The Blood That Stains Your Hands (19 page)

'Sure.'

I read that this morning, had a bit of a face plant moment when I realised that that was the Daniel we were talking about. Up until that point I'd been thinking more of him as being the chap from the Elton John song.

'So, that's your chapters one through six.' No, he's not an American, he's just been watching too much TV. 'Then suddenly, out of nowhere, chapter seven switches to prophecy and is narrated
by
Daniel. And that's where you get the prophecy of the four beasts emerging from the sea.'

'So who was Daniel?'

He puts his hand on a mug of tea or coffee and takes a glug. Must be cold. You can see he's one of these weird guys who has his hot drink sitting on his desk for like three hours, only remembering to take a drink once every twenty minutes or so. He shrugs.

'There was no single Daniel. I mean, not in terms of writing the book. The whole thing wasn't even written in the same language. So, the first half you've got what are generally considered to be a collection of Aramaic folk tales that have just been, you know, assembled into one neat volume and ascribed to the same characters. Then you've got your regular biblical prophesies in the second half. Wars and monsters, the rise and fall of empires, God smiting the crap outta the bad guys, the Second Coming, et cetera, et cetera.'

You know, I'd read all that the previous morning, but it's so much easier to get it explained to you by someone speaking everyday, simple, American English.

'So, the variety of writers explains the smorgasbord?'

'Smorgasbord,' he says, nodding. 'Bang on.'

'OK, so the symbolism behind the four beasts?'

'Daniel 7?'

'Daniel 7.'

'They're meant to indicate the rise of four empires, the fourth crushing the first three. There's then all sorts of weird shit happens with the fourth and there are ten horns, and then a little horn comes up and flattens three of the other horns, and ultimately God, you know, et cetera, et cetera. That kind of thing.'

'And we know who the four empires were? Are?'

'Depends how much of a prophecy you want it to be? Each generation has their own interpretation. If we assume the guy who wrote it had someone particular in mind, generally they're considered to be Babylon, Persia, Media and the Seleucids.'

I nod, then say, 'You know, you started off talking about history there, but by the end it felt like you'd veered off into an episode of Star Trek.'

'Iraq, Iran, northern Iran, and then, you know, the Seleucids took over half of Alexander's territory, then expanded it, so they had some of Greece, the Levant, Turkey, Afghanistan, some of northwest India. Shedloads.'

'So, there's some modern day correlation?'

He makes a maybe-maybe not gesture.

'Sure, if you want there to be. Or else it can just be a bunch of messed-up weirdness from the second century BC.'

OK. Not really helping so far, so decide to go for one of those off-the-cuff judgement calls.

'We've got a case at the moment,' I say.

He smiles. 'Sure you have,' he says. 'Why else would you be here?'

'Fair point. We've had a couple of deaths... you watch the news?'

'Never,' he says.

'You
never
watch the news?'

Shake of the head. 'The trouble with watching the news is that you find out what's happening, and it's never good. Ever. I mean, do they ever start the bulletin with,
And here's a bunch of great stuff that happened today
...? No, it's not for me.'

'OK. So we've had a couple of murders out our way.'

'I heard about that.'

'I thought you just said you never watch the news.'

'Jeez, man, I talk to people. Holy crap.'

'OK, OK. So, the first victim, she had wings placed on her back. Two wings. The second victim had three ribs down his—'

'Ah, nice,' he says. 'I see where you're going. That explains the police's sudden interest in Daniel.'

'Quite.'

He nods, sits back in a slightly affected way. There's something of the young Robert De Niro about him when he does that. I wonder if he realises.

'There was a third, right?' he asks.

'Yep, but the killer was interrupted. However, we found a turkey feather in the vicinity...'

'Wings of a foul.'

'Yes. Presumably he legged it with them, because he didn't have time to do whatever he was intending.'

'Which means he might kill another third victim.'

'Don't know. Depends if he has a specific number of victims in mind, as well as specific people, or if he's trying to make some biblically related point or other.'

