Black December

by Scott Hunter

  “Got it,” Phelps remembered. “You need to see a man about a dog.”

  So, Phelps mused as he re-entered the school through a side door into what he’d heard Moran refer to as the Court of Arches. Three bodies. No motive apparent, interviews either inconclusive or elusive. Not a great start to any murder investigation. He found a coffee machine in a corner and fumbled in his pocket for coins.

  Sipping his drink, he watched the school ready itself for afternoon study. A bell went off shrilly, causing a final frantic scurrying along the length of the cloister as suited pupils and black-gowned masters closed in on their allotted classrooms. Phelps noticed that a few of the teachers were monks themselves. One studious-looking Benedictine passed him with an air of lofty indifference, a clutch of coloured folders pressed to his habit. Doors closed. Seconds later the cloister was deserted.

  How nice, Phelps thought, to have your life ordered by the ringing of a bell. Be here, be there, and be on time. Presto, the day is gone. One last bell for lights out, and nine hours of oblivion before the whole regime starts again at seven thirty. Wonderful. Phelps wished his life was as simple, as structured, but he’d killed off that possibility when he’d joined the force.

  Phelps took another sip of coffee. He’d finish his drink, and then, come hell or high water, he’d find that damned Cardinal and give him the grilling of his life. Phelps reached for a cigarette and thought better of it. Later. He wanted to nail this for Moran. The guv had been through a hell of a lot in the past twelve months. It was a miracle he was still alive. Phelps swigged back his coffee with a grimace as he remembered visiting Moran in the ICU. He hadn’t given any odds on his survival, but Moran was a tough bastard. Tougher even than Phelps had imagined. He’d pulled through against odds that had been so firmly and hopelessly stacked against him that when eventually he came off the ventilator and gulped his first wheezing, bloody-minded breaths, even the neurology consultant had been spotted shaking his head in amazement.

  Phelps scrunched the cup and fired it into a nearby bin. He also knew that Moran’s recovery was not complete – not by a long chalk. He could see that, and unfortunately for the guv, so could the Chief. Lawson had been on his case for weeks, asking this, asking that. Did Phelps consider Moran’s judgment to be impaired by his injuries? Would he, professionally speaking, be able to trust Moran as before? And what about the dozing off? The lethargy? Surely that was proving a problem?

  No, Phelps had declared emphatically. The guv is fine. Just like before the accident. Well, would Phelps be prepared to ‘keep an eye’ on things? Just to ‘keep us all in the loop’, so to speak? No he damn well wouldn’t, had been Phelps’ reaction, but he’d just given a quick ‘Sir’ and departed pronto. The guv deserved better than to be shafted by the likes of Lawson. Especially with Moran’s top record. Jobs for the nerdy fast-trackers; that was Lawson’ agenda. New policing– ‘policing with brains.’ My arse, Phelps thought as he strode down the cloister with Vagnoli firmly back on his agenda. The guv was going to crack this one wide open, and Phelps would bend over backwards to make sure it happened. Moran was the best he had worked with. They didn’t call him ‘The Ferret’ for nothing. The guv’d get to the bottom of this, with Phelps’ support. Come on down, Cardinal, it’s your lucky day . . . Phelps whistled as he walked, drawing curious glances from behind classroom windows as he passed by.

  Moran thanked the pretty constable for her minicab duties and opened his front gate. A black, bounding shape launched itself at him, paws flailing. He got down on his haunches, chuckling to himself.

  “All right, Archie. I’m here now, calm down. Good dog, you’re a good dog. You found your way home, didn’t you? Good boy.” He fumbled for his keys as Archie excitedly returned to the front porch where he had clearly been waiting for some time. Probably, Moran guessed, since the pubs had opened in the late morning.

  No lights on. He went into the kitchen, fed Archie and poured himself a glass of Shiraz. As the lights flickered he caught a movement in the garden, beyond the French windows. He strode to the back door, hit the patio lights and stepped outside. “Patrick?”

  He made a swift reconnaissance and drew a blank. Neighbour’s cat? Or a fox, maybe. He closed the back door and retrieved his glass. So, what would the story be this time? ‘I got to talking to this guy about a job, and you know how it is … we ended up going back to his place, had a few more, you know, Brendan …’ and so on, and so on. Moran felt his muscles tense despite the calming effects of the wine. There’d be no reasoning with Patrick when he returned – if he returned.

