‘Can they do that, Inspector? Can your Mum
and Dad keep you locked up like that, like an animal? I’ve told
them how much I hate them, but they don’t care! I hate this new
school, and they won’t listen to me, and now you know he hit me!
They don’t care about me!’
All Inspector Barham cared about, and was
grateful for, was that she didn’t have kids.
Maryam reached Scotland Yard before Barham
had finished interviewing Keely. Gatto had been working with Iqbal
on the records of the vandalism and obscenity at the mosque
conversion. They’d found the same details about the legal order
keeping the local man away from the mosque and had been checking up
on him. His name was Geoffrey Embleton, he still lived in the area
and he was in his late fifties. He hadn’t been in trouble since the
problems at the mosque conversion. They were happy to let Maryam
feedback to them her thoughts.
‘I’m pretty sure he’s a Catholic, raised by
a very old, or strict, family.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘If he did this carving here on the wood
panel, it’s from a Catholic Bible, not an Anglican one.’
Gatto was impressed. ‘You can tell that just
by looking?’
‘Yes. Translations differ... is this
computer on the internet?’
‘Yes, go ahead.’
She opened up several windows and put in
different editions of the Bible in each tab. Then she typed the
same chapter and verse in each. Within a minute they had four
separate versions of the text.
‘It was an Anglican Church, and at the time
it would have been the New English Bible that would have been in
use. That talks about foreign demons that are no gods, but you
won’t get it on the internet.’
‘Why not?’
‘Still under copyright.’
Both Iqbal and Gatto laughed. Maryam, who
hadn’t thought she’d been saying anything funny, looked confused,
but carried on.
‘You can see it here in the King James, and
here in the New Jerusalem Bible. The New Jerusalem is the current
Catholic one. But look here.’ She pointed to the screen.
‘That’s the exact same quote down to the
colons.’ Gatto sounded even more impressed.
‘Exactly. And this, gentlemen, is from the
Douay-Rheims Bible, which is the official Catholic translation from
the Latin Vulgate.’
They both just stared at her.
‘It’s an old text, superseded many years
ago, too obscure to be used on the walls of an Anglican church in
2004.’
‘There’s no mistaking it. It’s a distinctive
translation.’ Gatto was writing details down on his notebook.
‘What does it mean, the text, with the other
one there, too?’ Iqbal asked.
‘I’m not sure. The bible text is spoken by
Moses to the Israelites in the desert, after he’d returned with the
Ten Commandments. The Israelites had been making merry in his
absence, getting drunk, worshipping false gods. He returns from the
mountains and blasts at them, warning them to pay attention and do
as the Lord has commanded or they are in deep trouble.’
‘Fire and brimstone trouble?’ Again, she was
sure that Gatto had been raised Catholic.
‘Yes, Faith of Our Fathers trouble.’
‘Huh?’ It was Iqbal’s turn to look
confused.
‘Dungeon, Fire and Sword,’ replied Gatto.
‘What about the other bit?’ He indicated the Arabic script on the
photo.
Shahrukh answered that. ‘It’s the prophet
speaking, replying to a question about who are the people likely to
be bothered by demons.’
‘And who’s that then?’ Gatto asked him.
‘Sinners. Those who lie and cheat. The point
being that if you are pure of heart, you won’t be bothered by
them.’
‘So, let me get this right. We have graffiti
in a church about to become a mosque, from five, six years ago,
saying that the badly behaved will be damned and that demons will
come after sinners?’
‘A somewhat crude summing up, but yes.’
Maryam was aware that one of her faults was that she thought and
spoke as an academic.
‘And now we have a dead body in a church
that has been defiled and is laying out on a Muslim holy book, and
a statement that a demon killed him with the implication being that
the said demon is a Catholic priest?’
‘Well, yes, you could look at it that way I
suppose.’
‘Blimey. Well, I think the priest is orf the
‘ook then, don’t you?’ That Gatto’s childhood accent had slipped
through as he spoke said much to both Shahrukh and Maryam.
