The Bells of Scotland Road (39 page)

‘I’m tired,’ said Flash. It suddenly occurred to him that he was about seventy-five. Without the benefit of complete family or birth details, Flash had been forced to guess at
his age. ‘I might even be eighty,’ he added. ‘Or bloody ninety.’

Theresa Bell poked her face into the shop. ‘Hundred, more like,’ she pronounced cheerfully. ‘If only the good die young, you and me must be as old as Father Time.’

Flash closed his surprised mouth. ‘Who got you up?’ he asked.

‘Meself.’

‘Enough to give me a heart attack. Must be years since you set foot in the shop, Mrs Bell.’

Theresa sniffed. ‘Get in here,’ she told him. ‘And I’ll find you a bite to eat.’

Flash asked Charlie to keep an eye on his cart, which was parked outside the window. He walked into the kitchen and sat opposite Theresa at the table.

‘Well?’ she said.

‘Well what?’

‘What have you found? What are you selling? More to the point, where is it, do they know they’ve lost it, how much would you be asking for it if it was yours and do you take
sugar?’

‘Two sugars,’ he answered. She looked marvellous, as if she had found a new lease of life. ‘I just want to talk to your Sam, that’s all.’ He grabbed a scone and bit
into it. ‘She’s done a lot of good round here, that new daughter-in-law of yours.’

‘What about?’

‘Well, it’s clean and cheerful and—’ He spluttered on a mouthful of scone.

‘What do you want our Sam for?’

‘Private.’

‘Oh, I see. Man talk, is it?’

‘I suppose so.’

Theresa sipped at her tea and waited for more information.

Flash wriggled beneath her scrutiny and under the weight of his own unsavoury thoughts. ‘How’s Father Liam?’ he asked eventually.

Old shoulders lifted themselves. ‘How the hell should I know?’

No, the tramp told himself. It couldn’t have been a priest. Even one as nasty as Liam Bell. Some bad piece of work had pinched the stole from the vestry . . . Funny thing to pinch, though.
‘He was a tearaway at one time, your Liam.’

Theresa Bell sniffed meaningfully. ‘Aye, he was. Near put me in my grave, he did. Near put our Anthony next to me and all. Why are we talking about him?’

It was Flash’s turn to shrug. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Oh, don’t come that with me, Flash Flanagan.’ Flash was not a particularly talkative man. The only time he spoke up was when defending himself in front of that universal enemy
that called itself a police force.

‘I want to talk to Sam,’ he insisted.

‘Please yourself.’ Theresa scraped back her chair, nodded curtly, then took herself off upstairs.

The visitor leaned back and gazed round the room. The fireside cupboards were stuffed with valuable ornaments, but Flash made no move in their direction. He was a man of principle, a man who
would never steal from a friend. In fact, he seldom took anything unless his chances of getting caught were negligible.

The back door opened. ‘Flash?’ Sam was surprised to see the guest. ‘What are you doing here?’

The tramp rose from his chair, his movement stirring dust in clothing that was rather less than clean. He walked to the stairs, made sure that Theresa had not lingered.

‘What’s happened?’ asked Sam.

‘I don’t know. But I never done it.’ Flash returned to his seat.

‘Then why are you here?’ Sam’s much admired steadiness of temper had diminished of late. He missed Bridie. What would she have said had she seen Flash Flanagan sitting at her
table in all his muck and glory? ‘Come on, I haven’t got all day.’

Flash dropped his chin and thought for a second or two before dragging a package from his pocket. He set it on the table and pulled back his fingers quickly, as if the small parcel had been on
fire. ‘I found that,’ he whispered. ‘As God is my judge, I never done nothing. Except for finding that.’

‘What is it?’

‘It’s not a matter of what, Sam. It’s a matter of where.’

‘Eh?’ Sam scratched his head.

‘Where I found it.’

The pawnbroker leaned against the dresser. ‘I’ve a shop to run. There’s no time for guessing games. Just spit it out and then I can get on with business.’

Flash inhaled deeply. ‘It belongs to a priest,’ he said.

‘Then take it to the presbytery. Father Brennan’ll sort it out. I don’t sell that kind of stuff.’ Flash often called in with something he had acquired on his travels.
‘And I certainly don’t want holy bits and pieces that have been found before they went missing. There’ll be a sin attached to whatever that is.’

‘Oh, there’s a sin to it, all right,’ Flash replied quietly. ‘Just about the biggest sin going.’

