A Journal of Sin

by Darryl Donaghue

  ‘Grace, don’t threaten me. I told you what you wanted to know, now let’s talk about why I’m here.’

  ‘He didn’t like poor Father Michael. Didn’t like him at all.’

  ‘Didn’t like him?’

  ‘That John caused him no end of misery. Always asking about his wife. What did my wife say? Did she tell you anything? He even asked Father Michael to stop seeing her. If she came to church, to turn her away. Would you believe the arrogance? I helped clean the church and overheard all these goings-on.’

  Probably by listening at the door, thought Sarah. ‘What did he ask?’

  ‘Jenny came to the church from time to time, before they left for the city. She struggled with the marriage for one reason or another. She was a lovely girl, you know, natural blonde hair down to her shoulders and a pleasing personality too. They’d talk in Father Michael’s room for hours sometimes. She didn’t want to move away; she loved it here and who wouldn’t? Who in their right mind would give up the English countryside for that smog-covered city?’

  ‘It all stopped once John started coming around. He must have gotten wind of it somehow, followed her, I expect. I tried not to listen of course, but on occasion he became quite aggressive with Father Michael, so I kept an ear for safety’s sake, you know. You wouldn’t believe how he spoke to that poor man. F’ing this and bloody that. You’d think he thought they were having an affair.’

  ‘What was he so upset about?’

  ‘She was going there for marital advice, you see.’

  ‘From what I hear, Father Michael was a great believer in the family. He would have advised they stick together, surely?’

  ‘And that’s what’s so strange about the whole thing.’

  ‘Did you hear any of their conversations? Or did Father Michael ever tell you what he’d told her?’

  ‘No, not directly, so it’s hard to say what was said. Could you imagine a Catholic priest advising a couple to divorce? Unheard of. He would have needed a pretty good reason for that.’

  A low, repetitive thudding came from outside the house. Sarah stepped over a box of commemorative plates and moved a stack of copies of the Daily Mail to get to the window. She looked in all directions, but couldn’t see where it was coming from.

  ‘Sounds like a helicopter.’ It came into view. A red chopper with black markings flew from the right.

  Sarah couldn’t quite make out what the markings said. ‘It’s not one of ours.’ It must be the press, she thought, not wanting Grace to figure that out. The severity of the situation dawned on her. Having news reporters in Sunbury would be a disaster. Once the story broke, the town would be swarming with reporters. Michael’s next of kin weren’t in Sunbury. He was likely to have family somewhere and there would be little worse than finding out about his death via an off-the-cuff comment on live TV.

  However, they may have a satellite phone. She was sure they’d let her put an assistance call out to her bosses. Maybe this was exactly what she needed; a quick call to the nick and she’d soon have the resources she desperately needed. Then she could raise the investigation to a standard that Father Michael deserved. But what if they discovered how amateurish she’d played everything so far? She doubted they’d accept the circumstances as an excuse. That wouldn’t sell as many papers as ‘Bumbling cop messes up murder investigation.’ If her bosses found out about the murder on the news, she’d be out on her arse. She knocked over a box of china bowls and stumbled on a dusty decanter that stuck out awkwardly in the kitchen before leaving without saying another word. She needed to be with that chopper the moment it landed.

  The contents of Will’s stomach stayed inside this time.

  ‘Are you sure you’re okay, mate? Sure you don’t just feel a little queasy? You know what, Alan, I forgot to mention, this morning I opened the fridge to some mouldy milk. You know that smell of lumpy, mouldy milk that just gets up your nose?’ said Matt, taking pleasure in Will’s air sickness.

  ‘If I retch, I’m retching on you.’ He wouldn’t hesitate either and it’d be a long time before they were able to change clothes. They hovered for a while and Will was eager to put his feet on the ground, however wet it was. ‘Is this place as soaked as the last?’

  ‘Stick your head out and take a look,’ said Alan.

  ‘Very funny.’

  The pilot circled the village and announced, to Will’s relief, that he’d spotted a good place to land.

