Something Evil Comes Page 13

  ‘How about you, Red?’ asked Corrigan. ‘Got any plans?’

  ‘Yes. I want an answer to Charlie’s question: why was Matthew’s body at St Bartholomews?’

  Hanson switched off her bedside light, her head occupied with events of the evening. She pictured the scene in her kitchen, Charlie on one side of the table, Corrigan on the other, both tall, both dark, with that similar air of earnest consideration. I never realised before how alike they are. She sat up, pounded her pillow, lay back. Pick the bones out of that, Sigmund.

  FOURTEEN

  It was late afternoon, cold and crisp, when Hanson arrived at the church, the colour of its stone façade warmed a little by a meagre, low sun. She looked up at it, memories of the previous evening diminished by daylight. Her eyes drifted up to gargoyles mounted high above her, heads horned, crooked and voracious mouths stretched, their eyes hooded. Words drifted into her head which she’d heard but now poorly recalled. Something about eyes being where demons hide.

  A muted groan sent her whirling. A sixty-something man in heavy jacket and scarf was toiling some distance away at a patch of bare earth encircled by a brick border, brown paper sacks on either side of him. He squinted up at her as she approached. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I’m hoping to see Father Delaney.’ He got slowly to his feet. ‘No, please. I can see you’re hard at work.’ He stood with a grimace, rubbing at his knees. She upped her age estimate a decade. Maybe more?

  ‘I’m never too busy to talk to a church visitor. Father Delaney usually has choir practice around about now, after school hours, but I haven’t seen him.’ He pointed to the sacks. ‘Come the spring and the work will have been worth it. Narcissus pseudonarcissus and Tulipa gesneriana. Daffodil bulbs in that one, tulips in the other. Something else for the local children to walk over. Chilly, isn’t it?’

  She nodded. ‘How long have you been the gardener here?’

  He laughed. ‘St Bartholomew’s doesn’t employ one. We do it all: an army of parishioner-volunteers helps maintain the church, inside and out.’

  She recalled Corrigan giving similar information. Despite her reservations about the re-consecration service, Hanson had to acknowledge that Delaney inspired devotion in his elderly church attenders.

  ‘I saw you here last night,’ he continued. ‘Did you enjoy the service?’

  Hanson chose her words. ‘It was certainly dramatic.’

  ‘Indeed, it was. That’s Father Delaney. He’s been a godsend to this church.’ He frowned, offered her his hand, saw the soil on it and withdrew it. ‘Sorry. My name’s Alfred.’

  ‘Hello, Alfred. I’m Kate.’ She watched his gaze move slowly over the freshly dug bed.

  ‘He asks a lot of us but no more than he demands of himself and his deacons.’

  She was aware now that she had been misled by Alfred’s vigour. He had to be in his eighties. ‘Do many of the congregation give freely of their time?’

  ‘Yes, particularly the members of the committee. We’re very willing to do so because of Father Delaney.’

  ‘Why is he a “godsend”, exactly?’ she asked.

  ‘Because he’s brought new life, new blood to St Bartholomew’s. When he first came this was a failing church with an elderly, ever-decreasing congregation. That was twenty or more years ago.’ He smiled at her. ‘I was comparatively young then. Our congregation was very small and, sad to say, disengaged. Last night is an example of how that’s changed. A church so full in these times is a rarity. Father Delaney has brought commitment, energy and vitality back to us. In return we support and reward the church.’ He paused. ‘No one individual is more important than the church itself, of course.’ He pointed to the sacks of bulbs. ‘I’m sorry to cut our conversation short but I must get on. I want to finish here in daylight. Why don’t you check at the house and see if he’s there?’

  He went slowly onto his knees as Hanson headed for Church House, noticing a small blue car parked outside. Surely too small to accommodate Delaney’s bulk? She couldn’t recall it being there when she’d come to talk to him previously. She went up the steps, onto the wide porch and rang the bell, then rang it again. She picked up movement beyond the lace curtain. It came closer. The front door was opened by a middle-aged woman wearing a salmon-pink jumper and patterned leggings. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I’d like to see—’ Hanson’s words were stopped by a high-pitched screech from within the house.

