by Scott Hunter
“Jealous? Now hang on a minute–”
“No, you hang on for a change. I’m the one who’s been ‘hanging on’, waiting for you to make up your mind. For how long? Years. And for what? A platonic relationship?”
She was really mad now, Moran could see. A red patch of anger had appeared on her throat, spreading down to the gentle slope of her breasts.
“Oh, so this is about me now, is it?” Moran shot back. “It’s all my fault, is it?”
“Yes, frankly, it probably is. If you’d been more decisive about us, we’d have been happy. I know we would have been.”
“You’re forgetting something, Kay.” Moran thrust his finger out accusingly. “I had a little interruption to my thought processes. I got hit by a truck, remember?”
Kay’s hands went to her hips. “Oh, yes, you can fall back on that every time, Brendan Moran, but what about before? What’s the excuse for those wasted years?”
“All right, all right. That’ll do, both!”
Moran and Kay glared at one another like boxers from opposite sides of the ring. Patrick was standing in the lounge doorway, watching them with an air of faint amusement.
“Let’s have no more talk about blame and the past, if you please,” he said, addressing them like a pair of bickering schoolchildren. “Coffee, anyone? Caffeine doth sooth the savage breast – or so I’m told, anyway.”
Moran wasn’t finished. “Just give us a moment, Pat, will you?”
Patrick shrugged, and casting an exaggerated look over his shoulder, he returned to the sofa and his electrical repair work.
There was an awkward silence. “Okay,” Moran began, “I’m out of order. I apologise.”
Kay bit her lip. “Don’t. I shouldn’t have said those things either.” She sighed and placed the palms of her hands on his lapels, brushing away imaginary specks of dust. It was an uncomfortable intimacy, given the distance that had grown between them. “What can I say? What’s happened has happened. Or not, in this case.” She shrugged. “Look, Brendan, I haven’t been great recently; you know, the dreaded anti-depressants. I’m slowly coming off them . . . but the withdrawal’s awful. You know what I mean. My head’s above the water – just – but I’m not enjoying the swim very much.”
“That’s a Patrick expression.”
Kay smiled. “So it is. Well, it fits. I haven’t been sleeping. It makes me short-tempered and–” she read his expression and forced a smile. “Okay, it makes me an irritable old cow.”
Moran stretched his face and drummed up a return smile. “It’s not just you; my pharmaceutical cocktail doesn’t exactly help my mental equilibrium either.” He took her hand lightly and squeezed. “It’ll get better, Kay.”
“I hope so. What a pair.” A brief, awkward smile and another silence. “Well.” Kay folded her arms. “How’s the investigation going?”
Moran blew air and shrugged. “Slowly. The Benedictines redefine the phrase ‘closed ranks’. It’s unbelievably hard going – especially now the CC has taken Phelps off the case. But I’ll get there eventually.”
“You always do.” She smiled, tight-lipped. “The man who gets results, right?”
“Right . . . Kay . . . ?” Moran struggled to find the right words. “Is it my fault? The way you feel?”
Kay took a long, thoughtful, breath. “Partly, I suppose. But don’t blame yourself, Brendan. You’re you, and that’s how it is. I understand.”
“Do you? God, I don’t know if I do myself.” But he knew she was right about one thing: he did feel, absurdly, a strong pang of jealousy. Why? He’d had so many chances to cement their relationship, and now, when she was over him, or seemingly so, he wanted her back. But then there was Holly . . .
Kay tucked a lock of hair behind her ear in a familiar gesture. “And besides, I like Patrick. He needs a woman’s guidance. I’ll sort him out. We get on incredibly well.”
“An affinity?”
She nodded and looked down at her shoes.
“Well, I don’t doubt it.” Moran smiled kindly. “But watch him, Kay. I mean really watch him. I know what he’s like. I don’t want to see you–” he hesitated, realising what he was about to say.
“I can see his potential.” Kay brushed his cul-de-sac aside.
“Good. That’s good.”
“So.” Kay drew herself up to her full height. “Coffee, then? To soothe our savage breasts?”
Moran shook his head ruefully. “He’s the family poet. You’ll get used to it.”
