The Hanging Shed

FORTY-FOUR

I bumped off the ferry at Brodick and headed south, back towards Lamlash and Whiting Bay. Kildonan was on the southern point of the island looking down the Firth of Clyde towards Ailsa Craig and Ireland. Mrs Slattery had described the place: about a mile beyond the village, a white house standing by itself on a piece of land that jutted out into the water. It had its own moorings. Gerrit fancied himself as a bit of a sailor and had a boat, though it had always made Dermot seasick. But it was a handy route between Northern Ireland and Scotland if you didn’t want close scrutiny from the exciseman or the police.

I looked at my watch and the clear sky. It wasn’t the best time for a frontal attack on a well-defended peninsula. In truth there was never a good time to attack a redoubt protected on three sides by deep water. Not unless you were Royal Navy. I could either wait till morning and make a dawn raid when Gerrit and his merry men would be at their lowest ebb. Or I could just get on with it now, and make the best of the fading light and the element of surprise. Always assuming it would be a surprise; Mrs Slattery would have had her phone fixed by now.

Passing through Lamlash I made a brief detour. I found the Catholic chapel tucked behind the line of the main street, small and discreet, unlike its Protestant counterpart at the village end with its tall square tower looking out to Holy Island. I picked up the Dickson and walked towards the front entrance framed by pretty panes of glass that glowed in the afternoon light. I pushed open the heavy door. I stepped into the hushed hall lit by candles and daylight pouring through the glazed Stations of the Cross. A figure in white knelt in front of the altar, praying.

I felt completely calm. I walked towards him until I was six feet away and close enough to hear the droning repetition of his litany. I broke the shotgun and closed it again with solid clunk. The supplications stopped. He turned and climbed to his feet. He looked older. His eyes were red and staring. His floor length white robe was belted by a dark cincture like they’d used to truss Cassidy before hanging him. O’Brien didn’t look much like the man I met on the beach at Lamlash so long ago now. My instinct to trust him had been wrong, so wrong. He looked at my shotgun and then back at my face. He didn’t look scared or surprised.

‘Are you here to kill me?’

‘Not necessarily. I’m here for information. I don’t have much time so I want answers right now.’

He shook his head. ‘There’s nothing I can tell you.’

‘You haven’t heard the question. And you haven’t heard what I have to say.’

‘I don’t want to.’ He was sullen, stubborn.

‘I’m going to tell you anyway. There’ve been more deaths. More blood. Perhaps on your hands, eh, Father? They’ve been covering their tracks, the Slatterys. Three days ago Gerrit strangled a high court judge. Now why would he do that? Then he kidnapped Samantha Campbell. Brought her here to the island. I’m going to find her and then I’m going to kill him.’

Father Connor O’Brien’s face contorted as if he’d been kicked in the belly.

‘There’s more. I tracked Dermot to his lair in Ireland. He’s dead and so are his two minions. Afterwards his wife and I had a bit of a wake, if you like. Over a glass or two she told me that her darling husband murdered Samantha’s parents back in the thirties. Drowned them in Loch Lomond to stop him making life difficult for young Gerrit. So, on top of all the others – Hugh Donovan, Mrs Reid and her daughter and sons, and of course the good Father Cassidy – a lot of folk have died to keep a wee secret, wouldn’t you say?’

He had his hands up to his mouth as though he was going to be sick. I pressed on.

‘And I haven’t mentioned Rory Hutchinson. And the four others that are missing, presumed raped and murdered. Gerrit’s work, I imagine. I found his torture chamber. Did you know about that, Father?’

‘What do you want?’ he screamed.

‘What was the link between the Slattery boys and Patrick Cassidy?’

He shook his head.

‘I don’t have time for this, Connor.’

I lifted my shotgun, took careful aim, and fired. He dropped to his knees as the shot echoed round and round amidst the sound of glass falling and breaking. O’Brien turned and looked behind him. A large section of stained-glass window had vanished leaving St Paul not just blind but headless. A real Damascene conversion.

‘That’s blasphemy!’

