Black December

by Scott Hunter

  Moran grunted. “Better this than Lawson on my case every five minutes.”

  Phelps blew into his hands, the sausage-like fingers curled like a New Orleans blues harp player. “He’ll be even more on your case now, guv; we’ve got another body.”

  “I do not want that Roman meddler to know anything, Sergeant Phelps. Is that clear?”

  Phelps kept his eyes locked on the abbot’s. “I’m afraid that may not be possible – Father,” he added. It didn’t feel right calling this bloke ‘Father’; Phelps hadn’t known his real father. He tried to keep his temper on an even keel. The guv’nor had said to keep the abbot sweet. That was going to be difficult if he wouldn’t co-operate.

  The abbot spoke again. “And why not? Cardinal Vagnoli has no business here. His visit is wasted. I have told him as much.”

  “But we know that he was invited, don’t we, Father Abbot? By Father Horgan.” Phelps was sure of his ground here. He’d checked the landline record himself. Either Vagnoli had invited himself – which seemed unlikely – or he had been given an incentive to come.

  “Horgan was acting on his own initiative. He did not consult me.”

  Phelps pressed on. “But you know why he was invited, don’t you? It was to do with the relic. Horgan told him about it, didn’t he?” This was an unproved connection, but Moran had told him to take a punt.

  Abbot Boniface sighed and folded his arms. Phelps tried not to stare at the parchment-like skin. Whatever else the abbot was, he was a brave man. Phelps doubted whether he himself would be comfortable exposing such horrific damage to close scrutiny. The abbot wagged his finger, pointing at Phelps’ chest.

  “You’re speculating, Sergeant Phelps.”

  “Maybe. But I’m right, aren’t I?”

  Boniface sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “The school has been in some . . . financial difficulty. Father Horgan is – was – very attached to his role and to the pastoral care of the boys. He saw them as his protégés.”

  “Go on.”

  “The presence of the Titulus is a closely guarded secret, Sergeant Phelps. We are proud of and humbled by our role as its guardians. It is our responsibility to ensure its safekeeping. It is neither appropriate nor desirable for it to be sold off like some common mediaeval artefact.”

  “But Horgan didn’t see it that way?”

  Boniface sighed. “His love of the school prompted him to take matters into his own hands. He saw an opportunity to secure the school’s future and perhaps curry favour with the Vatican. All done, as I said, without my knowledge or endorsement.”

  “Did you speak to him about it?”

  “Of course.” Boniface made an open-handed gesture. “I was angry.”

  “Angry enough to kill him?” Phelps jutted his chin. This was the bit he enjoyed – pushing for the advantage, getting a suspect on the ropes. He hadn’t suspected the abbot up to now, but why not? Anger was always a potential for murder.

  “Now you’re being ridiculous, Sergeant Phelps.”

  “Can you verify your whereabouts between midnight and seven o’clock yesterday morning?”

  “Yes,” Boniface replied evenly, “I believe I can.”

  Phelps nodded and tried to maintain an impassive expression – a challenging ask for an ex-boxer. He waited patiently as the abbot prepared to deliver his alibi.

  “I was visiting Worth Abbey, and I only returned at ten o’clock yesterday morning.” Boniface paused and sat back in his chair. “Father Oswald will confirm that he met me at the main entrance with the news of Father Horgan’s death.”

  Phelps chewed his lip. He’d have to tell Moran that he’d given Boniface a hard prod. The guv’nor would be all right about it, though – he wasn’t one to stand on ceremony. Never be afraid to tackle the top man, Phelps, he’d said once. Just make sure you smooth out any wrinkles before you leave . . .

  “Thank you, Father Abbot. I hope you didn’t mind me asking. You understand that we have to be thorough.”

  Boniface inclined his head. “It’s what I would expect, Sergeant.” The abbot leaned forward so that his face caught the desk lamp’s low light, and Phelps repressed a shudder.

  “I want this man caught as much as you do, Sergeant Phelps. I want the Titulus found, but I want you to exercise the maximum discretion in your dealings with my monks and the school. Is that understood?”

  Phelps produced his winning smile. “Absolutely. Glad we understand each other, Father Abbot.”

