“Just some tosser,” I mumbled. Understatement of the millennium. Suddenly I remembered how close Sara and I had become over the past nine months. I was at the stage where I trusted her with everything. She was my savior; she could make anything better.
“Come to bed,” she said, tugging at me gently, her cheeks red-they were always like that when she was aroused.
I followed her into the bedroom, the blood hot in my veins. But my head was filled with confused thoughts. Something was trying to make itself known.
“Come on,” Sara said, tugging back the duvet. “I’ll make you feel-”
The thought that had been nagging me burst to the surface.
“No!” I said, lunging forward.
“Well, well, Mr. Wells,” Sara said, her smile slowly disappearing. “What have you been up to?”
She picked up the bundles of twenty-pound notes that I’d stuck under the covers when I brought Lucy round, and gave me a questioning stare.
5
After what seemed like an eternity, Mrs. O’Grady, seventy-three and deeply wrinkled, finished arranging her bucket and mop in the cupboard off the sacristy. “Will that be all for tonight, Father Prendegast?” she asked.
“Yes, yes,” the priest replied impatiently, his head with its large bald patch bowed over the papers on the table.
“Are you sure now?” Mrs. O’Grady had been doing the Wednesday night cleaning at St. Bartholomew’s, West Kilburn, for more than thirty years and she prided herself on the solicitude that she afforded the men of God. The previous fathers had appreciated her, but this one was different. Although he’d been there for nearly ten years, she hardly felt that she knew him at all. He paid her little attention. She didn’t like gossip, but she’d begun to believe what some of the other ladies said-that he’d come to their church under a cloud. There had been a scandal somewhere in the East End that was hushed up. She raised her head to the stained ceiling. Dear God, she thought, why can’t your representatives on earth keep their hands to themselves?
Mrs. O’Grady took a step back when she realized Father Prendegast was glaring at her, as if he knew what was in her mind. She took her coat and hurried away, mumbling, “Good night to you, then.” She stopped when she got outside and shivered. It wasn’t cold-the last of the sun had spread in a red carpet over the western sky and its warmth was still in the air-but she felt a chill. There was something about that man, something she could almost smell. He was…he was dirty, a wrong ’un. She walked quickly down the gravel path, anxious to get back to her council flat and her little dog. She didn’t notice the figure that rose up from behind one of the larger gravestones and moved silently toward the door of the church.
Norman Prendegast pushed his chair back and got up. At last the old cow had left him in peace. He selected a key from the ring on his belt and slotted it into the bottom drawer of an antique rolltop desk. He took the bottle of Jameson that one of the faithful had given him at Easter and broke the seal. The first few gulps did nothing, and then he began to feel the warmth rising from his belly. That was the stuff. He went back to the table and sat down again, setting the bottle on the accounts book he’d been trying to complete. He’d leave that chore to another night.
After he’d taken another long pull from the bottle, the priest fell into a reverie. Fifteen years he’d been in exile from his flock in Bethnal Green; fifteen years he’d been banned from even visiting them in his time off. It wasn’t fair. He’d been everything a priest should be-unstinting in his efforts, a source of comfort to the faithful in times of loss and pain, a beacon of joy at weddings. His choir, his football and cricket teams, they’d won prizes. He swallowed again, but now the spirit tasted bitter as his grievances rose up around him like a demented chorus. You didn’t do anything wrong. You were only offering them friendship. The boys loved you. The boys wanted you to touch them.
Father Prendegast heard a noise from the church. Mrs. O’Grady must have forgotten something. He stayed where he was. He didn’t like the way she looked at him. She knew, he was sure of it. The hypocrites, the old harpies. They all knew about him, but they pretended they didn’t. They pretended he was a normal priest rather than one who’d been given a last chance by the archbishop, and that only because the church couldn’t face the shame. Five years in an isolated retreat in County Kerry and then this run-down hole. It was only full when the sinners came at Christmas and Easter. No one bothered to confess anything other than venial sins these days, anyway. They thought that meant they could forget the truly bad things they’d done. Hypocrites. Whited sepulchers. At least he’d confessed, though it had been required of him. Confessed and asked forgiveness. His conscience was clean, even if his desires still tormented him.
Norman Prendegast drank again. The bottle was still at his lips when the sacristy door opened, and then closed again.
“Who’s that?” he demanded, his vision blurred. “Is it you, Mrs. O’Grady?”
The key turned in the lock.
“What’s going on?” the priest said, his voice wavering. He tried to get the bottle out of sight. “This is a private room.”
“Calm down, Father,” said a low male voice. “I’ve just come for a little chat.” The figure drew closer. “About old times.”
There was something familiar about the voice, although the words were free of any recognizable accent.
“Who are you?” Father Prendegast asked, staring through the whisky-induced haze. “Do I know you?”
“Oh, yes,” the man said. He was standing next to him now. “Don’t you remember me?”
A gloved hand suddenly grabbed the priest’s chin and forced his face round.
“Take a good look.”
Prendegast blinked and tried to make out the features. The man was wearing a black cap, which he took off to reveal short blond hair. That meant nothing to him. But the features did. The small nose, the half smile on the pinched lips, but most of all the eyes-so brown that he could hardly distinguish between iris and pupil. Oh, sweet Jesus, was it really him, the one who’d brought him down? After all these years?
The intruder let go of his chin and laughed. “And my name is?”
The priest licked his lips and reached for the bottle. It was knocked off the table in a swift movement, smashing on the flagstones. The smell rose up to taunt him.
“What did you do that for?”
The hand was on him again, this time tightening on his throat. “What’s my name, pederast?”
“Les…Leslie Dunn.”
The grip loosened.
“Is the correct answer, Father. You win tonight’s star prize.” His attacker’s face was close to his. “Ask me what it is, you pig.”
“Please, I’ll do anything…” He broke off as the pressure increased again. “Money…I’ve got…money.”
“Is that right, Father Bugger of Boys?” There was another empty laugh. “Well, that’s the one thing I don’t need. Ask me what you’ve won.”
“Ah…can’t…can’t breath…What…what have I won?”
He was pushed down onto the chair. Before the priest could resist, thick rope was being passed around his arms and upper body.
The face was up against his. He could smell mint on the breath of the altar boy he’d abused.
“You’ve won a first-class ticket on the midnight express to hell.”
The last thing Father Norman Prendegast saw was a shining silver knife moving to and fro in front of his eyes.
The last thing he felt was a lancing agony from behind.
Detective Chief Inspector Karen Oaten, promoted to the Metropolitan Police’s recently formed Violent Crimes Coordination Team in February, was standing in front of the altar of St. Bartholomew’s. She was in white coveralls
