, “while you were sleeping.”
Tony Kennedy spoke out of the corner of his mouth. DC Russell couldn’t see why. He had bruises everywhere, but not around his lips. He was connected to drips and wires and monitors, but Russell knew there was nothing seriously wrong with him, nothing vital damaged. In this job you got to know who was dying and who was getting
a few cushy weeks in hospital.
“I took him to the lock-up.”
“Hang on, Tony. No offence, but you’re a half pint o’ nothing compared to Lennon. What d’you mean you took him?”
“I hit him over the head first.”
It took some time to get a coherent story out of Tony Kennedy. Partly because he insisted in speaking out of the side of his mouth, partly because he ran out of breath or energy every few words. But mainly because the man wasn’t capable of stringing three words together in the first place. Eventually, however, John Russell managed to construct a picture.
Lennon had gone straight home after being released from the cells. Kennedy had heard through the grapevine that he had been bailed. He’d gone round to his house, broken in through a back window, and had a crowbar handy, waiting for him.
“And you knocked him out? In one blow, Tony? Let’s say that actually happened… And exactly how did a little fella like you get a big lunk like him out the house and into your van?”
“Took fuckin’ ages. Can’t believe nobody saw me! He won’t be happy when he sees his roses.”
He had to hit Lennon once more in the van to keep him unconscious until he drove into the secret lock-up and got him tied up.
“What were you intending to do with him?”
Kennedy stared up at the ceiling. He had no idea. Never had a plan. All he knew was that Lennon killed his son. He wanted answers from him. Why? What connection did he have with his son? Did Tony Kennedy have reason to believe that Ian Lennon had killed Sy? If so, he didn’t want to just kill him, he wanted to make it slow, punish him.
“Why didn’t you finish him off, Tony?”
Tony glanced down from the ceiling and stared vacantly at Russell. “He said it wasn’t him. He didn’t kill my son.”
Russell’s jaw dropped. “That’s all? He told you… and you believed him?”
“I shouldn’t have let him talk.”
“He’s a trained killer, Tony. You can’t guess how many people he’s executed, in cold blood. Just because someone told him to.”
Patterson Webb came into the hospital room; McKillop, Shannon’s underling, with him. Shirtlifter, Russell had heard. Coulter was out in the hall, giving some Uniforms orders. He’d try and take over in here in a moment. Start the whole process over.
“Lennon’s got no corroboration of alibi for the time of your son’s death, Tony.” Russell tried to speed things up. “Forensic evidence ties him directly to the scene.”
“The dog hair? He spoke about that. Easy to set up. Someone wants to link him to the murder, pats the dog in the street and puts a hair on the bodies. Christ, could even have happened by accident.”
Unlikely, Russell thought. But Kennedy had a point about the framing. Find a house Lennon gardens at that’s got a dog. Follow it one day and give it a pat… He could feel Lennon slip from their fingers. Fine by Russell – Lennon was always his boss’s hunch. And things were developing by the minute on Whyte and the Docherties – Russell’s own preference.
Russell went off to bring Coulter up to speed on Tony’s story. He didn’t think he’d ever seen the man quite so hassled.
“Get Lennon. Get more men onto it if you have to.”
“That’s one hell of a liberty, Linda. Did you help, Father?”
“Course not.”
“Maybe suggest knicker and bra combinations? What’s right for a monastery? Sackcloth thong?”
“It’s the only response the modern age has to faith and doctrine – cheap jokes.”
Another time, another place, Maddy would have set about him. Right now all she wanted was to get Laird and Jamieson out of her house, and Coulter and Casci on the phone. She had a sense of urgency she couldn’t quite connect to any single event or piece of information.
“Maddy. I’m sorry. I was only trying to help.”
“Forgive my directness, Linda – but you’re the grieving mother.”
She flinched a little, but took hold firmly of Maddy’s arm. “You need rest. Time out. Get back in touch with… something.”
Perhaps it was the woman’s fingers on her skin, or just weariness, but Maddy suddenly became aware of that big black line around her. Not only that, she felt that Belinda could see it, too. Sense it.
They had a point, the Pagan and the Priest. She did feel lost. Her life was a decade of broken rosary beads. Disconnected pellets of people, happenings. Nonno. Casci. Children dead in a park under cherry blossom. Wee lassie laid out in a posh garden. How do you keep going every day with all that spinning round you? She looked, quietly, for a moment at Belinda, who smiled. Then at Mike, not much more than a dark and concerned child himself.
