Dying of the Light (14 page)

‘Mrs Bell has, kindly, described to me the crime scene of both the murders currently under investigation. The relevant aspects, as far as I am concerned are, of course, in each case the absence of the murder weapon at the locus, or around about it, and the movement of the body after the act to a place of hiding. There could be added to this list, I would suggest, the fact that the killer appears to have left relatively little forensic or other traces of himself. These factors all indicate to me that the killer will display the profile characteristics of the organised offender. He, or she, may well be a first-born or an only
child, and is likely to have an above-average IQ. Despite such intellectual ability, the offender’s work history may be sporadic and he probably had a poor relationship with his parents or, more likely, parent. His killing “spree”, if I may call it that, has probably been triggered by…’ His voice faded away, his mouth suddenly dry, and he grasped the glass of water that had been provided for him.

The minute his fingers gripped its curved surface he felt his hand beginning to shake, the tremor taking control. And the more he concentrated on lifting it up to his mouth, the worse the shaking became, until by the time it reached his lips water was beginning to splash out of it. Taking a hurried sip he quickly put it down, misjudging the distance to the table and allowing it to land with a loud thud.

‘…Some form of precipitating stress,’ he continued, noteless but unerringly exact in what he wanted to say. ‘You may wonder what I mean by that?’

He studied his audience, but in the absence of a reply or a raised hand he carried on. ‘What I mean is something like a breakdown in a marital relationship, the loss of a job, that sort of thing.’

He paused again, evidently thinking. ‘Perhaps I should say something about classification. I could tell you about Jenkins and the unpredictable and respectable types but –’ He stopped again, looking quizzically at Elaine Bell. ‘Maybe I should just plump for the revived Holmes and De Burger classification. Let me see, of their retained five types I only need to trouble you with, I believe, the missionary serial killer – the man or woman who appears to believe that they have responsibility or a special
mission
to cleanse the world of a certain category of human being, for example, whores or clergymen. Then again, perhaps, you should know too of the visionary serial
killer – the person, usually psychotic or schizophrenic, who hears voices instructing them to kill other human beings. But maybe,’ he paused, ‘we are getting
unnecessarily
complicated. What I can say is that almost all serial killers are Caucasian males between the ages of
twenty-five
and thirty-five. Some take “mementoes” or “trophies” from their victims, hanks of hair, pieces of jewellery, that kind of thing. Fred West, for example, retained body parts from all…’

‘Sorry, sir, but just to understand the essentials – we should really concentrate on the organised/disorganised… umm… division?’ Tom Littlewood asked, bemused.

‘Certainly, but exercise caution. Douglas et al, in 1992 I think, introduced a third category into the taxonomy, the “mixed” offender. The introduction of this additional, intermediate category does, obviously, highlight a
fundamental
question, i.e. whether any empirical support for the basic dichotomy can be found. Does it not?’

Embarrassed silence greeted this enquiry, broken eventually by a question posed by Alice Rice.

‘Professor, do you think that human beings fall into distinct types? Because unless they do, templates for defining the characteristics of any distinct type won’t be of any use?’

‘Indeed I do. However, in Canter’s paper “The
Organised
/Disorganised Typology of Serial Murder: Myth or Model?” The learned author casts doubt upon the utility of –’

‘Thank you, Professor,’ Elaine Bell said, smiling broadly, raising her hands and beginning to clap loudly, ‘for a most helpful talk.’

The frail academic managed a stiff bow and then walked out of the room, his body bent forwards and taking little
hurried steps as if to catch up with himself. Once the door had closed, Elaine Bell turned to face the small gathering. ‘Any questions?’

‘Yes. What are we supposed to make of that? Apart from anything else, the priest left his blood on the first
victim
, didn’t he? That’s a “forensic trace” of himself, surely?’ It was DC Ruth Lindsay, looking genuinely puzzled.

‘Yes, but that was all. Much more could have been left… is often left. All you need to remember, I think, is that the killer may, and I emphasise may, as he may well not, be an elder or only child who loathes his parents or parent, and may, despite his cleverness, have a sporadic work history. What else? Er…’

‘A Caucasian male between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five,’ Tom Littlewood prompted.

‘Aha,’ Elaine Bell replied, stroking the end of her inflamed nose. ‘And he may have just lost his job or had his marriage crash or whatever.’

