Black December

by Scott Hunter

  “Okay, okay.” Montgomery threw the notes in the air. “Keep your hair on.”

  “Let me see the gun.”

  Montgomery sighed. “All right.” He produced the semi-automatic from his pocket and flicked the safety off with a theatrical flourish. “Da daaaaa. Happy now?” He pointed the pistol at Mason. “So go on, punk, make my day.”

  “Don’t point it at me, you idiot.” Mason grabbed Montgomery’s wrist.

  “Get off.” Montgomery pulled away sharply, but his finger was curled round the trigger and the action of withdrawal applied just enough pressure to set the mechanism in motion. The semi-automatic duly delivered a round with a sharp – surprisingly loud – crack. The car swerved violently to the right and Montgomery was thrown onto Mason’s side, bashing his head against the other boy’s shoulder. Pain drove through his skull. He tried to sit up but the car appeared to be canting to the left now like a big dipper plucked from its rails.

  “Hey! Maria! What–?” Then he saw the neat hole punched into the back of the driver’s seat and the splash of red on the windscreen. The car swerved again as Maria’s lifeless body flopped grotesquely over the steering wheel.

  “Oh Jesus,” Montgomery whispered. The car left the carriageway and mounted the central reservation. Montgomery saw another vehicle hurtling towards them and the world exploded into searing heat and pummelling, rending noise. The horror lasted mere milliseconds; by the time the spinning wreckage came to a standstill Montgomery and Mason were as dead as Maria.

  They were standing by the chapel entrance near the Court of Arches: Moran, the abbot and Oswald. A line of lockers on either side led up to the chapel door. Boys were hurriedly depositing their books and belongings into the metal boxes before rejoining their classmates in the queues forming up in the main cloister.

  “Right, let’s go over this again,” Moran said. “Oh, excuse me–” he leaned against a battered locker to let a hurrying kitchen maid squeeze by. “Sorry Fathers,” she muttered under her breath. Moran’s ears pricked up at her accent. As Irish as get out, his mother would have said.

  The area around the Court of Arches was a hive of activity as boys and staff prepared for lunch. A monk in less formal attire (a plum-coloured polo neck and dark trousers) was ushering boys into the refectory, form by form. He was a large, portly man, in appearance exactly as Moran would have imagined a Benedictine to be: balding pate, horn-rimmed glasses, and, Moran noticed, a short cane tucked underneath his arm. The boys followed his instructions without comment or complaint. The cloister was emptying fast and the noise of adolescent traffic was soon replaced by the distant clatter of plates and cutlery.

  Father Oswald was fiddling with a set of keys, passing them from hand to hand as if this would somehow undo the uncomfortable fact that somebody had returned to the scene and removed what was probably the most significant object of the investigation – with the exception of the corpse itself. Worse still, it had happened after Moran had supposedly ‘secured’ the crime scene. The Chief Constable would doubtless make reference to this fact during debrief, thus adding more fuel to the ‘retirement on medical grounds’ funeral pyre Lawson had been busy constructing for Moran since the accident. What happened, Moran? Taking forty winks, were you? Wouldn’t be the first time, would it? I’ve arranged another appointment for you . . .

  Moran pushed the thought aside. He would figure out how to deal with Lawson later, after he’d located the missing item. Which he would. His professional pride was stinging; the only way to fight Lawson’s fire was with fire. And Moran had plenty of fire left in his belly.

  “I just don’t understand it,” Oswald was saying. He would have wrung his hands if he hadn’t been clutching the keys. “There is no way anyone could have got in,” he finished emphatically.

  The abbot fixed Oswald with a withering look. “Just tell us why you decided to revisit the chapel, Father Oswald.” His voice was soothing, but Moran’s radar caught the steel at the question’s core.

  Yes, tell us, Father, especially after I explicitly told you not to. Moran felt in his pocket for a cigarette, and then remembered he’d given up. He took a deep breath instead, over-inflating his lungs to imitate the effect of a sudden rush of nicotine-filled, carcinogenic smoke. It was a poor substitute.

  Father Oswald glanced at him nervously. “I wanted to – I mean, I thought I could have a quick look around, perhaps find something of use while you were–” Oswald finally let the keys fall to his side in a gesture of defeat. “I know I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry, Father Abbot.”

