Read Online The Discourtesy of Death (Father Anselm Novels) by William Brodrick - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: William Brodrick
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chance – those goading imps who’d vied to ruin Peter Henderson – placed them on opposing sides in a string of significant trials. Trials Olivia had cared about and lost. Trials that Anselm had won. Sitting in her office on the second floor of Suffolk Constabulary HQ in Martlesham, they’d steered away from victory and defeat; and what might have been.
‘So you’re a detective, now?’ she asked, wryly.
‘I prefer “fretful explorer into the dark places of the human conscience”.’
After digesting that mouthful, Olivia’s expression seemed to quip, ‘Did you bring a compass?’ but she held back. After all, her old adversary had become a monk. He’d placed the search for truth above all else.
‘I ought to have cautioned you,’ she said, feigning regret. ‘But you know the score. Just remember anything you say from now on may, and will, be given in evidence.’
Olivia hadn’t changed much. Her hair was still short and jet black though responsibility had turned a few strands into silver. They fell from the crown like neatly trimmed piano wire. Long black eyelashes moved slowly as she spoke. Her voice was hard without being harsh.
‘You’ll be listed in Yellow Pages?’
‘No. I’ll rely on word of mouth.’
‘A public service?’
‘Yes.’
‘For those who can afford it?’
‘No, for those who can’t.’
She made a shrug, but the indifference wasn’t entirely convincing. Sensing an open door and a softening of memory, Anselm spoke plainly, addressing the past and the future: ‘This time I want to do something completely different. I don’t want to shift evidence around trying to make a pretty picture. I want to get it absolutely right … even if no one likes what they see. This time the client is the situation. I’m no longer taking sides, not for any price.’
Anselm produced the letter. He explained its background and his thinking. He made no reference to Mitch’s fantasy that the author had tasked him to uncover evidence to support a verdict of suicide; that another murder had been planned. This was not the time for laughter, even for the purpose of completeness. The real problem with this case was not a fresh, unfolding drama, but the stale and settled history. The past had been left undisturbed for years. It had become compressed and solid. Anselm’s difficulty was to find a crack on a seemingly smooth surface.
‘I’m imagining that back then someone approached the police. Since they’ve never made any public declaration, I’m guessing they wanted an off-the-record meeting. I’m hoping they had an irrational distrust of junior detectives and came to someone senior. Someone with the power to act behind the scenes. Someone who shut the case down because there was no evidence of any crime.’
Olivia’s stern face slowly relaxed and, for a moment, Anselm thought they were in a wine bar near the Old Bailey. They’d just exchanged confidences, shyly:
Tosca
by Puccini for
Lady in Satin
by Billie Holiday; different takes on love and dying. Things hadn’t quite worked out. It had been difficult explaining why because a murder trial had lain between them. This time, the vibes felt promising. Olivia couldn’t quite suppress her amusement. She, too, had been warmed by the remembrance of wanting to be understood and to understand, recalling, too, the unexpected disappointment. And now, when the shape of their lives had changed beyond recognition, they were moving in the same direction.
‘I know who wrote the letter,’ she said, smiling.
Had there been a wine bar in Martlesham, they might have gone there to reclaim even more of the past; to toast (perhaps) a strange and unforeseen fulfilment. Instead, Olivia made tea. She’d always had a passion for tea, keeping in her locker a private stock of mysterious blends from Asia and the Orient. Her interest bordered on the religious. She’d tasted aspects of revelation.
‘A couple of years back I got a phone call from a man who
‘So you’re a detective, now?’ she asked, wryly.
‘I prefer “fretful explorer into the dark places of the human conscience”.’
After digesting that mouthful, Olivia’s expression seemed to quip, ‘Did you bring a compass?’ but she held back. After all, her old adversary had become a monk. He’d placed the search for truth above all else.
‘I ought to have cautioned you,’ she said, feigning regret. ‘But you know the score. Just remember anything you say from now on may, and will, be given in evidence.’
Olivia hadn’t changed much. Her hair was still short and jet black though responsibility had turned a few strands into silver. They fell from the crown like neatly trimmed piano wire. Long black eyelashes moved slowly as she spoke. Her voice was hard without being harsh.
‘You’ll be listed in Yellow Pages?’
‘No. I’ll rely on word of mouth.’
‘A public service?’
‘Yes.’
‘For those who can afford it?’
‘No, for those who can’t.’
She made a shrug, but the indifference wasn’t entirely convincing. Sensing an open door and a softening of memory, Anselm spoke plainly, addressing the past and the future: ‘This time I want to do something completely different. I don’t want to shift evidence around trying to make a pretty picture. I want to get it absolutely right … even if no one likes what they see. This time the client is the situation. I’m no longer taking sides, not for any price.’
Anselm produced the letter. He explained its background and his thinking. He made no reference to Mitch’s fantasy that the author had tasked him to uncover evidence to support a verdict of suicide; that another murder had been planned. This was not the time for laughter, even for the purpose of completeness. The real problem with this case was not a fresh, unfolding drama, but the stale and settled history. The past had been left undisturbed for years. It had become compressed and solid. Anselm’s difficulty was to find a crack on a seemingly smooth surface.
‘I’m imagining that back then someone approached the police. Since they’ve never made any public declaration, I’m guessing they wanted an off-the-record meeting. I’m hoping they had an irrational distrust of junior detectives and came to someone senior. Someone with the power to act behind the scenes. Someone who shut the case down because there was no evidence of any crime.’
Olivia’s stern face slowly relaxed and, for a moment, Anselm thought they were in a wine bar near the Old Bailey. They’d just exchanged confidences, shyly:
Tosca
by Puccini for
Lady in Satin
by Billie Holiday; different takes on love and dying. Things hadn’t quite worked out. It had been difficult explaining why because a murder trial had lain between them. This time, the vibes felt promising. Olivia couldn’t quite suppress her amusement. She, too, had been warmed by the remembrance of wanting to be understood and to understand, recalling, too, the unexpected disappointment. And now, when the shape of their lives had changed beyond recognition, they were moving in the same direction.
‘I know who wrote the letter,’ she said, smiling.
Had there been a wine bar in Martlesham, they might have gone there to reclaim even more of the past; to toast (perhaps) a strange and unforeseen fulfilment. Instead, Olivia made tea. She’d always had a passion for tea, keeping in her locker a private stock of mysterious blends from Asia and the Orient. Her interest bordered on the religious. She’d tasted aspects of revelation.
‘A couple of years back I got a phone call from a man who
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