‘That’s ok then,’ Eric Manson said, leaning back on his chair with his hands behind his head. ‘We’ll have reduced it to a mere tenth or so of the population. In this room, for example, only Tom, Jimmy and Simon are left.’

‘I’m off the hook, sir,’ DC Littlewood said smugly. ‘I’m the youngest in my family.’

‘Me, too, I’m innocent. I love my mum and dad,’ Jimmy Galloway said.

‘Simon?’ Eric Manson demanded. ‘That only leaves you!’

‘Well… I am an only child and I didn’t like my mum much, but – well, I’m a woman, sir.’

‘Enough of this drivel,’ Elaine Bell ordered, her mind already on the cup of coffee she intended to brew in the privacy of her room.

Google. There could be nothing to lose and something to gain. Alice typed in ‘Francis McPhail’ and waited for the entries to appear. And there were a surprising number of them, centring around three obscure publications –
Sacred Spy, The True Path
and
Catholic Light
, all editions produced in 2006. The first one, she noted, seemed to be little more than a collection of articles gleaned from other sources, all discreditable to the Catholic Church. They had titles such as ‘Celibacy: The Quick Route to Sexual Abuse’, ‘Bishop Gorged on Kiddie Porn Feast’ and ‘Sex and the Soutane’. McPhail’s name was only included as he had produced a commentary on a matter described by the rag as ‘One of the False Doctrines of Rome’.
The True Path
consisted of an extended diatribe against the evils of the modern world and any priests foolish enough to keep in touch with it. Such men were excoriated as ‘heretics, apostates, closet homosexuals, stunted adolescents and wrong heads’. McPhail had managed to draw the author’s ire by blessing a homosexual couple celebrating their twenty-fifth year together. For such an act he was labelled as ‘a Promoter of Sodomites and a Destroyer of the Family.’

A longer article about him, however, was unearthed in
Catholic Light
, a publication that made Alice feel queasy even as she ploughed through it. It was evidently no more than a semi-literate scandal sheet, peddling rumour and innuendo as news. Its creators had adopted the cheery language of the tabloids, and gave every impression of enjoying their self-appointed task. It, too, seemed to
specialise
in lurid headlines, such as ‘Priest’s Pants Off’ and ‘The Laity’s Love Machine’. The first half of this
particular
issue was given over to a justification of their current
witch-pricking activity, a crusade to root out the ‘Evils of Homosexuality’ from within the Catholic Church.
However
, on page three, Father McPhail had been accorded a paragraph to himself entitled ‘Can of Worms’:

‘The insatiable Parish Priest of St Benedicts, Father Francis Xavier McPhail, has, we hear from reliable sources, become very close to yet another of his lady parishioners, this time a married mother of one. He used his position as her Parish Priest to “befriend” her, regularly “
counselling
” her on his own. Well, Father McPhail, lay your hands off ------- right now, or we’ll use our organ to expose you much more fully!!’

No other mention of McPhail appeared in the online version of the magazine, its last few pages being devoted to another chosen cause, this time the exposure of any
Parish
Priests who had expressed concern over the church’s teaching on contraception, with guarantees of anonymity expressly provided for informers. Reading
Catholic Light
, Alice was reminded of her schooldays and a rare breed of adherent she had then encountered, one she had thought extinct and whose passing she had not mourned. This was the passionate believer who knew the name of every Saint and Blessed from Aaron to Zita and the dates of their feast days; who lunched on haddock on Fridays, but saw no place in their lives for Christ’s teachings in the New Testament – love, forgiveness and other such peripheral matters – content that they were constantly in tune with the Magisterium of the church.

Eric Manson’s loud knocking on Mrs Donnelly’s door got no reply. So he went instead in search of Thomas McNiece. He discovered him sitting alone in The Severed Head,
a pub off Portobello High Street. He was at a table by himself, hunched over his pint, eyes shut, and his head swaying to some internal tune. An untouched bowl of soup was by his elbow, puckered skin covering the thick, green liquid. When the policeman sat down next to him, McNiece moved down the bench seat, unconcerned who his neighbour might be, head still swaying in time to his own music.

‘You Thomas McNiece?’ Eric Manson asked.

‘Aha, have a’ won the pools or somethin’?’ the man replied jocularly, eyes still closed.

‘No, and I need to speak to you.’