  All Moran’s carefully prepared suggestions for Patrick’s future inevitably fell on deaf ears – drunken ears – so there seemed to be little point in regurgitating the chiropractic idea, the holistic medicine idea, the sports therapist idea . . . any of which his brother was more than intellectually capable of handling. The guy had brains in spades; he just couldn’t get his head out of a bottle.

  Moran took another sip. Perhaps he was doing the wrong thing, having alcohol in the house. But it was his house, dammit, and if he wanted to have a glass of wine he’d have one. Or was that just the Moran family trait of general bloody-mindedness rearing its ugly head?

  Moran sighed and patted Archie’s head as the dog nudged his leg with a mouth clamped firmly around a ragged tennis ball. Should he wait for the inevitable call? Either the local station or Patrick himself, stoned out of his brains, wandering the streets in search of Moran’s house. Or should he just leave him to it, switch off his mobile and turn in? God knows, he was tired enough. But he knew he wouldn’t sleep. Oh, he could drift off during the day, no probs, but at night, little prospect. Not with the abbey to worry about; and the murdered celebrity, John Vernon. The fact that both bodies bore similar wounds, as well as the blood matches, meant that the link between the abbey and Vernon was clearly established. That was some small comfort, Moran thought as he reached for Archie’s lead and drained his glass. A link in the chain of obfuscation which seemed to be Charnford’s specialist subject.

  And then there was Holly; he’d come close to making a complete fool of himself in the pub. Had he detected a reciprocal stirring of emotions? Or was it just his memory playing tricks?

  Moran groaned himself to his feet. “Come on, boy.” He whistled. Archie needed no further encouragement. Tail whipping with excitement, the small dog hindered Moran as he tried to clip the lead to his collar. “Sit still, will you?” Seconds passed as Archie eluded his tethering.

  “Look,” Moran said in exasperation, “this is for your benefit, not mine.” Finally he trapped Archie’s head between his knees and applied lead to collar. As they stepped into the cold air Moran reflected that nothing in his life was easy, not even taking the dog for a walk.

  He passed the Six Bells on the corner, dark and silent. No tell-tale sounds of lock-in activity. Archie pulled violently as he spotted a cat idling across the road. Moran held on grimly; for a small dog the spaniel had shoulders like a canine bodybuilder. They turned the corner and Archie’s pull became more insistent; he’d spotted the square where Moran would habitually walk him off the lead. It was an old Victorian square, well-tended by the council, delimited by laurels and attractive borders and punctuated with mature trees and shrubs. Around the square were sited several benches, resplendent in recent coats of green paint.

  Moran bent and released Archie into the darkness. He found the path, intending to sit for a while as the spaniel burned off his repressed energy. But the first bench was occupied. As he approached, Moran recognised the familiar contours of Patrick’s thin and undernourished body. It was bitterly cold, but Patrick was wearing only a T-shirt and jeans. Moran quickened his pace and, heart racing, felt his brother’s cold wrist. There was a pulse, faint but discernable. Patrick stirred and groaned.

  “Patrick!” He prodded the prone figure. “Wake up, will you, for God’s sake? It’s below freezing and you’re dossing in the square?” Moran heard the harshness in his voice and to
ok a breath to calm himself. “Patrick!” He shook the inert body, once, twice. On the third shake, Patrick leaned over the arm of the bench and was violently sick. Moran stepped back from the spray. Archie appeared, sniffing the warm mess before licking it tentatively. “No, Archie, no!” Moran reached down and clipped the lead to the dog’s collar, attaching it to the bench leg by Patrick’s feet.

  “Brendan? S’at you?” Patrick half sat up.

  “It is,” Moran replied, tight-lipped. “Luckily for you, Pat, you complete eejit.”

  “There’s no need–”

  “No need?” Moran hissed. “I leave you in charge of my house and dog, and you go on the razz and lose him? No need? He could have been killed or stolen for all you knew. What were you thinking?”

  Patrick sat up, swayed, and grabbed Moran’s arm for support. “It was just a quick one, Brendan. I left the dog outside – he was fine, sitting outside the door. I kept an eye on him through the window, honest to God. But, there was this fella–”

  Moran sighed. “There always is.” It was true; there always was.

