The Good Priest Read online

  ‘The book?’ he repeated.

  ‘The police are on their way here …’

  ‘Sure they are.’

  ‘Who are you?’ Father Vincent asked, knowing already, trying desperately to make him pause, distract him, delay him. His heart was throwing itself against his ribcage, his breath hard to come by. The door was closed, shards of jagged glass were within easy reach, and in front of him, his pale face contorted with anger, was a killer. Trying not to make it obvious, Vincent scanned the room with his eyes, frantically searching for a suitable weapon with which to defend himself. If this man did not get what he had come for, perhaps even if he did, he would turn on him. Murder him, as he had others. His best hope seemed to be the half-empty bottle of wine that was on the floor by his armchair. Unconsciously cradling his damaged hand against his chest, he began to edge towards the bottle, but the flow of adrenaline in his bloodstream was hampering him. Everything was too bright, too fast, too colourful, too loud, confusing him so that he couldn’t think straight. As he made a lunge for the bottle, a sickening blow hit the side of his head. At the weight and the shock of it he fell forwards on top of a low stool and landed heavily on the floor. Something warm and wet began to pour down his forehead and into his right eye, pooling in the eye itself, blinding him.

  ‘Get me the fucking book!’

  Dazed, and before he could say anything, he felt another blow from the man’s heel. This time it struck his nose, causing instantaneous agony and a gush of blood which spouted and streamed down the back of his throat and made him gag. Gasping for breath, trying to concentrate, he saw the man pick up the bottle that he had been trying to reach. Utterly defenceless, he looked up into his face, hoping to find some trace of humanity, believing, despite the blows he had already received, that he would, and that the assault would stop. Surely nobody, no human being, could kill another while looking into their eyes. Some meeting of souls would take place. Breathing in loudly, uncertain any more where he was, he gazed into the man’s deep brown eyes, searching desperately to make the bond that he believed must save him. But only a cold, pitiless stare met his. Glorying in his absolute power, the man slowly raised his weapon.

  In the distance, in another world, a shadow seemed to be travelling across the room. A large figure, as solid as a house, suddenly loomed up behind the attacker, grabbed his raised arm and yanked it behind his back, wrenching upwards until he yelped in pain. A swift kick to the back of his knee collapsed his long legs and he crumpled to the floor. In a moment, Donald Keegan was on top of him, astride his back, pulling both his arms behind his back and handcuffing him. The youth squealed, making a high-pitched, breathless noise, sounding more like a wounded animal than a human being.

  ‘I can make my own stew,’ Father Vincent said querulously, sinking back on his pillow and watching as Sister Monica, with difficulty, picked up the newspaper that he had inadvertently kicked off his bed onto the floor.

  ‘You couldn’t before – what’s changed now?’ she said briskly, gathering up the sheets, scrunching them into a ball and stuffing them into the waste-paper bin. Tutting to herself, she picked up an empty wine glass from the bedside table and tapped it.

  ‘A head injury means no drink, you were told that.’

  ‘You wouldn’t know about my stew. You’ve never had it.’

  ‘No,’ she conceded, looking at him, ‘but Sister Frances has. She says your talents lie elsewhere. Now, no more drink.’

  ‘I don’t know where, then …’ he said, feeling cantankerous and unwilling to please anyone. He was determined to regain control of his life, and more importantly his home, as soon as possible. Pampering, which he had regarded as bliss in the first few days after the assault, had soon became tiresome.

  ‘I’m sure I don’t either,’ she said. ‘No doubt you keep them well hidden. Now, would you like peas or cabbage with your stew?’

  As if she was a waitress, she licked an imaginary pencil and held it poised above an imaginary pad.

  ‘Cabbage, please. When’s he due?’

  ‘And for dessert, sir?’

  ‘What’s on the sweet trolley today?’

  ‘Mmm. Much the same as yesterday. Ice cream.’

  ‘And? Or?’

  ‘And or ice cream.’

  ‘Are you trying to kill my palate? When’s he due?’

  ‘Any time now,’ she said, looking at her watch. ‘Are you sure you want to see him – couldn’t it wait?’