‘Do yous now.’ A slight note of menace crept into the reply, as if to convey that the favour of an interview might not be forthcoming.

‘Yes, I do. In connection with an ongoing investigation that we are conducting, we need –’

‘Why didn’t you say you were a polisman?’ McNiece interrupted him, his eyes now wide open, mouth shaping itself into a cold smile. ‘Jist tell us whit you want, son.’

‘Son! Chief Inspector to you, McNiece.’

‘Oh, aye, Chief Inspector, sir, Your Holiness… didnae take you long tae show yer teeth, eh, tiger? So, whit d’you want?’

‘What were you doing on Friday last, from, say, ten p.m. onwards?’

‘The twelfth?’

‘Aye. The twelfth.’

‘Do you mind if a’ ask why, your honour?’

‘Yes.’

‘So that’s how it’s tae be. Fine, an’ it’s easy peasy an a’. I wis at hame havin’ a wee pairty, a birthday pairty. Ma birthday pairty.’

‘How long did it go on for?’

‘A’ nicht.’

‘So your guests, if we speak to them, will presumably be able to confirm that you were there all night? Eh?’

‘Aha. Ma pals, as I cry ’em. No probs there… sir. You’d no’ hae a pairty, eh? No pals tae come!’

‘After the party, what did you do?’

‘Ye’ll nivver even hae been to a pairty, eh? Whit d’ye think I done? I lay doon in ma bed a’ day wi’ a sair heid.’

‘On your own?’

‘Ma flat wis fu’ of folk, sleeping a’ o’er the place. Some oan the settee, oan the lounge flair… an’ Jessie wis in bed wi’ me.’

‘Jessie who?’

‘Jessie May McNiece.’

‘Your wife?’

‘Naw. That’s where we’re alike eh son? Both sleepin’ wi’ dogs. But a’m the lucky wan, ken. Mine’s got French blood. She’s a poodle.’

Getting up to leave and sticking a finger in the
congealed
soup, then sucking it and re-inserting it, Eric Manson growled, ‘I’ll not be taking your word for any of this, McNiece, I’ll be checking up on it all.’

‘Aye, right,’ the man replied, supping his pint. ‘Ye just do that, yer worship.’

The lawyer did not smile when Alice entered his office. Her appointment with him had been fitted into his already packed diary by his secretary, who was shortly off on maternity leave and now careless of whether he approved. Guy Bayley made no attempt to conceal his annoyance at the re-arrangement of his timetable. Instead, he waved towards a hard chair opposite his own, then pushed all the papers on his desk to one side as if to clear a space for whatever matter she might raise with him. It seemed a slightly petulant, almost hostile reception, and all the while his expression remained unchanged, his mouth set tight as a trap and his brows furrowed. He had thin blond curls which fell in every direction on his scalp and a complexion as pale as ivory, but extending just below his hairline was an angry, red margin of psoriasis, framing his forehead like a wreath of blood. Despite remaining silent he managed to convey an impression of extreme
exhaustion
, a tiredness with life and terminal ennui.

Just as Alice took her seat the door opened and a heavily pregnant young woman came in bearing a tray with two cups of tea on it. She threw Alice a shy smile as she lowered the tray onto the desk, but before she had a chance to take the cups off, her boss said wearily, ‘Not now, Susannah. I’ll have mine later.’

As the door closed again he turned his attention to the policewoman.

‘I’m afraid I don’t have long, Ms Rice, and although I did set up the group I don’t think I’ll have much
information
– or at least much information likely to be of any use to you. I co-ordinate our activities, orchestrate our campaigns, act as a spokesperson and so forth. I see it as a type of social work really. No-one, I think, could suggest that the “sex-workers” are anything other than a public nuisance.’

He waited a few seconds for her assent, which did not come, and then continued in the same dull tone, ‘and finally, despite our best efforts, they have now achieved the double – sex and murder, no less.’

Sounding slightly more interested in the subject, he told Alice that on the nights of both crimes he had been on duty, scouring the streets for prostitutes, ready to winkle them out of Salamander Street, Boothacre or any other of their shady cracks and crevices. By the time his vigil had ended he had encountered one whore only, a Russian creature whose accent seemed tailor-made for the foul insults she flung at him.