'What might that be?' he asks.

I give him the benefit of an eyebrow from across the desk and he smiles and nods.

'Ah, that's why you're here,' he says. I nod. 'Makes sense. Right.'

He stares at his desk. His face goes through a variety of minor contortions to indicate a variety of minor thought processes, then he smiles and kind of laughs and finally looks up.

'I'm not really getting anything other than what is kind of obvious, you know, that it's representative of some sort of power struggle. '

All those minor facial contortions must have been him connecting remotely with the internet.

'These people are all related to the local church, is that how it's going?' he asks.

'Yes, which is where the Bible comes in.'

'People, you know, they like to bring everything down in scale, to bring it down to a very human level. These visions, they tend to speak on a grand political scale, empires and wars. This could be someone attempting to recreate that vision at the basic, you know, church level.'

I don't say so, but that's the obvious first thought to have. Nevertheless, you don't get anywhere by putting the interviewee's gas at a peep.

'Hmm, like the sound of that...'

'Because after all, what are these people doing in church every Sunday, but trying to recreate the ministry of Jesus in their own local setting? So why not try parochially to recreate some other biblical prophecy?'

Actually, although I've already had the thought, when he puts it like that it sounds pretty good.

'So, what do you think?' I ask. 'Does the killer see himself as the fourth beast, crushing the others, or do you think soon enough we're going to find another victim, and the guy's going to have ten horns on his head, or whatever?'

'I think your killer is going to run into trouble with the parallels. The fourth beast has ten horns, and then a little horn pops up and kills three of the other horns.'

'OK. So what do you think?'

He looks across the desk and then makes another one of his slight facial contortions, his head shaking slowly.

'No idea.'

'Any other interpretations of Daniel 7 that might be appropriate?'

The look doesn't leave his face.

'Officer, you can more or less put any interpretation on Daniel 7 that you choose, and you'll find a passage from the text to back you up.'

––––––––

P
hone starts going as I'm leaving the University. Had thought of a walk down University Avenue, along Kelvin Way for a bit, maybe take a few minutes in Kelvingrove Park, cup of coffee, sit on a bench. A good place to get my head together. Not too many people about, a bright enough day, sitting beneath late autumn trees. Ignore the phone twice, a text and a call, but then it rings again almost immediately, and I can feel the few minutes sitting in the park being dragged away from me.

Taylor, telling me to meet him at the Old Kirk, although he's not forthcoming with information. I wonder if something's happened to Mrs Buttler, yet I can tell at least from his tone that he's annoyed rather than weighed down by another death.

I assume graffiti or some other strange act of religious vandalism. The fact that I couldn't even begin to guess what had actually happened points to just how out of my depth I am in this situation, and that I ought to be making more of a run at the learning curve.

*

T
aylor's car is in the small car park outside the church, along with two police vehicles and a small crowd of spectators. Instantly intrigued. Too small a crowd, and too slight a show of authority, for it to be another murder. On the other hand, way too much for a bit of vandalism.

Vandalism. Crap. The guy at the toilets. Must do something about that.

So, somewhere between vandalism and murder. Doesn't really narrow it down. Park the car, get out, approach the gate through the crowd. There's no need for the police to set up a barrier, as there's the six-foot wall and the heavy iron gates around the scene of whatever it is that's happened.

PC Wallace opens the gate to let me through. I step inside the grounds of the church. There are graves either side of the path. The path leads to the front door, and then away down to the right-hand side of the building. This is the enclosed side of the property, hemmed in by trees and a wall. To the left there is more open space, the bulk of the graveyard. The graves are old and worn.

Against the wall of the church, three people are standing with two police officers. Maureen Henderson's daughter, Margaret Johnstone, the church officer, Mary Buttler, with whom I've shared a few quiet moments inside the building, and a man in a dog collar I don't recognise.