“You’ve got a car and a driver now, Linda. And if you, Father, haven’t got enough money for the petrol to Dundee, I’ll lend you it.” She crossed the room to turn on her computer, aware of Jamieson following her. She imagined him stamping his foot.
“I didn’t need to come here tonight! I have people in my parish who need me. People can’t be saved from themselves unless they put in a little effort too!”
“What if I don’t want to be “saved from myself”? I might not actually like this burly, badly dressed mess of woman I’ve become, but we’ve reached an understanding.”
“Come on, Mike,” said Belinda, a huffy side to her showing for the first time. “I thought she’d be more receptive. I overestimated her.”
Maddy felt like crying. She was coming out fighting, but throwaway lines like that were hitting a mark somewhere. Perhaps she did live in a swill of ignorance and blindness. She clicked on Messenger when her PC fired up. Nothing. No new messages.
“Some people can’t read the signs that are sent to them.” He was facing Belinda, but he was talking at Maddy. “It’s why the mass of people can’t understand miracles, or grace… they don’t have the apparatus for it.”
Maddy looked around for a cigarette. She’d had some in an old handbag. Did she throw that into one of the packing boxes? She’d decided weeks ago she wasn’t ready to move yet she’d continued to fill boxes with stuff.
“It’s because I’m a fish.”
Belinda looked at her, as if this time she really had flipped.
“She’s laughing at the Monsignor,” Jamieson explained, then turned to Maddy. “Those who choose to see only darkness, will see only darkness. The Monsignor is a great mind, an acclaimed theologian throughout the Christian world!”
Maddy stopped, and looked at him. The priest, who had been leaning forward, like a soldier heading into batle, straightened up. She took a step closer to him.
“He travels, doesn’t he?”
Jamieson nodded.
“Irish.” It wasn’t a question.
Jamieson turned to Belinda, hoping for help, an explanation of Maddy’s strange words.
“Has he been travelling recently?”
“He was in Rome last week.”
“And last month?”
“He goes all over the place. Spain. The States—”
He stopped when Maddy rushed out of the room. Belinda followed, calling after her.
“Maddy, please. Stop. Let me help you.”
The Lomond Hills flex and stretch at dawn, the loch below rousing, rippling. The summit of Ben Lomond emerges from clouds like a sleepy eye opening.
Duncryne Hill affords one of the best views in Scotland in exchange for the least effort. Fifteen-minute walk from car to top. Elaine and Jim Docherty sat and waited for the police to arrive. If they’d danced up and down they couldn’t have been more conspicuous. They’d made no attempt to conceal their car. It lay at the foot of the hill, unlocked.
Turn your back on the loch and you can see the beginnings of the city. It rises in clefts in the landscape, like a skin rash. The wind funnelling up the valley from the sea still stings, freezing the tears to Elaine’s face.
They were conspicuous up there: Duncryne hill is not high, drivers coming in from Stirling noticed them up there. A romancing couple
perhaps, or recently bereaved scattering ashes. Finally it was a local farmer who phoned the police – something suspicious about them.
Jim and Elaine waited to be found, locked up, interrogated and be labelled, if not vicious murderers, then dangerous sex monsters.
Coulter and Russell were pacing up and down in front of the Incident Board. The Docherties would be brought in any moment. Amy Dalgarno was hard at work on a phone – noising folk up before the clock struck seven. “The home schooling outfit’s called Faith and Family. There’s a helpline number on their answering machine—”
“An 0800?” Coulter looked at Amy like seeing her for the first time. She’d been seconded to CID for over a month but this was the first time he’d seen her without a uniform. Still in her twenties but she had an authority about her. Dressed well for work – modestly enough and smart, nothing that would make her stand out too much. Thick, fair hair tied back. “No, 01968. Down near Peebles somewhere. Finally got an answer to it this morning. Woke some poor sod up. He was a bit confused. Anyway, it appears that Faith and Family are more than just an educational organisation. According to this guy—”
“Called?”
“Sturgeon. Raymond Sturgeon. They’re into lobbying, public education—”
“Lobbying for what?”
“Whole gamut of issues – anti-abortion, anti-sex education, AIDS, crime, Third World, immigration. They have offices in Edinburgh and London. And according to their website, affiliated organisations throughout the world.”
“What denomination? Born agains?”
“RC. As Catholic as you can get, from the sound of it. Think Benedict might have trouble getting membership.”
“Can we get a leading light of this crowd to talk to us? Someone from the schooling side. Did Paul Pacchini get tutors through them? Would he have paid anyone a visit when he came up here?”
“Sturgeon says they don’t have bosses at Faith and Family – except for Jesus.”
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