The Bells of Scotland Road (49 page)

A bell sounded. Martin fell to his knees and prayed for the soul of his departed father, for the salvation of Anthony Bell, for divine retribution against the Irish widow.

The door opened a crack. ‘Martin? Ah, I am sorry. I did not wish to intrude while you were at prayer, but
Frère
Nicholas asks if you will sing again at benediction this
evening.’

Martin allowed Brother Timothy a tight smile. ‘Of course, Brother. The plain chant is so easy to follow, and I’m sure I’ll master the Latin pronunciation in time.’

The monk backed his way out of the cell. He stood in the corridor and gazed at a print of St Francis Xavier. But
Frère
Timothy did not see the saint. In his mind’s eye, he
held a picture of Martin Waring, so holy, so correct, so uncaring. There was something amiss with this soon-to-be-bearded lay member of the fraternity. But Nicholas, the senior monk, would hear
nothing against his protégé. It was because of the man’s beautiful tenor voice, thought Timothy. The choir had not been blessed with a decent soloist since the untimely death of
Frère
Anselm. Nicholas was, perhaps, blinded by Martin Waring’s abilities.

Brother Timothy crossed himself and walked towards his breakfast. As an ordained monk, he should not entertain such un-Christian thoughts. And he hoped that his porridge would still be hot.

The room was starved of light because of high windows, but the gloom had been deepened considerably by the liberal application of paint in all shades of brown from sepia to
chocolate. Below a dado rail, thick gloss in an unattractive mud colour adorned the walls, while the upper sections seemed to be advertising the exhalations of a thousand smokers. Bookshelves
framed the doorway, and photographs of grim-faced policemen in domed hats hung from every spare inch of picture rail.

Inspector Chadwick, a Mancunian who had moved west against his better judgement and in spite of his wife’s protestations, had wedged his corpulence behind a huge square desk with a virgin
blotter set into its centre. A handlebar moustache of indeterminate colour was suspended beneath a shiny, pitted nose. Thick, wet lips peered out below the foliage, and several red chins hung over
a too tight collar.

The inspector’s fingertips completed an inverted V created by angled elbows. ‘Well?’ he asked. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’ The last word was spat as if it
tasted bad.

Without waiting for a formal invitation, Father Michael Brennan took a seat at the other side of the desk. Manchester’s loss was Liverpool’s loss, too, he mused. ‘I’ve
Flash Flanagan outside in the corridor with Anthony Bell.’

Piggy eyes widened slightly. ‘What the dickens are they doing here?’ He needed Flash Flanagan like he needed a dose of smallpox. The tramp was a source of irritation for every
policeman in the Rose Hill district. ‘I’ve a station to run, you know. I can’t be sitting here listening to the ravings of an alcoholic.’

Michael Brennan sighed, lowered his head and looked at the floor. Even the floor was brown. He wondered, not for the first time, why this singularly uncharitable person had opted for a career
which brought him into contact with people. Inspector Chadwick hated Irish Catholics, Jews, people with dark skin, prostitutes, homosexuals and most women. He treated children like vermin and was
impatient with those unfortunate men who served under him.

The priest lifted his chin and looked across the desk. Power. It was all about control, dominance, dominion. Most people who hated as strongly as this man were inadequates who tried to prove
their worth by demonstrating the foibles of others. While concentrating on the failures of mankind, Chadwick attempted to justify his own existence and thus to boost his supposed worth in the eyes
of others. Or so the inspector hoped. Really, his major achievement so far was the great job he had done of generating hatred for himself. No-one liked him. Rumour had it that his own wife had
tried to remain in Manchester when Chadwick had moved to Liverpool. Michael understood the wretched woman only too well.

‘I’ve no time for this.’ The huge policeman made an elaborate fuss of matching his watch to the clock on the wall, winding, moving the half-hunter’s fingers, running his
beady eyes over an inscription on the gold case. ‘There’s a meeting in half an hour.’

The priest assumed that the Manchester force had been glad to pay that nine-carat gold price to be rid of the man. ‘I’m visiting you for a reason,’ he snapped. ‘There
seems to be proof that Father Liam Bell has committed an offence. Perhaps several offences.’

The lard on Chadwick’s face quivered for a split second. He was used to papist criminals, but the idea of a crooked priest promised to be immensely amusing – the lads at the lodge
would be in pleats of laughter once a Catholic clergyman sat in the bridewell. ‘What did he do?’ he asked, the tone of voice deliberately cool.