A feeling of unease visited Sam’s stomach. He had known Flash for years. Flash was not one for getting himself worked up over nothing. ‘You’re making a big mystery out of
this,’ he said. ‘Open the bloody thing.’

‘I’d rather you did. I’ve been carrying it round for ages, ever since I found it. Course, they asked questions down the police station, but I kept a lid on this. I mean,
it’s not normal, is it? You can’t walk into the copshop and show them something like this. Where would it all have ended?’

Sam strode to the table and ripped open the paper bag. A length of green silk tumbled out. ‘Where?’ he asked, the word emerging strangled from his parched throat. He coughed.
‘You’d better tell me all about this, Flash. Where did you get it?’

‘I picked it up next to little Maureen Costigan. It’s been stretched to buggery, Sam. I reckon it was used by whoever attacked her. That man tried to kill Maureen with a
priest’s stole.’

In that moment, Sam’s world stopped moving. He heard the ticking of a clock, the rattle of a tram, some hissing from the fire when pockets of air freed themselves from within the coals.
But all these sounds seemed to be coming from a different place, from another dimension.

‘Sam?’

No, no. None of it was true. Anthony had exaggerated all his life, had blamed Liam for the least thing. And for the bigger things, too. Sam had stood by a hospital bed and watched the almost
drowned Anthony coming back to life. He had consulted dentists about Anthony’s broken teeth, had visited doctors while limbs had been set. Anthony had been a clumsy child. Anthony had always
blamed Liam.

‘Sam?’

The shopkeeper swivelled and looked at the storeroom. Liam had sworn repeatedly that his twin brother had locked himself in there before pushing the key under the door. Broken toys, broken
friendships, Anthony silent and unsmiling, Liam grinning covertly in a corner. ‘He’s a priest,’ said Sam now.

‘What?’ Flash was beginning to worry. Sam Bell looked ill and pale.

The stole was Liam’s. It came from a full set of vestments that had been stitched by some retired Augustinian sisters in the city convent. The crosses on the garments were ornate and
unusual, had been crafted lovingly in celebration of the new priest’s ordination.

‘I’ll leave it with you,’ mumbled Flash. He rose to leave.

‘Hang on,’ said Sam. ‘Say nothing. I want you to swear that no matter what happens, you’ll tell nobody about this stole.’

Flash looked hurt. ‘You know me better than that,’ he said. ‘I’ll say nothing to nobody.’

‘Swear,’ insisted Sam.

‘I swear, all right? I swear on my own life that I’ll never breathe a word.’

‘Thanks.’ Sam Bell lowered himself into a dining chair. He listened while Charlie Costigan and Flash Flanagan passed the time of day, waited until he was truly alone. Then he reached
and picked up the stole. It was creased and squashed where a pair of strong hands had held it firmly, was stretched to bursting point along its narrowest part. Stitching had broken so that the
cream-coloured lining had parted company with the layer of emerald green silk. This was a murder weapon.

He closed his eyes in an effort to shut out the sights of normal life. There had been trouble. Always, always, there had been trouble. From the periphery of memory, sounds and pictures crept
into his head, so that the inside of his eyelids formed a screen against which the past played itself. Things he had half-seen and half-heard, comments Muth had made, angry words scalding the air
between Liam and Anthony – all these filled his brain until he thought he might just explode. The angry words had usually come from young Anthony, as Liam seldom got riled.

After several moments of stillness, Sam opened his eyes, picked up the stole and stared at it. He folded the silk, took a key from his pocket, then locked the offending item in a part of the
storeroom known only to himself. No-one in the world knew about this secret hiding place. He had to think, had to collect more information. With a heavy tread, he walked to the bottom of the stairs
and picked up the phone. Moments passed while he waited for the connection to be made. ‘Edith?’ he said at last. ‘Send someone down for Anthony, please. I’ll call back in
half an hour.’

Thirty minutes was a dreadfully long time. Sam checked on Charlie, left him in charge. He brewed tea, threw it away, smoked three cigarettes. There was something wrong with the clock, he felt
sure. It ticked very slowly, seemed sluggish and in need of winding. But the six-day mechanism had been tightened only yesterday. The fire flickered. Bridie had made the room so nice, so cheerful.
Bridie had married a man whose son was a . . .

A priest. ‘I’m blind,’ he announced to the mirror. ‘I’ve always been bloody blind.’ He had blinkered himself deliberately, he decided. ‘Such a good
little lad, Liam seemed. It was as if Anthony wanted to get his brother into trouble all the time. Why didn’t I see? I should have listened to Muth.’

