A Journal of Sin Read online

  ‘Evidence of what?’

  ‘It’s likely they were looking for these. Put it down.’

  ‘I might be in one.’ She reached for it, but he pulled it away. ‘Look, look here.She wants to leave him for someone else. She’d already found another man; some people have no shame!’ His words quickened towards the end as Sarah took the book from him. ‘Give it back.’ He reached for it, but thought better of snatching it from her. She held it up in front of her.

  ‘This is mine. It’s coming with me, like the others.’

  ‘That was about Jenny and if there’s more in there, I have a right to see them.’

  ‘The words in these books are private. They should never have been written down. No one has any right to them at all.’

  ‘Yet you’re taking them? And you’ll read them?’

  ‘They may be evidential.’

  ‘But the people they’re about can’t see them?’

  ‘You picked up a book at random; that passage could be about anyone.’

  ‘Fine.’ His tearful eyes looked at the books as she put them into a pile on the table.

  ‘Listen, you take a minute to rest up. I’m going to find a Bible and look up those passages that were in his bedside drawer. He kept them close, so they may have more significance. The context may give a clue to as to what.’ She saw him looking at the books. ‘I’ll be taking those with me.’ She put the books into the rucksack from Father Michael’s room and carried them downstairs.

  She placed the bag at the bottom of the stairs and crept into the church. It was empty, but she still felt a need to be quiet. It was larger than it looked from the outside. The stained glass cast vibrant, multi-coloured light onto two rows of wooden pews. The grey stone walls were lined with brass candle holders. She didn’t genuflect as she passed the altar, but the thought to do so crossed her mind. The ritual actions for all the ceremonies had been drummed into her as a child and even now she could recount all the prayers, despite not having uttered one in years. Mark wasn’t religious either and they’d decided to raise the girls without faith. Without faith. At least that’s what her mother called it. Religion had a way of cornering certain words and keeping them only for their followers; faith was certainly one of those. People could have faith in many things: themselves, their work, their chosen life path; maybe religious institutions had monopolised it because believing in a religion took a greater leap of faith than any of these other things. The suggestion the twins were ‘without faith’ was absurd and insulting, but she kept these ideas to herself so as not to rock the family boat. They were taught religious education in school, and although most of it really didn’t interest Sophie, Ellie had asked a few questions. Sarah had told her everyone had different ideas about where we come from and how to live, and that all she had to do was think about and question everything she heard. This was all before boys came on the scene. She dreaded those questions and dreaded even more that, again, Sophie probably would just do as she pleased with little request for maternal guidance.

  The shelves by the main door held only missals. Walking through the centre aisle reminded her of her wedding day. Mark had lost sixteen pounds and had looked great; a look he’d maintained, for a short while at least, until it was replaced by the promise of slimming down again. She didn’t marry him for looks. She liked that he was a man of ambition, potential, the type that strives for something. And whether he ever made it or not really didn’t matter. What did, was that they were going to build their own story together. Her sister said men slowed down after marriage, but Mark hadn’t; in fact, his start-up was more successful now than ever. He was going to throw it all in at one stage, but she’d convinced him to keep at it.

  She remembered how she looked on her wedding day Her perfect white dress was tightly tied at the back, forcing her stomach in and her breasts up, and she had the photographs to prove it. Dress prices had been occasional social discussion and she’d always sworn she’d stick to a strict budget, but when the time came, she’d given in and spent way beyond her means. Still, it was worth it for that one blissful day. The idea of getting married somewhere other than a church came up and she was swiftly brought down to earth; the family wouldn’t hear of it. It’d been the only thing to taint the day. It was a beautiful building, of course, and it housed everyone she wanted to come; however, she couldn’t help but feel like a hypocrite responding to her vows.

  She stepped up to the bare altar. The lack of Sunday-morning trappings - the chalices, the altar covers, the golden crucifixes - left it looking simpler and more humble than it did when a service was in full swing. Everything else seemed to be in place and undisturbed with no Bibles to be seen. She went back, leaving the books just outside the door, and walked upstairs.