  Before he had opened his mouth to answer, they both heard the doorbell ring, and by way of reply he simply nodded his head. At the sound, Satan, who had been snoozing near the foot of the bed, leapt off it and slunk below into the dark cave made by the trailing bed cover.

  ‘I’ll be off then,’ she said, ‘to get your order, sir.’

  Donald Keegan clumped up the stairs, hauling himself up the last few steps with the banisters, puffing loudly like a steam engine. As he came into the bedroom he looked round, saw only a chair laden with clothes and, shaking his head, still breathing deeply, came and sat on the end of the bed.

  ‘I gather you’re on the mend,’ he said jovially, loosening his tie and looking at the priest expectantly.

  ‘I am. I’m allowed to get up tomorrow. Sister Monica’s finally given me permission.’

  ‘Women, eh! Give them half the chance and they’ll take over your life!’

  ‘It’s all thanks to you that they’ve a life to take over, Donald.’

  ‘Aye, he was a nasty piece of work, that one.’

  ‘Mamie told me that he’s Kyle’s older brother. A junkie too. Apparently, he went off the rails when his mother walked out on them. She’s a Catholic, couldn’t take any more of Hal’s womanising. He couldn’t cope with the boys, gave up long ago. Let them run wild.’

  ‘Mamie’s mighty well informed,’ the policeman said, taking out a handkerchief and wiping his glistening brow with it.

  ‘Better than the BBC.’

  ‘Incidentally, I hope that no one from the force’s been bothering you yet? Since the assault, I mean? You’ll have needed rest.’

  ‘No. Sister Monica’s been standing guard over me. No one’s been allowed in or out. So you’re the first.’

  ‘No one would get past her, literally. I’m glad you’ve been allowed a little time to recover. That doesn’t always happen, you know. Have you any idea why the lad picked on you?’

  ‘Didn’t he tell you?’

  ‘Yes, but I want to know he said to you.’

  ‘He wanted to get the book back. Looking at the entries in it, I think he’d been using it for blackmail – blackmailing the priests listed in it.’

  ‘What exactly was in the book?’

  ‘It was a record of crimes, misdemeanours … horrors. Child abuse, alcoholism, dishonesty – all committed by priests employed, or once employed, within the diocese. What began as blackmail for Rick turned into something else, I reckon. Maybe some of them refused to pay or threatened to go to the police. Maybe he’d bled them dry and demanded more when there was no more. Maybe he just hated them. I looked at Connor Bell’s entry and Kyle wasn’t his first. Maybe Rick suffered too. They’d moved from Helensburgh and so had he.’

  ‘Father Bell! Christ almighty, I had no idea that he was involved. And you think he abused the pair of them?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s only a guess on my part. All I know for certain is that he abused Kyle, and that he was in the book. But not for abusing Kyle.’

  ‘Of course,’ Keegan said, shifting his position on the bed and dabbing at the sweat under his eyes. ‘The good news is that we don’t need the book for the purposes of the murder inquiry. So at least you needn’t worry yourself about that.’

  ‘Worry myself?’

  ‘Well, they’ve already got their man, haven’t they? He’ll not be harming anyone else, thank heavens. They’ll have his DNA, witnesses too, quite possibly. He may even have confessed by now. And you can tell them about the existence of the book, a little about
its contents even, if necessary …’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘You know, the entries for Dennis May, Callum Taylor and so on. You saw them, didn’t you? If Rick doesn’t plead guilty, if there’s a trial, you could say that you saw their entries about child abuse and so on, so you don’t need to worry.’

  ‘Sorry, Donald, worry about what?’

  ‘About the loss of the book.’

  ‘But I’ve still got the book.’

  ‘You’ve still got it?’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘I thought it had disappeared,’ Keegan said, moving up the bed to get closer to the priest.

  ‘No, it’s here.’

  ‘Well, I never! Thank goodness for that. After you’d been taken away in the ambulance I couldn’t find it anywhere. I searched this place high and low, ransacked the whole house. Where on earth did you hide it?’