  “No, really, he’s a great lad. From Romania, of all places. Had a bit of bad luck right enough, but a real good sort. We got to chatting, and you know, one thing led to another.”

  “Did it.”

  “Serious though, you’d like him.” Patrick wrapped his arms around his torso and shivered. “I’m not feeling too great, Brendan, if I’m honest.”

  “No, I don’t expect you are. Come on, I’ll get you home.”

  Patrick rose stiffly to his feet and held fast to Moran’s arm. There was a wet patch across the front of his jeans. He stank, the nostril-flaring reek of a liver abused for way too long. Moran felt himself recoil and was instantly ashamed. Patrick was his brother, whatever condition he might be in. With Archie tugging one arm and Patrick on the other they made their way slowly out of the square.

  “Patrick,” Moran asked quietly, “do you still have the key I gave you?”

  Patrick turned his head sluggishly to face Moran. “That’s what I was going to tell you, Brendan. It’s all right with you, is it?”

  The words were slurred, but a cold hand had seized Moran’s heart. “What is all right with me, Patrick?”

  They staggered into Moran’s road. The street lights lit up Patrick’s face in yellow and blue. A siren ululated somewhere in the distance, faded and was gone. Moran halted their progress.

  “I said it would be okay for Mihail to stay a wee while.” Patrick’s face widened in a drunken grin. “You’ll love him, Brendan – by God he’ll cheer you up, man. He’s a real crack.”

  Moran’s blood froze. “Please tell me you didn’t give him your key.”

  “It’s only a wee key.” Patrick made the shape of a tiny object with his fingers and guffawed with laughter.

  Moran could have hit him. “You mad bastard.” He dragged Patrick the length of the street and stopped outside the house. Archie began to bark loudly, recognising his home yet aware that something had changed. Moran gawped in horror at the two burly men watching them from the bay window. The curtains were open and a party was clearly in progress. He could hear the sound of bottles clinking and music blaring from his CD player. One of the men in the window raised a bottle and said something to his friend, who threw back his head and laughed, pointing at Moran as if his return was some kind of huge joke.

  Patrick raised his finger and pointed unsteadily. “That’s Mihail, right there, sure enough.”

  Moran’s brain was racing. What should he do? He knew about squatters, knew how they operated. But it was usually vacant premises that were targeted. They must have thought it was their lucky day when Patrick turned up. They hadn’t had to break and enter; they’d been invited, for God’s sake. Where did that leave him legally?

  Moran reached for his warrant card. He left Patrick leaning on the stone pillar of the gate and slid his key into the lock. It had been immobilised from inside. He rapped sharply on the door. A moment later it swung open and the two men from the bay window barred his entry. He flashed his card.

  “I’m a police officer. You’d better clear out right now unless you want a night in the cells.”

  The door closed in his face. Moran cursed. There was no point in trying to reclaim his property single-handed. He needed help, the right sort of help. He needed to know the small print, and only one person fitted the bill – Kay Kempster, a police lawyer he trusted implicitly. She could quote him chapter and verse on squatters’ rights. He didn’t want to call her, but he had no choice. The fact that they had some history would have to be dealt with as and when. First, though, he had to sort Patrick out. He punched a number into his mobile. “Taxi please, thirty-one Lorne Street.”

  Patrick bent double and vomited retchingly into the gutter. Archie circled, sniffing cautiously. Moran dialled again. “Hello? Kay? It’s Brendan. Listen, I’m sorry to call so late but I have a small problem.”

  Chapter 7

  “Ah, DS Phelps. Come in,” Lawson beamed. “Take a seat.”

  Phelps did as he was bidden, wondering in his usual suspicious way what could have prompted such a cheery disposition in the notoriously moody chief constable at this hour of the morning.

  “Coffee?” Lawson indicated the tray and percolator positioned invitingly on Phelps’ side of the desk. A plate of chocolate digestives lay untouched beside the carefully laid out cups, saucers and spoons. Meticulous in every detail, the chief. Even the sodding biscuits were standing to attention. The coffee would be of unquestionable quality, the temperature spot on. But Phelps wasn’t in the mood for elevenses just yet. He knew when he was being buttered up, so he signalled a polite refusal and waited while Lawson helped himself, took an appreciative sip, sat down in his leather chair and replaced the cup carefully in its matching saucer, taking care that no errant drips spoiled the gleaming whiteness of the china.