Barham had been sceptical about the
connections but let Gatto and Iqbal follow the line of
investigation: they had to find a connection between Briggs and
Embleton. Maryam, exhausted as she was, asked for a car to take her
to the Cathedral, where she informed Bishop Atkins of all they’d
uncovered and personally told Wyn Jones he was unlikely to be
charged. Jones had been stunned into pale silence. Fred had made
sure she’d eaten before sending her back to Peckham via Andy Scott.
They’d both tried to persuade her to stay at Westminster for the
night, but she wanted to wake up in a room she knew and compose her
thoughts for her report on her own.
The parish house was still up and filled
with people coming and going for the prayer vigil in the Church,
which was on its second night. Maryam excused herself and went
straight to bed, falling asleep within moments.
Her dreams were not happy. She woke after
only three hours and drew upon her Tarot cards. The reversed
Chariot, card seven, was working alongside the reversed Ace of
Swords. The person involved was working against authority, taking
no heed of the situation or others’ understandings or feelings. The
force working through that person was out to destroy Divine
authority. The Fool was once more the card being worked against.
Wyn Jones was the battleground. Why?
She spent an hour writing her report for
Rome and included Geoffrey Embleton’s details: date of birth and
last known address. At the police station, she hadn’t asked
permission to do so, she’d just not spoken. They, in turn, had not
forbidden her from discussing him with others. The sins of
omission: it oiled the wheels of justice most days; when it wasn’t
creating injustice.
She felt dirty and sweaty. It was past dawn
but only just. She prayed for an hour, as she could pray when dirty
with no problem. Then she ran a hot bath, ignoring the banging in
the pipes and soaked in it for half an hour, before rising and then
meditating for another hour. Meditation needed clean. Her sense of
balance restored, she descended into the kitchen.
The women of the parish had been busy; the
kitchen gleamed. So had Father Jacob, who handed her a plate of
poached eggs on toast and a quite acceptable cup of coffee. They
talked about West Africa, his home town, and how he was coping with
the cold in Britain whilst she relished the cleaner air. The stench
of stale smoke was gone and had been replaced by the lemon oil of
detergents: it was much more palatable. Everywhere, everything
looked cleaner: the paint in the hallway was three shades
lighter.
She walked over to the Church afterwards and
sat at the back for a couple of hours as parishioners in the prayer
vigil came and went. Father Jacob was alternating with Father
Hector to make sure a priest was present at all times and many
other clergy were coming and going. The entire London community of
priests was trying to make sure they attended the Church and prayed
there at least once during this phase of restoration.
She sat, thinking, feeling the sense of
space and light re-enter the Church, and then drifted off, drifted
into thinking of nothing very much.
It wasn’t a noise. It wasn’t a sound. It
wasn’t a feeling. What was it?
Something had flared her into life, brought
her senses up full. The Church around her had become huge,
cavernous. The light from the stained glass windows was flowing in
but failing, stopping, not managing to reach the air above her, not
managing to illuminate the central space. The people in the front
pews were distant, tiny specks on her consciousness. She could feel
someone praying on her left, behind her. She turned. A woman, old
and round and puffing, a multi-coloured head scarf on her hair, a
worn rosary in her hands, was praying in the depths of the left
aisle. Her coal black spiral tresses were tinged with grey. She
exuded life, loving, and images of joyous grandchildren roaring
with laughter. Maryam could smell jerk chicken, grits, all manner
of mouth-watering things. She turned back to the altar. The front
pews were still far away, floating somewhere else. The right hand
aisle also held someone praying, kneeling at the altar of the Lady.
His hands were hidden from her as he was leaning forward on the
communion rail. It looked as if he too held a rosary. She leaned
forward, trying to see clearly. His head was bowed; she could see
nothing but the pale back of his neck. He was thin, wiry looking
and wore a waxed jacket, the type that kept out the cutting wind
and rain. As she looked, she could smell wax; incense and wax. Not
candle wax, sealing wax. As soon as the thought was formed, the
scent strengthened, developed. The powerful smell of old books,
lost books, musty books, slammed into her. She sat back, breaking
the moment. The light that had been held above her cracked and
clattered to the ground. The altar was back where it should be. No
one else seemed to have noticed the noise. She stood up, sliding
sideways out of the central seating and headed up the side aisle
for the Virgin’s altar. As she moved, the smell became stronger,
more corrupt. Mould and decay caught at her throat, she tried not
to cough. The man was still kneeling, head bowed. He was less than
two feet from the tea roses she’d seen arranged the day before, yet
all she could smell was decay and deception. The stench became so
strong she gagged, had to cough or suffocate. The man jerked back,
looking at her approaching him. As he stood up from his knees, she
saw his face clearly, saw his eyes. Saw the darkness moving in
them; saw the lack of humanity, of love. Could see the depths of
despair caused by a complete absence of grace. She faltered,
tripped and fell as the darkness pushed into her.
