Father Vincent held up his hand to protest but Snow carried on. ‘Now Lucy’s child appears to be missing. A little girl. We do not know what has happened to it but it is not beyond the realms of possibility that a lone, depressed mother with a demanding infant on her hands may do something very drastic – may in fact have done something very drastic.’
The priest’s eyes widened in shock. ‘Good gracious, what on earth are you saying?’
‘I think you can guess. And, in fact I believe that you know. I believe that this young girl came to you because she was desperate and despairing. She came to confess her sins. What had she done with her baby? Where is it?’
‘I don’t know. Really, I have no idea.’
‘Why not?’ Snow’s voice was raised now and tinged with genuine anger. ‘She came to you for confession, didn’t she? So what did she do with the baby?’
Father Vincent stared at Snow for some moments, his mouth moving slightly as though he was about to speak but was unsure which words to use. Eventually he replied in a hesitant hoarse whisper. ‘I can’t tell you.’
‘Why not?’
There was a long silent pause before the priest replied. ‘Because I didn’t ask her.’
Snow slumped back in his chair with a frustrated sigh. Nevertheless now he knew he was getting somewhere. His hunch was working out.
‘What did she tell you?’
‘You know I cannot…’
‘For Christ’s sake…’
‘Yes, for Christ’s sake.’
Snow rippled with anger and stabbed a finger in the priest’s direction. ‘Don’t give me that. It’s not Christ and your so-called vows to him that are you are protecting. It is yourself ’.
‘What on earth do you mean by that? I think you are making statements here that could get you into trouble.’
‘Don’t you threaten me, Reverend Father. You see, I know what you’ve done.’
Father Vincent rose quietly from his chair, placing his mug of tea on the workbench. ‘I think that you had better go now.’
Snow shook his head. ‘I don’t intend to go until I’ve managed to secure a confession from you. You know all about confessions don’t you?’
‘Why, you’re mad!’
‘Mad, no. I’ve been a little slow I grant you, but with a little hard thinking and the extra piece of evidence provided by that picture found in the girl’s handbag, I reckon I’ve now got a clear idea of what has been going on.’
Strangely, the priest smiled. ‘And what has actually been going on?’
‘Murder. Murders perpetrated by you.’ For a brief moment the image of the street lamp outside his office came to his mind. The garish artificial light snuffing out, easing the night back into its natural state, just as the murderer had done. Just as Father Vincent had done: reducing the harshness of the world by eliminating it. Disposing of sinners and moral bankrupts, cleansing society. What had been a vague notion, a hunch, now, as he was talking, was becoming crystal clear to Snow.
‘Inspector, I really don’t know what has led you to this crazy idea but I am afraid you are terribly wrong. I am a priest. A man of God. It is my calling to save souls and not take lives.’
‘An ideal mask for a murderer. I remember something you said to me when we first met: ‘If I could, I would wipe all the pain and sin from the world.’ I believe that is what you set out to do. In your own rather twisted way. Even Brian Stead, your church warden, observed that you struggled at times to have sympathy with the people who came to you for confession.’
‘That is only human.’
‘Possibly. But what you did next is not. I think that the terrible outpourings that you have to endure in the confession box turned your mind. Why should these creatures be excused punishment? Isn’t that what you thought? They had committed the most horrendous sins and for a few Hail Marys they were free of guilt and punishment. Take Sammy Tindall, for example. He beat his wife. He was a brute and a drunkard. Surely he didn’t deserve to live. You were in no doubt that despite his bleatings for forgiveness you knew that he’d be back seeking it again.’
The priest nodded. ‘Certainly. Once a man has raised his hand to a woman, he cannot stop.’
‘So you stopped him. In your eyes he did not deserve to have a life and so you ended it.’
Father Vincent shook his head. ‘This is fantasy.’
