wooden trestle table held thermos flasks, and a bank of microwave ovens pinged, the scent of shepherd’s pie tussling with the subtle stench of disinfectant. Volunteers ricocheted between the needy, ferrying food, drink and fussy attention.
Vee Hilgay appeared from a side room carrying a thermos of coffee.
‘I take it this is professional,’ she said, leading Dryden towards one of the stone seats which bordered the room.
Dryden accepted a styrofoam cup. ‘Vee. I’m trying to find someone. A Catholic priest – John Martin – I rang the church at Lane End and they thought he might be here.’
Vee nodded, filled the cup with coffee and disappeared into the throng.
Martin appeared suddenly, his dog collar discarded for a comfy sweater. But the punctilious neatness was still apparent, the hair Brylcreemed in lines as straight as the pews in the nave.
He sat in the niche next to Dryden, cradling his own coffee.
‘Ecumenical, then?’ said Dryden, already spoiling for a fight.
Martin nodded. ‘It’s a generous offer. Most of these are off the Fen; we provide the transport, the cathedral provides the heat.’
‘I’ve got some good news,’ said Dryden, smiling. ‘Declan McIlroy and Joe Petulengo…’
Martin stiffened, looking uncomfortable.
‘… they’re dead.’
Dryden looked into the priest’s eyes and realized he’d miscalculated.
Martin stood. ‘I’ll pray for them.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Dryden, standing too. ‘Please…’ He put a hand on Martin’s sleeve, letting his weight draw the priest down again.
Martin looked at his coffee. ‘I need a fresh cup,’ he said, disappearing into the crowd, and Dryden was surprised to see him return. ‘How did they die?’ he asked, sitting.
‘The cold. That’s what the police believe. Declan had a stiff drink and sat in his armchair while he froze to death with the windows open. Joe had an accident – they think he stumbled into water near his home, fell through the ice; he was found on his own doorstep. I found him, actually…’
Martin crossed himself and Dryden watched the priest’s lips moving, a devotion Dryden had faked so many times.
Dryden leant closer. ‘Who exactly would have benefited from the case against St Vincent’s not coming to court?’
‘You mean anyone other than myself?’
Dryden crushed the styrofoam cup. ‘Father. I need your help. I don’t think these men died by accident. They were key to the case against the diocese – both for the civil action, and any subsequent criminal charges. Now they’re dead those actions will – at the very least – be stalled for some time. The whole thing may collapse. So. Who else?’
Father Martin shrugged, outlining with a finger the blood-red birthmark on his face.
‘The diocese, clearly – but that was purely monetary. The action would have entailed substantial damages – but hardly a motive for murder. The police were enjoined to the action as well – for failing to respond adequately to complaints – as were the county council’s social services department. I suppose there may be individuals whose careers were at stake. But…’ He laughed. ‘It seems far-fetched?’
Dryden considered the divided loyalties of Ed Bardolph – Declan McIlroy’s social worker. But Father Martin was right: finding a suitable motive for murder if the case against St Vincent’s went ahead was a challenge he was failing to meet.
He tried another tack. ‘Do you remember them? Joe and Declan?’
‘Yes. Yes, I remember them. They were close – both in John’s I think. They left in the early eighties. At sixteen.’
Something Marcie Sley had said echoed in Dryden’s mind. ‘Was that unusual – to spend their whole childhoods at St Vincent’s? Declan’s sister said she’d been fostered for a while but then returned to care. So she never got away either… none of them did.’
Martin reached for his dog-collar to ease the pressure at his throat, forgetting it wasn’t there. ‘Look. I really think this
‘But it was unusual, wasn’t it? There was a reason, wasn’t there? A reason why they stayed in care. What was it, Father?’
‘I can’t,’ said Martin, standing. ‘I really can’t. It’s down to her, really. Did you ask her?’
Dryden couldn’t stop his eyes sliding away from the priest’s. ‘No. But you’re right, it is private. I’m only trying to find the truth, to find out who they were before they died.’
Martin scanned the room. ‘Ask her. Ask her about the Connor case. But please – we didn’t talk.’
‘Connor?’ asked Dryden, but Martin spotted an elderly woman stranded in a plastic seat stretching for a coffee cup on a table just beyond her reach.
‘Mrs Edwards… please, let me…’
He touched Dryden on the shoulder before he went. It was a blessing, and for once Dryden didn’t recoil.
