Cemetery Lake (32 page)

years ago, Rachel would still be alive.

“I don’t even know why I took the photo,’ she says. “I mean,

I remember taking it, and I remember asking her to smile, but

I don’t really know why I went about it. I’d already taken lots that day. I sent it to Father Julian. He’d asked for one. This, this is all about Father Julian, isn’t it? About Stewart? You having this photo. You took it from him. And he’s dead and Rachel’s

dead and there’s something to that, isn’t there? That’s why you’re here.’

‘What happened after you had the baby?’

‘Things were already in motion before Rachel was born. We

both knew I could never have an abortion. He wouldn’t allow

it, and anyway, it wasn’t something I would have considered.

I also knew he couldn’t be with me. I was going to be a single mother, but it wasn’t going to be the end of the world. I had

to give up work for the first year and a half. Stewart told me he would support me. We set up bank accounts. Once I got married, Stewart didn’t have to pay as much but he did keep paying.

I never asked him for anything more, and he never asked to see Rachel.’

I think about this for a few moments, sure that there is something else here. If Julian did Father those other children, was he paying child support to all of them? If so, how did he get the money?

I keep the conversation moving along, but make a mental note to come back to this.

‘Did Rachel know?’

‘When she was old enough she figured out Michael wasn’t

her real dad. She asked who her father was, but I never told her.’

She takes a drink. “I could really do with something stronger. Can I get you something?’

‘Water’s fine,’ I say, and I take a sip to show just how fine it is.

“I guess water’s fine for me too. I know how it sounds, getting pregnant to a priest of all people, but, well, I don’t regret it. Things were different back then. Father Julian … huh, it sounds so funny when I call him that, doesn’t it? The father of my child, and here I am calling him Father Julian instead of Stewart. I wonder if that means anything.’

“I don’t know.’

‘Look at me, I’m starting to ramble.’

“No, please, it’s all important.’

‘Back then Stewart was a young man, and he was very, very

striking. Almost insanely handsome. I think women were going

to church just to see him, not to hear what he had to say. He

had this — well, this magnetism — and it was more than just his looks. Everybody liked him; he was very charming, very likeable.

But he was also lonely, really lonely, and seemingly vulnerable, and somehow that made him even more appealing. One day that

loneliness became too much for him, for me, and we, we …

well, you know the rest. Anyway, he would always be quiet after we … you know, after we were together in that way. He was

intense too, and even though he knew he was making a mistake,

neither of us could help ourselves. He would tell me that when he was around me it was like somebody else was taking over, like he was a different man. I think he was a good man trapped in the wrong profession.’

‘Did you ever tell him that?’

‘More than once. But he said the priesthood was a calling, that he could help people, that he could do more good with a collar than without one. It was hard to watch. He was so dedicated to the church, it pained him every time we were together. In the end, I finished it, I had to. I didn’t want to, but what choice did I have?

It was tearing him apart. A month after we stopped seeing each other, I found out I was pregnant.’

‘What happened when you told him?’

“He wanted to do the right thing, only the right thing didn’t fall in line with his big picture of right things. It was like every day he was fighting a personal war within himself. I think that war was there his entire life. He was never going to leave the priesthood to be with me, and he couldn’t stay being a priest if others found out. So we both agreed to keep it quiet. I also stopped going to church.’ She dabs her knuckles into the bottoms of her eyes and pulls away some tears before taking another sip of water.

‘Did Michael know?’

‘He knew. I had to tell him. Can you imagine if he hadn’t

known? Every day he would wonder. He would think maybe

I was sleeping with so many people that I didn’t know who

Rachel’s dad was. I told him, and he wasn’t angry or disappointed.

He was relieved, for some reason. I’m not sure why exactly. I

think maybe knowing a priest had got me pregnant was much

better than thinking I’d slept with some drug addict or criminal.

Purer, or something. If that makes sense.’

It does, in a weird kind of way. ‘Did you keep in touch with

Father Julian?’

