Turbulent Priests Part 35

*It's not impossible.'

*You know it is.'

*You're jumping to conclusions. It could be old Mulrooney getting protective about people going on his property.'

*Like trespa.s.sers will be executed.'

*I'm not saying it is, I'm saying it could be.'

I shook my head. Dr Finlay spat behind him again. Duncan looked at his watch again.

*It's gone eight,' he said.

Dr Finlay trudged slowly back to us. Ignored us, in fact, for a few moments while he leant heavily on the bonnet of the Land-Rover. There were tears in his eyes. He had come looking for fine Irish whiskey and ended up to his elbows in decaying people. He had a right to cry.

I put a hand on his left shoulder. *You okay?'

He nodded wearily. His hair was plastered to his scalp; his jaw, thickly stubbled, hung down, heavy; his lips were dry and cracked.

*So what did you find?' Duncan asked bluntly.

Finlay pushed himself off the car. He held his hands up, level with his chest, looked about him, confused for a moment. Looking for somewhere to wash them. Then he shook his head. Silly, he mouthed. He rubbed them down his trousers. *Well,' he said. And stopped. And looked back at death row. He gave a slight shake of his head. *I don't ever want to have to do that again.'

*Who would?' said Duncan.

*What about Murtagh and Mary?' I asked. *I take it death wasn't by drowning.'

*No. Of course not. They were both shot. In the chest. Looks like a shotgun did it. They're practically hollow.'

*Oh G.o.d,' said Duncan, turning away. He took a deep breath of the sea wind. *Oh G.o.d,' he said again.

*And the others?' I asked.

*I'd say much the same. Difficult to tell. They're pretty far gone.'

*Have you any idea at all who they were?'

*Yes and no. Two of them I can make a stab at. One's a priest of some description; at any rate, he's wearing a dog collar, although I'm not aware that we've gone short of priests in the recent past.'

*How long do you reckon he's been dead?'

*I couldn't say, not accurately. It's not really my field. Six months, maybe. The other one, he's been under a good deal longer, but at least we can put a name to him. Mark Blundell. From Belfast.'

*You recognise him?'

*If I knew someone looked like that, I'd be worried.'

*So how . . .?'

*Detective work. And this.' He reached into the side pocket of his jacket and produced a damp-looking leather wallet. *Inside his coat.' He handed it to me and I flipped it open. The contents were remarkably well preserved, considering where they'd been; there were a few damp spots on the three twenty-pound notes I withdrew and the half-dozen fast cash receipts were badly faded. The Visa card looked as good as new. A plastic-coated Department of the Environment ident.i.ty card. A driving licence. A curling photo of a woman with two toddlers.

Duncan took the driving licence from me. He examined the photo. Shook his head. *He's changed,' he said.

I took it back. *Thank you, Sherlock,' I said.

Duncan turned away again. *I hate this. All of it.'

*What do they tell you, Starkey?' the doctor asked. I could tell he already knew.

I quickly re-examined the evidence. *That he's been underground about six years. That's how long the autobank receipts date back. That he was based at the Department of the Environment in Belfast. That he was married with a couple of kids.'

*Anything else?'

*That he was probably here on a work-related matter. The receipts are dated for early February. You don't get tourists that time of the year, do you?'

Finlay shook his head. *Rarely. Bird watchers, mostly. Some government people during the winter, but they're always Department of Agriculture, checking we're not exceeding our fis.h.i.+ng quotas or trying to sell us on the benefits of myxomatosis. I can't think why someone from Environment would bother with us a and get shot for his trouble, if that's not going a bit far.'

Duncan nodded across at the line of corpses. *The other two a one of them couldn't be his wife, could it? Maybe they're all bird watchers . . . an accident . . .' He trailed off. *We sometimes get bird watchers during the winter, maybe the two of them . . .?'

Finlay shook his head. *They're both male. Young adults. Eighteen. Seventeen. G.o.d love them.'

*His wife's probably still sitting at home waiting for him then,' said Duncan.

*Four people don't just disappear without anyone noticing,' I pointed out.

*Not here anyway. I'd know about it. For sure.'

*So apart from Mary and Murtagh then, we can surmise that the four others are all from the mainland.'

*Aye. I suppose.'

*And we can also surmise that Father White and his fellow travellers, having made such a public show of the search for Mary and Murtagh and finding the boat and his gun and his warrant card, are not only involved in their murder, but in the murder of four others as well.'

*Aye, it would be looking that way.'

*But what would be the b.l.o.o.d.y point?' shouted Duncan, throwing his hands up angrily. *It's all meant to be about love and salvation. Not this.'

*Well, that's the million-dollar question, Duncan,' I said. Finlay shook his head ruefully. *It doesn't make sense.' He slapped his hand down on the bonnet, then bunched it up into a fist and ground it into the palm of his other hand. *That trial, that b.l.o.o.d.y trial, was all about protecting Christine. But it wasn't about this . . .'

*What about the priest?' Duncan asked.

I had a pretty good idea. The Primate had been wrong. I had been right. Murdered, not converted. I said, *If he's only been dead six months, then the chances are he was visiting and found out too much . . .'

Finlay nodded. *That's possible. But this chap from the Environment. My G.o.d, Starkey, if he's been down there for six years a that pre-dates any thought of Christine by two years. What's the b.l.o.o.d.y point in that?'

I shrugged. There didn't have to be a point, or if there was, it was a point of no return, a point we had just pa.s.sed.

