Black December

by Scott Hunter

  “Well, I have an audience with the abbot. Father Oswald is tracking him down.”

  Holly’s expression switched to one of admiration. “He’s an amazing man. You’ll enjoy meeting him.”

  “I’m sure.”

  A bell rang at the far end of the cloister. “Ah.” She tucked her folders under her arm with a decisive movement. “The bell tolls for me. Shakespeare beckons.” She offered her hand. “Nice to meet you, Chief Inspector.”

  Moran watched her walk briskly along the cloister, high heels clicking softly on the cardinal red tiles. And you too, he thought. And you too . . .

  Chapter 2

  Moran was shown into a dimly-lit room which evoked an atmosphere of contemplative study; the smell of books, papers, and the hushed stillness of undisturbed concentration, mixed with a tang of – what? Incense. That was it. The residue of countless High Mass attendances clung to the fabric of the abbot’s domain like sweet tobacco. The heavy curtains were drawn, shutting out the cloudy December afternoon. A standard lamp cast a pool of circular light onto the corner of a large pedestal desk, behind which was seated a still figure, clothed in a similar fashion to Father Oswald but with a chain of high office about his neck. His hood was raised, obscuring his face in shadow.

  Moran heard Oswald close the door softly behind him as he made a discreet exit. For a moment there was silence, and then the abbot made a gesture of invitation.

  “Take a seat, Chief Inspector.”

  Moran’s eyes were becoming accustomed to the low lighting; the abbot’s features were still indiscernible beneath the Benedictine hood, but Moran could make out an aquiline nose, above which glinted startlingly blue eyes. The monk’s voice was deep and measured – a voice that was used to being obeyed.

  “Forgive me my den of darkness, Chief Inspector. My eyes are weak, and I find this more restful. Now –” A long pause. “How may I be of assistance in this terrible matter?”

  Moran sat on the edge of the chair and undid the buttons of his coat. It was uncomfortably warm. “You can tell me all you know about Father Horgan and his duties, particularly with regard to the last twenty-four hours. Then you can tell me all about the chamber in the chapel. Who knew about it and had access? Did Horgan have any enemies? Anyone bear a grudge?”

  The abbot raised his arm and leaned forward into the pool of light. Moran had to grip the chair arms to stop himself recoiling. The abbot’s face was a parchment of repaired burns, the skin crinkled and warped like discarded brown paper. His mouth was a twist of grafts, the original lips burned away by whatever catastrophic blaze had caused his injuries.

  “It’s quite all right, Chief Inspector. I am used to strong reactions upon new introductions. I’m not as fierce as I appear to be.”

  Moran loosened his grip on the chair. “Of course. I do apologise if–”

  The abbot waved the apology aside. Moran noticed the fingers were clawed, fixed into a permanent half-fist. He tucked his hand back into the wide sleeve of his garment and fixed Moran with a steady, appraising look.

  “Father Horgan was a pillar of this community. He served the abbey and school for many, many years. He was trustworthy and dependable. Sometimes he could be unpopular with the boys; his punishments were fair, but sometimes a little – unpleasant. But the boys knew where they were with him. He commanded respect.”

  “I see. And what was he doing in the chapel – in the chamber?”

  “Ah. Here we have to tread with a little delicacy.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “The chamber’s existence is indeed known only to a select few. Father Horgan had responsibility for – tending to the necessary within.”

  “There’s no need to be coy. Father Oswald has already told me about the relic – the Titulus, was it?”

  The abbot slid back his chair and emerged from behind the desk. Moran was struck by his height. The monk moved to the window and turned, arms folded beneath his scapular in typical Benedictine stance. “You’ve heard of Constantine the Great, Chief Inspector?”

  Moran had. “Of course. The Roman Emperor credited with popularising Christianity.”

  “Quite right. Whether he was an astute politician or a true believer, we’ll never know. Certainly the former, perhaps both. But his mother’s faith is beyond question.”

  Moran was wondering where this was going. He was also wondering where the hell the SOCOs and the police surgeon had got to. The lack of security at the murder site was gnawing at him. Maybe he should have waited until–

  “I can see you have other matters pressing, Chief Inspector,” the abbot continued, “but this is pertinent to your question.”