  “Did you hear anything that would suggest somebody followed you into the chapel?” Moran asked. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Holly Whitbread walking briskly towards the refectory. She gave Moran a wave.

  Oswald repeated his statement. “I said that I locked the door behind me, Inspector Moran. I can assure you of that.”

  “Right.” Moran could still feel the eddy of Holly’s passing, a breeze of some peach-scented perfume. He tore his gaze away with an effort. “In that case there must be another way in. Ah, here’s my sergeant–”

  A commotion at the far end of the cloister announced Phelps’ arrival. The DS caught sight of Moran and raised a hand in greeting. Three white-suited SOCOs followed in the sergeant’s wake. Bringing up the rear was the unmistakeable figure of Sandy Taylor, the police surgeon, a tall, quick-witted Scot. Moran approved of Taylor’s dark sense of humour and no-nonsense approach. His comprehensive wine cellar was another plus point.

  Phelps brought the party to a halt and nodded a greeting. “Sorry we’re late. Three fatals at the RTA. Bloody mess – excuse me, Fathers–” Phelps acknowledged the two monks. “Saving your presence, and all that.”

  The abbot smiled, the mottled skin taut across his scarred cheeks. “No apology required, Sergeant. We are accustomed to the language of the world.”

  Moran had to hand it to Phelps; the DS hardly batted an eyelid at the abbot’s ruined features. Or maybe he just wasn’t paying attention. Phelps looked pale and agitated. Moran wasn’t surprised. It was the natural effect of witnessing a bad RTA. Never failed to put things into perspective; here one moment, gone the next. As if echoing that thought, Moran’s leg shot him a sudden spasm of pain. Not that he needed a reminder of how close he’d been to the brink himself; his very own RTA was repeated every night like a tape loop of some disaster movie in which he played the leading part.

  Sandy Taylor came forward, the habitual twinkle in his eye. “How do, Moran? Time presses, old friend. Best not keep the dead waiting, eh?”

  Moran watched as the team moved through the chamber, dusting, scraping, examining. Sandy Taylor was bent over Horgan’s prone body, taking care to avoid the congealing bloodstains. Eventually he straightened up and clucked his tongue.

  “Nasty. Throat slashed. Time of death, seven hours ago. Give or take a few minutes.” Taylor snapped his bag shut. “Massive blood loss. Not that it would have bothered him. He was probably dead within thirty to forty seconds of the attack.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Nope. No defence wounds. Probably surprised from behind.”

  “Murder weapon?”

  Taylor clicked his tongue. “Your average-sized carving knife – or sheath knife, perhaps. Serrated. Very sharp. Jagged cuts.”

  Moran winced. “You make it sound like a butcher’s master class.”

  “Indeed.” Taylor raised an eyebrow and peered at Moran over half-moon spectacles. “That reminds me – I have to collect the dog’s meat from the abattoir.”

  Moran made a face. “Please. What about this?” He indicated the long bone grasped in Horgan’s stiffening hand.

  “Human. And there’s more beneath, by the looks of it. Poor chap chose the right place to die, anyway.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Well,” Taylor shrugged, “it’s obviously a crypt of some sort. Father Horgan is clearly lying on an old burial plot.”

  “So he just grabbed the first thing tha
t came to hand?”

  “In extremis, Moran, we are hardly aware what our limbs are doing.”

  “I’d have thought his hands would have gone naturally to his throat – to the wound?”

  Taylor made a non-committal gesture. “He was attacked, twisted round, lost his footing, fell heavily . . . he would have been seconds from death by the time he hit the floor.”

  “So the grasping was just a reflex?”

  “More than likely.” Taylor shrugged, adjusted his tie and surveyed the scene. “So, two for the price of one, eh, Moran? Other chap’s been here a bit longer, I’d say. Should keep you busy for a while.”

  Moran grunted, got down on his haunches and fished a small metallic object from the shallow grave. A zipper; very rusty, but a zipper nevertheless.

  “Looks like he was wrapped in some kind of body bag, guv,” Phelps offered.

