Chapter 26
Stepney, Saturday 24 January, 2.30 p.m.
St Aloysius’s Church on Buckhurst Street, just north of Mile End Road, was a modern concrete building. Pendragon sighed as he stepped out of the car and glanced up at the irregularly shaped stained-glass panels in the window over the entrance. He tilted his head slightly in an effort to understand what the images represented. Giving up, he glanced over at Turner. ‘Not exactly Rheims, is it, Sergeant?’
‘If you say so, sir,’ Turner replied.
‘But isn’t it odd how our ancestors could construct wonderful buildings to honour their God, while today we get monstrosities like this?’ The DCI waved one hand at the church.
‘All about money, I expect, guv.’
‘Yes, Turner. And, of course, the Catholic Church is
‘Another weird one, sir,’ he said.
‘Who are these people?’
‘Members of the Church Council, sir.’
There were two men and two women in the group. The women were sobbing and one of the men was comforting the elder of them. The other man saw Pendragon and stepped forward.
‘I’m the Churchwarden,’ he said. ‘Malcolm Connolly.’ He was a tall, slender man in his fifties, bald but for the tufts of white hair to either side of his head. He was wearing a checked shirt and a brown tie under a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches. He smelled of pipe tobacco. Connolly offered Pendragon his hand, and the DCI introduced himself. ‘I found the body, with the Old Father,’ the Churchwarden added.
‘The old father?’
‘Sorry. Father Lionel Ahern, retired. He was parish priest here before Father Michael.’
Pendragon nodded. ‘I see. Well, if you could wait here a moment, I would like a word after I’ve seen the crime scene.’
The room was no more than three metres square, wood-panelled and windowless, with two ornate wall lamps illuminating the space. It smelled of incense and the mustiness of the recently deceased. The chair in which the dead priest had been propped up stood in the centre. Mackleby and Vickers were to one side. Dr Jones was leaning over the victim, shining a small torch into the dead eyes.
‘Another fetching tableau to add to the collection,’ he said, without even looking round. ‘
The DCI stared at the corpse. ‘This is getting repetitive,’ he said quietly. ‘So now we have a Francis Bacon to add to the list of dead Surrealists. Marvellous.’ He took a step closer. ‘What have you ascertained?’
‘What? In the ten minutes I’ve been here, Pendragon?’
‘Yes.’
Jones exhaled through his nostrils. ‘Victim is male, aged about fifty-five … sixty. He has a mark on the back of his neck, same as the others.’
‘Time of death?’
‘At least twelve hours ago.’
Pendragon turned to Towers. ‘What’s the victim’s full name?’
‘Father Michael O’Leary.’
‘He’s been dead for twelve hours. How come? When did that chap Connolly get here?’
‘He was only found an hour ago by the retired priest, Father Lionel Ahern, and the Churchwarden.’
‘Where is Father Ahern now?’
Sergeant Mackleby stepped forward. ‘He’s in hospital, guv.’
Pendragon gave her a blank look.
‘He’s in his eighties. Turned up this morning to have his weekly coffee with Father O’Leary but found the vestry door locked. He also noticed that the chair,’ she nodded towards the throne-like seat in which O’Leary’s body was arranged ‘… was missing from its usual place outside. It took him a while to get help from the Churchwarden. He had a spare set of keys and together they found the priest.’
‘And the old man?’
‘Collapsed on the spot. Heart attack. Rushed to the London Hospital.’
Pendragon shook his head. ‘This is turning into a farce,’ he said, exhaling loudly. ‘Okay, Sergeant. I’ll talk to Connolly now.’
Turner and Mackleby interviewed the other members of the Church Council while Pendragon led Malcolm Connolly to one of the pews. ‘Talk me through finding the body,’ he began.
Connolly wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead with a white handkerchief he had pulled from the top pocket of his tweed jacket. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘This is all a bit of a shock.’
Pendragon grimaced. ‘I understand.’
‘Er, right. Father Ahern knocked on my door about midday. He was in a confused state, the poor chap. He had turned up here at ten, apparently. He has coffee once a week with Father Michael. It’s been a regular date for years, since the new parish priest arrived in 2004. Anyway, he found the vestry locked and noticed that the chair had been moved. He loved that old chair. It was presented to him back in the fifties. He brought it with him to his new church.’
Pendragon nodded.
‘Well, the Old Father is getting on. He went home and sat in front of the fire for a while, trying to work out what had happened and what to do. Eventually he called on me and we came back here together.’
‘I see. You keep the spare keys, I take it?’
‘Yes. Look, Inspector, what is this all about? Michael O’Leary was a good man. He never hurt a soul. Why would anyone do such a thing to him? And why this way? What does it mean?’
‘I’m afraid we don’t yet know, Mr Connolly. But I can assure you, we’ll do everything in our power to find whoever did this.’
Connolly said nothing, just stared at the crucifix hanging above the altar.
‘How long had you known Father O’Leary?’ the DCI asked.
‘Since he arrived here. I started as a Churchwarden at St Aloysius soon after it was built in the late eighties. Moved here from Hong Kong with my late wife. I worked in the Civil Service over there.’
‘Would you say you knew Father O’Leary well?’
‘I suppose so. We saw each other almost every day. I’m retired so I devote a lot of my time to the church. Father Michael was very popular here. Everyone liked him. That is what I find so bizarre. It couldn’t have been an opportunistic murder, could it? This was planned. Father Michael was picked out.’
Pendragon nodded but refrained from comment. ‘Well, thank you for your time, Mr Connolly. My officers may need to ask you a few more questions once they’ve had a chat with the others on the Church Council.’
‘And you will keep us informed, won’t you, Inspector?’
‘We will,’ Pendragon said, and walked back to the altar where Mackleby and Turner were still questioning the three other members. He turned as Jones emerged from the vestry.
‘Usual thing, Pendragon,’ the pathologist said. ‘Get him over to me as soon as the lovely Dr Newman has finished dusting and poking around.’ He nodded and slumped off down the central aisle.
‘Sorry to interrupt,’ Pendragon said, cutting into Turner’s questions. The sergeant was talking to a short, ginger-haired man with very pale skin and a face spattered with freckles. ‘Sergeant, I’m heading back to the station now. When you’ve finished questioning everyone, come and find me in my office. I have a feeling there’s a long paper trail ahead of us.’
Turner nodded. ‘Okay, guv,’ he said, and carried on with his next question. Pendragon spotted Inspector Towers and called him over. ‘Check out the car park and the main road for any CCTV. You never know, God may send us a miracle.’
