A Journal of Sin (18 page)

‘Oh. I’m sorry I asked. It’s all getting a bit too much. First a murder, then we find out he’s been recording filthy details about us for years, now people are getting beaten up. This is a quiet town; I stayed here to avoid this kind of thing.’ Her voice quickened and she flung her hands in the air. ‘Please, please, help me. There must be something you can do.’

‘I promise, I’ll do everything I can to stop any damaging information coming out at the trial.’

‘But can you guarantee it? Doing everything you can isn’t the same as saying it won’t happen. It’s my past, my mistakes and I’ve paid the emotional price for them over and over.’

‘I can’t guarantee what a judge will decide is admissible. It’s too early to know what’s relevant and what isn’t. I can only promise to mention it and put your concerns across.’

She said goodbye to Billy on the way out. He looked so peaceful, safely undisturbed by the week’s events. Suzanne apologised for getting frustrated, not offering her a cuppa and keeping her cooped up upstairs, before they said their goodbyes.

Sarah’s next destination was on the other side of town. If this had been the end of a shift, she’d consider herself too tired to drive and get a lift home from Mark or a workmate. Here, the roads were guaranteed to be quiet, so she was willing to take the risk. News of the journals was spreading. Promising Suzanne she’d try to keep any damning information out of the public eye was a compassionate reaction to a desperate plea. She was certain Suzanne was the ‘lady of loose morals’. When she told her story, it was hard to see her that way. The relevance of those entries to any murder trial would become apparent as the case developed. She just had to catch the killer first.

Grace’s cottage was in a terrible state. The garden was like a rotten fruit; the remnants of something beautiful had given way to mangled weeds and overgrown bushes. Corroded wooden windows framed glass thick with muck and cobwebs. The storm hadn’t helped the aesthetic, but it’d been a long time since ‘The Oaks’ was lavished with any tender, loving care. Grace answered the door in her nightgown, her wet hair plastered to the sides of her face, and carrying a bag of curlers in her hand.

‘Grace.’

‘Oh, hello dear. I don’t know anything about the claw hammer, if that’s what you’re here about.’

‘Claw hammer?’ She remembered the wild goose she’d sent Grace chasing. ‘Oh. The claw hammer. That’s okay, this is about something else.’

Grace was a hoarder. Her cottage opened into the kitchen, which was covered in piles upon piles of newspapers, magazines, old books and numerous towers of cardboard boxes containing who knew what. Grace moved through it all with no trouble, but Sarah had to step cautiously for fear of knocking something that may cause all the clutter to collapse. The living room was in a similar state, with a single armchair in the centre and a small television off to the side. It couldn’t have been further from Suzanne’s pristine home she’d been at just hours before.

‘So, what else do you need my help with?’ asked Grace.

‘Mum said you had something important to say about John?’

‘John?’ This was going to be an exasperating process. Grace lived here, dejected amongst the clutter of her old memories, a life lived hoarding other people’s trinkets. Shelves of 12-inch records, yellowed books and commemorative crockery covered the walls. Faces stared at her from every corner: Cliff Richard and Shaking Stevens, Atticus Finch and Alan Watts, a Beefeater and The Queen. Sally hadn’t mentioned Grace’s past. Sarah knew her as the nagging nosey neighbour and hadn’t thought much about whether she’d ever been anything else. As people age they go one of three ways: senile and cantankerous, mature and intellectual, or just plain pleasant. Sally had maintained an air of glamour about her. There were some old photos knocking about her house that could be mistaken for the portrait shot of a silver-screen starlet, the soft-focus filter being the Photoshop of the day. There were no such photos here. The lounge had nothing personal at all, just face after gawking face of celebrities and other fictional characters.

‘Yes, John. You knew his family?’

‘His family? I don’t know. John, you say?’ She was either going deaf, feigning ignorance or enjoyed having someone repeat their question, giving her a fleeting sense of power and influence.