‘In the beginning, of course, but after I met Michael I didn’t really want to involve Stewart in my life any more. He seemed to understand. Then the day Rachel turned sixteen he stopped the

payments and I didn’t ask him why, because I knew. Sixteen was the cut-off date. I never saw him over those years. If it wasn’t for my mother, well…’

‘He presided over your mother’s funeral?’

‘My mother had continued to go to his church. It’s what she

would have wanted.’

‘Your mother didn’t know who the father was?’

“I refused to tell her.’

‘So Father Julian, he saw Rachel that day?’

She takes another sip of water, and when she pulls the glass back she seems to be studying the edge, looking for some microscopic flaw.

‘He saw her. Then a week later she goes missing. That’s the

connection, isn’t it? That’s why you’re here. If I had told Rachel he was her father, would things be different now? Is that the reason

she’s dead? Because I took her to my mother’s funeral?’

I know what answer she wants to hear, but I can’t offer it to

her.

‘Do you know if Father Julian ever had any other children?’

I ask.

‘It’s my fault,’ she says, and she starts to cry.

I clutch my glass of water, unsure whether to sit next to her, whether to put a hand on her shoulder and try to comfort

her. ‘None of this is your fault,’ I say, and it sounds generic because that’s exactly what it is. ‘But please, this is important. Did Father Julian have any other children?’

She leans back and stares at me. ‘Other children? I… I never really thought about it. He could have, I suppose. But I doubt it.’

“How did he get the money to send you?’

‘I… I don’t know. But Father Julian is … I mean was a good man. He would have done what it took.’

I pull the rest of the photographs out of my pocket and hand

them over to her.

‘There are names on the back,’ I say.

She looks through them but doesn’t recognise any of them.

‘There is no way these can all be his children,’ she says, but I think she knows there is a way. I think she can see the resemblances ‘These payments he made to you, they were credited directly

into your account?’

‘Of course. It was the only way’

‘Do you still have any of the statements?’

‘I… I suppose I do,’ she says, and I’m sure she does. I’m sure Patricia Tyler is the sort never to have thrown away anything from the last thirty years.

‘Would you mind finding me one?’

‘Why?’

‘Because if I can get his bank account number, then if he did

father any other children I can find their names.’

‘Do you think …’ She pauses, unwilling or unsure how to

continue. ‘Do you think all these girls who died … do you really think they’re related?’

I hold her gaze. She stares right at me and I tell her yes. She pulls her hand to her mouth as if to hold it closed from whatever she wants to say next.

‘Then you already know who these girls are,’ she says. ‘They’ve been identified.’

‘Not all of them.’

‘What?’

‘There are five girls in these pictures.’

‘Five? Oh,’ she says, and she gets it immediately. She gets that there is one more girl out there who I need to find. “I know where they are,’ she says, and she disappears for a few minutes before returning with a bank statement from five years ago.

‘It’s the last payment he made,’ she tells me.

I look at the statement. It doesn’t have Julian’s name on it. Just his account number, along with the word ‘Rachel’.

‘Can I take this?’

‘Of course.’

I finish off my water and she walks me to the door. ‘The police, are they close to finding who killed him?’ she asks.

‘They’re getting there.’

‘But you’re getting there quicker, aren’t you.’

‘Yes.’

‘Can you promise me something?’ she asks.

“I’ll do my best,’ I say, already knowing what she is going to ask.

‘Promise me you’ll find him before something happens to that

other girl. Promise me that when you find him, you’ll make him pay for what he has done. For Rachel. For the others. For all of us. Make him pay, and make sure he can never hurt another girl ever again.’

‘What the fuck do you want?’

‘Your help,’ I say.

‘You’ve got to be kidding.’

It’s still early Saturday morning. I should have called Landry or Schroder, but instead I’ve driven to the hospital. I need to work my own way, especially if I’m to get the opportunity to dig Sidney Alderman out of his wife’s grave. There’s no way I can

do that if I’m in custody answering questions about how I know what I know.