‘No, Father. What Cassidy and Slattery have been doing is blasphemy. Now what’s your next favourite?’ I raised my gun again and pointed it at the Virgin Mary.

‘Stop! Stop! In the name of God, stop!’

‘God seems to have lost interest, lately.’ But I lowered my gun anyway.

The priest sagged against the altar. ‘He regretted it. You must know he bitterly regretted it.’

‘Who regretted what?’

‘Father Cassidy. He told me he couldn’t help himself. It was when he was teaching at the Nazareth House in Belfast. He got close to some of the boys. He transgressed…’

‘You mean he buggered them?’

He winced. ‘It wasn’t like that. The Slattery boys were sent there by their father. The father had been abusing them for years. Dermot was strong. He got over it. But Gerrit… Gerrit got changed by it. He grew to like it, may God have mercy on him. He seduced Patrick. He corrupted a good man. You must believe me!’

‘Go on.’

‘Patrick fled to Glasgow and tried to put his past behind him. The Slatterys appeared one day, and from then on, they blackmailed Patrick to help them. Provide cover for them. Patrick was doing good work in the Gorbals. A sort of penance. He couldn’t let them take that from him. Gerrit continued his perverted ways in Glasgow. Finding young boys. Harming them as he had been harmed. He found others like him. He procured boys for them. There was a group of men, some senior in civic life.’

Oh, shit. ‘Chief Justice Allardyce?’

‘I don’t know their names. It’s possible.’

‘Senior policemen?’ I didn’t need to hear his answer. Muncie and Silver hadn’t just been worried about looking stupid if they admitted they’d got the wrong man. It was likely they’d colluded in rape, torture, murder, perjury and perverting the course of justice. They’d as good as murdered Rory Hutchinson and his father, Hugh.

He stood there in his virginal white with a face like a martyr, what could I do? I had an almost uncontrollable impulse to give him his wish. To tarnish the white with his own tainted blood.

‘So they got rid of Procurator Fiscal Campbell and replaced him with the biddable Allardyce? Perfect.’ Then it occurred to me. ‘How do you know all this, Connor? How are you involved?’

‘I’m not! – as you put it – involved. Patrick was my tutor. He confided in me.’

‘But why are you protecting him? I wouldn’t go this far for my old Latin teacher.’

He looked down. Then he ran a hand over his face from brow to chin as though washing himself. I should have felt disgust. All I felt was weariness at the way we were blown and driven through life by our natures. As if we had no choice.

‘Not in the confessional box then? More like the bedroom, eh Father?’

‘Don’t say that! I was the only one he could turn to! It was a burden too heavy for one man!’

‘Believe me, Father, if you knew all about this burden and didn’t tell the police, you are involved. And your relationship, all the sordid details of it, will come out at the trial.’ I thought he was going to throw up or have a heart attack. I pressed on. ‘What about Hugh Donovan? Was that part of the “cover” Cassidy provided?’

He was tugging at his cincture as though it was cutting him in half. ‘It was Patrick’s lowest moment. It drove him mad. Slattery wanted a scapegoat, someone who’d take the blame for the missing boys. Donovan was a drug addict. He depended on Gerrit to supply him. Gerrit saw Donovan with the boy and had the boy picked up. Then he arranged for the evidence to be planted.’

He saw the look of contempt on my face.

‘Donovan’s life was meaningless compared to Patrick’s work. You must see that!’

The fury rose in me like bile. ‘I thought your God took those sort of decisions?’ My gun came up and I aimed at O’Brien’s head. ‘Who planted the evidence?’ I asked quietly.

The priest stared at me as if I really was the avenging angel. Perhaps he hoped I was.

‘Who planted it?’

He swallowed. ‘Father Cassidy.’

The wind whipped in from the hole in the window. It stirred the folds of cloth on the pulpit and sent the candles fluttering and waving. I lowered my gun, turned and walked away, my heels clicking on the wood floor.

‘What are you going to do?’ he called after me. I didn’t turn.

‘What shall I do?’ he screamed.

I opened the chapel door and stepped out into the cool of early evening.