  “Please.” Moran shrugged. “Carry on.”

  “Constantine’s mother was the Empress Helena. In 320AD she undertook a journey to Jerusalem, to the site of the burial place of Jesus. A pagan temple had been erected on the site, but Helena had it torn down. In part, her mission was to oversee the building of a fitting monument to the Resurrection, a new basilica, decorated with all the splendour an Empress had at her disposal. In this she succeeded. However, during the early stages of its construction she made a remarkable discovery. Perhaps it had been her primary intention all along; she had heard rumours that the true cross of Jesus Christ still lay beneath the temple.”

  Moran raised his eyebrows. He could guess what was coming.

  “And she found it.” The abbot was warming to his subject. “Along with two others. It was broken up and the various pieces are long since scattered across the globe. But a fragment – a significant fragment – remained in her possession. She took it to Rome, and it can be seen today in the chapel at Santa Croce. It is a section of the Titulus Crucis, the notice pinned on the cross at the injunction of Pontius Pilate. The sign that read: ‘This is Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews’.”

  “I see. And the rest of it? You said ‘a section’.”

  The abbot smiled. He removed his hands from his sleeves and made an open-handed gesture, signifying the pointlessness of spelling it out. “You will already have drawn your conclusion, Inspector Moran. Another Titulus fragment remained initially in Jerusalem, but during the Crusades it was taken into safe custody by the Knights Templar. From Jerusalem it travelled in the utmost secrecy through Europe to a small monastery at Douai in France. And from there, in 1893, it came to us.”

  Moran’s mobile bleeped. “Excuse me a moment. Well?” he barked into the phone.

  Phelps’ voice: “Sorry, guv. RTA on the Bath road. Bad one. We’ll be with you as soon as.”

  “You’d better be.” Moran signed off. “Forgive me. Please go on.”

  The abbot had returned to his chair. He moved a sheaf of papers aside with an impatient gesture. “That’s all there is to tell, Inspector. The Titulus has been kept and guarded here at Charnford ever since. As to its provenance, there are a number of clear indications that it is indeed a fragment of the true Titulus, and not some mediaeval counterfeit. Suffice to say that we are completely satisfied as to its veracity.”

  “A motive for murder?”

  “That is for you to establish, Chief Inspector.”

  “You must have some idea, surely?” Moran raised his eyebrows. “Who else knew of it? Who may have harboured some ambition to own it for themselves? I can appreciate its value to a devout believer. Priceless, I would have thought.”

  The abbot drew a deep breath. His lungs rattled in protest. “Yes, priceless. But we are a community, Inspector Moran. We share, we pull together. That is the Benedictine way. There is no room for selfish ambition or covetousness.”

  Moran leaned forward and tried – without success – to keep the cynicism out of his voice. “Be that as it may, Father Abbot, we’re all human. We’d all like the Mona Lisa hanging in our own private gallery.”

  “I can see you have much to learn, Inspector. I like to think that, although we are in this world, we are not of it.”

  “Father Horgan is not of this world either. Not anymore. S
omeone slit his throat.” Moran paused to let his deliberately harsh reminder sink in.

  The abbot had opened his mouth to reply when the door burst open. Father Oswald’s face was pale beneath his beard, his arms flapping in agitation. “Father Abbot! Chief Inspector – I am sorry to interrupt, but it’s gone. It’s been taken!”

  Moran frowned. “What has?”

  Oswald lowered his voice as if imparting some critical state secret. “The Titulus!” The monk produced a handkerchief and mopped his brow.

  “But the chapel was locked, Father Oswald.” Moran was on his feet. “And you told me you had the only set of keys.”

  “Calm yourself, Oswald.” The abbot’s voice was steady, in control. “Sit down, would you please, and tell us exactly what happened.”