  ‘There’s a bit of a mob forming,’ said Alan. ‘Maybe they think we’re the Red Cross?’

  ‘Not a looker in the bunch.’ Matt looked disappointed. Will’s stomach settled down, but he couldn’t fully relax until they were firmly on the ground.

  ‘Never mind that. We’re hardly on assignment at Miami Beach. It’s going to be another humdrum set of interviews covering the same story over and over. At least there’s only one more after this.’

  ‘Did the gaffer mention if he’d lined up another poor public-sector chump for you to abuse?’ asked Alan.

  ‘He was too busy screaming down the phone.’

  ‘I doubt anyone would want to after that last one went out. It’s just us and the inbreeders on this one,’ said Matt, as the chopper landed with a bump. The crew stepped off the helicopter. Will waited until they’d stopped moving before he unclasped his seatbelt. The townsfolk gathered around them as they stepped onto the damp mud.

  ‘Hello. Hello. Hi.’ Will turned on the professional charm. ‘We’re from CBN. I’ll be looking to interview some of you about your experiences over the last few days.’

  ‘About bloody time,’ shouted one of the residents. ‘We’ve been stuck here with no help at all.’

  ‘Ok, well, I’m the not the rescue service. I’ll put your concerns over on the news, so give us a few minutes to set up and we’ll come and speak to you.’ He unpacked his equipment from the chopper, hoping they’d get the hint.

  ‘When can we make phone calls again?’ He tuned them out, but it didn’t stop them asking away.

  ‘When’s the power coming back on?’

  ‘Can you get a message to my mum?’

  ‘Ooh, you’d like to know all about our priest, I expect?’

  ‘PC Sarah Gladstone. I need to speak to you.’ That got his attention.

  ‘Hello. I didn’t expect to see a police officer here. Are you sure you’re a police officer? You don’t look like one.’ She opened her badge a little wider. ‘I’ll be damned.’

  ‘Tell him about Father Michael,’ said a voice from behind her.

  ‘You want to talk about a priest?’ asked Will.

  ‘We need to go somewhere quieter.’ News crews had satellite phones. She needed to tell them about the murder, but wanted them away from the crowd first. Alone, she could prepare them, explain the severity and manage their approach to reporting it; staying here too long would just make it a shouting match.

  ‘I’m quite happy here.’

  If she couldn’t move him, she had to move the crowd. She turned around to face them. ‘I’m going to talk to, to?’

  ‘Will.’

  ‘To Will about Father Michael, but I need to do it in private, which I’m sure you understand. So, if everyone could just wait a little over that way, it’d be much appreciated.’

  ‘He’s been murdered; we’ve never had a murder here before.’ Fuck. One stray voice. So much for broaching the subject sensitively. She turned back around. The crew were set up and Will held a microphone to her face.

  ‘On? We’re here in Sunbury, yet another town hit by Hurricane Eliza, with PC Gladstone. Officer, what can you tell us about the murder of Father Michael, the local priest?’ She stood there stunned. Will looked at her expectantly. The camera’s red light flashed; she was on live television.

  ‘Erm – I can only confirm at the moment that a body has been found and we are looking into the circumstances. I cannot say anymore at this stage.’

  ‘Is the body that of the local priest?’

  ‘That’s a
ll I can say at the moment. A body has been found and the death is being treated as suspicious.’ She couldn’t give them an inch. She was certain journalists had strict regulations regarding the reporting of incidents like this, and releasing names and details of the deceased in this way must fall way below those ethical standards.

  ‘Ok. An awkward response there from local officer PC Gladstone, hopefully we’ll have more for you soon. Off?’

  ‘Yep, it’s off.’ Alan lowered the camera. ‘Will, you’re an arsehole, how could you ask that?’

  ‘You need to learn to think on your feet a little, lady. I was hoping for a better show.’

  Sarah physically shook with rage and fear. ‘How could you fucking do that? You can’t just broadcast that without checking with me first.’ Being on live television was enough to bring on the nerves, but announcing a murder investigation before her bosses had any knowledge of it left her petrified of the consequences. She imagined Father Michael’s family, sitting on the sofa, watching the evening news and finding out about their brother’s death, and her twin girls seeing their under -slept, undernourished mother panicking on live TV.

