‘Wait here,’ he whispered and inched towards the figure, careful not to walk on anything that might be evidence.
He crouched over the white-haired priest and held two fingers to his throat. He knew his action was fruitless when he saw the cord tight around the neck. The face was blue under the dim light, the tongue protruding and the unseeing eyes appeared to be staring straight through him. The rancid stench of defecation in death wafted up, obliterating all other smells. Boyd rose up and scanned his surroundings as far as the weak bulb allowed.
‘Lynch?’
‘What?’
‘The bushes . . . over there. I thought I saw something.’
‘I don’t see anything.’
‘There! Do you see it?’ Boyd ran through the garden in the dark.
‘Wait,’ Lynch shouted. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’
He vaulted the hedge and pressed on his phone light. It began to ring. He ignored the tone, concentrated on the dark figure running ahead of him, along the narrow lane.
‘Boyd, you eejit,’ Lynch yelled. ‘Wait!’
He ran fast, slipping and sliding, trying to keep the target in sight. Branches smashed into his face, wet leaves flew back and violently slapped into him. A thorn bush tore up his nostril and a branch scratched his head. He needed to catch his prey. It was the killer. He was sure. Adrenaline fuelled his legs and he subconsciously thanked the hours he’d spent sweating in the gym.
The moonlight was strong but it was difficult running on the slippery paving stones. His breathing rattled, fast and hollow. A wheelie-bin crashed across his path and the shadow sped up the alley. At the end, a wall. Boyd climbed over it in one movement and followed the spectre into the night.
Ahead of him, a field stretched into obscurity. He stopped, catching his breath. Which direction did he go? Boyd couldn’t see a thing. Frustration welled up and he swore.
Without hearing a sound, he felt something encircle his neck. He flung up his hands, grasping at nothingness, cursing his idiocy. He was strong but caught unawares he was at a disadvantage. Lottie would have something to say about this, he thought wildly. He elbowed the man behind him. The grip remained steadfast.
He kicked back. His foot crashed against bone. Good. The noose tightened. Bad. Blackness descended while the cold air waited in a dark chill around him. He felt powerless and hysterical, simultaneously. His throat constricted, his hands flailed, the cable tightened. He desperately fought the compression. But his knees weakened and snow seeped into his bones.
He couldn’t see anything but he sensed the man leaning over him. A knife sliced through his clothes, into his flesh. A sharp pain in his side. He gurgled a cry. His phone rang in a distant sphere. Lottie would be totally pissed off with him for dying on her. A knee bore into his spine. He gagged and the moon lit up the shadows for one second, before complete darkness plunged like a black veil over a widow’s face.
Darkness.
Seventy-Four
Lottie felt Father Joe’s arm slide through hers, steering her along the walled city through Borgo Pio and across the river.
‘I hope the ledgers help you,’ he said. ‘How is the overall investigation going?’
‘Don’t ask.’
‘You don’t want to talk about it?’
‘Not with you, Joe. You’re still a suspect.’ An uneasy tinge crept into her voice.
He laughed. ‘Ah, there’s gratitude for you. I told you I could be excommunicated for what I’ve just shown you.’
‘I’m sorry. Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘I still can’t understand why Father Angelotti travelled to Ragmullin,’ she said. ‘It seems implausible that he went on the basis of correspondence with James Brown.’
‘I don’t know,’ he said, leaning in closer to her as they walked.
‘You don’t know what?’
‘Why he travelled to Ragmullin.’
They looked back across the Tiber at St Peter’s Basilica. Father Joe scratched his head. ‘Lottie, there are niggly things crawling around in my brain. And I don’t like that feeling.’
‘Go on,’ she said.
‘There’s always been scandal associated with the Catholic Church through the centuries. In recent decades there’s the rumours of inappropriate financial dealings and the disgraceful child sex abuse cases.’ He closed his eyes for a moment. ‘I think maybe Father Angelotti was on a mission to cover up something that was threatening to explode. I’ll try to find out who might’ve sent him. But it is possible he acted on his own initiative.’
‘There’ve been a multitude of abuse cases. The Tuam babies, the Magdalene Laundries. Why now? Why kill him? It doesn’t make sense.’
Lottie raised her hands, then lowered them. He gripped her arm, turning her toward him.
‘None of it does, Lottie. But there has to be a plausible motive or scenario. And when you study the copies of the ledgers I’m sure you will find something.’
‘This case is like a spaghetti junction,’ she said, feeling his fingers through her jacket. ‘Going everywhere and nowhere. No leads, no nothing. And moving those records to Rome, it’s very unorthodox.’
‘Not unorthodox, just the Catholic Church doing what it does best. Covering up.’ He began walking again. ‘I’ll go back to Umberto in the morning and look through the other ledgers.’
‘I appreciate all you’re doing, you know that.’
‘But I’m still a suspect?’ he asked.
Lottie said nothing. They strolled the rest of the way in silence.
Standing on the pavement outside her hotel, Lottie asked, ‘Where are you going now?’
‘I don’t know, to be honest.’
She felt soft raindrops on her head.
‘Do you want to come in for a coffee?’ She didn’t want to be alone with the images conjured up by the old ledgers and she felt Joe could be her friend.
‘Perhaps I will,’ he answered and followed her into the warm lobby.
‘Shit,’ she said.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘The bar is closed.’
‘Perhaps I should have booked a more upmarket hotel for you,’ he joked.
Lottie thought for a moment. ‘This is not very appropriate but do you want to come up to my room? There’s a kettle and cups there.’
‘Inspector Parker, that is a totally inappropriate suggestion,’ he said, a smile brightening his face. ‘One which I accept.’
In the elevator, Lottie put space between them, gripped her bag to her chest and sighed. What was she after doing now? She liked Father Joe. But was it like a brother or was it something more? She wasn’t at all sure.
The room was as she had left it. Curtains fluttered in the breeze and the scent of fresh rain rested on the windowsill. When she turned he was standing directly behind her. The room was suddenly too small.
‘Excuse me,’ she said, sliding past him to grab the kettle.