  “Well then, Sergeant.” Lawson smiled. “Bad business at the abbey, by all accounts.”

  “Yes sir. A murdered monk, an unmarked grave, two missing boys and now a murdered old boy.”

  Lawson nodded, a professional frown playing about his temples. “And in your view, how is the investigation proceeding, Sergeant Phelps? I understand there’s a clear connection with the Vernon murder?”

  “The guv – I mean DCI Moran – is on the case, sir. Vernon’s an old Charnfordian – he was in touch with Father Horgan a few days ago. We’ve just got to establish why, so we’re in the process of interviewing the teachers and monks associated with Father Horgan–”

  “Associated? I should have thought they were all ‘associated’, living in the monastery and school as they do?”

  Phelps shrugged. “Well, sir, not all the monks are involved in the running of the school. Three are housemasters, and others who teach across the board – ’scuse the pun – during the school week. We’re starting with those who would have been in close contact with Father Horgan during a normal school day.”

  “I see. And is DCI Moran happy with progress so far? I’ve been trying to get hold of him, but to no avail – you did give him the message, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, sir. Thing is, the guv is having a spot of bother with–”

  “What about these boys? Has he been able to establish their last movements at the school?”

  Phelps cleared his throat. So much for empathy. He could feel something inevitable brewing, for which this conversation was just a preliminary formality. He didn’t think Lawson was particularly interested in their progress – no more than he ought to be. Rather, he was continuing his ploughing of the Moran fitness furrow, looking for weaknesses that could be exploited. Lawson wanted the guv off the case – off the force, if possible. Was it a natural dislike of the steady Irishman that motivated Lawson’s campaign? Or a preference for new blood, a response to pressure from on high?

  “I’m interviewing the sixth formers closest to the missing lads tomorrow morning, sir. We’ll soon flush out any secrets. It’s
probably some stupid runaway thing, I imagine. I very much doubt if it’s linked to Horgan. If it is, I’m sure the guv will nail it before the weekend.”

  Lawson nodded, lips pursed, as if weighing the likelihood of a Moran success. “Yes, yes, I’m sure. Now then, Sergeant Phelps, I know you’re very attached to DCI Moran, so you mustn’t take this the wrong way.” Lawson took another sip of coffee, smacked his lips and brushed an imaginary mote of dust from his razor-creased trousers. As if on cue there came a confident knock at the door. Phelps frowned. Now what? A sinking feeling flushed down from his throat to his bowels. Gordon Bennett – he’s taken the guv off the case . . . he’s really done it . . .

  “Ah, splendid.” Lawson bounced to his feet and strode across the room to welcome the newcomer. “Sergeant Phelps, this is DS Gregory Neads. He’ll be needing a briefing from your good self before lunchtime.”

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance.” Neads offered a wiry handshake. He was tall and very thin, with closely-cropped ginger-blond hair and a suit that hung on him like a poorly erected tent.

  “A briefing, sir?” Phelps resisted the urge to wring Neads’ hand until he screamed. He was angry enough, but he contented himself with a challenging stare. It’s not the guv – it’s me. Dumped. And this fancy boy is my replacement . . . Phelps took a deep breath. Well, at least the guv was still on the case. For now. That would be Lawson’s next move, and he suspected that Neads had entered stage right to play a leading role.

  “It’s nothing personal, Sergeant Phelps. You are a good, solid detective. And I don’t just mean your build–”

  Neads smirked at the feeble attempt at humour. Phelps could have hit him. “If I may, sir, I know how DCI Moran works. We have an understanding; we get along well, and we have a track record that speaks for itself. I think it would be a big mistake to–”

  “Just so, just so.” Lawson nodded in a horribly patronising gesture. “But you have to understand, Sergeant, that I am under considerable pressure regarding John Vernon. The man was chairman of my club, for heaven’s sake. All eyes are upon me, you see. DS Neads here has a number of – finer skills to bring to the table, and as it happens I have one or two things you could help me with, Sergeant, items of an urgent nature. A little tedious, but they need to be picked up. I’m sure you’ll do a grand job for me.”