‘I heard that, yes.’
‘Well, McIlhenney’s come up with a name through the AA. Dominic Ahern, 32 Mountcastle Gardens. I’ve decided to see him myself, so have Sammy here inside half an hour, as my back-up.’
‘Very good, sir.’
Martin replaced the telephone and stared out of the window. The skies were even more ominous than before, heavy and with the purple tinge of snow clouds as they moved steadily eastwards. Outside a few flakes fluttered to the ground.
Suddenly Martin sat bolt upright and picked up the telephone, dialling an internal number. ‘Pamela?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘The Boss isn’t back yet, is he?’
‘No. I don’t expect him for a while yet.’
‘Good, because I’d like to commandeer you for a while. There’s a search I want made, in a fair old hurry. I know that Mr Skinner will approve, so if you come along here, I’ll brief you. When he gets back I’ll let him in on the secret.’
61
‘This is Mountcastle Gardens, all right, Sammy, but I’m damned if I can see number 32.’ Pye, at the wheel of his white Peugeot 205 peered out of the window, as he cruised slowly along.
‘Well look, sir, that’s 26, then there’s the church, then there’s . . . number 34.’ His voice tailed off in puzzlement.
‘Hold on,’ said the Chief Superintendent. ‘Got it. That must be it, set back from the road. You can hardly see it for the trees.’
Pye swung the car in a U-turn and parked in front of the long, tree-lined path which led up to 32 Mountcastle Gardens. As he climbed out of the car, a strange feeling of unease came over Martin, deepening quickly into frustration. His brow furrowed as he and Pye walked up the long pathway, up to the big red stone villa at the end, with its brown-painted door and guttering, and its austere brown velvet curtains.
When Pye’s ring of the doorbell was answered by a severe woman in a wrap-round overall, with her grey hair tied back in a bun, the Chief Superintendent’s gathering suspicions were confirmed. ‘We’re from the police,’ he said. ‘We’d like to see Father Ahern; Dominic Ahern.’
The woman glared up at them for a second, then beckoned them inside. Pye looked bewildered as she ushered them, without a word, into a dull room off the hall, with heavy old-fashioned furniture that had seen better days. ‘How did you know, sir?’ he asked.
‘The church next door. It’s called St Magdalena’s. And this is the Chapter House, where the priests live. It takes one to know one, Sammy. Why d’you think I joined the Edinburgh force, rather than Glasgow?’
There was a cough from the doorway behind them. They turned to see a tall fair man, in his early thirties, in a black shirt and narrow clerical collar. ‘Yes, gentlemen?’ he said, in a light Irish brogue.
‘DCS Martin, DC Pye. We’re sorry to call unannounced, Father, but this has come up at rather short notice.’
Father Ahern frowned, but said nothing.
‘Last Wednesday,’ Martin continued, ‘you called the AA to report that your car had broken down in Seafield Road, just after eight thirty. You also called a minicab company and were picked up ten minutes later by a taxi driver, a Mr Quinn.’
‘Yes,’ said the priest slowly, and, the detective sensed, faintly apprehensively.
‘You may not have been aware of it then, but at that time a car showroom in Seafield Road was set ablaze. In that fire a woman died.’
‘I learned of it later,’ said Father Ahern.
‘Did you pass close by that showroom?’ asked the detective.
‘I did.’
‘And did you see anything?’
‘I saw a man leaving in a car.’
‘Did he see you?’
‘Yes.’
Something in the priest’s tone seized Martin with expectation, and seemed to prompt his questions. ‘Did you recognise that man?’
‘Yes.’
‘What was his name?’
‘I cannot say.’
‘You mean you can’t recall it?’
‘I mean I cannot say.’
‘What sort of car was he driving?’
‘I cannot say.’
‘Is it because you don’t know?’
‘Chief Superintendent, I cannot say. Do you understand me? I cannot say.’
Martin nodded. ‘I understand.’ His mind whirled as he searched for his next question.
‘Did this man recognise you, Father?’
The priest gave a tiny gasp, hesitated for a second then nodded his head. ‘Yes, he did.’
Martin looked at him, fixing him directly with his piercing green eyes. ‘Is this man one of your own parishioners, Father?’
Dominic Ahern gazed back, weighing the consequences of his answer to the simple question. ‘No, he is not,’ he said at last.
The detective grunted. ‘Thank you, Father,’ he said, ‘for your help, insofar as you were able to give it. We’ll see ourselves out.’
As the heavy brown door closed behind them with a thud, Sammy Pye could contain himself no longer. ‘Sir, if you don’t mind me asking, what the f . . . was all that about?
‘What help did he give us in there?’
‘A hell of a lot, Sammy,’ said the Chief Superintendent, ‘as much as he could without breaking sanctity. He told us that he saw and recognised the murderer as he left the scene of the crime, and that the murderer saw and recognised him.
‘He told us that, before Father Ahern knew of the fire or of Carole Charles’ death, the murderer, although he attends another church, sought him out and made confession to him, securing his silence for ever.’
‘But what does that do for us, sir?’
Martin stopped, his hand on the roof of the Peugeot. ‘For a start, Sammy, it eliminates about seventy-five per cent of the male population of Edinburgh from our enquiries!’
62
‘Holy Mother of God - if I may say so - Andy! So all we’ve got to do is trawl through all the Catholic males in Edinburgh one by one, till we find our killer.’
‘Not quite. You can forget McGuire and me for a start, and you can rule out any parishioner of St Magdalena’s.’
‘Can the PNC help, I wonder?’ Skinner mused. ‘Why not ask it to give you all Roman Catholic males with criminal form in the Edinburgh area, aged, say, between twenty-five and forty?’
‘Priorities, boss,’ said Martin. ‘Where am I going to find the manpower to follow it up?’
‘Okay, fine it down a bit more. Add in the old lady’s description of the Slateford killer. See what that gives you.’
‘But there’s no evidence, not even circumstantial, that Carole Charles and Medina were killed by the same