Visiting hours on a Saturday morning mean the corridors are

full of disoriented-looking family members and friends. The air has the sickly smell of disinfectant and vomit, but you get used to it pretty quick. Emma’s father pushes me in the chest and I fall back a few steps. I don’t put up a fight. He advances towards me.

A few people look over but no one does anything. “I should have killed you,’ he says.

‘There’s still plenty of time for that,’ I say, holding my hands up in surrender. ‘At least listen to me before you get kicked out of the hospital for assault.’

‘You’re the goddamn reason we’re in here,’ he says. ‘They’d

kick you out and give me a medal.’

‘Maybe you should hear me out,’ I say. ‘I have some interesting things to say. You are my lawyer, remember. You signed me out.

That means it’s your job to talk to me. If not, I’ll go to your firm and find another lawyer. I tell them all about you. All about that trip we took.’

‘Fuck you.’

‘You didn’t think it through, did you? I’m your responsibility until that court date has come and gone. See, you figured I’d be dead by then and it wouldn’t matter. But now it does. Help me out and I change lawyers. Nobody has to know what happened.’

‘Go to hell.’

‘Think about it. Calm down and think about it.’

He takes a step back and stands in the doorway of the ward.

He looks at his daughter. She’s awake and hooked up to a bunch of machines. There is a TV going. She glances from the TV to

her father. Then his wife, an attractive blonde woman dressed

perhaps a little too formally for a hospital, looks at me too. She knows something is going on but doesn’t know what. There is

no recognition. If there was she’d start screaming. She’d claw out my eyes. My lawyer turns back towards me.

‘What do you want?’

I explain what I want, and the whole time he shakes his

head.

‘Impossible,’ he finally says.

“I thought lawyers thrived on the impossible.’

‘We thrive on sure-things.’

‘But you make more money on the impossible.’

“No judge will sign off on it.’

‘that’s the point, right? You don’t need one to. Just get the

template for me and I can do the rest. Then you don’t hear from me again. Look, nothing is going to happen. I’m never going to tell anybody where I got it from.’

‘No.’

‘No?’

‘that’s right,’ he says. “I go to my boss and explain what I did to you, and he understands. He’ll tell me he would have done the same thing.’

‘And maybe I go to the papers and tell them about you. Even if they don’t believe me, it still puts your name in disrepute. People might sympathise with you, they might even relate, they’ll probably wish you’d pulled the trigger, but that’ll be on their mind every time they’re passing you over in preference for another lawyer.’

‘Won’t happen. People will love me for it.’

“I think you have a great misunderstanding of what people

love. You prepared to take that risk?’

He looks back at his wife. She’s looking a little concerned, but I bet she doesn’t know about the field trip her husband took me on.

My lawyer planned on killing me. He didn’t succeed, and I’m

here to pull him deeper into the world he stepped foot in. Only I’m also giving him an exit. He just needs to see that — and, being a lawyer, I figure he will.

‘Just the template,’ he says.

‘that’s all.’

‘It’ll take an hour.’

‘I’ve got time.’

I head upstairs to the cafeteria and order some coffee and a

couple of chicken and egg salad rolls. There are a few newspapers lying around. There is nothing in the front-page photo of Father Julian to suggest that he was living a secret life. There is a stock quote from somebody high up in the police: We are following up on leads but can’t release any further details at this time. They have a murder weapon and no suspect. There is another article

a few pages in. It details Father Julian’s history. He was assigned to the church thirty years ago. He was born in Wellington to a middle-class family, he excelled academically at school, he joined the priesthood at twenty-one. His mother died twenty-five years ago, his father is still alive. There are facts and figures that would be thrown out of whack if I were to tell them Father Julian fathered all those children.

I read through the rest of the newspaper but don’t get to the

end before Donovan Green is back. He pulls out the seat opposite me, seems about to sit down, then changes his mind. He doesn’t want to sit with a guy like me. He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out an envelope. He sits it on the table and keeps two fingers on it.