‘Only if you stop staring at me like that.’
She bagged the best place under the shower before he caught up with her.
The priest welcomed Konrad Simonsen on the patio, where a table was set for tea. His host did the pouring. Simonsen allowed his gaze to wander over the tidy little garden, wondering at the same time whether the breeze that rustled in the corkscrew willow opposite them would be too much background noise on his dictaphone. He made himself comfortable and looked the priest in the eye. In any other circumstances this visit might have been pleasant, but the other man’s forthright announcement immediately laid down boundaries.
‘I should say right away that we may have a conflict of interests here. As I’m sure you know, Jørgen Kramer Nielsen was a member of our parish, and as such I, his priest, have received information I am not at liberty to divulge.’
It was straight talking at any rate. Simonsen frowned and maintained his dissatisfied expression, though the priest subsequently endeavoured to modify his words by assuring his visitor he wished to do everything else in his power to aid the police in their investigation.
‘Should I be unable to give you an answer, you must know that it certainly isn’t because I’m trying to obstruct you.’
He smiled apologetically and appeared calmly steadfast in a way that indicated to Simonsen it wasn’t worth arguing.
‘Well, if there’s nothing I can do about it, I’ll just have to make do.’
The priest’s proviso was hardly surprising. Simonsen had reckoned on certain constraints, though he had been hoping the religious argument wouldn’t be raised until much later in proceedings. As things stood, it was more like the introit. He tried to win himself a bit of time.
‘Are you really prevented from divulging anything, even after the man’s death? I would have thought confessional privilege was only valid with respect to the living.’
‘It makes no difference.’
Simonsen fell silent and considered how to proceed. The priest waited with no sign of impatience, and with accommodating body language, made an effort to ensure the pause need not be embarrassing. Could a body seated two metres away be accommodating? The priest’s could. The man invited openness, albeit without offering it himself. It was remarkably well done, Simonsen thought, before eventually carrying on.
‘You realise, of course, that any reticence you might have as to passing on important information about a crime may be against the law?’
‘I’m aware of that, yes.’
The other man remained unruffled, and Konrad Simonsen elected for a different approach. If he was lucky, his new strategy would pay off and provide him with answers to some of his most pressing questions. Indirect answers, perhaps, but better than nothing, and certainly worth a shot.
‘Can you tell me more about Confession?’
The priest showed no surprise at this change of tack.
‘What do you want to know? It’s a subject I could spend hours on, but I imagine that’s not what you have in mind.’
‘Some other time, perhaps. I’d like to know what I can ask you and what I can’t. You’ve chalked up the court, so it’s only fair you run through the rules for me, too.’
‘You can ask whatever you like. The rules I abide by don’t apply to you.’
‘I realise that. Let me put it another way: I won’t try to hide the fact that I’m unused to this situation, to say the least. Of course, lots of witnesses refuse to co-operate and hold back information, so it’s not that. The unusual thing here is that I’m accepting your terms, mainly because I don’t think I would come out on top in any confrontation between us. But tell me instead, in theory as it were, in what specific circumstances you as a priest would be bound by professional secrecy.’
The priest smiled smugly at his question, before proceeding to elaborate with great passion on the confession of sin, the repentance that went with it and was so crucial, and then forgiveness and the sacramental absolution by which the faithful received divine mercy for their sins.
‘Confession can occur in a number of ways. One of which, the one I’m sure you’re thinking about now, is in the confessional box, in personal conversation with an appointed priest.’
‘Such as yourself, for instance.’
‘I am approved to carry out that function, yes. Partly because I’ve been ordained, and partly by canonical jurisdiction.’
‘And what you hear in that connection is protected by rules of professional privilege?’
‘Complete confidentiality, under seal of Confession.’
He poured them some more tea. Simonsen thanked him politely as he concentrated his thoughts. It was all about timing. Timing and luck. He switched to a more casual tone.
‘Next question: would you mind if I use a dictaphone for what we have to talk about now?’
‘Not at all, go ahead.’
‘I’m glad you’re willing to make my job that bit easier, but I’m afraid I have to do a little soundcheck here to eliminate background noise.’
He indicated the willow tree; the priest nodded his understanding. Simonsen switched on the dictaphone, asking somewhat absently:
‘Tell me, to whom do you confess when the need arises? I’m assuming you can’t absolve yourself of your sins?’
‘Not like that, no. I go to my bishop.’
‘Further up the ladder, is that it?’
‘That’s the normal practice, yes.’
Simonsen was still fiddling with his recalcitrant dictaphone.
‘How often do Catholics confess? I mean, I know that depends on the sins, if you can put it like that, but how common is Confession exactly? On average. How about yourself, for instance? Have you been to your bishop during the last six months, say?’
The priest laughed. You couldn’t look at it in terms of averages, it seemed, and yet he endeavoured to provide an honest answer, pleased with the interest shown in his faith.
‘Actually, I haven’t at all, not for some years. But then we priests are expected to set a good example, aren’t we, even though it doesn’t always work out that way.’
Simonsen glanced up and noted the man’s expression. The patient smile seemed genuine enough, as genuine as good old truth.
The priest looked up into the willow tree. There was no doubt that he had now realised what had occurred. Twenty seconds too late. Simonsen put the dictaphone back in his case. It had been purely for the sake of distraction and was now superfluous. He considered the priest’s mournful expression and realised that he felt ashamed. It was odd. He had manipulated witnesses in worse ways than this, and yet he felt stricken by remorse. Three months ago it wouldn’t have bothered him in the slightest. He tried to convince himself his subterfuge had been justified, even in the priest’s best interests. It was of the utmost concern that he be eliminated as a suspect, and surely he could see that as Kramer Nielsen’s downstairs neighbour and his landlord he was a prime candidate as likely perpetrator. Either on his own or in collusion. His holiday, for a start, had all the marks of his wanting to give himself an alibi. And then there was his being bound by the doctrine of priest-penitent privilege, that very conveniently excused him from having to answer questions from the police. There was absolutely no reason for Simonsen to feel embarrassed. And yet he did.
At last the priest spoke.
‘Was that really necessary?’
‘It’s my job. I was eliminating you from our enquiries.’
‘You subverted a coming together of two people. You could just as easily have asked me straight.’
Simonsen tried to be thick-skinned. A coming together of two people… how unctuous could it get? And those wounded, puppy-dog eyes. Read it and weep, this was a murder inquiry and priests weren’t above the law.