Fragments

by Morgan Gallagher

  Feeling both repulsed, and so terribly sad for the young man and his stolen life, she switched everything off and sat, her eyes closed, feeling the rhythm of the train as it shot through the countryside. She’d learned that when faced with horror, with death and blood and violence, that meditating was the way to find safety. Once, she’d have prayed; prayed so hard that she would partially achieve an out of body feeling, a sense of spiritual release and ecstasy. She’d found, however, that this could be an emotion just as deceiving as despair; different edges of the same blade. Calm and lack was a more fitting home for the troubled spirit. A core of emptiness from which to observe and record; catalogue and process as opposed to feel. Prayer was feeling; meditation was absence. In absence, there was room for logic to examine the horror: to allow deliberation upon it that could leave her essence untouched.

  It was also useful for alerting her to something she’d missed. When she went back to the images and the reports, after rising to walk around a few moments and request some fresh coffee, she noticed that the corpse lay upon what looked like thin paper sheets. Tiny segments could be seen, if you looked, lost in the shadow and blood stains. She magnified the image but could not discern much on a laptop. After an hour of fiddling with images, she was sure she could make out one small line of writing. Almost. Her instinct told her what was probably on the leaves. Her intellect told her what that might mean: it certainly made sense of why the crime had been passed straight up to Major Crimes by the local borough unit.

  There was no mention of the sheets of paper anywhere in the reports. She did some research on the internet, found the phone number she needed, switched her phone on and sent a text.

  She then closed down all the murder scene details and concentrated on the background report. The body had been found by a young priest, Father Wyn Jones. She clicked up a copy of his grainy passport-sized photo and stared at the face, trying to see what sort of man he was. Even in this old photo from his application form he was striking: handsome and virile. He was thirty-one years old and on his first posting as a fully ordained priest. Born in Cardiff, Wales, he had studied in London at Allen Hall, the Diocese of Westminster’s own Seminary. He was, according to the file, a gifted and passionate priest who had expressed his desire to work with the disadvantaged youth of the world. He had been delighted with his placement into the Archdiocese of Southwark and his posting to the Mother of All Sorrows Church in gang-ridden, crime-rife Peckham. She stopped work on the people and switched to the internet to examine the locale. Peckham was an old South London parish of dereliction and despair. It had been the scene of a dreadful murder a few years ago; a ten-year-old boy left to bleed to death in the streets, attacked needlessly by a couple of slightly older boys. The world was never good when children killed children.

  She explored further and found that in recent months massive amounts of European funding had been pumped in to help combat both the violence and the decay. It was a good placement for a young priest with lots of drive and a desire to achieve something. Energy and money always made things happen, for good or ill.

  Father Jones had worked relentlessly for good. He reinstated the Church youth group and set up a youth choir modelled on the Southern Baptist style song and dance of USA churches. It had been highly successful and there had been real connections made with the younger teenagers, who were in constant danger of being drawn into the gang infrastructure. There were also plans to set up a Church youth soccer team and he’d begun fundraising to pay for it. All in all, Father Jones had made a substantial contribution to his new parish in the fourteen months since he’d been assigned. The old parish priest, Father Edwards, who had been retired once and then dragged back out to keep the church doors open, had no doubt found the young man to be a blessing. The Bishop had been delighted and the parish had shown signs of recovery. Services had seen a congregation where not only was the average age under 60 years old, but there was talk of a toddler group being viable if the numbers of families with young children continued to rise. Father Jones was working on the simple truth that if you gave purpose and hope to the lives of the children, the parents would follow.

  All had been well until about three months prior when the Mother of All Sorrows had become the target of a vicious graffiti and vandalism campaign. Parishioners had taken to nightly patrols round the closed Church and the graveyard, as no matter how much cleaning and restoration was done during the day, it would all reappear as soon as it was dark. Obscenity had been the main feature of the graffiti with graphic drawings of what was supposed to be Father Jones in sexual congress with children, animals, and corpses from the graves. Various classic motifs of defilement and occult paraphernalia had been left in both the Church, and the graveyard, all no doubt inspired by horror movies. Cats were found strung up on the headstones and a chicken was beheaded at the Church door, with its blood used to draw an inverted pentagram. The Archdiocese and the police had sealed it down with the help of the outraged parishioners and a local animal charity. CCTV had been upped and a couple of the youths from one of the local gangs had been arrested and charged with defacing Church property.

  All had gone quiet until Father Jones had opened up the Church doors yesterday morning and found the body upon the altar.

  Unfortunately, the young man who was dead, and spread across the stones, was known to Father Jones. Just the day before, they had been involved in a fist fight on the Church steps. They both still wore the bruises and cuts they had given each other. In fact, Father Jones had been the last person to see the young man alive.

