‘I’m sorry, I’m not explaining myself very well. Father Guzowski is a saint,or at least he will be,I’ve no doubt of it.He was an American priest,from New York,and he went down to Jamaica to run a mission in the slums of Kingston, with the poorest and most desperate. He worked miracles in the worst of circumstances. He saved lives and brought hope to thousands. And one of the things he did was to help lift young people out of the pit and offer them a new start,a new life,overseas.They were Father Guzowski’s boys, and in New York, in Toronto, and elsewhere in London, there are people like me who met them off the planes and helped to get them a job and a place to stay.
‘It didn’t always work out, of course. They came from violent backgrounds, some of them, and found it difficult to shake that off.’
He stared at the diary entry again.‘You know, I’d forgotten that they came over together. I suppose you could say they represent both ends of the spectrum of Father Guzowski’s boys.We worked hard on Joseph, as I recall, especially Winnie, but he was only interested in fast money and girls. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’d been dealing drugs. And now, it seems he died a violent death. Michael, on the other hand, was younger and more malleable, receptive to Abigail’s encouragement, and very bright. From the most rudimentary education in one of Father Guzowski’s schools, he developed remarkably fast. By his early twenties he was studying at university, and a few years later he was a union official with UCATT, back here in our area. Soon he came to the attention of the local politicians, and was adopted as our parliamentary candidate.Michael Grant MP is now the member for Lambeth North.’
He said the final words with a flourish of his arm, as if proudly presenting not only Michael’s but his own triumph over life’s many obstacles, the draughty old presbytery, the recalcitrant youths, the shortage of funds. ‘You might talk to Michael about Joseph, you know.’
‘Yes, good idea,’ Brock said.
‘His constituency office is in the shop next door to the Ship.’
‘Where Spider Roach had his pawnshop? You’ll remember Spider Roach, of course.’
‘Oh indeed.’ Father Maguire seemed suddenly wary.
‘He must have been a thorn in your side. He certainly was in mine.’
‘He was a powerful figure around these parts, all right, and a baleful influence on many lives. But I hear he’s a changed man now, a great giver of charity. In point of fact . . .’ Kathy thought she detected some embarrassment here,‘. . .he paid for the repairs to the church spire last year, and donated computers to the school. A sinner’s repentance is a wonderful thing.’
He met Brock’s stony gaze.
‘Does he still come down here then?’
‘No. I haven’t seen him in years.’
‘What about his sons?’
‘Nor them. I heard they all moved out to Shooters Hill.’
‘Doyouhave anything else that might help us then,Father? Any particular friends of Joseph? Or any recollections of that night,Saturday the eleventh of April 1981? It was the time of the riots in Brixton.’
The priest thumbed through the second diary but found nothing. He couldn’t remember the surname of Joseph’s friend Walter, or anything about a third member of the group. Abigail Lavender’s husband had died and she’d moved away, but he wasn’t sure where to.
‘Maybe you could ponder on it and let us know if anything comes to mind.Would you have a photograph of Joseph?’
‘Well now, that is possible. I used to make a habit of taking a picture of the boys when they arrived, to send back to Father Guzowski. Let’s see, let’s see.We’ve been making an effort to get my papers in order.’
He bustled across to a couple of old wooden filing cabinets in a corner of the room and began searching through the drawers. ‘Here we are. It would be with these, if it’s anywhere.’
He laid a sheaf of photos on his desk and turned them over until one caught his eye.‘This would be them, I think.Yes.’ He showed a picture of two young men grinning at the camera, one tall and skinny and bow-legged with his arm around the shoulders of the other, more guarded and boyishly handsome.
‘Thank you, Father.’ Brock took the picture. ‘You’ve been a great help.’
‘I’d like it back, if that’s all right. I’ve had it in my mind for some time to write a little memoir of Father Guzowski’s boys. Somebody should.’
The path from the front door of the presbytery to the street wound around an ancient black yew tree,and as they emerged from its shelter they noticed a blue Peugeot convertible parked at the opposite kerb, emitting the usual heavy thumping bass. The side windows were tinted dark so they couldn’t see who was inside. Just then, with perfect timing, a police patrol car swung around the corner and pulled in behind the Peugeot. Two young uniformed cops got out, a man and a woman, and approached it. The woman tapped on the driver’s window and the door swung open,filling the quiet street with booming hip hop, and Mr Teddy Vexx heaved himself out. The policewoman said something to him and he reached back inside the car and turned the music off, then straightened again.She stood close in front of him,a good foot shorter,and delivered a short lecture, pointing to the no-parking sign, the double yellow line and the distance to the corner. All the time he stood there impassively, huge arms folded across the gold chains draped over his chest, staring across the road at Kathy and Brock. He was wearing a black bandana around his head and dark glasses. The constable asked for something and he reached to his hip pocket and produced a wallet, handing her his driver’s licence.While she walked away,talking into her radio,her partner was peering into the car. The rules prevented him from searching it without due cause, something suspicious he could actually see or smell, and he looked slightly comic bent to the opening, nose twitching, straining for an excuse. Vexx said something and the cop straightened sharply and said,‘What’s that,sir? Speak English,please.’
Kathy and Brock walked away.
‘I owe you a fiver.’
He chuckled.‘You’ve established a date?’
‘April 1981.’
‘Interesting. How about buying me a pizza tonight? You can tell me all about it.’
‘Suits me.’
‘Can I pick you up at seven?’ he asked.
‘Fine.’
‘And I may have something interesting for you.’
‘Great, as long as it’s not rum punch.’
‘Aw, I thought you liked my rum punch.’
‘I did, but it refuses to let go.’
‘I know what you mean. I’ve got this strange limp today.’
‘Strange limp what?’
‘Now, now.’
That afternoon Bren had returned to Queen Anne’s Gate to set up the case room for a new phase of the investigation, while Kathy got to work on Joseph Kidd.She established that he had entered the country on the eighteenth of September 1980, but there were no further records of him either leaving or returning. He had been allocated a National Insurance number the following month, but there were no records of any social security, national health or income tax transactions on that number. He had had no driver’s licence,bank accounts,police record or traffic offences.As far as the record was concerned, sometime during 1981 Joseph Kidd had simply ceased to exist, although no one had ever reported him missing. Kathy looked at the copy of Father Maguire’s photo of the two boys pinned to the wall, feeling the poignancy of that brief moment of elation at the arrivals gate at Gatwick. One boy had gone on to success in his new country, the other had disappeared into the void.She began to assemble the material that would be sent to the JCF in Kingston and to Interpol.
Brock, meanwhile, had got through to Michael Grant in his office at the Houses of Parliament. The MP had already heard from Father Maguire, and said he’d been intending to contact Brock. He said he’d come over immediately, Queen Anne’s Gate being only a short walk away, and ten minutes later Brock met him at the front door. Seeing him again he recognised the handsome boy of the photograph, but the caution in his look had been