  ‘I just asked the questions, love; you told the world. Let’s chat about it and we’ll go on again in about twenty minutes with a fuller story.’

  ‘No. I need to speak to my boss before I say another word on camera.’

  ‘Well, there’s no refusing is there? You want me to go on air and say the officer now refuses to speak to us about the murder? Think how would that look.’ He looked so proud of himself.

  ‘Will. Stop being a dick,’ said Alan. ‘Are the masts still out this way?’

  ‘Yes. No signal, no landline. No way to get a message out at all,’ she replied.

  ‘Aside from live TV to the entire world all at once.’ Will smirked.

  She wanted to punch him; she was going to lose her job anyway. ‘You know, that poor man’s family may well have just found out about his death whilst sitting in their living rooms. Are you proud of that? I’m not sure what it is about that makes you so happy.’

  ‘Ignore him. He’ll only wind you up,’ said Alan. ‘Why you out here on your own? Surely they should send more officers to deal with a murder?’

  ‘I stayed with my mum through the storm, so just luck I guess. Good or bad luck, depends on your perspective.’ Will walked towards the residents to question them.

  ‘Seriously, I wouldn’t let him get to you. He’s not long for this job the way he’s carrying on.’ The satellite phone rang from the helicopter. ‘In fact, this is probably our producer now.’

  ‘Hello, PC Gladstone?’ Matt called from the other side of the helicopter, holding a large, old-fashioned looking phone. ‘It’s Chief Superintendent Adams for you.’

  TWELVE

  ‘So, the body is being preserved where?’ DS Dales stared at his notebook trying to get his head around Sarah’s chronology. Sally had gone upstairs to give them some privacy and he’d settled into her chair in the lounge. His long legs were uncomfortably crossed, allowing him to use his thigh as a bookrest. They’d spent the past twenty minutes in Sally’s lounge going over exactly where Amy found the body, something Sarah felt could have been achieved far easier by just walking the route. Dales had a sharp attention to detail that no doubt led to him being selected for the Major Crime Team and being chosen for this assignment.

  ‘In a shed, a short way from here. It’s secure.’ She hoped.

  ‘In a shed? A lock-up shed or a garden shed? In a freezer?’ Whomever briefed him hadn’t filled him in on the situation in Sunbury. No electricity meant no freezer. She’d mentioned it to the chief super, but he hadn’t been in a listening mood.

  ‘No. Wrapped in a tent in a shed at the bottom of a garden.’

  His eyes lit up and he scribbled some notes. There was no other way of describing it. It was so ridiculous, it sounded sarcastic. ‘And whose house is it?’

  ‘John Horscroft’s. I had nowhere else to keep it. He’s the only other person who knows it’s there.’ She was willing to risk a white lie on this one if it meant the sergeant thought she was slightly less of an idiot.

  ‘Right. I think that’s all the physical evidence covered. Body, crime scene, search of his quarters, notebooks; we’ll get to the detail of those shortly. The DI will also want to know any lines of enquiry you’ve carried out and whether you’ve identified any suspects. I have to compile a very thorough report. This whole situation has caused severe embarrassment back at the ranch.’

  ‘My enquiries have been limited by –’

  ‘Yes, the not so ideal circumstances. You’ve mentioned them, but what do you actually have?’

  ‘At the moment, there’s not a lot pulling me in any particular direction. Not enough to make an arrest. The injuries to the genitals suggest a sexual motive and, with him being a priest, this maybe a vigilante attack. There is something else. There is a recurring confessor in the journals. Someone that visited Father Michael numerous times before he was murdered. In fact, the journals were started because of this person. Father Michael called him the Unrepentant Man.’

  ‘The Unrepentant Man?’

  ‘In 1991, this Unrepentant Man came to Father Michael and confessed to abusing children. Father Michael started the journals in case he ever needed to break his sacramental vow of silence. He kept a record of all their sins; I can’t be sure why, but my best guess is because he had no other release. He couldn’t talk to anyone. In truth, he shouldn’t really have been writing it down either, but he clearly felt the need to.’