  ‘Wait here,’ the woman snapped. She hurried away, down the shadowy corridor beyond the hallway, hips massive and dimpled within the leggings. When she didn’t reappear Hanson stepped inside and headed in the same direction. She found her in a large, basic kitchen opening the valve of a hefty, old-fashioned pressure cooker.

  ‘Hello …?’

  The woman spun and glared. ‘I told you to wait.’

  Hanson nodded. ‘I know, but when you didn’t return I thought I’d come inside in case something was wrong.’

  The woman shoved the pressure cooker to the back of the stove. ‘Nothing’s wrong. Father Delaney’s dinner is in this old thing which has to be watched.’ She looked Hanson up and down. ‘Now you’re in, what do you want?’ She asked again, the accent sounding local to Hanson’s ears.

  ‘I’d like a brief word with Father Delaney.’

  A satisfied expression crossed the woman’s face. ‘You can’t. He’s not here.’

  When nothing further was forthcoming Hanson asked, ‘You work here?’

  The woman’s lips curled downwards. ‘I don’t come here for the fun of it. I’m his housekeeper.’

  ‘When will he be back?’

  ‘Depends.’

  The sound of something heavy hitting the upper floor drifted downwards to the kitchen. Hanson glanced upwards then at the housekeeper. Seeing no response to the sound she said, ‘Do you want to attend to that?’

  The housekeeper’s eyes didn’t move from Hanson’s face. ‘No need. My niece is up there. She’s a bit caggie-handed. She’ll sort it.’

  ‘You were saying that Father Delaney’s return depended on something?’ prompted Hanson.

  ‘Was I?’ She lifted the pressure cooker’s lid, jabbed at the contents with a wooden spoon. Hanson’s eyes drifted over chunks of dark-looking meat and a couple of fat garlic bulbs. The lid slammed down. ‘I’ll see you out.’

  Hanson glanced towards the window where several plants in small pots sat on the sill, only one familiar to her: mint. She looked beyond to the extensive rear garden. ‘Do you work on the garden too?’

  The housekeeper was now in the dark passageway, on her way to the front door. ‘I keep this place ticking over. I’ve got no time for anything else. Come on.’

  Hanson followed. ‘Does the church committee take responsibility for it?’

  The housekeeper turned, her face expressionless. ‘Yes, but I’m the one who says what they put in. I know my plants and herbs. You ask a lot of questions.’

  Hanson stepped onto the porch, reaching out a quick hand to the already-closing door, thinking of what Alfred had said about Delaney’s current whereabouts. ‘You haven’t told me where Father Delaney is. I need to see him.’

  ‘He’s over at the church taking choir practice. There’s still half an hour left and he doesn’t like being interrupted.’

  Hanson frowned. ‘I didn’t hear anything when I was outside the church a few minutes ago.’

  The housekeeper gave her an up-down look. ‘Why would you? It’s only a few kids and he’s got a lot of stuff to tell ’em about the service they’re singing at in a few days’ time.’

  Hanson was about to ask if she could wait for Delaney, imagined this woman’s pleased refusal and decided against it. The small, hard eyes were on her. She nodded at Hanson’s hair. ‘That your natural colour?’ Startled at the bluntness, Hanson stared at the woman, seeing for the first time the hairs on either side of her upper lip. Before Hanson could formulate a response the eyes gave her another once-over, settling on the olive-gre
en parka.

  ‘I’m after a new winter coat. Bet that set you back a bob or two.’ Hanson turned and started down the steps, the housekeeper’s words coming after her. ‘Don’t forget what I said! You wait till he’s finished. He doesn’t like being disturbed at choir practice.’

  Alfred was nowhere in sight as Hanson followed the path between the headstones and on towards the church. She was within a couple of metres of it, irritated still by the housekeeper’s crassness, when she picked up the sweet sound of young voices raised in unison. Reaching the door she pushed it open and went inside, moving slowly along a narrow side-aisle. The lilies from the previous evening were still in their vases, the air heavy with their scent, the candles, unlit, still in their tall holders, the brasses standing at attention. Father Delaney was facing three rows of fresh-faced boys in the choir stall, music in his left hand, the other energetically emphasising tempo as they sang, their voices soaring to the vaulted ceiling, their mouths wide. He brought his hands slowly downwards and to a quick halt. The singing stopped as one voice.