  Phelps took his leave. He was glad to be out in the daylight.

  Chapter 5

  Moran was tired. Whenever he sat down he couldn’t be sure of remaining conscious. In the overheated surgery waiting room he didn’t reckon on lasting more than a couple of minutes at most. He tried to keep his mind busy; God knows, there was plenty of thinking material now the body count had gone up. And this time it was a celebrity – just the ticket to gain maximum exposure. John Vernon, the entrepreneur – friend of politicians, pop stars, writers. Vernon’s face was all over the papers on a regular basis. And it would be tomorrow as well, but for all the wrong reasons: he’d been found in his hotel suite with a knife wound in the throat. On Moran’s patch. The publicity would be lavish, the progress of the case closely scrutinised. Which was all well and good if Moran cracked it, but if he failed . . .

  His eyelids were drooping when his name was called.

  “How are you getting on?” Dr Purewal asked in her businesslike way. She was a strikingly pretty Asian woman in her early thirties. Moran liked her direct approach a good deal better than Dr Forsyth’s; the practice head was an old-school medic who insisted on skating around his diagnosis like a reluctant Dancing On Ice contestant. At least you knew where you were with Purewal.

  “Badly,” Moran said. “I can’t keep awake. Can you prescribe me something stronger than caffeine?”

  She was on him like a predator, torch flashing in his eyes, fingers probing his damaged skull. Her perfume had a musky, primal scent. Moran found himself aroused by it, and shifted his weight self-consciously.

  “You had a very serious head injury. It’ll take time.” She clicked the torch off and returned to her chair.

  “It’s been months. The headaches have stopped, but at least I knew where I was with them. This – well, it makes my job even more difficult.”

  She looked up from the screen and tapped a painted fingernail on the desk. “I imagine it does.” She pursed her lips and made a clicking sound with her palate to accompany her drumming finger.

  “What? Is there something else wrong with me?”

  Dr Purewal sighed and crossed one slim leg over the other. “You may have a condition called narcolepsy. It’s not that common, but it can occur after a serious head trauma.”

  “Terrific. Will it get better?”

  “Only time will tell, I’m afraid.”

  She began to tap the keyboard, transferring the consultation to cyberspace. “Alcohol?”

  “No.” Not much, anyway . . .

  “Good.” Dr Purewal gave him a hard look. “Now then, Chief Inspector, I can give you something to help, but the best thing you can do is listen to your body. The brain is a very sensitive organ, the least understood of all. If it needs time out to repair itself, you’d do well to listen to what it’s telling you.” She returned to the keyboard, her articulate fingers dancing on the plastic keys.

  “But I can’t just carry on randomly drifting off to sleep. And I’m in no position to take ‘time out’. It’s damned inconvenient.”

  Dr Purewal stopped typing. “More inconvenient to be dead, I’d have thought, which you nearly were.” She showed her perfect teeth in a sympathetic smile.

  Moran sighed. He couldn’t argue with that. And talking of death, he had two murders to solve. He thanked Dr Purewal, took the prescription and the smile with him, and left.

  “Drop me off here, Constable, please.”

  “Are you sure, sir? It’s a good mile’s walk up to the abbey fro
m here.” The pretty WPC wrinkled her nose.

  “I’m quite sure, Constable. The country air will do me a power of good.” And it might keep me awake for a few hours.

  “Well, if you’re really sure.”

  “Sure.” Moran got out, waved her off and buttoned his overcoat. It was turning colder, and the forecasters had promised snow before Christmas. Moran didn’t put too much store in that prediction, but right now the Berkshire wind cut like a knife. He should have knocked off and had an early night, but truth be told, he didn’t have the energy to deal with his brother. He needed time to think. A thought occurred to him – he didn’t have to face Patrick tonight; he could spend the night at the Abbey, doss down in the sacristy. Why not? All the thinking time he needed and he could recommence his planned interviews first thing. Moran stamped his feet, threw his scarf around his neck and made for the foot of Charnford Hill.

  “Inspector?”

  The voice stopped him short. He turned. Holly Whitbread was standing in the car park of ‘The Angel’. She waved her arm in half-greeting, half-invitation.

  Moran returned the wave. He hesitated for a second and then found himself walking towards her. He had questions for Ms Whitbread, too.