Taylor is standing off to the side, about ten yards away from the church building, beside what looks like a newly dug grave. There's a guy in jeans and a Motorhead T-shirt talking to him with his arms folded. Must be freezing. Away to the side, lying on the grass, is a shovel.

I take in the scene for a few moments, trying to work out what's happened. A new grave, a gravedigger, a minister, the church officer, the deceased's daughter.

Maureen Henderson must be in the grave. Well, we had released the body after all, and this is a graveyard.

I approach Taylor. He sees me coming and dismisses Motorhead with a nod of the head, indicating for him to go and stand with the others.

I come alongside Taylor and we stand beside the grave, looking down at the neat mound of new earth.

'Maureen?' I ask.

'Aye.'

'What's the problem?'

He lifts his head and uses his chin to indicate the rest of the graveyard, then indicates the gang of four with a dismissive hand.

'Look at the graves, Tom. This place hasn't been used in decades. Been decommissioned.'

'So why'd they do it? Couldn't afford the crematorium?'

He smiles.

'Far more duplicitous than that. The last burial here was ninety-nine years ago. A couple of years after that, phhtt,' he says, dragging his fingers across his throat, 'they stopped using it. So, apparently graveyards cannot be sold within a hundred years of being in active use.'

'Ah...'

'So next year, this place, this ground could be sold. Sure, they could sell the building now, but it ain't that attractive when the garden's a graveyard. This time next year it can be sitting in an estate agent's window, glorious Victorian home in need of some work, 1.7 hectares of beautiful, well-fertilized garden, or however big this is.'

'I thought this building wasn't getting sold.'

He shrugs.

'That's not what they think. They reckon the committee down at the other church are just biding their time, and as soon as they can, this place is going to be sold as is or it'll become a deluxe development of two and three bedroomed apartments.'

'So...'

'So Mrs Johnstone got her mother's body from the undertaker's, they enlisted a former minister from this place, they got some young guy they knew, and they performed the ceremony.'

'Shit.'

'Aye.'

'Who's idea was all that?'

He points at the group again.

'The church officer for this building, Buttler. You met her, right?'

'Sure.'

'She seem the type that would come up with this kind of plan?'

I give it some thought. I'd come to think that sitting in her company was the most relaxing thing I'd found in the last twenty years, but there was no doubt that she was passionate enough about the building to have suggested something like this. I almost smiled at her use of the word 'cunt' when talking about Cartwright. This, after all, wasn't the most heinous crime in the world.

'Yep,' I say, nodding. 'She was pretty pissed off about the whole merger, and she was worried about what would happen to this place. But the daughter, she went along with this? There must be other family coming in, intending to go to the funeral.'

'The daughter's switched on, Sergeant. Had good reasons. Firstly, and there's just nothing to be said against this, she felt guilty about not having seen her mother on her final weekend. People feel guilt, because that's what they do. She's also aware that most people hated her mum, so there was never going to be a big turnout at the funeral. One of her brothers wasn't even going to come, and she says she'll handle the second one. She thought her mum would love that her body has been used in this way.'

'Can't we just dig it up? Take it back to the undertakers?'

'Do you know the legality of that? You know, once a burial has been carried out by an ordained minister in a graveyard?'

I look away from the small gaggle of perpetrators and turn back to Taylor.

'No. And neither do you,' I say, nodding.

'Exactly. So, whatever we're doing, we're not picking up that shovel.'

*

S
tanding in Taylor's office later when Connor comes in, closing the door behind him. We'd already discussed his imminent arrival, although he's been longer than anticipated.

He looks from one to the other of us, but he's not really interested in me. He's probably debating whether he should tell me to bugger off, but he goes for the alternative, where he just pretends I'm not there.

Several times he looks like he's about to start letting rip at Taylor, then he stops himself, thinks about it some more, tries to find other words. Finally he walks to the window and looks out at the car park. Taylor gives me a glance and then looks at Connor's back.

'Are we to assume that there are now lawyers involved?' asks Taylor.