  ‘Well done. Well done,’ he enthused. ‘That will do for today.’ The boys clambered down from the stall and Hanson noted that several of them still had that pure, genderless beauty of the pre-adolescent male. Delaney called to one of them. ‘Hugo, dear boy, come here. I have the music for your solo.’ Hanson watched as the boy came to him and the vast priest pointed out details on the sheet music, his face benign as he smiled down at him. ‘Here, do you see? You’ll need to focus on your breathing at this point to reach that note.’ Seeing the boy’s keen attention, Hanson smiled to herself. The smile faded as she watched Delaney’s huge, plump hand move from the music and arrived on the boy’s soft-looking blond curls, his eyes fixed on the boy’s head. Disconcerted, she heard Delaney speak again, his voice low. ‘Yes, Hugo. I think you’ll manage it nicely if you practice and we have two or three more rehearsals here.’

  Hanson stepped forward. ‘Father Delaney?’ Her voice sounded loud, harsh to her own ears.

  Delaney turned, gave her a calm glance, a nod, then back to the boy. ‘Run along, Hugo, and don’t forget, next practice is early Sunday morning.’ Hugo joined his fellow choristers as they rushed for the main door in a jostle of feet and were gone.

  Delaney returned the music to its stand. ‘What can I do for you, Professor Hanson?’ His plump-cheeked, unlined face was now turned to her, eyes made small by the fleshy pockets above and beneath.

  She scrambled for the reason which had brought her to him. ‘I was here last night. For the re-consecration service.’

  ‘Yes. I saw you.’

  ‘I understood the service was to purify the church following the vandalism and also the concealment of Matthew Flynn’s body, but I didn’t see anyone from his family.’

  ‘No.’ He gathered up sheets of music. ‘They were invited as a courtesy but they must have decided against attending. They would have been very welcome, of course, but I don’t know the family. The service was as much for St Bartholomew’s congregation which has been upset by recent events.’

  ‘So, the Flynn family has no connection to this church?’

  ‘None at all.’

  ‘Can you think of any reason why their son’s body would have been concealed in the crypt here?’

  ‘I had wondered about that myself. No, I can’t.’ He gave her a genial nod. ‘I’ve finished here. I need to turn off the lights and lock up.’ She followed him. Outside the sky had clouded over. He turned to her. ‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’

  She couldn’t leave the puzzle of Matthew Flynn’s body being here. ‘You’ll understand that my police colleagues and I are curious as to why Matthew Flynn’s body was brought here, to this place. Whoever did that appears to have had a key. Does that concern you, Father Delaney?’

  ‘Of course it does but as I said to Lieutenant Corrigan, I had no idea as to the existence of such a key. In all the years of my ministry here I have not known the crypt to be opened. If such a key exists, it could have been stolen. It could be anywhere.’ He looked down at her, his face benign, genuinely regretful. ‘I wish I could help you, which is self-serving on my part of course. Whatever I’m able to do to speed up the police investigation to a conclusion is good for St Bartholomew’s. Unfortunately, I can’t help.’ He turned to lock the heavy door. ‘Our parishioners know about the remains being here, of course and it’s extremely upsetting for them. I’ve listened to their comments but heard nothing which suggests that any of them have knowledge of this young man. Which isn’t surprising in itself, of course, given their years.’ He gave her an appraising look. ‘How did you know where to find me?’

  ‘I went to Church House. Your housekeeper told me.’

  He smiled. ‘Ah. You’ve met the fearsome Gorridge. Did she issue directives and overstep social boundaries?’ His eyes twinkled. ‘Don’t be put off by Eunice or take her manner personally. She’s indiscriminate in the way she deals with people but she has a good heart.’

  Ahead of them Alfred was back, planting bulbs. Hanson saw Delaney’s attention move from him to her car and back. ‘That’s Alfred Best, one of our congregation stalwarts. Alfred?’ he called. Alfred got slowly to his feet. ‘Would you get out the hose and give Professor Hanson’s car a quick wash, there’s a good chap? I hear council workers were out early this morning, gritting and salting the roads.’

  Hanson looked at Alfred. ‘Oh, no please—’

  Delaney was walking away. ‘So nice to meet you again, Professor Hanson. I regret I couldn’t help but please come again if you have any further questions.’