‘Grace. John. You know who I’m talking about.’ Not all witnesses were compliant. Suspects were easy. She knew where she stood with a suspect. They were going to lie, cry and fabricate whatever they needed to in order to avoid being slapped with a charge sheet. That was easier to work with than a non-compliant witness. Sometimes the less a suspect said, the better. If the evidence was strong, it may not matter what they say at all. Witnesses were different. The information Grace had may well be nonsense, and Sarah suspected it would be, but the investigation demanded all lines of enquiry be followed up. John didn’t seem the murdering type, she thought, and although she didn’t know quite why she felt that way, or whether anyone was truly not the murdering type at all, she trusted her instincts. Unquestioned witnesses were enough to plant doubt in a juror’s mind. Questions like ‘Why didn’t the police bother to ask?’ and ‘Don’t you think a competent officer would have?’ were a defence counsel’s wet dream. Sarah needed her to talk.

Grace sat down, deliberately taking her time to wriggle into her armchair.

‘I know something that can help you. First, I want you to admit something, if you’re capable of it. Admit you lied to me, about the body.’ She nestled back in her chair. ‘I saw you that day and I knew something was up. Why you chose to deputise him when you could have picked anyone, I’ll never know. I watched from the corner of the road as you carried the body wrapped in that blue plastic sheet into the house. You may have escaped the eyes of the rest of the town, but you didn’t escape mine. I’ve been here too long to have the wool pulled over my eyes, my dear.’ Sarah started to respond, but Grace spoke over her until she stopped. ‘Then you lied. A police officer shouldn’t lie. I should think Sally didn’t bring you up that way. It makes me wonder what else you’ve been lying about. What else have you kept from us?’

Sarah tried coming up with an alternative story, but was so tired her brain refused to work quickly enough. She’d been caught out. ‘Telling everyone where Father Michael’s body is doesn’t benefit anyone. He should be in a morgue awaiting examination, I accept that, but look at the situation we’re in. There’s nowhere else I can take him. He’ll be moved as soon as the flood lifts.’

‘So you admit you lied? Lied straight to my face?’ That’s what this was all about. Grace hadn’t mentioned Father Michael’s dignity or what the family might think if they knew he’d been wrapped in a tent and smuggled into a shed. She wasn’t concerned about the investigation or trying to secure evidence as well as possible given the circumstances. All she wanted was to be included.

‘Yes. I lied. I’m not sorry; I did it for the right reasons.’ Apologising would be one step too far. Plenty of people had tried telling her how to do her job over the years. They only saw the results of the decisions and gave no thought to how difficult they were to make; only levied criticism with no suggestion of how things could be improved. She could argue her point with Grace all afternoon, but it wouldn’t get her anywhere. She’d have to justify her decisions in a courtroom once all this was over and decided to save her patience for that.

‘I don’t care for your apology in any case. I’ll give you your comeuppance, don’t you worry. Well, for one thing, you’ve put your trust in the wrong person, that’s for certain.’

‘Grace, don’t threaten me. I told you what you wanted to know, now let’s talk about why I’m here.’

‘He didn’t like poor Father Michael. Didn’t like him at all.’

‘Didn’t like him?’

‘That John caused him no end of misery. Always asking about his wife. What did my wife say? Did she tell you anything? He even asked Father Michael to stop seeing her. If she came to church, to turn her away. Would you believe the arrogance? I helped clean the church and overheard all these goings-on.’

Probably by listening at the door, thought Sarah. ‘What did he ask?’

‘Jenny came to the church from time to time, before they left for the city. She struggled with the marriage for one reason or another. She was a lovely girl, you know, natural blonde hair down to her shoulders and a pleasing personality too. They’d talk in Father Michael’s room for hours sometimes. She didn’t want to move away; she loved it here and who wouldn’t? Who in their right mind would give up the English countryside for that smog-covered city?’

‘It all stopped once John started coming around. He must have gotten wind of it somehow, followed her, I expect. I tried not to listen of course, but on occasion he became quite aggressive with Father Michael, so I kept an ear for safety’s sake, you know. You wouldn’t believe how he spoke to that poor man. F’ing this and bloody that. You’d think he thought they were having an affair.’

‘What was he so upset about?’

‘She was going there for marital advice, you see.’

‘From what I hear, Father Michael was a great believer in the family. He would have advised they stick together, surely?’

‘And that’s what’s so strange about the whole thing.’

‘Did you hear any of their conversations? Or did Father Michael ever tell you what he’d told her?’

‘No, not directly, so it’s hard to say what was said. Could you imagine a Catholic priest advising a couple to divorce? Unheard of. He would have needed a pretty good reason for that.’