While Kay prepared the drinks Moran checked his voicemail. Two messages – one from Neads, one from Lawson. He deleted the second and listened intently to Neads’ clipped tones. Gun at RTA confirmed. Provenance traces back to arms supplied by a gunsmith based in Dundalk. So, the Irish connection checks out, Moran thought with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Dalton supplied a handgun to two schoolboys. So did he pay a visit to Father Horgan as well? And to John Vernon? And if so, why? He called Neads and asked him to pick him up in fifteen.
“Brendan? Can I ask a favour?” Kay extracted coffee from the frothing machine and poured it into a cafetière.
Moran accepted a cup of steaming cappuccino. “Sure. Fire away.” He took a cautious sip – the strong coffee hit the spot immediately. “Wonderful. You haven’t lost your touch.” He felt a sudden stab of hunger. “Any chance of a quick forage?”
“Of course. Still have a penchant for toasted cheese?”
“Always.”
“Coming up.” She deftly cut two squares of cheese and slipped two slices of bread under the grill.
“Much appreciated,” Moran said, still feeling like the stereotypical green man.
Kay acknowledged the compliment with a toss of her hair. “Well, here’s your chance to return the favour. I need to get Patrick to his hospital appointment on Thursday but my car’s in for its MOT. I was wondering–”
Moran held out his key ring. “All yours– I can’t use it until the doctor passes me fit to drive. The padlock combination is on the key label. Hopefully it’ll start. If not, call me and I’ll ask my mechanic to take a quick look. No, actually, I’ll get him out anyway. You’ve reminded me – it needs a service.”
“Thanks.” Kay took the keys with a smile. “I appreciate it.”
“No problem.” Moran swigged his cooling coffee. “As long as the Romanians haven’t nicked it, of course.” He drained his cup and placed it on the table with a decisive thump. “In the meantime, joy of joys,” he paused to accept Kay’s proffered toasted sandwich, “I have a funeral to attend.”
Chapter 10
As Moran waited for Neads he turned his thoughts back to Charnford. He shuffled his feet to encourage circulation. Ye gods, but it was cold. The wind whipped along the pavement, funnelling through the bus shelter where a few brave souls were queuing patiently – as only Brits can, Moran observed, fighting to get their Christmas shopping in before the weather fulfilled the forecasters’ predictions. ‘More on the way. Worst since ’63?’ the headlines had speculated yesterday. Well, it was bad enough already, Moran thought as he began to trudge back and forth beside the busy intersection. The snow under his feet was hard with a top layer of ice, and he was obliged to affect an undignified shuffling gait in order to keep his balance.
Moran mentally arranged the day’s agenda, cursing occasionally as his feet splayed beneath him. After the funeral, chase up Forensics. He wanted to know more about Phelps’ buried bones and cornflakes. Something sinister had happened in that chapel many years before Horgan’s demise. But to whom did the bones belong, and what was the connection with the dead monk and John Vernon? If, indeed, there was one.
Priority two: nail down the alibis of certain key figures in the monastery. The abbot, Father Oswald, the headmaster. Neads could deal with that. And Vagnoli, the mysterious Vatican visitor. He had been less than forthcoming when Phelps had spoken to him; oily and evasive, Phelps reckoned.
Priority three: peripheral staff. Groundsmen, h
andymen, the school matron. There was always some titbit of useful information to be gleaned from such sources. His subconscious prompted other candidates: teachers. He wasn’t sure if he could face Holly yet. Perhaps when the dead pupils’ autopsies were complete and the story behind their deaths made public? Not before, he didn’t think; no, not before. He’d put his foot in it, and besides, she was too much of a distraction. And this case was difficult enough as it was . . .
His mobile beeped. A text, from the Forensics lab. Moran read:
‘Re. Vernon: metallic fragment, neck wound. Have established that, unusually, the shard contains a high percentage of titanium. Further research identifies only two knife manufacturers employing this method commercially: a. Brian Hanrahan, Dublin, and b. Mike Terrana, USA (Calif.). Have contacted latter and confirmed that he has discontinued this manuf. method. Last knife of this type sold to local police officer previous year. Former still in production. F.’