  “Hello, Inspector. Can I give you a lift to the abbey?”

  “No. No, thanks. I’d decided to walk anyway.” He felt tongue-tied, like some sixteen-year-old on a first date.

  “Well then, a drink first, perhaps, to fortify you?” Her eyes twinkled mischievously.

  “I’m on duty, strictly speaking.”

  “At this time of day?” She clicked her tongue. “I suppose a policeman is always on duty.”

  “Especially when there’s been a murder.” Moran watched carefully, looking for her reaction.

  Holly bit her lip. “Yes, I heard. It’s just – unbelievable.”

  “Murders usually are.” Old news, then. So much for the school’s spin doctors and their ‘sudden death’ tack . . .

  “Just the one? I’d appreciate the company.” Holly shivered. “They have a real fire in the lounge.”

  Moran felt his resistance collapse like a pack of cards. “Just the one, then.”

  Holly gave a little smile of triumph. “My round, Inspector.”

  She took his arm and Moran felt a thrill of pleasure. Strictly professional? Who am I trying to kid?

  The lounge was warm and empty. Moran ordered an apple juice and a glass of Chardonnay. As the bored barmaid went about her business Moran watched Holly remove her coat and scarf and sit down by the log fire. The flames highlighted the redness of her hair as she settled to await her press-ganged policeman. So strongly did she evoke the spirit of Janice that Moran felt momentarily paralyzed and only got a grip when the barmaid returned with his order.

  “So,” Moran smiled as he set the drinks down. “What brings you here?”

  “I was just popping in for some cigarettes, actually.” She wrinkled her nose again. “Bad habit, I know. Can’t seem to shake it off, whatever quack remedy I try.”

  “I sympathise,” Moran said. “It took me months. Actually I’m still in the throes of withdrawal.” He took a sip of his drink and grimaced at the sweetness. Scotch would have hit the spot right now. “What I actually meant was, what brought you to England, to Charnford?”

  “Oh. I see.” Holly laughed. “I’m sorry. Well, it’s very mundane, really. I lost my job in Cork. I was working as a counsellor – with young adults, mainly – but I have a teaching qualification, and my cousin knew someone at the abbey. I got to hear about the vacancy and thought it would be a good chance to live here for a while and see how a modern monastery functions.”

  “Two birds, then,” Moran smiled.

  “Yes, I suppose so.” She sipped her wine. “I’m a bit of an anorak when it comes to things like that.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Well, you know. Unusual institutions, modern monasticism, how the monks apply their learning and their faith. I’m fascinated by it all.”

  “I’m sure there’s a great deal to discover,” Moran said. Including how they go about protecting their secrets, murdering their colleagues, and . . .

  “But I’m very dull,” Holly laughed. “I’m sure a policeman’s life is much more exciting.”

  “It can be.” Moran hesitated. “Sometimes ‘dull’ sounds very attractive.” He smiled. “It’s pretty routine most of the time, to be honest.”

  “I can’t imagine solving a murder is particularly dull,” Holly said, lowering her eyes. “I’m probably not supposed to ask this, but how are you getting on with your investigation?”

  Moran wanted to tell her everything. About his permanent exhaustion, his drunken brother, the chief constable. The way Archie was eating him out of clothing. The fact that he couldn’t get a straight answer out of anybody at Charnford Abbey.. Instead he said, “Well, these things take time.” And hated himself for the blandness of the statement.

  “Yes. Yes, I’m sure they do.” She looked up. “I don’t suppose there’s any – danger, is there? I mean, you don’t think the killer will strike again?” Holly grinned and flushed with embarrassment. “Will you listen to me – that sounds so dramatic, doesn’t it? Like some awful TV drama.”

  Moran gave a short laugh. “Well, it’s hard to say. Until we’ve established a motive, anything is possible.”

  “Oh. God. That’s scary.” Holly ran her thumb down the side of her glass. “But you’re around, aren’t you? So that makes me feel safer.”

  Moran wanted to reach over and embrace her. The pale skin on her forehead was covered in light freckles. It made her seem vulnerable, like a child. He cleared his throat. “Yes, we’ve set up an incident room in the chapel sacristy. It means I can keep an eye on things. But I have to tell you–” he leaned back in his chair and shook his head. “It’s not the most comfortable room I’ve used – not by a long chalk.”

