The Secret Friend

68

Keith Woodbury had taken the cassette tape and created an mp3 file which he burned onto a CD.

The first time Darby had listened to it she had to excuse herself. She went outside and walked around the building several times until the fresh air had purged the sick, clammy feeling that wrapped itself around her skin.

The second time was just as difficult, but with the initial shock over, Darby concentrated on the recording, forcing herself to ignore the woman's screaming and listen for background noises. Darby listened to the CD again as she drove back into the city.

Jennifer Sanders screamed out in pain, screamed for it to stop, begged for it to stop. The man on the tape grunted and moaned. Sometimes he laughed. He didn't speak. If he had said something, then maybe Dingle's sister could have identified her brother's voice. At least then Darby would know for sure that the man on the tape was, in fact, Sam Dingle.

The traffic leading into Boston was awful. There was some sort of road construction. Darby took the nearest exit, her mind focused on the sounds playing over her car speakers. She didn't hear anything in the background. The tape needed to be analysed by an audio expert, a process that would take months.

Half an hour later she found herself driving through the Back Bay. Trinity Church, one of the oldest in Boston, stood in the shadow of the Prudential Center. Every Christmas season, for as long as Darby could remember, her mother had brought her here to Copley Square for the candlelight carols. Sometimes the Trinity Chamber Choir sang.

Darby spotted an empty parking space and, without a moment's thought, pulled in as daylight died behind the Prudential Tower.

A Catholic church is a sinister place. Sin and salvation. A life-size statue of Jesus hanging on the cross was mounted on the wall behind the altar. In the dim light Darby saw the painted drops of blood running from his crown of thorns and the nails driven through his palms and feet.

The original church, founded in 1733, was burned in the Great Boston Fire of 1872. The architect H. H. Richardson rebuilt the church in the style which became popular in a number of European buildings – massive towers of stone with clay roofs and arches. Darby was always mesmerized by the stained-glass windows behind the altar. She saw David's Charge to Solomon, designed in 1882 by Edward Burne-Jones and William Morris.

Darby sat in a pew, wondering about the generations of people who had sat in this same spot and prayed to God out of desperation and fear. Please, Jesus, my son has cancer. Please help him. Mary, Mother of God, please keep my children safe. Please don't let anything happen to my family. Please help me, God. Jesus, please help me.

Did God hear their prayers? Did he listen? If he did, did he pick and choose at random? Did he even care?

Did the victims go to church?

Darby set her backpack on the pew and removed the copy of Emma Hale's murder book. She hunted through the text with the aid of a pen light.

Emma Hale was born and raised Catholic. She went to Mass every Sunday with her father. What about Judith Chen? She, too, had been raised Catholic. Her roommates didn't know if she attended church.

Darby called the number for Hannah's apartment. Michael Givens answered.

'What is your daughter's religious affiliation?'

'We raised her Catholic,' Hannah's father said. 'That was my wife's doing. Me, I didn't really have much use for it.'

'What about Hannah?'

'She went through the motions for her mother, but I don't think it really took hold.'

'Do you know if Hannah ever attended Catholic services in or around Boston?'

'Hold on.'

Michael Givens conferred with his wife for a moment. Tracey Givens mumbled something to her husband and then she came on the line.

'Hannah hasn't attended church for a while now. I wasn't too happy about it, but Hannah wasn't afraid to speak her mind. She wasn't real religious, and whatever faith she had left went out the window when that awful sexual abuse scandal broke out here – you know the one I'm talking about, where the priests molested those boys and Cardinalwhat's-his-name covered it up?'

'Cardinal Law,' Darby said. 'What about any local charity work?' Bryson hadn't investigated that item.

'My daughter didn't have a lot of free time between her classes and two jobs – Hannah kept complaining about it to both me and her father, saying she wished she had more of a personal life. If she was doing any charity work, she didn't tell me.'

'What about a boyfriend? Was she seeing anyone?' Darby felt desperate, reaching for straws.

'Hannah was seeing a nice boy back home but that fell by the wayside after Hannah left for college,' Tracey Givens said. 'She wasn't dating anyone here. It was a real sore spot for her.'

'Thank you for your time, Mrs Givens.'

Darby stared at Jesus' sorrowful expression and for some reason her thoughts drifted to Timothy Bryson. His body was lying inside a casket at a funeral home in Quincy. Tomorrow morning he would be buried. She wondered who had made the arrangements.

Darby recalled the framed picture of his daughter and held it in her mind's eye while she examined her feelings.

I'm sorry for what happened to your daughter, that cold, analytical part said. But I don't feel sorry for what happened to you, Tim. I know I should, but I don't.

Darby thought of her own mother. Out of habit, or maybe out of faith, she knelt, and with her back ramrod straight, just as the nuns at St Stephen's had taught her, made the sign of the cross and closed her eyes. First she said a prayer for Sheila. Then she prayed for Hannah.

Her phone vibrated against her hip. The display said unknown caller. Darby let her phone ring three more times before she answered.