Prayer for the Dead: A Detective Inspector McLean Mystery (37 page)

‘The Christian cross is a misrepresentation, of course. It looks impressive, but from a carpentry point of view it’s inefficient. Most Roman crucifixes were just two bits of wood roped together in the middle and splayed to form an X.’

He is woozy from
the anaesthetic, but I can see the spark in him as he awakens. Arms splayed, legs akimbo, I imagine he must be struggling to work out where he is. The drugs will dull most of the pain, but soon he will feel the nails through his palms and feet. I imagine he’ll start to panic then.

‘It’s no matter, of course. Christian symbol, Roman torture. It’s all a means to an end. Your end, as it happens.
And your beginning.’

Eyes flutter under lids taped down. It will be dark where he is. His breathing is growing rapid, snot spiralling down from his nose to form a little puddle on the floor. He can’t breathe through his mouth, of course. That’s taped up too. We are closer here to any passers-by. I can’t take the risk of being interrupted before this ceremony is over.

‘You don’t know just how
blessed you are. How lucky. God has singled you out to be with him in heaven. Your soul is pure.’

Naked, his body is thin, ribs straining through pale skin turned orange by the light of the setting sun outside.
Greens and reds and blues mottle the flesh on his arms, low light filtering through the smaller north windows. East–west the church lies, catching the rising and setting sun through stained
glass at either end of the aisle. Except that this far north, at this time of year, the sun rises far north of east and sets far north of west. It doesn’t matter, truly. The perfect moment will be here soon enough.

I stand before him, watching as the light shifts and swirls over his body. Outside, the city roar has faded away to nothing. It does not exist any more. We are alone, he and I. And
God.

‘Our father, which art in heaven, hallowed be thy name.’

He shakes his head from side to side, cheeks puffing in and out as he tries to breathe. His arms tense, hands sliding over their slippery nails, but I’ve bent the ends over. He won’t escape them. Blood drips from his stigmata, runs down his arms and drips from his elbows. It mingles in the dust on the floor with the blood from the
wounds in his feet.

‘Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth, as it is in heaven.’

I can feel the moment building, the tension stretching the air as if it were made of foam. I too find it difficult to breathe, awed in the presence of God.

‘Give us this day, our daily bread. And forgive us our debts, as we forgive out debtors.’

I am heavy now like a sack of bones. Their weight drags me
to the floor, knees settling into the dirt and the blood. And still I am ground down by that awesome presence, squeezed until my face is pushed into the mess.

‘And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.’

His breathing is ragged now, the weight of his body making it almost impossible for him to suck in air, the panic crushing him even as the weight evaporates from my shoulders.
He won’t hang upon the cross for long, agonising hours. Death will take him swiftly, God’s mercy as He gathers up this saved soul to Him.

‘For thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory.’

I look up and see the golden light of the sun, piercing through the coloured glass to limn his head like a halo. For a moment I see the crown of thorns, the blood running down his cheeks, then it blurs as
my eyes fill with tears, my whole body suffused with joy.

‘For ever and ever.’

He is close now, and I know the perfect ecstasy of being in the presence of the divine. And yet even in that moment there is the exquisite sadness. Knowing that it is not my soul that will be gathered up. Knowing that it is not yet my time, that I must struggle still longer in this mundane, sinful world. And as I
gaze up at this perfect, dying man, I feel the serpent of jealousy squirm in my guts and know why it is that I am not yet worthy.

The tears come freely now and I drop my head in supplication. Kneel before Christ on the cross and pray.

‘Amen.’

The gloom outside the Bale house was only slightly less menacing than that within as McLean pulled the front door closed. He considered asking Dalgliesh to stay in her car, or better yet to go home and wait for him to call her, but he knew that wasn’t
going to happen. She was too much of a reporter to resist following him around as this juicy story unfolded.

‘Get on to control will you, Constable. We need to secure the scene as soon as possible. Wait here until back-up arrives, then come and find me at the rectory.’

MacBride nodded his understanding, pulled out his airwave set and started to make the call.

‘And Stuart? Don’t do anything
stupid. This man’s very dangerous.’

‘I’ll keep out of sight, sir. And don’t worry, I’ll not try and tackle him on my own if he shows up.’

‘Right. Dalgliesh, you’re with me. And keep your eyes peeled. Last thing I want is to bump into this man unawares. Whoever he is.’ McLean set off down the drive at a rapid pace, partly to avoid any of the inevitable questions the reporter would throw at him,
but mostly because his stomach was telling him something bad was going down.

‘Whoever he is …? You mean he’s no’ real?’ Dalgliesh wheezed as she struggled to keep up. McLean ignored her. They reached the rectory in minutes, and he rang the
doorbell. A light shone in the porch even though it wasn’t yet dark, the evening sun still painting the side of the stone steeple in autumn orange. Some of
the scaffolding had begun to come down, he noticed. Piles lying beside the graves. It still surrounded the old building like a canker. Engulfed it.

