‘What I depend on are the facts, inspector. It’s called good police work.’
‘Do we know who she is?’ asked Emma Halliday
Diane Campbell shook her head and pointed at the bucket and the basket of polishes and dusters that was to the side of the altar. ‘We think it was the cleaning woman, but the good Father didn’t look too closely. We’re waiting for him to come in and make a formal identification.’
Duncton walked over and looked into the bucket, grimaced and moved away. ‘Let’s get him back in, then.’
*
If any colour had returned to Father Carson Brown’s face in the time since he had last let his gaze fall upon the severed head that still sat in the centre of his altar like a blasphemous obscenity, it had drained away again now. He still had a blanket draped around his shoulders. The comforting hand of Sergeant Emma Halliday rested on his left one as she guided him reluctantly back up the aisle to the altar.
‘Just take your time, Father.’
‘Okay.’ The priest knelt down and made another sign of the cross on his chest. He stood up, his gaze raised and fixed on the benevolent eyes of the crucified god above the altar. A few steps further and he stopped in front of the small raised dais, took a deep breath and looked down.
He held his unblinking gaze for a moment or two as he stared at the unfortunate woman’s head, taking in the absolute horror of it. Her skin had more colour now – some red veins were standing out against the mottled blue skin. Tears formed in his eyes and he did nothing to blink them away. ‘Yes, it’s her,’ he said simply.
‘What’s her name?’ asked Duncton.
‘It’s Maureen Gallagher,’ said Father Carson Brown.
‘Sweet Jesus,’ said Diane Campbell.
‘And who is she, then, apart from being the church cleaner?’ asked Duncton, puzzled.
Delaney gave him a flat look. ‘She was the only person ever to visit Peter Garnier in prison,’ he said. ‘She went to see him once, six months ago.’
Duncton blinked his eyes rapidly as he took it in. ‘So why in God’s name has she ended up decapitated and placed on a church altar a hundred yards from Carlton Row?’
‘None of this is in God’s name,’ said the priest, turning away from the altar.
‘Somebody is sending a message?’ Emma Halliday speculated.
‘To who?’ asked Duncton.
Delaney shrugged and looked at the priest who, puce-coloured and breathing deeply, was holding onto one of the pews facing the entrance to the church.
‘I guess that’s what we need to find out. And quickly.’
*
DI Tony Bennett sat on the edge of his bed and pulled on his right shoe, tying the laces neatly. He put his foot down and winced slightly, leaning forward to rub his ankle. It was still slightly swollen but the pain was easing. He popped a 400mg capsule of ibuprofen out of the foil strip, put it in his mouth and swallowed it with a drink of water from a pint glass that he had by his bed. He put the glass down and picked up the book that was beside it. It was the Good News version of the New Testament. He opened it at random and read a few verses to himself. He put the book back on his bedside cabinet and looked around the bedroom. It was a plain room in a one-bedroom apartment: one window looking out over a back garden that he didn’t have access to, a wardrobe, a chair with curved wooden armrests and a red cushion on it by the window. No decorations at all apart from a small wooden crucifix above his bed.
Bennett stood up, wincing a little again, and walked across to his wardrobe. He took out a smart black jacket to match his black trousers and put it on. He looked at himself in the mirror set into the back of the wardrobe door and adjusted his tie, which was blue with red diagonal stripes. He looked at himself for a moment or two longer, his brown eyes serious and thoughtful, and then slid his reflection away as he closed the door.
He stepped through to the living room. Like his bedroom there was little personality in the room: no posters or pictures on the walls, no photographs on display. It was rectangular, a modern design with a sofa acting as a partition from the kitchen area behind it. The sofa faced a television and DVD set up on a chrome stand. At right angles to the pale yellow sofa a matching armchair had been placed, and opposite that was a sideboard with a bookcase above. No books had yet been placed on the shelves but a number of magazines were arranged neatly in a pile at the base of it. Bennett crossed over to the sideboard and picked up the remote control for the television that rested on top of the uppermost magazine,
He muted the sound as a barrage of noise burst from the television and animated creatures danced around the screen. Still holding the remote, he walked over to his kitchen area, which had a beech table that could seat four people, modern matching beech units with a built-in oven, a four-ring gas hob and a shiny metal sink set in a faux- marble work surface. He picked up a mug of coffee that he had made some minutes earlier, took a swig and using the remote he flicked through his pre-set favourite channels to Sky News.
Melanie Jones, wrapped in a bright red thick woollen duffel coat, with a white scarf arranged perfectly around her pretty neck, was addressing the camera. Behind her a few people had gathered at the yellow tape that was cordoning off the street, and further still behind her Bennett could see the numerous flashing blue lights of the police cars parked by the church of Saint Botolph’s. Saint Botolph, he thought to himself: another Irishman come to England to preach. Nobody knew much about him, either.
He pressed the mute button again and the presenter’s warm honey-toned voice filled the room.
‘I am sad to be bringing you yet another bizarre twist to the Peter Garnier story. Not a hundred yards from Carlton Row, which local people are now calling Death Row, where an eight-year-old boy called Archie Woods was abducted yesterday. A woman’s body has been discovered this morning in Saint Botolph’s church, which you can see behind me. Although the police have yet to release a full statement, they have informed Sky News that they are treating the death as highly suspicious. The discovery was made by Father Carson Brown, priest of the church, and we hope to be speaking to him later.’