  Chapter 3

  Montgomery waited until he judged the bank to be at its quietest. Morning pre-work rush over. Lull till lunchtime. That’s what they’d figured. He glanced sideways at Mason. Were his hands shaking a little? His own heart was beating like a pair of castanets For a second he thought: I could go back now. It’s not too late. I can walk away, change the future. But then he remembered what was at stake: the future of the school. His school. So, a no-brainer.

  He felt the weight of the gun in his pocket. It felt strange to be carrying a real gun. It didn’t seem so long ago that he’d played with his friend Patrick, shooting each other down the length of the garden, fumbling and refilling their weapons with a fresh roll of caps. Montgomery remembered the smell as the caps went off with a snap, a thrilling, exciting smell. It sounded so real. And that whiff of smoke . . . for a moment he could almost smell the memory.

  But this was real, not playtime. They’d planned it all, starting from the moment Maria had said, “You could always rob a bank!” And they’d laughed. Until Mason’s bit – Bernadette – had come back with, ‘Well, why not? Sure, we’re well connected, y’know’, in that infuriatingly sexy Irish brogue that had attracted them to the school maids in the first place.

  It had all started via the usual channels of lust: the odd comment here and there in the refectory or by the kitchen phone box. Harmless banter, until Maria had leaned in close, the smell of vegetables not quite masked by her musky perfume – strangely erotic in the post-supper emptiness of the ref – and whispered, ‘Fancy coming over to the cottage tonight? Bring a friend if you like.’ Then a wink as she moved away to clear the top table.

  Had he imagined it? Heart hammering with excitement he had rushed off to break the news to Mason. Mason was horrified and charged up in equal measure. ‘It’s totally out of bounds … if we’re caught . . .’ His friend hadn’t needed to say anything further. If they were found in the maids’ cottage it would be expulsion without question. But how could they resist an invitation like that?

  And of course, they hadn’t. At the first opportunity they had stolen along the path that ran beside the First Fifteen rugby pitch to where the cottage nestled invitingly behind a tall hedgerow. Romance had been restricted to inexperienced groping and stolen kisses on the sofa – for all their apparent flirtatiousness the girls were as Catholic as the Pope. But it was hugely exciting nevertheless, and there was always the chance they’d wear down the girls’ defences over time.

  That had been the ultimate goal, anyway – until the night Bernadette made her fateful suggestion. Then another, even more daring, goal had been discussed. Everyone knew that Charnford was short of money. It was the sort of rumour that couldn’t be subdued, despite the governors’ best efforts. The threat of closure hung over both pupils and staff like some ghastly Damoclean theatre prop. For Montgomery and Mason it meant an end to friendships, familiar surroundings, the illicit liaisons with Bernadette and Maria – and, worst of all, an interruption to their A level studies at the worst possible time. It was an intolerable prospect.

  Now they had a chance to do something about it. It was crazy, but desperate times called for desperate measures. That’s what old Rufus Bell had taught them about Alexander the Great. He hadn’t fannied around, agonising over what to do. He’d gone for broke, like all the people in history who were ‘somebodys’ and had made their mark. Who was it who’d said: ‘aim for the moon, you might hit a star’ . . . ? Montgomery couldn’t remember, but right now it didn’t seem to matter.

  His nerves were pitched like some high tensile wire, stretched to breaking point. It was one thing discussing bank robberies with a can of Bud in one hand and Maria’s charms in the other, but quite another standing here on the pavement with a loaded gun in his pocket.

  We’re well connected, y’know . . .

  “Come on.” Mason nudged him, tight-lipped. “This is it. You first, like we said.”

  “Right.” Montgomery pulled the helmet visor down. He made sure the manila folder he was carrying was half open so he could fumble with the papers, appear to be concentrating on whatever transaction he was about to make. Helmets were probably a little risky, but they’d worked out that the bank wouldn’t be too jittery if it looked like he was a regular member of Joe Public, biker apparent or not.