A low, repetitive thudding came from outside the house. Sarah stepped over a box of commemorative plates and moved a stack of copies of the
Daily Mail
to get to the window. She looked in all directions, but couldn’t see where it was coming from.

‘Sounds like a helicopter.’ It came into view. A red chopper with black markings flew from the right.

Sarah couldn’t quite make out what the markings said. ‘It’s not one of ours.’ It must be the press, she thought, not wanting Grace to figure that out. The severity of the situation dawned on her. Having news reporters in Sunbury would be a disaster. Once the story broke, the town would be swarming with reporters. Michael’s next of kin weren’t in Sunbury. He was likely to have family somewhere and there would be little worse than finding out about his death via an off-the-cuff comment on live TV.

However, they may have a satellite phone. She was sure they’d let her put an assistance call out to her bosses. Maybe this was exactly what she needed; a quick call to the nick and she’d soon have the resources she desperately needed. Then she could raise the investigation to a standard that Father Michael deserved. But what if they discovered how amateurish she’d played everything so far? She doubted they’d accept the circumstances as an excuse. That wouldn’t sell as many papers as ‘Bumbling cop messes up murder investigation.’ If her bosses found out about the murder on the news, she’d be out on her arse. She knocked over a box of china bowls and stumbled on a dusty decanter that stuck out awkwardly in the kitchen before leaving without saying another word. She needed to be with that chopper the moment it landed.

The contents of Will’s stomach stayed inside this time.

‘Are you sure you’re okay, mate? Sure you don’t just feel a little queasy? You know what, Alan, I forgot to mention, this morning I opened the fridge to some mouldy milk. You know that smell of lumpy, mouldy milk that just gets up your nose?’ said Matt, taking pleasure in Will’s air sickness.

‘If I retch, I’m retching on you.’ He wouldn’t hesitate either and it’d be a long time before they were able to change clothes. They hovered for a while and Will was eager to put his feet on the ground, however wet it was. ‘Is this place as soaked as the last?’

‘Stick your head out and take a look,’ said Alan.

‘Very funny.’

The pilot circled the village and announced, to Will’s relief, that he’d spotted a good place to land.

‘There’s a bit of a mob forming,’ said Alan. ‘Maybe they think we’re the Red Cross?’

‘Not a looker in the bunch.’ Matt looked disappointed. Will’s stomach settled down, but he couldn’t fully relax until they were firmly on the ground.

‘Never mind that. We’re hardly on assignment at Miami Beach. It’s going to be another humdrum set of interviews covering the same story over and over. At least there’s only one more after this.’

‘Did the gaffer mention if he’d lined up another poor public-sector chump for you to abuse?’ asked Alan.

‘He was too busy screaming down the phone.’

‘I doubt anyone would want to after that last one went out. It’s just us and the inbreeders on this one,’ said Matt, as the chopper landed with a bump. The crew stepped off the helicopter. Will waited until they’d stopped moving before he unclasped his seatbelt. The townsfolk gathered around them as they stepped onto the damp mud.

‘Hello. Hello. Hi.’ Will turned on the professional charm. ‘We’re from CBN. I’ll be looking to interview some of you about your experiences over the last few days.’

‘About bloody time,’ shouted one of the residents. ‘We’ve been stuck here with no help at all.’

‘Ok, well, I’m the not the rescue service. I’ll put your concerns over on the news, so give us a few minutes to set up and we’ll come and speak to you.’ He unpacked his equipment from the chopper, hoping they’d get the hint.

‘When can we make phone calls again?’ He tuned them out, but it didn’t stop them asking away.

‘When’s the power coming back on?’

‘Can you get a message to my mum?’

‘Ooh, you’d like to know all about our priest, I expect?’

‘PC Sarah Gladstone. I need to speak to you.’ That got his attention.

‘Hello. I didn’t expect to see a police officer here. Are you sure you’re a police officer? You don’t look like one.’ She opened her badge a little wider. ‘I’ll be damned.’

‘Tell him about Father Michael,’ said a voice from behind her.

‘You want to talk about a priest?’ asked Will.

‘We need to go somewhere quieter.’ News crews had satellite phones. She needed to tell them about the murder, but wanted them away from the crowd first. Alone, she could prepare them, explain the severity and manage their approach to reporting it; staying here too long would just make it a shouting match.