  ‘The Unrepentant Man doesn’t come for a while, years in fact, but when he does, it’s clear he’s not genuinely confessing anything, simply goading the poor man. Father Michael struggles so much that he seeks advice from his bishop. He mentions this briefly and it seems he provides the deceased with little comfort, and in the end he decides to risk leaving the church. He’s not specific on what he intends to do, but the most recent journal implies he’s going to out this Unrepentant Man, possibly make a complaint to the police; it’s not something we’ll ever know now.’

  ‘You think this character knew Father Michael was going to turn him in?’ Dales stopped taking notes and seemed genuinely interested in what she had to say.

  ‘He doesn’t mention it explicitly, but it’s too big of a connection to ignore.’

  ‘I agree. Does he give a name?’

  ‘No. There aren’t any names in any of the books.’

  ‘Anything we can use to identify him at all?’

  Sarah thought for a moment. There really wasn’t. Father Michael’s attention to detail had been so precise, that he’d left her little to use to locate the man who may well have murdered him. ‘No.’

  ‘Okay, well, we’ll have someone read through them in detail back at the office. A fresh pair of eyes may help find something you may have missed.’ He went back to taking notes. She felt like she was taking her driving test again; a man sat jotting down impactive things at odd intervals that were just out of eyeshot.

  ‘Is there anyone who may have a reason to think the deceased abused any kids?’

  Was that it? Was that all the attention he was going to give it? ‘One of the residents, Sean Willoughby, mentioned his brother was abused as a child. He wasn’t forthcoming with details; too busy complaining the police didn’t do anything about it.’ Dales jotted something down, most likely just his name.

  ‘This the same guy who took the book from his room?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Date of birth?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Address?’

  ‘It’s not far from here, I can show you.’

  ‘Was the suspect in the abuse case a member of the clergy?’

  ‘He didn’t mention it.’

  ‘Did you ask him?’

  ‘No.’ He wrote more notes, flipping the page and continuing on. She stayed quiet as to why she couldn’t answer his questions; ‘because I thought he’d just turn up’
wouldn’t have gone down so well.

  ‘And where is that book now?’

  ‘He’s still got it. If he even took it at all, he flatly denied it when I asked him, and John’s the only witness to him leaving Father Michael’s room with it.’ She hoped her assessment of the situation would win him back round. Talking it through helped form her thoughts. She hadn’t stopped in the past few days and, embarrassing though this process was, she was glad Dales was here.

  ‘But you trust John, right?’

  ‘Yeah. Yes, I do. Well, I did. Something’s come up since that may change all that.’

  ‘Anything that puts him in the frame?’

  ‘John’s divorced. He’s not been back here long since the break-up. He’s not seen his wife and kid since. I spoke to a local lady, Grace Stapleton, who was close to Father Michael. Grace used to volunteer to clean the church. She told me Jenny, John’s wife, visited the deceased on a regular basis seeking marriage advice. After a while, John started coming to the church and arguing with Father Michael about it, asking what they were talking about and even telling him to stop.’

  ‘Wait. I thought you said he was upset about the divorce? Why was he complaining about advice given by a priest? Priests don’t often suggest flinging your ring off and partying. Trust me, I sat through all that myself. Waste of bloody time it was too.’ Dales straightened his legs.

  ‘Grace doesn’t know. If he did suggest divorce, he must have had a good reason. Either way, that’s what happened.’

  ‘So it may be that’s what John assumed they were talking about and took a dislike to him for it. You mentioned he had an unhealthy interest in the journals? Does that concern you?’

  ‘He’s not over his ex. He keeps pictures of her in his lounge and next to his computer. She took out a restraining order against him, keeping him away from her and his kid. If what Grace says is true, he’s probably thinking Father Michael documented his conversations with Jenny. Nothing I’ve read suggests that’s the case.’

  ‘We’ll round him up.’ He didn’t look up from his notebook.