DS Ritchie opened the door a few moments later. Her expression was one of alarm, her free hand unconsciously reaching for her throat and the slim silver band that hung around her neck and tucked into her blouse.

‘You’ve not found him, I take it?’

‘No. Is Mary in?’

‘Kitchen.’ Ritchie stood aside and let them pass.

‘Norman’s not here, Inspector.’ Mary Currie appeared from the hallway, her face pale in the shadows.

‘Norman’s not Norman.’

‘That’s what Kirsty said, but it can’t be true. I’ve known Norman for years.’

Could he be wrong? McLean pulled the e-fit photo out of his pocket, unfolded it and stared at it again. Impossible to tell
whether the badly constructed image was the same person as the weedy six-year-old boy he’d known. The boy whose parents were so religious. The boy who his grandmother had told him was dead.

‘Daniel’s missing too,’ Ritchie said.

McLean’s train of thought derailed. A horrible cold sensation forming in the pit of his stomach. ‘I thought he’d gone to St Andrews to meet the bishop?’

‘So did I, but
he never showed up. They phoned about an hour ago, apparently. Wondering where he was.’

McLean could hear the panic rising in the detective
sergeant’s voice. Controlled for now, but betraying her thoughts all too clearly. They weren’t that far from his own.

‘Look, why don’t we all go through to the kitchen?’ Mary Currie was the voice of reason. ‘The kettle’s on. We’ll have a cup of tea and get
to the bottom of this.’

‘Dan’s still not answering his phone. Just keeps going to message.’ Ritchie paced back and forth in the rectory kitchen, doing a good impression of DCI Brooks despite her lack of bulk. She’d called the number three times since McLean and Dalgliesh had followed her into the kitchen.

‘We’ll find him. Find both of them.’ McLean tried to reassure the detective sergeant, only
realising what he’d said as the words came out.

‘You think they’re together? Why would they be together?’

‘No. That’s not what I meant.’ McLean tried to convince himself, couldn’t quite manage. He turned his attention to the minister, even now pouring teaspoons of sugar into everyone’s milky tea.

‘Mary, I’m right in thinking Daniel’s living here? In the rectory?’

‘Yes, of course. It’s a big
old house to rattle around in on my own. I’m forever picking up waifs and strays. Much like you, really.’

‘I couldn’t have a quick look at his room, could I?’

The minister frowned. ‘Why would you want to do that?’

‘Just to see if he left any clue as to where he was going.’ It wasn’t a good lie, but the minister shrugged.

‘Well, I suppose if I can’t trust a policeman, who can I?’
She picked
up two mugs, handing one to Dalgliesh, who took it with a little start of surprise.

‘I’ll show you, sir.’ Ritchie stuck her phone back into her pocket, call number four having been as unsuccessful as all the rest.

‘Stay here with the minister, we won’t be long.’ McLean said to Dalgliesh, then realised that he’d not yet introduced them to each other. ‘Sorry. Mary, this is Jo Dalgliesh. She’s
a reporter. You might get Detective Constable MacBride knocking on your door in a moment, too. I’m sure he’d be very grateful for a cup of tea, if you didn’t mind.’

‘For someone who gave so generously to the church roof repair fund? Not in the least.’

McLean nodded his thanks, then turned to follow Ritchie out of the kitchen, but not before he noticed Dalgliesh’s eyebrow shoot up in surprise.

‘So, you know where the curate sleeps. Should I be worried for the state of his soul?’

DS Ritchie stopped halfway up the stairs, looked around over her shoulder and gave McLean a very old-fashioned stare.

‘Sorry, that was uncalled for. Especially given the circumstances.’

‘It’s OK, sir. I know you’re just trying to ease the tension a bit.’ Ritchie started climbing again, speaking to the dark
landing above. ‘To be honest, I’ve never seen Daniel’s room. I only know where it is because it’s next to the bathroom. Here.’

McLean followed her across the landing, stopped outside a plain wooden door indistinguishable from a half-dozen
others. The gloom was only alleviated by the light spilling up the stairwell, and a faint orange glow through a pair of recessed skylight windows overhead.
Silence filled the air like cotton wool as he reached out and rapped a knuckle on the panel.

‘Daniel? Are you in there?’ If only it were that easy.

‘OK. Let’s have a look then.’ McLean dropped his hand to the doorknob, twisted it and pushed.

It was a large room, high-ceilinged and dominated by two tall windows in the far wall. Heavy, dark furniture looked like it must have been craned in before
the roof went on, but had presumably been hefted up the stairs by stout Victorian workmen a century or so ago. By the light filtering in from outside, McLean made out a narrow single bed, a washstand in the far corner, floorboards covered by an old Persian rug. A desk sat between the two windows, but it was hard to see any great detail. Then DS Ritchie flicked on the light.

‘Oh my God.’