By the time she had been helped to her feet
by the parishioners and a startled Father Jacob, her head had
cleared. The delicate scent of the tea roses was mingled with
incense, burning candles, aftershave and perfume. She apologised
for tripping and disturbing everyone’s prayer. Father Jacob
escorted her to the parish house, where he was so concerned that he
phoned Bishop Atkins. Maryam was quite content with this; she was
using all her energies in restoring her own sense of belonging to
herself and herself alone. It wouldn’t do to alarm Father Jacob
further and she happily accepted some tea from him and let him sit
with her and prattle away whilst they waited out the good Bishop’s
arrival.
When he did arrive a scant half an hour
later, which led Maryam to wonder if Father Scott had gained
tickets for speeding on their way, Wyn Jones arrived with them. She
was a little shocked by this, given the police request, but it was
clear he’d been alarmed to hear of her fall and had wanted to see
she was fine for himself. She accepted this, but asked them to send
a message to Scotland Yard advising them that he had returned to
the parish. Andy Scott phoned Iqbal’s mobile phone number whilst
Maryam discovered something wonderful about Wyn Jones: he could
make excellent coffee. He was clearly a man taking his own
territory back as he marshalled together the water, ground beans,
and a cafetiere that she hadn’t known the kitchen held. Although he
almost swore in frustration when it took him five minutes to find
which cupboard it was in.
‘The parishioners have been busy.’
‘Mrs Olagbegi has been rather frustrated by
Pete’s refusal to let her ‘take over’, as he put it.’
‘When did you lose your housekeeper?’
‘Oh, many years ago. The old one died and
parish funds could not afford a new one.’
‘Was Father Edwards here then?’
‘He’s been here thirty-five years.’ He
stopped and looked at her. ‘Mrs Fisher, the housekeeper, had been
here for twenty years when she passed. I think he still misses
her.’
Fred returned from the Church, where he’d
popped in his head as he’d walked Father Jacob back up. With Andy
off the phone, they took their coffee through to the parlour and
firmly closed the door. Andy drew a chair up against it as a
precaution against a parishioner walking in at the wrong
moment.
Maryam described what had occurred, although
she did so as a light sketch, not in detail. Some things you didn’t
tell priests. Or anyone, actually. She did describe the scent of
the old books even as she omitted the detail about the jerk
chicken, and she described the man in full.
‘That is Keith Pargiter.’
They all stared blankly at Father Jones.
‘You know him?’
‘Well, yes, he’s a stalwart of the parish.
He’s an altar server and does some ground work in the graveyard. He
runs an antiquarian book shop on Rye Road, although it does most of
its business online, I believe. He joined the parish about three
years ago I think, when he bought the shop. You’d have to ask Pete
when exactly.’
‘And he’s a regular parishioner?’ Andy spoke
first.
‘Oh yes, one of the faithful, as I said, can
always be trusted to help out if we need it. He’s also been very
good at donating bibles and religious texts to us if they are of no
commercial value. We have a lot of things that Keith has passed
on.’
‘Does he have keys to the Church?’ Maryam
asked.
‘Well, not as such, no, but he’s on the
cleaning rota with the others, why?’
‘I’m not sure how to tell you this, Father
Jones, but the man I saw was Geoffrey Embleton.’
Gatto and Iqbal turned up about twenty
minutes later. They asked Wyn if it would be all right if he went
for a walk or went up to his room... or really, wasn’t he sure he
wouldn’t be happier at the Cathedral?’