  Moran handed Phelps the zipper. “A sleeping bag, Phelps. But this–” He carefully withdrew his hand and placed a bundle on the flagstones, “– isn’t part of it.”

  Phelps frowned. “Looks like a vest.”

  “In a manner of speaking,” Moran agreed. “It’s a rugby vest.” Taking the utmost care he laid the garment out. Its fragility was apparent, the dampness of the earth having reduced it to rotting strips of cloth. Moran probed with his rubber-gloved finger. “Ah.” He exposed the area beneath the collar.

  “A name?” Phelps leaned over Moran’s shoulder.

  “Not quite, but it may be as good as.”

  “F362?” Phelps muttered. “Lost me there, guv.”

  Moran straightened up. “It’s a linen number, Phelps. All boys are required to ID their clothing. I’m betting this is a boy’s allocated linen number.”

  “Right.” Phelps nodded, impressed.

  Taylor finished packing his accoutrements away and closed his case with a conclusive snap. “Well, it looks as though you’ve a reasonable starter for ten there, Moran. Anything else – you know where to find me.”

  “Guv?” Phelps was examining the remains of the case. “Looks like something’s missing.” He shrugged. “Whatever was in the case, I mean.”

  “Something missing here too.” Moran delicately moved the skeleton’s rib cage with the tip of his shoe. “Our bony friend has lost his head.”

  Phelps tutted. “Very careless.” The sergeant peered into the shallow grave as Moran bent down and prised open Horgan’s fingers. Several splinters were embedded in the pale flesh.

  “But you’re right, Phelps,” Moran agreed. There was something else.”

  Phelps produced a notebook and pencil. “Any chance of a clue, guv – so’s I know where to start looking?”

  Moran smoothed back his thinning hair, peeled off his gloves and pocketed them. “A clue, Phelps? Okay, the Empress Helena would be my first choice, but I think she’ll be hard to track down. I’d start with the abbot. Let’s see what you make of him.”

  Chapter 4

  “Eight o’clock tomorrow, guv?”

  “Eight o’clock.” Moran hauled himself out of the car with an effort. “See you then.” He waved Phelps off and made a run for his porch. The rain was coming down in rods. As he fumbled for his keys a shadow detached itself from the hedge and came unsteadily towards him. Moran’s heart flipped and then steadied, his fright replaced by a hot anger.

  “Ah, Brendan, it’s yourself. I thought you’d never come home.”

  Moran ignored the outstretched hand. “What do you want, Patrick?”

  “Nothing a brother couldn’t manage.” Patrick Moran’s face broke into a drunken smile. “Just something to tide me over, you know, until payday.”

  “You’ve a job? Is that what you’re telling me?”

  Patrick waved an unsteady finger. “In a manner of speaking. It’s in the bag. I promise you. Weekly pay and all.”

  “Pull the other one.” Moran turned to insert his key in the lock. Inside he could hear Archie scuffling on the bare boards. He’d be hungry, and he’d need a walk.

  Patrick placed his hand on Moran’s shoulder. “Now, be reasonable, Brendan, I know we don’t see eye to eye, but we’re family, isn’t that God’s truth?”

  Moran spun on his heel and shook his brother off. “And what would you know about God’s truth, Patrick? Your only spirit-filled moments occur when one of my PCs hauls you out of the gutter..”

  They stood facing each other in a familiar stand-off. Moran did a rapid assessment of Patrick’s alcohol intake. Not as bad as usual; money obviously ran out before closing time.

  Moran took a deep breath. He was dog-tired, and the last thing he needed was Patrick. Not tonight. The elder brother who had shown so much promise. Medical school, exam results to die for, enviable placement as registrar to the top orthopaedic surgeon at the Middlesex. Then – bang. One complaint – misconduct. A tribunal. Struck off – ‘an example needs to be made,’ the chairman had emphasised. No quarter given. A career down the pan before it had started.

  Then, the comfort of the bottle. And on, and on, and on. At first Moran had been as devastated as Patrick. It was a shocking, unexpected turn of events. But then, after the drinking had begun in earnest, he had lost patience. And with the loss of patience came the guilt.

  “Please, Brendan. I’ve nowhere to stay.”

  “Evicted again?” Moran felt sick. “For God’s sake, Patrick.”