Snow continued. ‘Then there was Frank Sullivan. His crime was greater. He was a paedophile of the worse kind. He had sex with his own daughter. No doubt he sobbed and cringed in that confessional box while you offered him succour, while your own stomach was turning over as he relayed the foul details of his transgressions. The man was vermin, wasn’t he? He needed to be trodden under foot. Or stabbed in the stomach until dead. When Lucy came with her tale of woe, you realised you had found yet another victim: an unmarried mother who had done something terrible to her baby. What had she done? Left it on a doorstep somewhere or worse still, done away with it? It’s too late shaking your head now. You will have to tell. You will have to tell all in a court of law. Three sinners came to you and you took it into your head to be their executioner. To rid the world of this sinful scum.’
Father Vincent clasped his hands together and smiled indulgently. ‘I am afraid you are living in cloud cuckoo land, Inspector,’ he said softly, without a hint of emotion. ‘All you have told me is nonsense and more importantly totally lacking evidence. And one other thing. What about the Barraclough fellow? He was not a parishioner of mine. I never met him. He has never been near my church.’
It was Snow’s turn to smile now. ‘Indeed. That was your really clever move. To kill someone with whom you had no connection. A stranger to you. But he was a well-known sinner, generally recognised as a piece of shit on the heel of society. Well deserving of your knife. In killing him, you threw away any suspicion of a link between the victims and your church - and you. It bought you a little more time. You knew that eventually the police would catch on to the pattern you were creating but you confused matters significantly by killing Barraclough. However, I am sure if we get the forensic boys into the vicarage they’d find enough stuff in there to ensure you’d spend the rest of your life inside. Where is the knife, the murder weapon? Is it in the kitchen drawer? Or maybe you keep it in here.’
‘Quite the little Sherlock Holmes, aren’t you?’ There was no smile on the priest’s face now. ‘I have to congratulate you. You seemed to have worked it out very well. All on your own, eh? No police back up, I see.’
‘That can easily be arranged. To be honest, I wasn’t quite sure I was on the right track until I came in here this morning.’
‘And then it all became clear to you, eh? Very well, I won’t deny it. Not to you anyway. Obviously, I have not been clever enough. I have to congratulate you, but it won’t do you any good, you know. The theory works but you have no proof. Nevertheless, well done. I was driven to it, you know. I have always been susceptible to callings – that’s why I entered the church – but religion is feeble when it comes to cleansing society, improving the morality of the people. What I saw as a benevolence, a way of easing a sinner’s pain, in practice was merely a licence for them to go out and do it all again. There would always be a cop out provided by the priest – the priest who could not tell anyone about the darkness and malevolence that poured from their lips. No one gave me an absolution. I had to live with those grim recitals, buggery, violence, murder, theft, abuse. Those tales can corrupt, taint a soul in time. In God’s house, I had to endure tales from the pit’.
‘So you thought you would take the law into your own hands. Be your own cleansing agent.’
‘Those people did not deserve to live. I chose them carefully. They had offended Our Lord – in fact anyone’s sense of decency. The idea of my blood rites came to me when I was attacked myself by some young ruffian on my way home from visiting a sick parishioner. Attacked, beaten and had my wallet stolen. And then that very night, less than an hour after the brat had
assaulted me, he was run down by a speeding car. That was justice, wasn’t it? God’s work. If God could sanction such an outcome, it was a sign for me. A sign allowing me to blot out the vile individuals who have inflicted pain and misery on others. They all deserved to die.’
‘You could be right but it is not given to you to be their judge and executioner.’
‘If I did not do it, who would?’
‘Isn’t it God who decides such things?’
‘Maybe he has. As one of God’s anointed, perhaps he has given me the power and authority to carry out his work. A disciple of His justice.’
‘You don’t really believe that.’
‘Perhaps I don’t. But I shall carry on with my work.’
‘It ends here.’
