‘I am DI Manson of Lothian and Borders Police,’ the inspector began, and then hesitated, grimacing on hearing his last words returning to him, before continuing softly, ‘and I’d be grateful if you would be good enough to help us with our enquiries at the station, at St. Leonards Street.’
Francis McPhail looked astonished at the request, disbelief gradually becoming apparent on his face, but he quickly recovered his composure and said sternly, ‘Of course I’ll help you, officer, but first of all I must finish taking confession. Two of my parishioners have still to be seen, and if it’s all right with you, I’d like to see to them before accompanying you to the police office.’ So, for another forty minutes, the police officers waited in the unheated church, their breaths becoming visible, legs and arms crossed in an attempt to maintain their body heat until, to their relief, the priest emerged from the sacristy, clad now in black jacket and trousers.
The removal of the suspect from his own surroundings had been DCI Elaine Bell’s idea, but he remained ostensibly at ease, comfortable in himself and with the world around him, despite the alien environment. Alice glanced at her watch. Nine p.m. already.
‘Good of you to assist us, sir… er… Reverend, sorry… Father,’ Elaine Bell began, unusually courteous, seemingly thrown by the man’s dog-collar. In reply, he nodded affably, looking straight at her, his dark eyes shining, unashamedly curious to discover why he had been summoned.
‘Well, can you tell me where you were on Tuesday the ninth of January, between the hours of, say, 8.00 p.m. and 11.00 p.m.?’
‘Can I look at my diary?’ he asked, removing a slim leather-bound pocket book from inside his jacket, and holding it unopened in his hands.
‘Yes.’
He flicked the diary open and examined an entry, before meticulously inserting the ribbon marker and closing it once more.
‘I helped Mrs Donnelly clear my study in the early evening and then, as far as I recollect, I went to church.’ He blinked at his interrogator.
‘Mrs Donnelly?’ the DCI enquired.
‘My housekeeper.’
‘And at about what time did you leave to go to the church?’
‘I can’t be exactly sure. It would probably be at about 8.30 p.m. or so.’
‘Was there anyone there with you at the same time?’
‘To begin with there was a boy. I didn’t recognise him though. He’s not one of mine.’
Now, apparently completely relaxed, the priest rested his face on his elbow, stroking his ear-lobe, his eyes never leaving the DCI’s face.
‘When did he leave?’ She asked, clearing a stray curl from her forehead.
‘Maybe about nine or thereabouts.’
‘And when did you leave?’
‘Well after him. I’d say at about 11.00 p.m.’
‘What were you doing in the place between 8.30 and 11.00 p.m.?’
‘Praying.’
‘Praying! For two and a half solid hours?’ Elaine Bell said, amused scepticism written on her face.
‘I am a priest, Chief Inspector. Most evenings I’m out and about visiting – the sick, the bereaved, anyone who needs me, really. I have to take my chances when I can.’ His unblinking, simian gaze did not leave hers until, put in her place, she flinched, lowering her eyes as if to check her script. Something about his presence disquieted her.
‘Mmm.’ The DCI cleared her throat, and Alice became aware of an uncharacteristic hesitancy in her questioning. The priest now stared expectantly at the Chief Inspector, but she remained silent. Perhaps she was unused to dealing with the clergy or, at least, had not met one quite like this.
‘Now, about Isobel Wilson,’ she started again, an anxious look on her face, ‘I assume you knew the woman?’
‘Should I?’ the priest replied instantly. ‘Who is she?’
It was a foolish error in the DCI’s approach, and one of which she was immediately conscious, the hint of a blush beginning to rise upwards from her neck to her already flushed cheeks.
‘Erm… she was a prostitute working in Leith, Seafield.’
Francis McPhail sat up straight, an amazed look on his face.
‘Why on earth would you assume that I would know her? Seafield’s not even within my parish boundary.’
‘No,’ the Chief Inspector said, trying to recover her lost momentum, ‘but you still might know her. To be clear on this matter, er… Father… are you telling us that you did not know her?’
‘I certainly am. I’ve never even heard the name.’
‘Well, they don’t always use their real names. So, do you know, or ever use, any of the working girls down there?’ Outrage, followed by anger, transformed the man’s features, and when he spoke his tone was emphatic, impressing upon all that no quibbling with his answer would be tolerated.
‘Let’s be clear about this, shall we? I do not “use” anyone. I have never “used” anyone or needed to. As far as I am aware I do not know, am not even acquainted with, any of the “working girls” in Leith or anywhere else. Perhaps you would now have the courtesy to tell me what this is all about?’
Having watched her superior conduct many interviews, Alice expected a terse response to the implied reprimand. After all, the man was being questioned because DNA from his blood had been found on the body. And the Chief Inspector’s mild-mannered reply, surprised her.
‘Of course,’ Elaine Bell began almost apologetically, ‘our enquiry is concerned with the murder of Isobel Wilson. A prostitute killed on the ninth of January. We are asking everyone, everyone we can think of anyway, to assist us to that end.’
‘And me,’ the priest said evenly, his anger now controlled if not yet expended, ‘what precisely makes you think that I could assist you “to that end”?’
But the tables were not to be turned this time, the interrogated becoming the interrogator. He had gone too far. Nothing would be allowed to compromise the investigation, not even the normal requirements of good manners.
‘I’d rather not answer that question at present, Father,’ the DCI said firmly, re-asserting her control over him, and this time he took it meekly, simply nodding his head.
The interview over, Elaine Bell returned to her room, closing the door slowly behind her. She leant against it and breathed out. The creep had fancied her! Clearly fancied her! And the way he had looked at her had temporarily unsettled her, making her lose the place, flustering her. Hopefully, no one else in the room would have noticed.
Then she shook her head as if shaking the very notion out of it, deciding that it was a ludicrous one anyway. She was a middle-aged woman in a crumpled suit with more grey than brown in her hair, unfanciable by anyone, including her own husband. And no doubt that fact, more than any other, accounted for her delusion, which was all it must have been. The man was a priest, for Heaven’s sake! Unlikely to be eyeing up anyone, far less a dowdy policewoman firing impertinent questions at him, in the course of a murder investigation. An investigation with him as the suspect.
‘Quite a delicate operation ahead, eh, sir?’
‘In what way, teddy?’
Alice and Eric Manson were travelling together in the Astra to number five Rintoul Place in order to check out Eddie Christie’s alibi, and the Inspector was at the wheel. Periodically, he lifted one hand off it to flex his fingers in and out in his immaculate leather driving gloves, like a cat extending and retracting its claws.
‘Smart, eh? A Christmas gift from the wife,’ he said, waving an arm in her direction.
‘Very lovely, sir. As I was saying though, a delicate operation, this morning’s task.’
‘As you said, but I have no idea what you are on about, Boo Boo.’