  She watched him move smoothly away to Church House, surprisingly light on his feet for such a heavy man, then looked to where Alfred was dragging a heavy garden hose in the direction of her car. She went after him. ‘Alfred, wait. It isn’t necessary.’

  ‘It’s no trouble.’ He manipulated the head of the hose and water shot out of it and all over her car. He trained it on the wheels then the lower bodywork. After a few minutes he turned off the hose and looked up at a turbulent sky. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I still have more bulbs to plant and I can’t do it once darkness falls.’

  Hanson came into UCU feeling dispirited. Watts looked up from the big work table. ‘You look like your tail’s dragging, doc.’

  The door opened again and Corrigan followed her inside. ‘Hi, Red. You look—’

  ‘You’re taking a risk if you say I look done in and fed up.’ Pushing her hair off her face she stared moodily at the notes on the board. She was overstretched at the university and her head was crammed with impressions gathered over the last few days they’d been on this case. She was unsure of where she was going with any of them, if anywhere and Maisie had been intermittently in her head since her unexpected arrival at her university room a couple of days ago. Hanson still didn’t know what that was about and Maisie wasn’t talking.

  Something else was bothering her. She sat on the table, pressing her hands against her eyes, the scene she’d witnessed in the church this afternoon still in her head. OK. Delaney placed his hand on a boy’s head. Not the best idea for any professional in these times but on its own not something to leap to a massive assumption about either. She frowned. What was my immediate response? Surprise? Unease? Enough on which to base suspicion? Letting her hands drop she said, ‘I’m tired and I feel I’m getting nowhere. The only up-side today is that I had my car washed by a kindly octogenerian.’

  Watts winked at Corrigan. ‘That’s new boyfriends for you, doc. They’ll do anything to get on your good side.’

  Opening her mouth to make a snappy reply, she felt the frustrations and confusions inside her head stop their clamour. She burst into laughter, unable to stop, knowing that her colleagues were enjoying the spectacle. Corrigan grinned at her as she fingered away mascara.

  ‘Feel better, now your corset’s loosened?’ asked Watts.

  ‘Yes, thanks.’ She looked at them. ‘We don’t know what this case is about, do we
?’ Seeing Watts’s mouth open she shook her head. ‘Think about it. First, it’s about drugs then, it’s about money, and now we know about the relationship between Diana Flynn and Zach Addison, maybe it’s about sex? Yet, none of it is making any sense to me or giving me a psychological direction, an investigative angle, a coherent explanation as to why somebody decided that at twenty years old Matthew Flynn had to die and in the horrendous way he did.’

  Watts stood. ‘We were saying more or less the same before you arrived. Corrigan and me are prioritising Albright. We’ve chased down various sightings of him but none have been any use so far. He’s in none of his usual haunts.’

  She watched him go to the refreshment centre in the corner then looked to Corrigan. ‘Any ideas for a way forward?’

  He was looking thoughtful. ‘What if Matthew Flynn’s murder has some historical, rather than current relevance?’

  ‘At twenty, how much history did he have?’

  She followed Corrigan’s eyes to the board. ‘What about his school?’ he asked.

  ‘Matthew Flynn was still school-age when he was cautioned for drug possession.’ She walked to it and pointed. ‘Did you put this information up?’

  ‘Julian the data-hound tracked it down.’

  She read it. ‘Claremont Independent School for Boys’. She tapped an icon. A photograph of a central Victorian façade with modern wings on either side appeared, plus location and other details. ‘I’m going there,’ she said.

  Watts came to the table, three mugs clutched in his big hand. ‘For what, exactly?’

  She was on her way through the door. ‘Background. I’m not sure. But if I don’t, I’ll not know anything there is to know, will I?’

  He shook his head. ‘Can’t argue with that.’

  Hanson had phoned and spoken to the head of school who had agreed for her to see Angus Robbe, form tutor and head of year to fifteen-year-old Matthew Flynn, that same early evening. She was now inside a heavily panelled room, sitting across from an austere looking man who was evidently not too happy at finding himself in this situation. She was waiting for his response to her question about how the drug offence had come to light, watching as he chose his words. ‘Five years is a long time in this profession. Pupils, staff, come and go, but as far as I recall, it was the PE master who found them.’ He lapsed into silence.