‘The man’s ill,’ replied the cleric. ‘We think he has some sort of mental disorder and—’

‘Are you a doctor?’ Bushy eyebrows leapt upward.

‘No, but we have consulted a medical practitioner. I understand that Dr Spencer has communicated his concern to your chief constable.’

‘I see.’ Fingers as thick as pork sausages were spread wide on the blotter. ‘And the offence?’ he asked again.

‘He has probably attacked some women – quite a number of women – over the years.’

Chadwick nodded sagely. ‘The Costigan girl?’

‘Possibly.’ He would not commit himself, would not subject Maureen to a grilling until the time was right.

‘And the proof?’

‘Flash Flanagan had it.’

‘Ah.’ The monarch of Rose Hill and several other small stations leaned back in his chair. Flash Flanagan. The man was about as reliable as the English weather. ‘The last time
we had the pleasure of Mr Flanagan’s company – about two months ago – he was wrestling with a snake in his cell. The snake was the rope that held up his trousers. On that
occasion, his trousers fell down, because he was busy strangling the rope. He’s a drinker. If he can’t afford whisky or whatever, he mixes methylated spirit with wine. The man’s
totally useless.’

Father Brennan shook his head sadly. ‘Even the worst of us is of some use, Inspector Chadwick. He found Maureen Costigan.’

‘We know all about that. He was drunk and disorderly for days afterwards. In fact, we moved him on to prevent a riot. He was stirring up the populace into a state of terror.’

Michael Brennan sat quietly for a few seconds. ‘There’s a stole missing. Anthony and I went through Father Bell’s vestments in the presbytery. We counted them twice. All the
sets but one were complete. But there was just that single piece missing from the ordination vestments. Flash Flanagan found the stole next to Maureen Costigan.’

The policeman raised thick eyebrows once again. ‘He said nothing when he was questioned.’

‘The man’s a Catholic. He was frightened by what he found.’

Frank Chadwick had little time for Romans. In fact, he had often mused about the word ‘Catholic’, had been known to hold forth about its similarity to ‘alcoholic’. The
two words shared several letters, and the inspector often joked about the fact. Also, the ‘one true Apostolic Faith’ begged to be altered to ‘the one true Alcoholic
Faith’.

They were all the same, these papists. Down on their knees in the gutter on a Saturday night, down on their knees in their church nine hours later, bowing and scraping to rows of statues. Their
women wore green knickers when the Orange Lodge marched, lifted their skirts to show their colours to the enemy. They sinned, then confessed, then sinned all over again. Even this priest was not
averse to swilling the odd pint in the company of parishioners. ‘He was probably pickled at the time.’

Michael stared through the window at the sky. It hung low and grey like an ill-washed blanket, all patches and stains. ‘Anthony Bell is convinced that his twin murdered Valerie Walsh about
five years ago. At that time, he tried to tell the police of his suspicions, but they refused to listen.’

‘A man hanged for that murder,’ replied the inspector.

‘Ah yes. But was he guilty?’

‘Of course he was. Look, bring in Flash Flanagan’s so-called evidence and I’ll have it looked into.’

The priest inhaled deeply. ‘He hasn’t got it.’

‘I thought you said—’

‘He had it. I said he used to have it.’ This was hopeless. ‘Look, there’s a man on the loose somewhere out there.’ He waved a hand at the door. ‘God alone
knows what he’ll do next.’

The inspector folded his arms and looked with mock pity at the ageing cleric. ‘There are many men out there, Father. There’s enough stuff stolen from the docks every year to feed a
small battalion plus half of Liverpool. I know the criminals are there and so do you. Finding out who they are is another matter altogether.’

Father Brennan nodded. ‘And as long as somebody has hanged for a crime, then that particular book is closed.’

The moustache twitched.

‘Do you and the courts of justice never make a mistake, Inspector Chadwick? Are you different from the rest of us?’

The inspector offered no reply. He had a meeting in ten minutes, and he had no time to be sitting here philosophizing with a silly old man.

‘When his fiancée was murdered five or so years ago, Anthony Bell came into the station and told your officers that he believed she was killed by his brother.’

‘They were not my officers. I was in Manchester.’

‘Whatever. No-one listened to him.’