Talking to the man in his sedate, New Town premises, Alice saw no signs of the hate-filled fanatic described by Ellen Barbour, and wondered, momentarily, if her friend had confused him with someone else. His office, with its black-and-white Kay prints, vapid watercolours and thick carpet, seemed so far removed from the front-line in Leith that it was hard to see how the two worlds might meet, far less collide. And had he not lived in Disraeli Place, their two orbits would have remained fixed, distant and discrete, each unaware of the other spinning past.

‘Well, sir, those two unfortunate women…’ she began, but immediately he cut in, now emphasising his point by rapping his fountain pen on his desk.

‘They are not, sergeant, “unfortunate women”,’ he intoned, a humourless smile of correction on his face.

‘Sorry, sir?’ she replied, puzzled.

‘They are not “unfortunate women” as you described them,’ he answered, repeating himself but making no attempt to explain his statement.

‘No? Then what are they, sir?’

‘Dead whores,’ he said, brushing a shower of thick scurf off his right shoulder.

‘Murdered women are surely unfortunate women?’

He rolled his eyes, eloquently expressing his
exasperation
at her apparent sentimentality.

‘No, sergeant, my point is that they are not women, not real women, at least. No real woman would do what they do, I’m sure you’d agree.’

Finding herself annoyed by his response, she said coolly, ‘Again, I’m not sure what you mean, sir. Every
second
all around the world women are doing what they do – not for money, perhaps, and out of choice, but many of the prostitutes have no choice.’

‘Firstly, many but not all. And secondly, and more importantly, there is always a choice,’ the man said, as if addressing a particularly slow child.

‘If they are not women, then what exactly are they, sir?’

‘Society’s flotsam and jetsam, obviously. Society’s, let’s not mince our words, rubbish, detritus, garbage.’

‘And such rubbish should be cleaned up, eh, sir?’ She wondered how far he would go.

‘Well, I don’t know where you live, sergeant,’ he said, looking hard at her, ‘but perhaps you and your
neighbours
would welcome with open arms those “unfortunate women”? Welcome their used needles, their discarded
condoms, their pimps and punters, them and all their revolting paraphernalia, to your leafy suburb. If not, then you too might find that if they arrived, uninvited, you also would want them cleaned up and got rid of, from your own area at least.’

‘And how should they be cleaned up?’

‘With a BIG BROOM,’ he said, opening his eyes unnaturally wide to express his sarcasm, ‘anything to move them on… but killing’s a bit extreme, don’t you think?’

‘Are there any witnesses to your movements on –’ she began, but before she had completed her question he returned to the fray.

‘No. I live alone. But think about it, detective – all that they could corroborate would be that I was in the vicinity of the murders on the night on which they were committed.’

‘At what time did your tour of duty begin on each of the nights?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Seven-thirty maybe. I never go out much before then, it’s not worth it.’

‘And on neither evening did you see anything on your rounds, any punters, any prostitutes other than the Russian?’

‘No. But the women do hide, you know. Anyway, it’s now twenty-five past nine and I really do need to do some preparation before my next client. She will be paying for… er…’ He hesitated for a moment, having lost his drift.

‘Your services,’ Alice said, rising to go.

Holding the door open for her, the pale man stood erect, and as their eyes met, he closed his as if to shield his soul from scrutiny.

There was nothing much in the fridge, so it would be a relief not to have to cook the dinner today, Mrs Donnelly thought, looking in the cutlery drawer and wondering what she should put on the table. Not, of course, that Father would like the stuff produced by Iris Pease. Far too highly spiced, and she would insist on dropping
chillies
into everything, even, Christ have mercy on us all, in the mince. And it was not as if she had not been told, forcefully on at least one occasion, that he preferred food without a ‘bite’ or ‘kick’ or whatever it was called.

She had a touch of the black fever that one, eyeing Father up, simpering, volunteering before volunteers had been asked for. Imposing more like! Of course, all the women on the rota were dangerous, but that one, ‘Ms’ Pease, would have to be watched, for sure, prowling around like a lioness seeking someone to devour. She knew the signs.