  “I’m begging you. Just one or two nights.”

  Moran felt his defences crumble. “You’d better come in.”

  Archie greeted them with his pneumatic tail and half a torn shirt. “Give it to me, Archie.” Moran made a grab and failed. The spaniel pulled away, delighted with the game. Moran gave up. He’d told the daily not to leave the washing where the pup could get at it.

  Patrick crumpled onto the sofa, eyes closed. As Moran wrestled the remains of his shirt from Archie’s vice-like grip his brother began to snore, an even pattern signalling contented oblivion. Moran went into the kitchen and threw the remains of his shirt in the bin. There was a note on the kitchen table. The notepaper was headed: ‘Happydogz, daily dog walking adventures’. Seven walks: £77. Who had told him to get a dog? Mary, his housekeeper. It’ll keep you company, Chief Inspector . . . Moran snorted. She didn’t have to pay for it, did she?

  Moran found a blanket and covered his brother’s thin body as best he could. Then he poured himself a glass of Pinot and thought about the abbey. What did he have? A secret chamber, two bodies. A missing relic. An over-helpful monk. A strong leader in the abbot – that would come in handy, because the community might not like some of the restrictions he had placed on them. Father Boniface would ensure they toed the line. Boniface. Moran thought of the abbot’s scarred face and wondered if he’d chosen the name deliberately. He hadn’t felt brave enough to ask.

  Archie nuzzled his hand, tail wagging nineteen to the dozen.

  “All right, boy. It’s round the block for you and me.”

  Moran downed his wine and clipped on Archie’s lead. Patrick hadn’t moved, nor was he likely to. Moran knew he’d have trouble rousing him in the morning, but rouse him he would. Mornings were the only times his brother was sober enough to listen. Moran headed for the front door and stepped out into the rain.

  A sacristy was a strange venue for an incident room, but it suited Moran’s purposes. With the chapel secured there would be little intrusion from the school, which would function as normal during the investigation. He had agreed that with the headmaster, Father Aloysius – a choleric little monk with chipmunk cheeks and, Moran suspected, a quick mind – and with the permission of Abbot Boniface. The boys had been told to stay within the boundaries of the school grounds, and had also been kept in the dark concerning Father Horgan’s cause of death. So far, so good.

  Moran moved a brass candle holder aside and set his laptop down on the small table. Forensic officers were still crawling over every square inch of the chapel chamber – he could hear the banter floating up into the main chapel as they wo
rked. A good clean result was what Moran wanted. Something efficient and tangible, to prove to Lawson – and maybe to himself – that his accident was history and that Brendan Moran was firing on all cylinders. Phelps had begun the interviews, starting with the monk who had found the body. The recuperating altar boy he would leave at home for the last few days of term. He was better there than spreading the truth around the school.

  Moran turned his thoughts to the big question: motive. Horgan had no enemies, according to the headmaster and the abbot. Apart from the natural enmity between a strict school official and his charges, the boys had been, according to Aloysius, in awe of Horgan. Moran also thought it unlikely that a Charnford boy could be capable of killing in cold blood. Nevertheless, he had arranged a meeting with Aloysius and the house captains to assess Horgan’s status. Perhaps a recent punishment had stirred something more than a standard adolescent reaction.

  There was someone else Moran was keen to speak to, a visiting dignitary from the Vatican – one Cardinal Vagnoli. He had arrived on the day of the murder and the abbot was cagey about the purpose of his visit. Phelps had supplied some interesting facts on that one; Horgan’s private line had made and received several telephone calls to and from Rome over the last month. That was worth a little digging. And talking of digging – what about the buried bones? It was no official grave; that much was clear. And that was why Moran had asked Forensics to send the bones for analysis. To complicate the conundrum, it seemed that the bones had only recently been disturbed. But by whom? Was that Horgan’s mission? If so, why had he dug them up? How did they come to be buried there in the first place? And lastly, where was the skull? Why was it missing?

  A slant of rain blew against the sacristy window and Moran shivered. Father Oswald had promised a heater but he hadn’t seen the monk today. The door opened and Phelps’ large frame blocked out the light.

  “All right, guv? Gordon Bennett, it’s parky in here.”