Death Watch

Shaw had slept fitfully until six, then, relishing the cool air, he’d left Lena in bed, running to the Land Rover along the high-tide mark. The team would be in place at the murder incident room at the Queen Vic at seven. He had an hour. He’d considered a swim, but a single image made him hesitate – the lights going out at the presbytery beside the Sacred Heart of Mary the night before. He’d found the interview with Liam Kennedy unsettling; he sensed he’d been told less than the whole truth, worse – that Kennedy was an unreliable witness, someone unable to see the difference between reality and the world in his own head. He wanted to get to the parish priest before he’d had an opportunity to discuss with the hostel warden what had happened in Erebus Street. Shaw closed his blind eye, massaging the lid. He wanted two views of Aidan Holme, not one, merged.

In the dawn light Erebus Street was desolate, the blackened ruins of number 6 no longer smouldering, the debris cleared from the road, the light outside the launderette, thrown out of sequence by the power cut, flashing now despite the low sun slanting in as it rose above the slaughterhouse on the corner. Shaw picked his way through the headstones in the small walled graveyard to the front door of the presbytery, which was painted locomotive green, and stood open.

He could hear a voice, just one half of a conversation.

‘Yes. Of course. I’ve got the policies out now. Yes – I’ll make the calls. I understand…’

Shaw called again.

‘A second,’ said the voice. A head appeared round the door. ‘Come in, please – I won’t be a moment.’ The voice was high, with an accent, a sibilance which suggested Spain, Portugal, or South America.

The front room held a desk on which was an oil lantern, the flame out, but the room still haunted by the scent of paraffin. The lantern was brass, with an inlaid design and coloured glass panels. The light came from an electric desk lamp which Shaw had guessed had been on since well before dawn. Two walls of books, a Victorian standard lamp and a sideboard which hadn’t seen polish in the reign of Pope Benedict. A priest stood at the desk making a note on a foolscap pad with a fountain pen, the scratch of the nib purposeful, businesslike.

‘Thank you. Every prayer is needed,’ he said, then cut the mobile, slipping it into a wallet on a leather belt. Shaw could see that mentally the priest continued to play the conversation on the phone through his head.

‘I am Father Thiago,’ he said, trying to focus. ‘TEEAR-GO.’ He emphasized the syllables so that Shaw would get it right first time.

His skin was dark, the hair lustrous, receding from a high academic forehead. Shaw noticed a gold signet ring

‘Thiago Martin,’ he added.

Shaw showed the priest his warrant card.

‘The fire,’ said Father Martin, a hand covering his eyes. ‘That was the bishop. There’s so much to do. Insurance – I’m just checking our policies. I’m afraid our affairs are not in the best of order.’

‘Any news of the two men from the hostel?’ Shaw asked.

Martin shook his head. ‘And Bryan Judd – killed, murdered? Can that be true? The radio hasn’t given a name.’

‘Yes. Nothing’s cast in stone, Father,’ said Shaw. ‘But we found a body, and Bryan is missing. Still missing.’ He broke off, walked to one of the bookcases and teased out a spine. ‘The men in the hostel, Father – Holme and Hendre. It’s Holme I’m particularly interested in. Specifically his relationship with Bryan Judd. You know Holme?’

Father Martin sat, holding both hands to his face to cover a yawn. ‘Aidan? Of course – he’s been with us some time, although the hostel is really Liam’s kingdom. Liam Kennedy – the warden. I have a parish to run, there’s no time to duplicate our responsibilities. Liam’s a young man, but very able.’

Shaw was always shocked at how businesslike religion could be. He could have been interviewing the MD of a you know, Father?’

‘About Aidan? What can I tell you? An intelligent man who regretted his past. A teacher once, I think. Science. I spoke to him at Christmas, about how beautiful science was – that it was one of the proofs of God’s presence. All that order out of chaos.’

He looked down at his hands. Out in the street they heard a beam crash from the roof of the burnt-out house and splash into the basement. The priest looked to the window, distracted.

‘He took drugs, sold drugs, did you know that?’ asked Shaw, irritated by the priest’s miniature sermon.