  ‘Like you said, somewhere “safe”. I put it somewhere safe.’

  ‘I can’t tell you what a relief that is,’ the policeman said, beaming widely and standing up as if he was ready to go.

  ‘I’d better take it with me now. Where is it? That strapping nun’ll get it for me, no doubt.’

  ‘It’s somewhere safe.’

  ‘Good. Can I have it now?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Sorry, Vincent, what did you say?’

  ‘I said,’ the priest replied, looking up into the man’s red face and speaking more slowly, ‘no. You can’t have it.’

  ‘But … but I need it for the investigation. If you’ve still got it, I need it. There’s a murder inquiry under way. Three men have been killed, three priests, and that book will be very important evidence against the murderer. It’ll form part of the evidence in the trial ‘

  ‘I know that, but you’re not involved in the murder investigation, are you?’

  ‘No, no, I’m not. It’s purely a Lothian and Borders police investigation now, because the Colinton killing was the first. They’re heading it, taking the lead. But I’ll take it to them. That’s why I came – I’m to take it to them.’

  ‘Do you think I’m a complete fool, Donald?’ the priest asked, elbowing himself up on his pillows in order to increase his height slightly.

  ‘No. I know you’re not. I learned that early on.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. It took me a while, lying here … but everything, eventually, fitted together. All the little pieces of the jigsaw added up to make a complete picture, but not a very pretty one, sadly.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I realised, long ago, that the Church didn’t want the book to be found, least of all by the police. Having seen its contents, I’m not surprised. If the press were to get hold of it, well, it would be a complete sensation, wouldn’t it? It would blow everything wide open again. The embers of the scandal would be re-ignited yet again, only this time, tenfold, a hundredfold, and in the heart of Scotland. Dominic seemed relieved when he realised it was you that I’d been talking to, and I know why now.’

  ‘He would be. It’s natural. We know each other. Mostly socially, and through some sports schemes, youth schemes, we’re both involved in.’

  ‘But to me, Donald, you denied knowing him at first. Then, on the night of the attack, you called him “Dominic”, even though I hadn’t mentioned his first name. You’re on first-name terms, nickname terms, with the man. Why hide it? That started me thinking. More importantly, James Mann’s your brother-in-law, isn’t he? I was slow, shamefully slow, in figuring that out … but when I remembered what your wife said it led me there. About Miss Mann, the tax inspector. What I don’t know is whether you’re trying to protect him because of your wife or because of yourself. I imagine it’s him at the bottom of all of this. I know she’s got you by “the short and curlies”, as you almost put it, and I know why. I spoke to a pal of mine in Kinnesswood; she told me the nature of your woman trouble. I understand she’s called Jemima. So, maybe you’ve been doing these things for your wife … or yourself, I’ll probably never know.’

  ‘You’ve quite lost me.’

  ‘You lost yourself. You’re part of the cover-up.’

  ‘I’m trying to protect the Church.’

  ‘Don’t make me laugh.’

  ‘Vincent, think what will happen if that book ever gets into the wrong hands. I told you, it’s not even necessary to convict the killer. It could just disappear – there could be a fire, a theft, a flood, God knows. But if it’s gone, it’s gone. Think of the damage it will do. I saved you from that maniac. He would have killed you too – he had three under his belt already, remember? I saved you. Now, I’m just trying to save my … everything. She said she’d leave me … I’ve got children, too.’

  ‘Damage? Don’t talk to me about damage! The damage, the real damage, has already been done – and to children. Other people’s children. I’m going to hand the book over to the Lothian and Borders Police, after I’ve made a copy of it, and once it is in their hands they will do what they must with it – act on the information that it contains. If, mysteriously, nothing happens, I’ll go to the press myself.’

  ‘Vincent,’ Keegan said pleadingly, ‘James wants it back – he really wants it. A great deal hangs on the safe recovery of that book. Rome is adamant that it must not get into the wrong hands. Things could change for you, radically, dramatically; things could get so much better. Gratitude can be shown in a million different ways. Like I said, it’s not even necessary for the man’s conviction, if that’s what’s worrying you. The deeds have been done. You can’t undo them, any more than I can. What happened, happened. But it’s in the past. Just give it to me – you could even say you’d done that, tell everyone that. I’ll lose it. You wouldn’t even have to explain. All you’d know, all you’d be responsible for, would be for handing it over to me. You wouldn’t be criticised, not for handing it over to the police.’

