Читать книгу Absolute Truths - Susan Howatch - Страница 24

I knew Inspector Parker. Indeed I knew all the top men on the Starbridge force and I was on good terms with the Chief Constable, but to know a policeman formally as the result of one’s public position is one thing; to be interviewed by him during his investigation of a crime is quite another. Too late I wished I had brought my lay-chaplain to the hospital. Roger was an old hand at dealing with worldly matters which had the potential to be awkward for a bishop.

Assuming my most confident manner I said to Parker: ‘How glad I am to see you!’ and without hesitation offered him my hand. I then both took control of the interview and underlined the power of my position by demanding: ‘Please tell me exactly what happened.’

I could see Parker was thinking what a tiresome old smoothie I was, but he said civilly enough: ‘Mr Wilton was found in the church by one of the lady members of the congregation, and judging from the loss of blood we think he may have been lying there for some time. He was unconscious when the ambulance arrived but we’re here in the hope that he can be interviewed.’

‘He’s in the operating theatre.’

‘Then when he comes out my sergeant here can sit at his bedside till he recovers consciousness.’

I thought it prudent to leave all comment on that plan to the doctor. What I really wanted to hear was information about why Desmond had been attacked, but I did not want to appear too curious for fear of arousing Parker’s suspicions. I decided to try to float the most likely explanation in the hope not only that it was true but that I might learn something from Parker’s reaction.

‘It’s disgraceful for a priest to be beaten up in his own church!’ I exclaimed, playing the outraged old buffer. ‘I assume Father Wilton interrupted a thief who was in the act of robbing the alms-box.’

‘No, sir, from our preliminary investigation it appears that nothing was taken.’

I noted that I was addressed as ‘sir’ instead of ‘my lord’ or ‘Bishop’, and suspected that this was a move to grab control of the interview by cutting me down to size.

‘Then I assume,’ I said, refusing to be reduced, ‘that the culprit was a vandal bent on sacrilege.’

‘No, sir, nothing was disturbed or damaged.’

Then I can only conclude that this outrage was perpetrated by a lunatic. Well, Parker –’ By this time I had decided that I quite definitely did not want to answer any questions about a possible motive for the attack ‘– I wish you every success in your investigation and I hope you’ll keep me informed of all developments. And now, if you’ll excuse me –’

‘Just a moment, my lord.’ Parker had decided it was worth bending over backwards a fraction in order to stop me dead in my tracks. ‘Would you be so good as to tell us a little about Mr Wilton? In this sort of case the personality of the victim is often of the first importance when it comes to solving the crime.’

Having lost control of the interview I realised that my task now was to appear so immensely distinguished that my opinions could not easily be doubted. ‘Father Wilton,’ I said, again giving Desmond the title which as an Anglo-Catholic he preferred yet this time contriving to infuse it with an air of sanctity, ‘is sixty-four years old and has been vicar of St Paul’s church in Langley Bottom since 1960. He’s an extremely devout and conscientious priest, and is greatly respected by his congregation.’

‘Has this kind of thing ever happened to him before?’

‘To the best of my knowledge,’ I said with perfect truth, ‘Farher Wilton has never in his life been beaten up by a thug in his own church.’ But I could see where this line of questioning was going and the destination was gruesome. ‘What exactly are you implying?’ I demanded, taking the split-second decision that attack was the best form of defence.

‘I was just wondering how accident-prone he was. Some old gentlemen do suffer more man others from this sort of mishap,’ said Parker, still very civil, but at that point his sergeant interposed brutally: ‘Not married, is he?’

I drew myself up to my full height and allowed a blistering pause to develop before announcing in my grandest episcopal manner: ‘Father Wilton is called to celibacy.’

In the silence that followed I reflected how far removed the scene was from that popular television series about the policeman with the heart of gold, Dixon of Dock Green. The oafish sergeant was bright-eyed, his lips moist where he had licked them in his excitement; he reminded me of one of the more disagreeable carnivores – a rhinoceros, perhaps – who had just scented food. In contrast Parker was as cool and still as steel in ice. Refusing to be intimidated by my grand manner he said levelly: ‘I’m sure you understand, my lord, that since there was no robbery or vandalism, the likelihood is that he was attacked by someone he knew. May I ask your permission to search the vicarage? A desk-diary, for instance, would reveal if he had an appointment to see someone at the church this afternoon.’

I was still trying to conceal my horror at this potentially ruinous request when deliverance arrived in the form of my henchman, the Archdeacon of Starbridge. No detachment of the United States cavalry could have been greeted with more relief in the final reel of a Hollywood western than Malcolm Lindsay was greeted by his bishop as he swept into the hall of Starbridge General Hospital that afternoon.

‘Ah, there you are, Bishop!’ he exclaimed, deceptively jovial. ‘I thought I’d better look in here as soon as I’d finished my visitation – good heavens, it’s Inspector Parker! And Sergeant Locke! Nice to know the police have their best men on the trail. Now, Bishop, off you go to pray for poor Desmond – I’m sure Inspector Parker will quite understand that you shouldn’t be detained from your spiritual duties a moment longer.’

Parker allowed himself to look baffled by the concept of spiritual duties, but recovered himself sufficiently to say: ‘I’ve no wish to detain the Bishop, Mr Lindsay, but there are one or two questions –’

‘Address them to me!’ said Malcolm, still relentlessly exuding bonhomie. ‘I’m the one who has direct supervision of Father Wilton, so I know much more about him than the Bishop does.’

‘But I need the Bishop’s permission to search the vicarage. In my opinion –’

‘Oh, the Bishop couldn’t possibly give such a permission! I see you’re unfamiliar with the concept of the “parson’s freehold”, Inspector – that house is at the moment, to all intents and purposes, Father Wilton’s, and in the absence of his permission I’m afraid you must obtain a search-warrant, but that won’t be difficult, will it? In the circumstances I’m sure it’ll be just a formality … Off you go, Bishop.’

I escaped, bathed in cold sweat.

Outside the sleet was still falling from that heavy, yellowish sky and the gloom had thickened. Scrambling into my black Rover I switched on the headlights and drove straight to Desmond’s vicarage in the working-class city parish of Langley Bottom.