Dublin. Dalton’s home town. A car skated past, channelling a wash of slush onto his already sodden feet. Moran moved back with an expletive, almost losing his footing. Where was Neads? A horn blared from the parade of shops by the bus stop. Moran slid between the traffic and heaved himself into the car, shaking clumps of snow and ice from his feet.
“All right, guv?” Neads was trying to keep the amusement from his voice. “Nasty out there, isn’t it? I’ll get the chains on the tyres later, I reckon, especially if we’re heading up to the abbey. We’ll never get up the hill if it gets any worse.”
“Forget the engineering, Neads,” Moran told the smirking sergeant. “I haven’t got time to waste while you exercise your mechanical skills – and neither have you. The weather’s getting cold and the clues even colder.”
Neads opened his mouth to object, but Moran filled the pause. “If we get stuck we’ll get out and walk. All right?”
They drove on in silence.
Gregory Neads wasn’t a bad guy. Just misunderstood. That had always been his personal assessment, and as he steered the car carefully onto the Bath road Neads saw no reason to realign his conclusions. Trouble was, people interpreted his attitude the wrong way. He was confident, sure, but that was a critical strength in the police. No one wanted a wallflower. You had to make your mark. That way you got noticed, got respect. The Chief had noticed him, hadn’t he? That’s why Neads figured he’d been hand-picked to replace that buffoon Phelps. From what he’d seen of Phelps it was high time he was put out to grass. Anyone over the age of thirty-five was over the hill as far as Neads was concerned. Plodders, the lot of them. All that stress. All that booze. No wonder the unsolved crime stats were up. Neads didn’t drink. He wanted his brain the way it was: young, agile and one hundred per cent on the money. He had no time for whisky-swilling no-hopers like Phelps.
Moran was slightly higher up Neads’ competence scale – not much, but a little. He cast a sideways glance at Moran’s profile. The DCI’s eyes were closed and his mouth hung slightly open, the breathing low and regular. Oh great. Asleep again. Neads’ lip curled in contempt. Old man. It was just as well Greg Neads was on the case. Left to Moran, they’d be chasing their arses all over Charnford for the next twenty years. The Chief wanted results, and Neads intended to produce them. He’d stitch Moran up, provide the clues and evidence to solve the murder and be on his way up the career ladder faster than he could skid this pile of junk down Charnford Hill. Which was just coming up, as it happened.
Neads peered through the snow-dappled windscreen, signalled right and eased the car off the dual carriageway. Was it this turning? The blank whiteness made everything look the same. Neads frowned. Yes, there was the sign to the abbey. As he eased the clutch out his peripheral vision caught a swaddled figure waiting some way back from the road, as if trying to conceal itself from the glare of the headlights. He blinked and looked again, but the figure had gone. Neads moistened his lips and concentrated on the narrow road ahead.
Moran stood at a respectful distance as the leading monks emerged from the abbey church bearing Father Horgan’s coffin to its final resting place. The autopsy had failed to provide further leads, despite Dr Bagri’s painstaking attention. Apart from the residue of knife polish, the body had retained its secrets. And now, it was Horgan’s finale.
Moran sighed deeply. The Mass had been a sombre affair; with no relatives to call upon for valedictory orations, the ceremony had seemed to encapsulate everything he disliked about Catholicism. Even though the trappings of spirituality had been present in abundance – the swinging of an incense-filled censer, the other-worldly intonation of Latin liturgy – there had also been, to Moran’s mind, a woeful dearth of true emotion throughout. Did these men really believe that Horgan’s soul could be translated from the spiritual waiting room of Purgatory to Heaven by their ritualistic diligence? Did Moran himself believe it? Had Horgan’s spirit been weighed in the heavenly scales and been found wanting? Or was the dead monk’s soul enjoying eternal bliss even as they were about to lay his body to rest? Moran didn’t have the answers and neither, he suspected, did the monks.
Someone had once said to Moran, ‘I’m off for some real fun today’. He had looked blank until the issuer of the remark explained: ‘It’s an anagram, Brendan – of funeral . . . real fun – geddit?’ Moran’s lip twisted at the memory. He was glad to be out in the fresh air and free of the cloying smell of religion. Neads evidently felt the same, judging by the way he was stamping his feet and rattling the matchbox in his pocket as if seeking confirmation that he wouldn’t be breaking any funereal protocol by lighting up on the quiet.