  “A woman’s touch – that’s what’s lacking.” Holly smiled broadly. Her teeth were white and even, and there was the finest layer of down on her upper lip. He noticed that her nose had the slightest upturn at its tip. Moran felt a huge wave of desire and gripped his thigh beneath the table.

  “Monks are charitable enough,” Holly went on, “but when it comes to home comforts . . . ”

  Moran grinned ruefully and took a final swig of his drink. “Yes, sadly lacking.”

  “Can I tempt you to another?” Holly produced a leather purse and inserted two slim fingers into its folds. “Go on.” She flourished a ten pound note.

  Moran held up a hand in protest. “No, thanks. I’d love to, but–”

  “Duty calls, right?”

  He laughed. “Right.”

  “Well, till next time, then.” Holly raised her glass.

  “Until then.”

  The air outside was cold. Moran drew his coat around him. If he’d been a betting man he’d have put money on the fact that it was more than a job offer and the chance to indulge in a little monk-spotting that had brought Holly Whitbread to Charnford. Whatever the reason, he was struggling to reconcile competing feelings of elation and foreboding.

  As he began the slow slog up Charnford Hill he could see the lights of the monastery twinkling in the blackness, like the eyes of a wolf pack waiting to pounce on their prey.

  Chapter 6

  “How’d it go yesterday?” Moran rubbed his cheeks with both hands, feeling the stubble scratch against his flesh. “Did you get to the Cardinal?”

  Phelps rolled his shoulders inside his ill-fitting suit. He looked as if he were about to burst out of the straining seams like some kind of Battersea Incredible Hulk. Moran wondered why his sergeant didn’t shop at High and Mighty; financial constraints, maybe? A sergeant’s pay was manageable for a single man, but had to be a stretch for a family. Moran hoped Phelps’ kids didn’t take after their dad as far as stature was concerned – he’d be bankrupt by the time they hit their teens.

  The sergeant pulled up a chair and eased hi
s large frame onto the slatted seat. “Not yet, guv. Every time I try and pin one of ’em down they’re off to some ceremony or another. Matins, is it?”

  Moran raised an eyebrow.

  “Well, something like that, anyhow,” Phelps went on. “They all troop off to the big church, and that’s it for hours on end. You can hear ’em singing. Gives me the willies.” Phelps shivered. “All that chanting and the like.”

  “Plainchant, Phelps. It’s called plainchant.” Moran had heard enough of that at Blackrock. Mixed memories of comradeship and the cane. Strange days . . .

  “Plain or fancy, guv, it still gives me the creeps with a capital C.”

  Moran smiled. “I know what you mean. You should try spending the night here.”

  “That reminds me, guv. The big man’s after you. Wants you to give him a bell. He’s keen to get an update, especially about Vernon.”

  “I’m sure he is. He’ll have to wait for the autopsy. And Forensics.” And that was not all Lawson would be after, Moran thought. He’d be waiting on Moran’s doctor’s report. More bullets for the retirement gun. Well, he could damn well wait.

  “He wondered why you’ve set up the IR onsite.” Phelps gingerly fingered a spot on his neck that, in his hurry to get an early start, he had inadvertently drawn his razor across.

  “Did he?” Moran stood up and pulled on his jacket. “Well, our beloved chief will just have to wonder.” Moran felt shaky with fatigue. His dreams had been filled with bizarre scenes in which his brother, Holly Whitbread and the abbot vied for starring roles. He had woken in a cold sweat at five, convinced that someone had been in the sacristy while he tossed and turned. But the door was locked, the hair seal he had placed across the door frame intact.

  Ridiculously, Oswald’s ghost story had played on his mind, and alone in the sacristy his imagination had taken over. Eventually he had fallen into a fitful sleep, and when he awoke something was on the table that hadn’t been there the hour before. Sitting on top of his pile of papers was the relic. Thoroughly spooked, Moran had locked it in the drawer to give himself time to decide how to respond; the Titulus had been clandestinely returned, but by whom – or what – he had no idea.