  Maryam finished her studies and switched her phone back on whilst she ate a good meal. It was a bit early for a full dinner, but the food wasn’t as good on the Eurostar, it had no internet signal at all, and phone calls were almost impossible. Whilst transferring at Lille, her phone beeped confirmation of the appointment she’d sought for her arrival. She settled onto the London train and switched everything off, using the time to reflect and refresh her mind, clearing out the images of blood and violence upon the altar, preparing herself to receive more information with an open mind. She itched to lay out a tarot reading and study what it may give her in the form of access to her own sub-conscious thoughts. Public attention closed that avenue down, however, and she put earphones on, pretending to listen to music. She sat with her eyes closed, grounding herself fully despite the speed at which she wasn’t touching the ground at all.

  St Pancras, London was bitterly cold and it was raining: winter cold and dark. Customs had been dealt with in Lille, and the more relaxed attitude to train travel as opposed to flight had ensured her work case had been passed through with the minimum of problems. She alighted onto the platform and was met immediately by a young priest named Father Scott. He appeared disconcerted by her appearance; what, or whom, had he been expecting? He was too well-trained to say anything however, and he escorted her to the car whilst dutifully asking if her journey had been bearable. She was quite surprised to find Bishop Atkins of the Diocese of Westminster and Bishop to the Curia in England & Wales sitting in the back seat of the car, awaiting her. Father Scott packed her bags into the boot as she settled into the seat beside the Bishop.

  ‘Marie.’ Atkins nodded hello.

  ‘Frederick, how nice to see you.’ He did not extend his hand and she did not kiss his ring.

  ‘What arrangements have been made?’

  ‘I thought we’d drive you to Westminster, where an apartment has been prepared for you. Then we can discuss the matter before speaking to the priests at the parish concerned. The police will want to speak to you in the morning, no doubt.’

  Father Scott started up the car and they began to weave their way to the exit queue to negotiate the ticket barrier.

  ‘I did not have time to alert you, but I have an appointment in a few minutes. Father Scott, could you take us to New Scotland Yard? Thank you. Also, Fred, I’d prefer to stay at the parish house in Peckham. After you drop me off, perhaps you and Father Scott can t
ake my cases there and I’ll join you later?’ She gave Fred her best smile-of-good-intent: the social lubricant that women must often use when working with men used to being in charge. ‘Do you have a folder for me?’

  Atkins leaned down and opened his briefcase, taking out a thin folder stamped with the mark of the Diocese of Westminster. His jaw was compressed as he handed the file over without speaking. He had always hated taking orders from anyone outside the Church: he must have hated that Rome had sent her.

  The drive took a little over twenty minutes, which she spent examining the photos with a magnifying glass. Atkins had spoken over her deliberations several times, to offer more information and impressions, but nothing he said was important. Of more import was the way Father Scott looked away from the rear view mirror as Atkins had spoken.

  Atkins was furious that he’d been dismissed. As she exited the car, he had tried both to accompany her and to suggest that Father Scott stay as a driver to assist her when she left. Maryam assured them that she’d see them later, at Peckham, or perhaps tomorrow if she was very late. She knew Atkins would remain at Peckham until she arrived, no matter how long it took her.

  She went in and was invited to sit. She waited out being left to moulder into nervousness by the desk sergeant. His job was to make sure everyone was left to stew until they were admitted into the presence of those too overworked to care that much and who would often hide their tiredness in cynicism and anger. The ones who wished they were still desk sergeants and regretted their thirst for promotion. She doubted that dynamic would be presented to her today and settled into people watching and enjoying her wait.

  It had been a few years since Maryam had been in the offices, and she noted the changes with some sense of the sadness that was beaten into the walls here. Security was now an awesome enterprise and she noticed that all the officers in view wore Kevlar vests, some even had firearms. She found the sight of a British Bobby with a semi-automatic gun in his hands unnerving; jarring, as if she’d taken a step and turned a corner into another world. Which is what had happened to them all, wasn’t it? She reminded herself of the world that most people grew up in, where they knew what guns looked like better than they knew a full plate of food. She shook the nostalgia of the Cosy Old London out of her thoughts and attended to the one in front of her.

  Inspector Jennifer Barham was more than happy to meet and talk privately with Maryam after the observation that Maryam had texted her. Maryam could see that the woman was not at all certain about the involvement of the Congregation, but had agreed to it on some personal level. Otherwise the meeting would not be taking place as it was, late at night with no records being taken. When they settled down at an interview desk, with cups of tea between them, Maryam opened up straight away.

  ‘I wanted to thank you for letting me speak to you and for allowing the Office of the Arcane access to this.’ She indicated the folder that Atkins had given her.

  Barham said nothing.

  ‘As you know, I wanted to talk about the papers under the body. Most importantly, I want to talk about why the reports allowed to be seen by the Congregation did not mention them.’

  ‘We accepted your involvement in this case as you have been helpful before. My supervisors advised me of how good you were, how relations with the Church could be maintained by allowing you in.’

  ‘But you felt you had to test me?’

  Barham stared at her, then took the same route to honesty that Maryam had; Maryam’s respect for her increased.