Moran’s mobile vibrated insistently in his pocket. It would have to wait. He watched the slow procession to the prepared grave, the coffin followed by the abbot and the remainder of the community, eldest first, novices bringing up the rear. No shortage of young men willing to take the oath, then, Moran mused. The youngest monks looked scarcely out of their teens. What emotions propelled them to step voluntarily out of the world into this environment of abstinence and study, Moran could scarcely imagine.
He shielded his eyes from the low sun. Despite the forecasters’ gloomy predictions the clouds had lifted, and the unexpected pin-sharpness of the afternoon seemed to have positively affected Moran’s thinking processes. He breathed in deeply, holding onto the moment. It felt liberating. Normal service almost restored. As the coffin drew near to the graveside he made a mental note to share the good news with Dr Purewal at their next encounter.
Kay dropped her mobile into the folds of her slim leather handbag. “Left a message,” she smiled, and shrugged. “I guess we can go ahead – he said it would be fine.”
“Away we go, then.” Next to her in the passenger seat, Patrick clicked his seatbelt decisively.
In the rear view mirror of Moran’s four-by-four, Kay watched the mechanic close the blue van door and start his engine. He gave her a smile and a friendly wave as he pulled away. Nice chap. From his accent he could have been from the same neck of the woods as the Moran brothers. Quick off the mark, too. Good job he was just finishing when they turned up. Perfect timing.
She smiled at Patrick and felt a deep contentment. Somehow, she just knew this was going to work out. Funny old world. Who’d have thought it? Brendan’s brother! How complicated do you want to make your life, Kay? Oh, as complicated as possible, please . . . no problem, here you go: two Irish brothers: one an emotionally impotent action man with a brain like a computer, the other a brilliant, alcoholic, charming ex-surgeon . . . hmmm, yes, I’ll try both please . . .
“Is it four fifteen or four thirty? The appointment, I mean?” Patrick looked at his watch. “’Tis the rush hour almost upon us, y’know.”
“I’ll get you there, don’t worry.” Kay fumbled with the unfamiliar keys. Peering under the steering column she located the ignition and slid the largest key into the lock.
“Damned clinics never run on time anyway,” Patrick muttered in a resigned voice.
“And you should know.�
� Kay cast an oblique glance at Patrick’s profile.
“Let me tell you, young lady,” Patrick replied with an exaggerated accent, “that my clinics ran like clockwork.” He wagged a warning finger. “For the most part, anyhow. When I was on the case, you know . . .”
“I’m sure they did,” Kay said, patting his knee. “Well, get ready, Patrick Moran, because I’m going to get you back on the case. With a vengeance.” Kay turned the ignition and the instrument panel lit up obediently.
“I’ll look forward to that then, my pretty one. I’ve a soft spot for being taken in hand by a strong-minded woman.” Patrick mock-saluted and grinned.
Kay giggled and turned the ignition one further click to the right. The engine gave a coughing lurch. Kay looked to see if the vehicle had been left in gear. No, it was in neutral. Had the mechanic forgotten to do something? She waggled the gear stick experimentally. Patrick moved his hand to confirm her diagnosis and their fingers interlocked. An infinitesimally small sound, like the click of an electronic clock, brought a frown to Patrick’s brow, the last conscious action of his troubled life.
The explosion that followed was so intense that the interior of the car was engulfed in a fraction of a second. Kay had no time to shield her face before the roof was blown off both vehicle and garage with a thunderous boom that was heard from the shopping centre a mile and a half down the road. People spilled from Moran’s house – foreign-looking folk, one neighbour said later. They fled down the quiet suburban road, leaving the front door wide open like a silent scream.
When the firemen arrived nine minutes and forty-five seconds later the garage was a pile of glowing ash and charred timber, the four-by-four a metal skeleton in its midst. One of the younger fire officers, Peter Steele, known to his mates as Metalhead, was first to the vehicle door. He took in the scene with a single shocked glance and threw up onto the debris-strewn drive as the sound of sirens rose and fell in time with Metalhead’s pumping stomach.