The policeman shrugged. ‘I’ve heard rumours, of course, about how those twins never got on. There can be great hatred among families, because people are forced to live together even
if they can’t stand the sight of each other and—’

‘And most violent crime is perpetrated within a family situation,’ said the priest. ‘That is a well-known fact. Mr Bell is also sure that his brother committed rape and bodily
harm in the city. Many women were beaten and worse, and several said that their attacker had prayed over them. Then, as suddenly as the trouble had started, it stopped. I think you’ll find,
if you care to check a few records, that Liam Bell was in the seminary during that lull. Valerie Walsh was murdered after Liam returned to the area. Valerie was engaged to Liam Bell’s twin.
The girls in Liverpool were probably mere experiments to prepare for the real thing. Valerie Walsh was the real thing, because she was about to marry Father Bell’s brother.’

‘And the rest of the victims were prostitutes?’

Michael Brennan hung on to his temper. ‘All the victims were women. Whatever their sins, they had the right to live without persecution.’

Chadwick wasn’t sure about that. Some people got what they deserved, but he kept his mouth shut. ‘Wheel them in,’ he said resignedly.

Flash Flanagan’s odour preceded him. He came into the room reluctantly and with Anthony acting as pilot. Once inside, the tramp shook himself free of his companion’s arm. ‘I
promised a dying man,’ he protested. ‘And these two tricked me, told me they knew about the stole.’

The inspector toyed with a pencil, drew a square on his pristine blotting pad. ‘You were questioned, Flanagan.’

‘That’s right, I was. And I got two measly cups of tea. I was faint for lack of nourishment.’

‘And you withheld evidence.’

‘I’m a Catholic.’

The pencil clattered on the desk’s surface. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

Flash shrugged, causing more malodorous dust to rise from his person. ‘It was a priest’s thing, something what they wear on the altar. I could have got struck dead if I’d
snitched on a priest. So I kept the bloody thing.’

Inspector Chadwick exhaled loudly. ‘Then give it to me.’

‘He can’t,’ said Anthony.

The policeman ran his eyes over Anthony Bell. ‘Why not?’

‘I gave it to Sam, that’s why,’ shouted Flash.

‘And my father died,’ said Anthony. ‘We’ve questioned his solicitor, because Dad changed his will about an hour before the heart attack. But the man knew only that Dad
had altered his will.’

‘So has the lawyer got the stole?’ asked Chadwick.

‘No,’ replied Anthony.

The pencil was employed again, this time to tap the desk impatiently. The inspector addressed Anthony. ‘So a drunken tramp found this stole thing next to Maureen Costigan.’

Anthony nodded.

‘And he kept it until the day of your father’s death?’

‘Yes.’

‘So where is it now?’

‘We don’t know,’ the priest replied. ‘Sam must have hidden it.’

Inspector Chadwick nodded, causing the number of chins to vary according to the position of his head. ‘Have either of you seen this stole?’ He looked from the priest to Anthony, then
back again.

‘No,’ they answered simultaneously.

‘Then those who saw the evidence are this fellow,’ he waved the pencil at Flash, ‘and a dead man. And there’s not much to choose between them, because our gentleman of
the road is usually the worse for drink.’ He gazed at Anthony. ‘To be honest with you – and I’m sorry for your loss – I would probably get more sense out of your
father than out of Mr Flanagan.’

Anthony closed the gap between himself and the policeman in one long stride. He was angry, so furious that he deliberately held himself in check. Somewhere, a dangerous man was on the loose.
Anthony no longer felt any affection for or kinship with his brother. All he cared about was the safety of others, especially Bridie and her girls. ‘When the killing starts, I shall rub your
fat face into every piece of horse muck on Scotland Road,’ he said softly.

Michael touched his friend’s arm. ‘Anthony—’

‘Guardian of the law?’ Anthony went on. ‘Guardian of yourself and your own comfort.’ This obese and ugly man belonged to two lodges – one Masonic and the other of a
colour that screamed its garish hatred of Catholicism at every opportunity. ‘When the next woman is raped or killed, I shall come for you, Inspector Chadwick.’

The inspector bared his teeth. ‘You want me to find a priest? You want me to hang out your dirty Irish linen for all the world to see?’

Anthony smiled grimly. ‘My brother is sick,’ he said. ‘What’s your excuse? Were you born insufferable, or has it taken practice?’