  Montgomery took a deep breath and walked confidently into the foyer, horribly conscious of the semi-automatic bumping against his thigh. There was no one in the queue. That was good. One cashier. Two staff members sitting at desks in the open plan section. Both female. Even better. Montgomery placed his folder beside the credit card terminal and opened it. The cashier looked up. She was pretty, his type; blonde, petite. Nice smile. Relaxed. He selected an A4 sheet from the folder and held it to the window. The following message was written in black felt tip:

  I have a gun pointing at your head. I will use it if I need to. If you make ANY noise I will shoot. Keep CALM, find me as much money, in large notes, as you can. Not less than £700,000, please. I know that you can do this. If you don’t I will start shooting. Do what I say and I will simply walk out with the money and you will all be unharmed. DO IT NOW

  The girl’s smile faded as she scanned the message. Her face paled and her fingers grasped the edge of her desk until the knuckles whitened. Montgomery’s heart slowed. That was the worst part over. She hadn’t screamed, hadn’t made him carry out his threat, thank God. He gave her a tight smile of encouragement and a brief nod to set her to her task. She moistened her lips and stood up. Without a backward glance she walked to the end of the counter and spoke to a middle-aged woman in a pale blue dress. Montgomery held his breath. The brief conversation over, the woman opened a safe and withdrew with a curt nod. The cashier bent and began to fish out bundles of notes.

  As she piled them on the desk beside the safe Montgomery began to believe that they might get away with it. He glanced at Mason, who was nonchalantly leafing through mortgage brochures. At the first sign of trouble he would signal Maria, parked at the ready down the street. A bead of sweat trickled down Montgomery’s forehead and entered his right eye. He blinked it away. The cashier completed her task and straightened. Montgomery noted the sleek turn of her calf as she smoothed her dress. She gathered the bundles onto a tray and began the return journey to his window. That’s it, gorgeous. Come on now, just a little further . . .

  She sat down and plonked the tray on the desk. Without looking at him she began to pass the bundles under the glass one by one. Montgomery had his man-bag open, the one his mother had bought him for Christmas, and consigned each bundle to its depths, feeling unreality wash over him like a warm shower. Sweat prickled under his arms. It was all right; no one was paying any attention. The open-plan staff were making phone calls or peering at their screens. The woman at the helpdesk was chatting to a nicotine-fingered old man in a brown pinstripe suit. Mason was chewing gum, arms folded. A phone rang somewhere and was picked up. Two people had joined the queue behind him: a woman with a small girl attached to her coat, pulling her arm and asking for chocolate, and a young man in a white T-shirt and jeans.

  The cashier was biting her lip; a small drop of blood had formed on her lipgloss. The last bundle was pus
hed under the glass. For a moment Montgomery didn’t know what to do. ‘Thank you’ seemed inappropriate, but the words were out before he could stop them. The cashier looked him in the eye and clasped her hands as if she could physically squeeze the danger away. Her eyes darted this way and that and she seemed about to say something, but then she changed her mind and lowered her gaze. Montgomery hefted the bag and strolled away as nonchalantly as he could. His back muscles twitched. Mason met him at the door and a second later they were out. Relief exploded through him like a shot of adrenaline.

  Maria was at the kerb, engine idling. Then they were in the back of the car and hurtling away towards the ring road. Mason burst out laughing and Montgomery joined in. He opened the bag and pulled out a wad of notes, waving them in Mason’s face. “Look at this!” he roared. “Just look at it!”

  Maria ground the gears into fifth, turned and shrieked over the boys’ laughter. “I told you, didn’t I? I told youse to listen to Maria! Problem solved, right?”

  “Yeah, right!” Montgomery felt another burst of elation. He twisted in his seat to look behind as Maria swung onto the A4. No flashing lights. No pursuit at all. We did it, he said to himself. We really did it . . .

  “You still packin’ your piece?” Mason leered playfully. He made a grab for Montgomery’s pocket. Montgomery laughed and pulled away.

  “Yeah, man. But you is too young for firearms! Way too young!” He scooped up a fistful of scattered £50 notes and thrust them in Mason’s face. “It takes a real man to hold up a bank.”

  “Oh yeah?” Mason said. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Maria signalled and sped past a dawdling estate car. She struck up an Irish folk song, punctuating the lyrics with a whistled chorus.

  “Nothing,” Montgomery said.

  “I could have done it just as well. We tossed for it, you won, simple as that.”