At least there would be time to do the crossword before she arrived, pans clanging like cymbals. And the
policewoman
would surely now wait until after lunch before wasting any more of their time. Mrs Donnelly searched unsuccessfully for a pen, and then sank into the chair. Opening the kitchen drawer to continue the hunt, she pushed her hand into it past envelopes, string and
polythene
bags, suddenly releasing a little gasp as her fingers landed in a cold pool of spilt glue. While gingerly
extracting
her hand, trying not to get the glue on the envelopes and other contents of the drawer, she heard the doorbell go. Distracted, she yanked her hand out, bits of wool still sticking to it, and rushed to the tap. Vigorously shaking the water off, she hurried to the front door. ‘Ms’ Pease did not like to be kept waiting.

As she talked to the housekeeper, Alice became aware that whenever she mentioned the priest, the subject of their conversation, the woman bristled, as if giving a warning against some form of intimate trespass. It was as though his name should not pass the policewoman’s lips, for fear of it being soiled in some way when spoken by her. Watching the housekeeper’s increasing annoyance, she persevered. Her reaction revealed an obsession, a fixation with the man. He was her exclusive property; his business was her business, and if she did not know what he was doing, then whatever it was could be of no real importance. By definition.

‘So, Mrs Donnelly, you said before that you couldn’t confirm that Father McPhail was present in the church on the ninth of January between about 8 p.m. and 11 p.m. Is that still so?’

‘That’s right, I can’t.’ She smiled as if breaking good news, her inability to provide the priest with an alibi not troubling her. She was busily laying the table as she spoke.

‘You are aware,’ Alice said slowly, ‘of the seriousness of the charges that Father McPhail could face?’

‘Och, it’ll not come to that sergeant. You’ll get the
fellow
and then we’ll all get on with the rest of our lives.’ She beamed again.

‘But we think that Father McPhail may be the fellow.’

‘Do you really?’ Laying a knife and fork at the end of the table, the woman threw a patronising glance at the policewoman.

‘I’m not here on a social call, Mrs Donnelly. We do think Father McPhail may be the fellow.’

‘You’ve got to be joking! That’s a very far-fetched
suggestion
indeed.’

‘Well, someone killed those two women, and so far he hasn’t been able to explain away –’

‘What are you going on about, those two women! Father McPhail is no more involved than I am myself!’ She gave a brittle little laugh, dismissing the suggestion, her head cocked to the side as if to ridicule the very idea.

‘You, on the other hand, have not been tied by forensic evidence to Seafield, to the crime –’ Alice stopped herself in mid-sentence, afraid that in her frustration she had already disclosed too much, but the effect on the
housekeeper
was immediate.

‘Evidence!’ she said excitedly, ‘forensic evidence? Inspector, you have my word that Father has been nowhere near Seafield – or any of those kind of women.’

Mrs Donnelly was looking Alice straight in the eye, blinking hard, but never moving her gaze.

‘How do you know?’ Alice asked calmly, hiding the disquiet she felt at her earlier slip.

‘I know.’ The woman nodded hard. ‘I know.’

‘Well then, tell me how you know?’ Please God, tell me.

‘I can’t, no. I’m afraid I can’t. You’ll just have to find out yourselves.’

‘I suppose that woman from the parish is involved…’ Nothing to lose now. The time for a gamble had definitely arrived.

Mrs Donnelly’s jaw dropped open in surprise. ‘What do you know of any such woman, sergeant?’

Nothing. ‘Enough.’

Returning to her table-laying duties, the housekeeper began speaking quietly, almost as if she did not want to be heard. ‘The Sharpe woman will be somewhere in all of this, no doubt, offering the apple again. That’s what she
does, you know, tempt him. Otherwise, he’d be fine. In all our years together he’s never so much as laid a finger on me!’

‘That Sharpe woman?’

‘June Sharpe.’

‘Where would I find her?’

‘I can’t tell you… I shouldn’t say.’

‘Not much help to me then,’ Alice said, closing her notebook. ‘Not much help to him, either.’

‘St Benedict’s. St Benedict’s church. That’s the place to start.’

The doorbell rang once more and the housekeeper turned slowly, disturbed and annoyed, and shuffled towards the landing in her tattered sandals. And as Alice let herself out, Iris Pease strode into the kitchen as if it were her own, chic as a Parisian, and as unexpected in the drab tenement flat as a phoenix in a hen-run.

A trace of matched DNA on the body. That was all she had to offer them. Elaine Bell stretched, pulled her chair out and rose, putting her hands on her hips and
pushing
her chin out. She cleared her throat several times and began striding about her room, preparing to speak. To make a speech, in fact.