Jesuit

By nine o’ clock, Graham and Sallie were with George Flint in his office, drinking coffee. “Do we have an identification, yet, George?” opened Graham.

“Yes, we do. And it’s something of a surprise,” replied George, grim-faced. “He was identified as Thomas Singleton, father of the murdered girl, Debbie!”

For a few moments Graham did not speak, the news shocking him. His mind worked furiously. Once more, a connection with the Jesuit. How much of a coincidence is this? he thought. “Why would he kill him?” he said aloud, staring into space, his brain fitting facts into place. “What is the connection?”

“Who are you talking about, Graham?” asked George. “We can only answer your questions when we have a positive ID.”

Graham shifted in his seat. “The Jesuit. That’s who I’m talking about.” he said, quietly. “That man is involved in these murders. I don’t yet know how — or why, but he is too closely linked with every murder.”

The others looked at him in silence. Neither could believe that a man of God, a man with the aura of this particular Jesuit, could be in any way involved in such terrible crimes.

Sallie spoke, softly. “Graham. Just think about it, will you? You are accusing a Jesuit priest; a man dedicated to helping ease the suffering of others.” Come to me now, you bastard priest! “Do you not think his involvement is purely that of a man carrying out his duties? He appears where there is suffering and, as he told us yesterday, he is specifically targeting those who are suffering the effects of a murder, or suicide in the family.”

Graham accepted the sense of Sallie’s words but, none-the-less, he had an uneasy feeling about it. “Well, perhaps I am on the wrong track but I can’t help feeling there is something about the killings that points to him.” He paused. “Before we go back, Sallie, I’d like another word with the Jesuit.” Then, turning to George, he asked: “Where is he now?”

“Don’t know I’m afraid.”

“What?”

For what reason, I can’t say, but I had a constable check on his motor home this morning — and he’d gone. Wasn’t to be seen anywhere in the vicinity or in the village.”

Graham stared at George, absorbing the news. “Did no one see him go.”

“No. He parks on country roads, so it’s unlikely that anyone would see him. May notice his vehicle but that’ all.”

“We’ll find him okay. When the next murder occurs,” said Graham, sourly. “Come on, Sallie. Time to get back to the Met.”

Sallie remained seated as Graham rose to go. “No, Graham. I can’t come back, I’ve work to do here.”

Graham looked at Sallie in surprise. “Work to do?”

“Yes. The body will be removed to the local hospital and I will carry out my autopsy on it. I have all my equipment with me, so I may as well complete the job whilst I’m here.”

“What about transport back, though, Sallie? We came in my car.”

Sallie smiled. “I can get the train. I’m quite capable of that, you know.”

Graham smiled back. Of course she could catch the train. He just didn’t want to be apart from her at this moment, the pleasure of the previous night and the warmth of the morning encounter still fresh with him.

“Okay, Sallie. You’re right, of course.” Then, businesslike again: “Let me have your report as soon as possible, please.”

As he stood and prepared to leave, he addressed George Flint: “Keep me in touch, George, especially if there’s a sighting of the good Brother.” The last bit said with undisguised distaste. “I’ll contact you again when I get Sallie’s autopsy report.”

George rose and shook hands, bidding him goodbye.

The sun shone from a clear, blue sky, beating down on the earth below. Those who weren’t engaged in employment occupied themselves in their different ways. Some, finding the recent hot weather too much, preferred to remain indoors, curtains partly drawn to keep out the burning rays, windows opened to the full. Others simply lazed around the garden, increasing the depth of their sun-tans whilst others, still, enjoyed trips to the seaside or countryside. Three in the afternoon and only the young felt energetic.

Thirteen-year old Emma Fairweather had gone on a bicycle ride with two of her school pals; Gerry Parkinson a lad of the same age who fancied her like mad, Carol Gracewell, another thirteen-year old and Candice Moreton, a friend seven months senior to Emma.

Pedalling along a pleasant country lane on their way home, they passed a motor home parked at the side of the road in a naturally formed lay by. Immediately following that, a sharp bend appeared in the lane and the pals had to brake hard to negotiate it. The road then led into a long decline, with gentle bends allowing the cyclists to ‘free-wheel’ the rest of the way down.

Unfortunately, Emma was a little late in braking as she passed the motor home and she lost control, wavering and skidding into the soft, thick bushes that lined the lane, saving her from injury. The accident went unnoticed by her two friends as they were ahead of Emma at the curve and, having steered their bikes safely, were able to move away and enjoy the rush of air into their faces as the cycles picked up speed.

Emma sat up, a little dazed but effectively unhurt. She checked for bruises and cuts and was pleased to find there were none of any note. However, looking at her bike, which had landed a few feet from her, she was horrified to see that the front wheel had buckled from the impact with the low banking. Not relishing the long walk home, she hoped against hope that her pals would soon realise she was no longer with them and return.

“Are you all right, dear?” The voice startled Emma, as she had not noticed anyone approach. She turned to the speaker and saw a man, dressed in a loose-fitting T-shirt, tight fitting denim shorts and wearing Reebok trainers on bare feet. She took in the strong tan and the muscular legs of the stranger, before looking into his face. She studied him quickly, liking what she saw, and then replied that she was okay, thanks, and wasn’t injured at all.

“Your bicycle looks to have fared worse than you, though,” he said, smiling. Emma rose to her feet and went over to the damaged machine, dismayed at its appearance.

“Don’t worry about it,” said the stranger. “Bring it to my motor home and I’ll fix it for you. Get you cleaned up, also.” The voice was rich, warm, and calming. Emma looked again at him. She had had it drummed into her from early childhood not to trust strangers and, as she had matured, she had realised to some extent why.

This man, however, was different. He looked into her mind, into her heart, and invaded her soul. A feeling of awe began to overtake her; she was in the presence of someone of another planet. Her eyes met and held his. She felt mesmerised yet aware. Picking up the bike, she trundled it along, following the man, who was walking slowly backwards toward the motor home. Rude thoughts entered her mind; the sort that she had been experiencing more and more when in bed at night; thoughts that she must keep secret. Hold me! Squeeze me! Touch me! Kiss me! Do THINGS to me! Teach me!

Reaching the motor home, the man eased the bike from Emma’s grip and laid it on the ground at the far side of the vehicle, out of sight from the road. He then led the bewitched girl into the interior.

“My name is Brother Ignatious Saviour,” began the man. “I am a Jesuit priest, so you need have no fear of me, whatsoever.” Pointing to the middle of the home, he told her to go into the small bathroom and clean herself up. Emma obeyed without hesitation.

Even as she washed, the impure thoughts would not leave her; they were persistent and as though put there by someone else. On finishing, she looked in the mirror and, satisfied by the reflection, she left the cubicle and sat across from the priest who was seated at a small table.

“That’s better,” he said. “You look much brighter now.” Taking her hands in his, he asked: “Would you like a drink of some sort? Coffee? Tea? Pop?”

Emma felt a surge from the strength of the firm hands that held hers. “No, thank you,” she stuttered, fighting to resist the naughty thoughts constantly entering her mind. Strip me! Take me as I am — a virgin! Take off your clothes I want to see you!

“What is your name?” asked Ignatious.

“Emma.”