‘Yes. But Aidan had professed a desire, a determination really, to reform himself, and his life. We encouraged that. And we believed in it.’

Before Shaw could ask another question the priest pressed on. ‘It was, and is, Liam’s responsibility to choose those men offered the privilege of a room in the hostel. Most sleep in the church – we run a shelter there. I’m very busy running the parish, as I’ve said. I’ve always been happy to cede that duty to Liam.’

Shaw noted how expertly he’d suggested that he might not be so happy to do so in the future.

‘But you must remember that almost all the men who come to us for help have a criminal record.’

‘So Holme’s intelligent – anything else?’ asked Shaw. ‘He feared death, didn’t he? Why was that?’

Martin searched for the right words. ‘It’s not an uncommon emotion, is it, Inspector? The fear that just

‘I see. And Bryan Judd?’

‘I don’t know him well. The mother died – some years ago, before I came here. She’d been a stalwart apparently; my predecessor had felt the loss greatly. Marie, I think. It is a broken family. The father is broken most. But he has faith. Andrew. But a deeply troubled man.’ He nodded to himself, pleased that he’d retrieved both their names from his memory.

‘But Bryan…?’ asked Shaw.

‘We know Alison – his wife.’ He stopped, and Shaw sensed he’d talked himself into an awkward cul-de-sac. And the use of the royal ‘we’ was beginning to grate.

‘Why do you know her?’ he asked.

The priest licked his lips. ‘Alison does the laundry for us, and for the hostel, and the church. Also, a little housekeeping. She sings as well, when we can muster a choir.’ He shrugged, still distracted, perhaps, by his conversation with the bishop. Shaw recalled the first time they’d seen Ally Judd, appearing out of the darkness with a mop and pail. He wondered how efficient that was – house cleaning in a power cut.

‘But Bryan?’ he asked, aware it was the third time he’d asked the question.

‘No. I’m sorry – just a face. He certainly didn’t attend Mass.’

Stillness must be a great virtue in a priest, thought Shaw. He looked Shaw directly in the face. ‘How?’

‘Too early to say,’ said Shaw, deciding it was his turn to be elliptical.

Martin went to the desk and screwed the cup off the top of a small metal Thermos flask. He filled it with black coffee. The aroma in the fusty room was deeply exotic. He walked to the bay window and looked out to the street.

‘I am disappointed in the people here, many we know, many worship here. To do that… to burn down the hostel. They say it was Andrew Judd…’ He laughed, as if the irony was an impossible one.

Shaw studied the walls. There was a framed degree certificate from the Universidade Federal do Paraná. And a framed poster in a language he didn’t recognize: a vibrant colourful Christ, armed with a pistol, standing on a barricade in a city street, red flags flying in the mob behind him.

‘A mob,’ said Shaw, touching the frame.

‘A crusade,’ said Martin, looking at the picture. He gestured through the door. ‘That was a mob.’

Shaw checked his watch, wanting to press on. Father Martin’s shoulders relaxed at the prospect of being left alone.

‘You’re a long way from home, Father,’ said Shaw, walking into the hall.

‘I go where I’m needed. I am not needed in my own country,’ said Martin, following.

‘Brazil,’ Martin said at last.

‘Brazil must have its poor parishes,’ said Shaw.

‘It does. But I believe that Christ wants us to fight for the poor, Inspector. Fight. I believe Christ wants us to drag down the rich, and that money is a sin. Once this theology was popular. A revolutionary theology. Not now. So I go where I am wanted.’

‘And your degree? Theology then, or politics?’

Martin took a deep breath. ‘Medicine.’

‘Don’t the poor need a doctor?’

‘Christ wanted me to do this,’ he said, and Shaw thought what a smug answer that was.

Shaw had one last question. ‘What about Neil Judd, the youngest? I don’t see him as a church-goer.’

‘No. Christmas – with his father. They are close. Ally says he holds the family together, despite them. That is sometimes the role of the youngest. I don’t know why.’

Shaw nodded happily, wondering if the priest had noticed his error; replacing the stiff and formal ‘Alison’ with the familiar ‘Ally’.