The
room was mostly tidy, that was perhaps the best way to describe it. The bed was made and everything was lined up square, the gaps between each individual item of furniture arranged so that they looked in proportion. In amongst the order, the desk stuck out like a nun at a rugby club stag night. It was piled with books, all of a jumble as if Daniel had been going through them in a rush, looking for
snippets of information first from one then another, tossing them aside when they didn’t yield what he searched for. Others lay on the floor in a circle around the chair, wagons drawn together against the Indian attack. On the desktop, ground zero, an A4 spiral-bound notebook lay in
the middle of it all, splayed open to reveal a page of scribblings. McLean approached it carefully, not wanting
to disturb anything, and peered at the words. He couldn’t make anything out, and he was used to deciphering Grumpy Bob’s impossible scrawl. It didn’t matter; the stacks of newspaper cuttings, Post-it notes and half-read books told the story quite clearly enough.

‘I never knew.’ Ritchie stood by McLean’s side, peering down at the evidence of an interest verging on the brink of obsession.

McLean
picked up the nearest book, turned it over to reveal the title.
Urban Deprivation: Causes and Cures
. Other books followed a similar theme. No light bedtime reading here.

‘We need to find him.’ He put the book back down on the pile. Hoped to hell no one else had found him already.

Mary Currie and Jo Dalgliesh were chatting like old friends when McLean and Ritchie came back into the kitchen. The
minister broke off, her face asking the question before she voiced it.

‘Find anything?’

‘Not what we were hoping for.’ McLean wondered how best to broach the subject, then realised there wasn’t really time for niceties. ‘Tell me, would you have said Daniel was obsessive about things?’

Mary frowned. ‘Obsessive? Not really. He’s earnest, keen. His faith is very strong. But I wouldn’t have called
him obsessive.’

‘He has a thing about social deprivation though.’

‘Oh, that. Yes, there is that. But I wouldn’t call it an obsession, really. More of a fixation. If there’s a difference.’

‘When was the last time you saw him?’ McLean asked. ‘When was the last time you saw this chap who claims to be Norman, for that matter?’

‘I’ve not seen Norman since Sunday. We had a service at Saint Michael’s
across town. Can’t use our own church at the moment. It’s full of scaffolding and building stuff.’ Mary Currie frowned as she tried to gather her thoughts. ‘Dan was here for breakfast. He was meant to be getting the half-ten train to Leuchars, to have lunch with the bishop and be home in time for Evensong. He was thinking about taking him up on his offer, wanted to discuss it face to face. That’s
Daniel for you. Likes to be hands-on.’

Ritchie looked up from her phone at the words. ‘The bishop’s offer? He was going to take it up?’

‘I’m not sure, but I got the feeling he was considering it. He’s been torn about it for weeks now. Sometimes he prays for guidance, but it’s been weighing heavy on him.’

McLean watched the exchange, not quite understanding it but sure somehow that it was important.
‘I’m missing something here. The bishop’s offer?’

‘There’s a parish in Perthshire that’s looking for a new minister. Daniel was offered the post, but he always saw himself as more of a missionary. Never seen someone with such zeal before, but I think he might have been starting to reconsider.’ Mary glanced at DS Ritchie standing in the doorway, clasping her phone as if it were the most precious
thing in the world. ‘Can’t think why.’

The doorbell ringing broke the silence that followed.
Ritchie stood bolt upright at the sound, as if someone had wired her into the same circuit as the tinny electronic bell. Without a word she darted out of the kitchen and down the hall. Moments later she returned, less energetically, with DC MacBride in tow.

‘Squad car’s arrived and parked outside the
gate, sir. Keeping an eye on things until the forensics people arrive. Bale’s e-fit’s gone out to all officers in Scotland. Should be hitting the news later. Oh, and Dagwood wants to know what’s going on.’

‘Did you tell him?’

‘Thought it best coming from you, sir. He sounds hopping mad you ran off without updating him on Bale.’

‘Well, he’ll just have to wait. We’ve a missing curate to find.’
McLean tried to remember what the minister had been saying before they were interrupted. ‘He was praying for guidance? Where would he do that?’

‘Where? What do you mean?’

‘Well, if the church is off limits, where would he go to pray?’

‘Oh, I see what you mean. No. We can’t hold services in the church; Health and Safety won’t let us open it to the public. Nothing stopping Daniel or me from going
in there though. If he was looking for a little peace and quiet he might well have gone in there. But he wouldn’t have spent all day there, let alone into the evening.’

‘What about this man … Norman? Would he go there to pray too? Even if the signs said keep out?’

McLean didn’t wait for an answer. He could see it dawning on the minister’s face. He checked his watch, counted the hours. Too many,
surely.

He put a hand on Dalgliesh’s shoulder, pushing her back into her chair as she tried to get up. ‘You stay here, keep Mary company.’ He turned to MacBride. ‘Stay with them. And get more uniforms over here as soon as you can.’ And finally to Ritchie, already putting her phone away. ‘You’re with me.’