tribulations to work his way through theological college. And he never forgot his humble beginnings. After stints in rural Ireland he worked in Calcutta, Mexico City and the East End of London. Always he believed in feeding the hungry body first; a full belly made for a receptive mind. He preached by example, and only tried to answer questions after they had been asked.
The phone call, received in the middle of that Tuesday afternoon, was nothing unusual. The problems of the people in the inner-city area of Sheffield where the Father now held office were little different from anywhere else in the world. Poverty, with the attendant bad housing and crime, knew no national boundaries. Another poor soul, he thought, reaching the end of its tether.
'Of course you can come and see me, my child. As soon as possible, you say. Well, let me see. I can be in the church, that's St. Patrick's, any time this afternoon. Shall we say… four o'clock? Will that be all right?'
He didn't ask if the caller wanted to make a confession, or even if they were a Catholic. It wasn't important. At this stage all that mattered was that another human being had made a cry for help. The Father glanced up at his kitchen clock and slipped his shoes back on.
As he left the house the electric kettle, with which he had intended making a cup of instant soup, came to the boil and clicked off.
The door to St. Patrick's had a character all its own. When it was ajar some freak of architecture caused an outrush of air, which would snatch the door from the hand of the hapless person who had just entered and slam it shut. The resultant reverberations would set the candle flames shimmering at the other end of the church, and columns of black smoke would spiral from them towards the roof.
Deep as he often was in supplication or meditation, Father Birr could never pray undisturbed through a door slam. It was a source of amusement to him, and he privately regarded it as God's early-warning system.
He was half expecting it, this time, for he was certain that the voice on the phone was a stranger. When it came he continued his devotions with practised serenity. The visitor would pause, then walk slowly through the nave towards the altar. The picture he would find there was all part of the healing process.
Father Birr said a final prayer asking for God's guidance in the immediate task, kissed the altar cloth and rose to his feet. He took three steps backwards and genuflected. Then he turned to meet his mystery caller.
Never shocked or surprised, he was not disturbed by the slightly built figure before him. It wore a trilby hat pulled down over the eyes, leaving the face in shadow. Slung diagonally across the shoulders was the strap of a large sports bag, with the name Adidas emblazoned on the end. The right arm disappeared into the bag. The hand was resting on the mechanism of the twelve-bore shotgun it contained, but the priest could not see that.
Father Birr smiled just enough to convey empathy but not pleasure.
'Hello,' he said. 'So glad you made it. I'm Father Birr, but most people call me Declan. Do you want to tell me your name?'
'Yes,' said the figure, almost apologetically. 'I'm… the Destroying Angel,' and a forefinger tightened around the trigger.
Declan Birr died instantly, the flash and the roar of the shotgun frozen in his mind for eternity. Behind him the candle flames shivered as the shock wave passed through them, and plumes of pollution streamed heavenwards.
Chapter 11
Warning bells were clanging in the head of the detective superintendent who launched the enquiry into the death of Father Birr. 'See if you can raise someone in the HOLMES unit,' he told his sergeant as soon as he had the opportunity. 'Ask them to input church, vicar, shotgun; that sort of stuff. There was another of these about three weeks ago, somewhere near Nottingham.'
The Home Office's purpose-designed major enquiry computer software flicked silently through the millions of bits and bytes that represented the thousands of crimes, mainly murders, that were stored in its implacable brain. It recognised the key words quicker than a man could blow his nose and spewed out the case of Ronald Conway; investigating officer in charge: Chief Superintendent Raymond Tollis.
Fifteen minutes and four phone calls later Tollis was speaking to Oscar Peterson, asking to be picked up.
Eighty per cent of murder victims know their assailant, and the majority of cases are solved in the first forty- eight hours. After that time the odds grow longer. Unsolved murders are never taken off the books, they are just pushed to the back of the file, to be forgotten by everyone except the people closest to them. DI Peterson was coming to terms with knowing that he might retire with the killer of Ronald Conway still free. He had decided that he could live with it.
Tollis's phone call displeased him at first. He did not like the man and wanted to play no part in furthering his ambitions. Then his policeman's instincts took over and his initial dismay was replaced by the familiar urge to be in the thick of the action.
A few minutes earlier he had donned a pair of old trousers, with the intention of doing an hour's gardening before the light faded. It was part of his self-imposed Training for Retirement programme. Dilys noted the eagerness with which he changed back into his work suit and shoes. She pecked his cheek and told him not to wake her when he returned.
They went to the church first, having to ask directions from a woman at a bus stop. Peterson abandoned the car about fifty yards from the gate and followed in the Chief Superintendent's wake. Over the wall, in the graveyard, a search party was methodically working its way over the ground in the gathering gloom.
Tollis ignored the lone reporter from the local radio station as they showed their IDs to the constable at the gate who was logging all visitors. Maybe there would be more when they came out. He'd better prepare some sort of statement, he thought. A short assertion that they were following certain lines of enquiry, combined with an appeal for witnesses. That should do it.
The young PC at the door glanced at their cards before holding it open for them. Every time it had slammed he felt that some vital clue was destroyed and he was responsible. Tollis strode straight through, but Peterson gave the youth a wink. At the front of the church three heads turned to examine the intruders from another force who might take the enquiry away from them.
Peterson hung back and let the chief do the talking. He was better at it. He heard himself described as 'my right-hand man', followed by confirmation that Tollis and Andrew, the Sheffield super, had been at Staff College together. No, Andrew hadn't applied to do the Senior Command Course this time. Everybody agreed that the killing was a 'nasty job'.
'Any minute now they'll arrange a round of golf,' the DI muttered to himself.
The body had gone, but the photographer was still there, in case the SO COs needed him. Peterson wandered to where they were working. A pool of blood, shaped like Australia with a smudged Gulf of Carpentaria, marked the spot where the priest had fallen. He looked in vain for Lake Eyre, but then remembered seeing a TV programme about it drying up.
Peterson turned to the photographer and jerked a thumb at the red stain. 'What was he wearing?' he asked.
'His long black frock, sir, over a shirt and trousers.'
'It's called a cassock. Did you notice if it had any pockets in it?'
'Pockets? No, I don't think so, sir. Just slits in the side.'
'Mmm, that's what I'd have thought.'
The DI ran his expert gaze over the vicinity of the murder, for there was no doubt that it was murder and he was certain that this was at least the second in the series. He scanned the altar the holy of holies; the pulpit from which Father Birr would never again dispense his gentle wisdom; and the notice boards with the numbers of last week's hymns.
It looked so innocuous, another person might have missed it. Lying on the front right-hand pew where the bridegroom usually sits was a piece of paper, with a prayer book resting on top so it could not blow away.
Peterson walked across and bent over it. Without moving the book he could recognise the coloured illustration of a toadstool.