  ‘No, not a test.’ She sighed. ‘It was just so... contentious, I didn’t want it in the record you had, yet... at least not until I’d met you. I was impressed you spotted the papers, never mind worked out what they were.’

  Maryam picked up one of the new photos that Barham had brought in with her. The naked body of the boy after it had been processed and washed. The writing cut into his body was much clearer. She took a few moments to compare it to her earlier translation.

  ‘I am very much afraid, Inspector, that there is some fundamental religious aspect to this and you have good reason to be worried. What is written on his body could be read in many ways, but I’m afraid that the sheets of the Qur’an under his body, cut and slashed with the knife that killed him, further defiled by his blood, cannot be ignored. Someone wishes conflict between this Church, and the Muslim communities. They want it very badly. It is not good.’

  Barham paled under her make-up. ‘Not what I wanted to hear, not at all.’

  ‘No, I expect not. And that’s before we get to the accusation that it’s a demon that killed him.’

  ‘I thought it was that the boy was a demon, I mean, had held a Jinn?’

  ‘No, it’s very clear that the writing states he has been sacrificed by a Jinn, not to one, or because he was one.’ She pointed to the autopsy photos. ‘All Arabic has three root letters and the letters aside them can change the meaning significantly. The confusion is easy to see, but so is the meaning. I’ll write up a thorough translation for you when I have the time. Tell me, I’m presuming there were no cuts on his back?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The blood on the sheets of the Qur’an, it’s solely from the wounds?’

  ‘We think so. Analysis is still ongoing.’ Barham opened up the folder she’d taken the autopsy photos from and handed over several photos of the body on the altar, it being removed, the revealing of the leaves of paper underneath. Then the photos of each sheet being lifted and sealed in an evidence bag. The sequence showed that the body had lain on a cross constructed of torn and slashed leaves of the Holy Book of Islam. The young man’s body had been positioned as if crucified upon it. It was sacrilege to destroy the word of Allah. What had occurred was blasphemy; a deliberate desecration of both the Church and the Qur’an.’

  ‘And you have yet to inform any of the local Imams about this? Have not made any attempt to involve them?’

  ‘We wanted to be sure.’

  ‘You were hoping, no doubt, that this has nothing to do with religion at all?’

  Barham nodded. ‘The deceased, Jason Briggs, is a gang leader, a violent and aggressive person who has been involved in criminal activity since he was nine years old. There is no evidence of either sexual assault, or robbery. He was neither Muslim nor Catholic, nothing to link him in any way to anything other than his gang activity. Peckham gangs don’t split neatly into religious or racial groups. They run according to the ethnic breakdown of the individual housing estates. Most are black British, such as Jason, but it’s not exclusive. This Church is in his area, but he’s not a member of the congregation, although he had been thrown out of the youth group a few months ago, along with other gang members who were trying to recruit from there.’

  ‘You believe that is what was behind the graffiti and the other desecrations?’

  ‘Yes. The gang members we prosecuted were from Brigg’s gang, the RRs, the Rye Runners. They targeted the local church group to recruit youngsters and were booted out. So they vandalised the cemetery and the building. None of that had any religious significance at all.’

  Barham looked to Maryam to confirm this. Maryam nodded her head whilst filing away what Barham’s choice of words had revealed about her background. Barham continued.

  ‘It is only the pages of the book that suggests this has anything to do with Islam and actual religious faith. That’s not a very strong connection, given whoever did this is certainly not rational. Anyone could think of pulling the pages out of a book to muddy the waters. There is no strong evidence to treat this as anything other than a... secular... manner.’

  The word was awkward in her mouth, the concept new to her brain.

  ‘I can tell you that the words written on this young man are neither random nor without meaning. They are intense and scholarly. No one was copying out of a book. The formations of the marks are sure and precise. Intellect has been used here, intellect, discipline, and knowledge; unlike the graveyard desecrations.’

 
‘Completely different?’

  ‘Utterly.’

  Barham wasn’t happy with the news: so much easier to work this as a gang crime.

  ‘I take it he was drugged?’

  Barham nodded. ‘We believe so, what leads you to ask that?’

  ‘He lay there and bled to death. There is no significant arterial spray pattern evident in the surrounding area. The wounds are shallow and the blood flowed out slowly and evenly, from what I can tell. He would not have lain there and bled to death, I imagine, unless he wasn’t able to rise. I can see no evidence of restraints or serious injury that incapacitated him.’

  Barham paid Maryam the best compliment; she carried on talking about the details of the case without missing a beat. ‘We don’t know what, the toxicology results aren’t back. There was some spray on his chest; it could only be discerned by using light filters. It suggests the first cut was on his throat from someone standing behind him.’

  ‘So there wouldn’t be much spurt on the murderer?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Curious.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘If the first cut was at the throat, it was symbolic. It was a shallow slash, one presumes...’ She picked up the autopsy photos and looked in more detail. ‘Yes, otherwise he’d have bled out much more quickly.’

  ‘Agreed. All the cuts were shallow. He only bled out as there were so many of them.’