Father Vincent laughed out loud. ‘You mean that you’re going to read me my rights - ‘anything you say may be used in evidence etc etc’? Don’t be so foolish. I am afraid you’re not going to arrest me. Look, it has been somewhat cathartic for me to admit what I have been doing and why. Strangely, it has been my kind of confessional. Yes, I admit I murdered those four people. I did it because they had offended humanity, let alone God, by their actions. They had soiled their own lives as well as their victims. Why on earth should they go on breathing the same air as decent honest folk? They shouldn’t – but they would have done if it hadn’t been for me. For years I have sat cooped up in the confessional box listening to the crude and pathetic outpourings of these creatures, from the grubby and petty to the grotesquely immoral. It damages one’s soul and mind after a time. It is like holding a microscope up to nature and what you observe is disheartening and disgusting. I know I can only make a small difference – but it is a difference.’
The words were expressed calmly, rationally and there was no note of madness in the expression or in the priest’s features, but it was in the objective manner in which he delivered his little sermon that Snow caught the sense of the man’s insanity.
‘But now you know… I am afraid…’ The priest’s features darkened and his stance stiffened.
Sensing danger, Snow rose from his chair. As he did so the priest moved with remarkable swiftness and released the chair leg from the vice on the workbench. Before the detective knew what was happening, Father Vincent brought the chair leg down on his head in a rain of blows. Snow raised his arms to protect himself but it was too late. The weapon cracked hard against his skull several times. He fell backwards, his head seeming to explode with bright coloured lights. A further blow brought darkness and with a groan he slumped to the floor unconscious.
CHAPTER
TWENTY NINE
Father Vincent was aware that he had to act swiftly and move the body before Snow regained consciousness. He didn’t want to kill him here, not on his own territory. That would be both extremely dangerous and foolish. He knew exactly where the deed was to be done. He had already sussed out several locations ideal for dumping a body, although he had not contemplated that it would be a policeman. This killing was not one of his blood rites, but a necessity to allow him more time to carry on with his calling. With great precision he set about preparing his victim for the move. Using gaffer tape, he sealed up Snow’s mouth and then bound both his hands and feet tightly with thin rope. To complete the job, he slipped a small potato sack over the policeman’s head.
The priest paused a moment to catch his breath and admire his handiwork. He knew that he had been extremely fortunate that the Inspector had called on him alone to voice his suspicions. Had he turned up with his sergeant and other police in tow, the game would have been well and truly up. God had been good to him. However, he was fully aware that he was not out of danger yet. He had to get the body to its final resting place without being seen. Kneeling down, he felt inside Snow’s overcoat and after a brief search found what he was looking for: his car keys. The priest assumed that Snow had left his car in the parking area just outside the church gates. He would have to go to the vehicle and drive it around to the rear of the vicarage in order to stow the body in the boot without being seen. That would mean leaving the unconscious Snow alone for about five minutes. It was a risk, but surely a minor one. The fellow was trussed up like a Christmas turkey, the apt analogy bringing a brief smile to the priest’s face. If he regained consciousness, he couldn’t make a sound or move.
There was no time to consider the matter further. He had to act quickly. Slipping on his overcoat and hat, he locked the door and trudged through the slush down the garden path, around the vicarage towards the front of the church. It was still snowing and feathery flakes settled on his coat and hat as he walked. He recognised Snow’s car parked near a street light and swiftly made his way towards it. What he did not notice was the figure of Brian Stead standing in the porch. He was positioned well back in the shadows, but the glow of his cigarette was discernible in the gloom had Father Vincent glanced that way. Stead often stood there for his regular ‘fag break’ but he was meticulous in catching the ash in the palm of his hand and slipping the final tab end into his overall pocket to dispose of later.
Father Vincent’s rather furtive gait intrigued Stead somewhat and he took a step forward in order to obtain a better view of the priest through the fine net curtain of snow. He even raised an eyebrow of surprise when he saw him unlock the policeman’s car and get inside. Soon the lights of the vehicle sprang into life and the engine revved up. In a stately fashion, the car slid away into the snowy gloom. That was strange, thought Stead. Very strange, in fact. However, he gave a gentle shrug and puffed on his cigarette and blew the smoke into the shadows. It was nothing to do with him. He knew his place and knew what was best for him. It was the Yorkshire man’s mantra: see all, hear all and say nowt. He had survived this long in life by being vigilant while keeping his mouth shut. Silence cannot hurt you. Whatever Father Vincent was doing with the copper’s car was none of his business, he mused as he doused the cigarette and slipped it into his overall pocket. ‘In fact,’ he murmured to himself, ‘I didn’t see it. I saw nothing.’ And with a tight, satisfied grin, he made his way back into the church.