At last, the half-hour was over. Sam threw a fraction of cigarette into the fire and returned to the phone. For the first time in ages, he was going to give his full attention to Anthony.

Father Liam Bell let himself into the presbytery. A creature of habit, he followed the same routine as ever by removing his shoes and easing his feet into sensible brown
slippers. He hung up his cloak, stood the biretta on a hall table, tapped the nearby barometer. Father Brennan was hearing confessions tonight. As few of the congregation wanted to open their
hearts to the younger priest, Liam had been given the night off.

The barometer promised rain. Liam walked into the kitchen and took a covered plate from the top shelf of the meatsafe. Michael Brennan’s dinner sat on a pan of water on a gas ring waiting
to be reheated. Father Brennan loved his stomach, but Liam stuck to salads, vegetables and a small amount of meat or fish. The sins of the flesh should not be committed, especially in a presbytery.
He carried his meal through to the dining room, whispered his grace, began to eat slowly and without pleasure.

Maureen Costigan had landed on her feet, it seemed. There had been gossip about her staying on with Aunt Edith and Uncle Richard. She would be near Anthony, of course. Perhaps Liam should
abandon his twin to whatever fate lay in store for him. Perhaps marriage to the little madam was what Anthony deserved. Yes, that situation was best left alone for now. Let Anthony find his own way
into the bottomless abyss.

Liam chewed on a piece of ham, tasted nothing. The Welcome Home project was doing him a lot of good. Even the bishop had remarked upon how well the young priest was doing. Yes, Liam had proved
something. He could save souls. He was capable of sitting down amongst the lowest of street women and persuading them to mend their ways. That was preferable to the other kind of penance, he
supposed. Punishing people by demonstrating physically the error of their ways had been an untidy business.

The door opened. Feeling a slight draught, Liam turned. His father was entering the room. ‘I wasn’t expecting you,’ Liam said, voice and face expressionless.

Sam steadied himself against the sideboard. This was his son. Even now, Sam tried to turn from the inevitable. Surely not? Surely Liam was not a killer? ‘You forgot to lock the
door,’ was the best he could manage. As if seeing Liam for the first time, Sam studied his son’s face. There was no warmth, no humanity in the features. Liam was a good-looking man with
a bad-looking soul. He had empty eyes and an unyielding jaw.

‘Are you ill?’ asked Liam.

Numbed almost to the bone after the lengthy telephone conversation with Anthony, Sam simply stared at the other twin. Gooseflesh rose on his arms and a cold sweat bathed his brow. God, why
hadn’t he noticed before? Why hadn’t he cared enough to notice? Bridie, he told himself inwardly. Since her arrival in his life, Sam had become more perceptive.

‘Dad?’

‘I’ve come . . .’ Sam’s voice failed him, so he cleared his throat. ‘I’ve come to confess,’ he managed finally.

Liam dropped his napkin onto the table. ‘Father Brennan’s in church. He’s hearing confessions.’

‘I know that.’

‘Then why are you here?’

Sam advanced and stood next to the table. ‘I’ve a very big sin to tell,’ he said. ‘And I have to tell it to you, because you will understand it. Well, you might
understand it.’ Split personality, Anthony had said. Sam wondered who Liam was at this moment. Was he the Liam who could absorb information, or was he the one who killed? The unspoken
question answered itself. The other Liam, the murderer, was the unseen man, the one who crept up from behind and . . .

‘Ah.’ The younger man pushed himself away from the table. ‘Just wait until I get my stole,’ he said.

Sam sighed. ‘The green one? Will you use the green one? I remember the sisters making those vestments for you, Liam. The needlework was beautiful. I was so proud of you. So proud and so
damnably stupid.’

Time ticked away a few seconds, then the mantel clock chimed the hour.

‘Remember the green one, Liam?’ repeated Sam.

The priest made no reply, but a small warning arrived, a soft voice telling him to beware.

‘Where is it?’ Sam asked.

Liam shrugged. ‘Well, I’ve several green ones, of course—’

‘Cream lining. The crosses outlined in real gold thread. Gold and green fringe on the ends.’

‘I’ve mislaid it, unfortunately.’ The hairs on Liam’s neck stood on end as he walked into the hallway. He opened his case, took out a stole, kissed the central cross and
placed it around his neck. Something momentous was about to happen.