  ‘Go now, just go!’

  ‘Vincent, Dominic will ensure …’

  ‘Get out of here.’

  ‘If you’d told me,’ Sister Monica said, bringing in his supper tray, ‘that your “little printing job” amounted to a hundred and fifty pages, I would have declined it. Thanks to you we’ve run out of paper – ink too, and it costs a fortune. We should never have bought a Dell.’

  ‘But you’ve done it?’ he replied, taking the tray from her and looking anxiously into her face.

  ‘Yes, of course I have. And I feel two hundred years older now,’ she said quietly. ‘I read the odd pages of it while I was doing it. It sickened me. It made me feel so ashamed …’

  ‘You’ve done nothing of which to be ashamed,’ Vincent said.

  ‘But didn’t you feel that? Reading it? How could they do that?’

  ‘You had no part in it, I had no part in it, and we will have no part in it. We will make sure that the truth gets out.’

  ‘Do you ever wonder why you stay … ?’

  ‘Yes, often. It’s not easy. I can’t get excited about the knuckle-bones of saints any more, or any of that kind of thing. And I’m out of step too. Birth control, gay rights and women priests – bring them on, I say. I don’t think the sky will fall in when they finally come. The only reason, the only reason, I stay is because I’m needed. I know I am. And for as long as I’m inside, still hanging on, I’ll do my bit. What about you?’

  ‘I don’t fancy being a bag lady.’

  ‘Fine. Now, tomorrow, if you’ll let me, I intend to take the book to the police headquarters at Fettes and hand it over myself.’

  ‘I’ll drive you there, happily. What will we do with the copy?’

  ‘We’ll keep it secure, in my safe under the stairs. Just in case through any mischance of any kind something happens to the original. You’ve still got the copy on disc, I assume?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s even more important. Can you keep it somewhere safe, where no one will ever find it, in the Retreat? No one would ever expect it to be there.’


  ‘No problem. I’ll toss out that Sound of Music DVD – no-one ever watches it. Not with all that “A flibbertygibbet, a will-of-the-wisp, a clown”, nonsense.’

  ‘Nonsense, is it? Remember, you removed the Nazis’ carburettor. Nuns played their part in defeating the forces of evil … apparently.’

  ‘Apparently.’

  ‘Now, my wine glass? There seems to be no wine glass on my tray. What’s that supposed to be?’ he asked, pointing at a striped mug by his bowl of ice cream.

  ‘Tea – remember tea? A drink with jam and bread? Doh? My dear. You can fetch your own poison.’

  Satan, satisfied that the coast was clear, sprang back onto the bed and padded towards his master, his back arched in greeting and his tail held high.

  ‘Shoo! Be off with you,’ Sister Monica said, flapping her huge hands at the creature. ‘That beast should not be on the bed.’

  ‘Talking of Nazis …’

  A couple of days later, Father Vincent was sitting having tea with Barbara Duncan in her kitchen. By the butterdish was a vase of roses, some of their heads blowsy, their loosening petals edged with brown; others were no more than dark-red buds, the blooms still tightly furled. Self-conscious about his appearance, he fingered first the bruise on his forehead and then the sticking plaster that covered one side of his nose.

  ‘Another DIY mistake with a hammer, you say.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I see.’ Her sceptical tone left him in no doubt that she did not.

  ‘Where did those come from?’ he asked, keen to distract her and gesturing at the vase.

  ‘That’s the least of it. He’s a pest, a complete pest. He “refreshes” them daily,’ she replied curtly, stabbing the fruit-cake in front of her with the bread knife and starting to cut a slice from it.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Mr Goodenough.’

  ‘Is he not then?’

  ‘Not what?’ she said, through pursed lips, intent on the cake.

  ‘Good enough?’