On returning to the workshop, Father Vincent Andrews was delighted to discover that Snow was still unconscious and his body was exactly as he had left it. This made it all the easier for the priest to transfer him to the boot of the car. Hauling the inert policeman over his shoulder, he made his way down the little path which led him to the narrow lane behind the workshop where he had parked the car. Unceremoniously, he dumped Snow’s body into the boot and slammed the lid shut. He stood for a while, catching his breath while the snow still swirled around him like the tiny flakes in a glass globe.
It was nearly over.
It was early evening as Father Vincent neared Beaumont Park, the Victorian recreation gardens on the north side of the town. The roads were quiet, most motorists having headed home early in order to avoid getting stuck in the snow. The priest drove slowly with care. It would be disastrous if he got stuck in the snow. As he approached the park on the quiet suburban street which ran parallel to it, the car began to slide and the steering grew resistant to command.
‘Come on,’ snapped the priest leaning over the wheel, urging the car to take a straight route as the engine groaned in protest. The front end slithered to the left in response and then the whole vehicle glided across the road bumping into the curb, close to a parked van mummified in snow. Father Vincent uttered an oath and wrenched the wheel savagely, while revving the engine. With an angry whine, the car shuddered for a moment before pulling away from the pavement and then slowly and jerkily returning to right side of the road.
Father Vincent realised that his forehead was doused in sweat and his heart was beating a tattoo inside his chest. It was as though the weather – nature – was attempting to stop him carrying out his plans. Was this a sign from God? Surely not. It was just the bloody weather. Bad luck – that’s all.
Slowly, as if in slow motion, the car edged its way towards the T-junction by the
park gates. Gently he manoeuvred the car towards the side of the road, just beyond the gates, and parked it. He sat back for a moment and sighed while waiting for his heartbeat to return to normal. He switched off the lights and sat in the darkness for five minutes, watching the falling snow bloom everything in sight with a soft, white-edged brilliance.
Eventually, he got out and checking that he was indeed a lone figure in this arctic landscape, he retrieved Snow’s body from the boot. As he hoisted him over his shoulder, the priest was aware of faint stirrings of consciousness evident in his burden.
As swiftly as he could, he carried the body though the park gates and turning left headed towards a seat shelter where he dumped the policeman down on the wooden bench. He arranged him into a sitting position before pulling the sack away. Snow’s head lolled gently and his eyes flickered as though he was gradually taking the slow pathway to wakefulness.
Father Vincent smiled. Indeed, he did want his victim to be fully awake for the final act in the drama. Picking a handful of snow up, he rubbed it into the policeman’s face. His features twitched, the eyes widened and slowly began to focus. The priest repeated the procedure. This time Snow began to cough and splutter behind his gaffer tape gag.
‘Welcome back to the land of the living. Temporarily anyway.’ Snow tried to say something but his words were muffled by the tape, emerging as groggy inarticulate grunts.
‘Don’t bother trying to talk – trying to talk your way out of your fate. I believe you are a good man really, but you are also an obstacle. You have got in my way and in order for me to continue in my work you have to be… eliminated. It’s a pity, but there it is.’
He moved away from Snow and reaching into the lower folds of his overcoat he retrieved the long, serrated kitchen knife from the inner pocket there.
On seeing the knife, Snow began to wriggle wildly but his desperate actions were in vain. His bonds were too restrictive and within seconds, Father Vincent had plunged the knife deep into his stomach and with great forced dragged it upwards, ripping the flesh and severing various internal organs. He then withdrew the knife and plunged it in again.
Blood Rites: A Detective Inspector Paul Snow thriller Page 19