The whole notion of Christine as the daughter of G.o.d had been both disturbing and mildly comical. The flight of Mary and Murtagh had elevated it to the darkly bizarre. Their presumed drowning had transformed it into tragedy. Now, with the rotting corpses, it had metamorphosed yet again: now it was a horror story, and one that clearly had not yet reached its conclusion.

A slight drop in the wind made us turn suddenly back up the field at the sound of an engine. Another Land-Rover was just turning towards us through the gate.

*Oh Jesus Christ,' wailed Duncan, *they're going to kill us too!'

His huge frame swivelled deftly, his eyes darted about, panicked. Then he dashed the few yards from the doctor's car to the hedge. He threw himself into it, head first, then thrashed about for a few moments before finally disappearing.

Dr Finlay turned to me. He nodded down at the line of corpses. *So what's our story?'

*I'm working on it,' I said.

36.

Duncan was too far gone for us to shout after him not to worry, his big loping strides taking him over the hill and far away when all he had to face was my wife, Little Stevie, Father Flynn, Moira McCooey and the manifestation of G.o.d Almighty on earth, or indeed Christine, trundling along the track we'd made the previous night.

I recognised the dent in the side of the car first, then as it drew closer Patricia stuck her head out of the pa.s.senger window and shouted something, but it was carried away on the wind. As the priest stopped the vehicle Dr Finlay strode forward with his hands raised.

*I'd stay where you are for the moment!' he bellowed.

Flynn, his door already open, hesitated. Patricia climbed out. Christine ducked out behind her. Moira held Little Stevie in the back seat.

Finlay tried to block her path as my wife ran towards me, but she dodged him easily. I was ready for the hug. A warm embrace. I'd missed her, albeit subconsciously.

But she was coming at me too fast, was too close by the time I recognised the venom in her eyes and the black pouches beneath them. I opened my mouth. She raised her palms and gave me a huge shove. I toppled back into the sodden ground. Christine let out a Yippee and ran behind, laughing.

*Where the f.u.c.k have you been?' Patricia yelled.

*Trish, for G.o.d's . . .'

*I've been up all f.u.c.king night, worried to death!'

Dr Finlay put a placatory hand on her shoulder. *Mrs Starkey . . .'

*f.u.c.k off!' she spat, slapping it away. She kicked out at me. I scrambled away. *You've no consideration for anyone, have you? Not for me! Not for the baby! Anything could have . . .'

Christine screamed. Shrill. A scream of innocence tarnished. We all turned. She stood by the line of corpses, her blond hair running away behind her in the wind, her tiny face blanched.

Moira struggled out of the car and hurried across, thrusting Little Stevie into Patricia's arms as she pa.s.sed. Then came Father Flynn. I jumped to my feet and with a shrug for Patricia moved down to where Dr Finlay had already lifted Christine into his arms.

*It's okay,' he whispered, holding her close, turning her head. Her eyes tracked back to the corpses.

Father Flynn stopped, stared, stood with his mouth open. He crossed himself. Twice. Then his hand went to his chin, held his jaw, as if he feared it might drop off his face. He turned helpless eyes on Dr Finlay, then on me. *What's going on?' he whispered.

*Don't you know?' I asked.

Moira looked quickly at the rotting line-up, then lifted Christine from the doctor and carried her back to the Land-Rover. Patricia stood beside me.

Father Flynn shook his head. *How could I . . .? What . . .?' Tears started to run down his cheeks. He rubbed a hand across his face. *My G.o.d, Doctor, what has happened here?'

*Hazard a guess, Father.'

Flynn turned away, then buried his head in his hands.

Patricia, calmer now, put her hand on my arm. *You came to dig up booze and you dug up corpses instead. That'll teach you. Is it an old cemetery or something?'

I shook my head. She hadn't really looked at the corpses properly. It hadn't entered her head that she might recognise any of them. Then it entered mine that she'd never met the fat girl before. So I introduced them. *And you've seen Constable Murtagh before,' I said.

*Oh G.o.d,' Trish said.

Moira returned, prodded one of Mary Reilly's feet with the toe of her shoe. *I thought she drowned,' she said simply.

I shrugged. Moira grimaced.

The doctor stepped up beside the priest. *Frank, if you don't know anything about this, you know what this means.'

Flynn turned wary eyes on him. His shoulders seemed to have collapsed. *I daren't think it.'

*You've thought it already, Frank. I know you have.'

*He wouldn't resort to this. He's not that bad.'

*He has. He is. Count them, Frank, six bodies.'

Father Flynn took a deep breath, threw his head back, then blew it out. His eyes seemed to implore the heavens for inspiration. *Who're the others?'

*One's a priest.'

Flynn looked quickly back at the line-up. He bit at a lip. *There was a young buck came across a while back. The Cardinal sent him to check up on us. He seemed a nice lad.'

*And what happened?'

Flynn gave a little shrug. *I told him the truth. He seemed quite excited by it all. We begged him not to tell the Cardinal, but he said he had to, that his first duty was to him. I accepted that. He phoned, then I spoke to the Cardinal; he wasn't impressed. But he went home, the priest went home, I walked him down to the ferry.'

*Well, if it's him, he came back, or never left.'

*And . . . how was he . . .?'

*Shot.'

*My G.o.d,' said the priest, and crossed himself again.

*What about Mark Blundell, Father?' I asked.