  ‘There aren’t any,’ she said.

  ‘Even in the main church?’ John slid off Father Michael’s desk and stood on his own two feet.

  ‘There aren’t any anywhere. All the Bibles have been removed.’

  TWO

  The church hall was packed. People filled the rows of blue plastic chairs; some to report their difficulties, some to hear updates Tom may have on the rescue effort and others just there to mingle, as without televisions, computers and various other gadgets, they had little left to do. Sarah sat towards the back, wanting to take in the scene whilst blending in as much as possible. Once word got around she was a cop – and if Grace already knew, it wouldn’t take long – answers would be expected about the missing priest. Answers she didn’t have. She listened to the conversations around her.

  ‘This is just enough to finish my ticker off. The doctor said not to panic, but it’s hard not to given the time we’ve had.’

  ‘Looking on the bright side, I’ll have had around a month off work by the time this whole thing blows over,’ said a man behind her.

  ‘You won’t be saying that when the insurance doesn’t pay out. It’s an act of God they’ll say, they don’t pay out if it’s an act of God,’ replied a woman.

  ‘Everything is an act of God.’

  All in all, given the tragic situation, the townsfolk were decidedly chipper about the whole thing. It was a very British response.

  A young girl knelt on her chair and stared at Sarah from the row in front. She was around her daughters’ age and resembled them a little with her brown straight hair and baby- fat cheeks. She missed the kids. She missed her husband too, but it was a different bond with the girls. She’d planned on being away for two weeks before being able to see them again, but who knew how long it’d be now. With the phones and electricity out, she couldn’t even get a message to them. Mark was a capable man, so they’d be looked after, but the thought they’d be worrying about her made her heart twinge. Especially Ellie, she was the more sensitive of the two, whereas Sophie seemed to have inherited whatever gung-ho gene caused Sarah to take up policing.

  ‘Hello everyone. Hello. I think you all know me well enough by now,’ said a man in his seventies from a mobile wooden podium at the front of the hall. He spoke with dominance and the assumption they would listen. The crowd quietened down as he began to speak and the little girl turned around and sat down properly on her chair, something Sarah would have told Sophie to do the moment she’d begun kneeling. She heard his booming voice clearly all the way at the back. This must be Tom, she thought. ‘I’ve called this meeting today to see how best we can help each other get through this situation. It’s been terrible for us all, but I know some are worse off than others.’ An old lady with a purple shawl shuffled up to the podium, topped up his water and shuffled back to her seat in the front row. ‘I have some updates. Part of the town in the north is blocked off completely. The food stock’s fine for now, but it’s hard to say how long it’ll last. Make sure you’re rationing what you have. There is some good news. From tuning in my trusty old wind-up radio, I’ve heard mobile phone masts will be up and running shortly, so we’ll be able to communicate properly soon. So much for modern technology; it’s the old-f
ashioned things that come through in a crisis.’ He tightened a non-existent necktie in a smug gesture and the crowd laughed.

  ‘What about the roads out of town?’ shouted a male voice.

  ‘I’ve been to the outskirts and the situation is dire. The roads are flooded, so it’ll be a while till we’re able to get regular deliveries through, or in fact leave ourselves. I for one know it’ll be nice to have a break from each other.’ The crowd laughed along with him.

  ‘My uncle sprained his ankle during the storm. Are we able to get him any medical help?’

  ‘Is there a doctor in the house?’ Tom said, raising another chuckle from his audience.

  ‘As it happens, yes.’ A man in the fourth row stood up. A woman behind Sarah mentioned that it was Dr Sam Forrester, the local GP.

  ‘Well, would you look at that,’ said Tom. ‘That’s what happens when the community comes together. If you report any and all injuries to me or Sam, once the mobile masts are back up, I’ll call the emergency services and get us what we need somehow. I’m not sure how I’ll do it, but I’ll get it done.’ Sarah was amazed at how he held their attention and was able to answer their questions so smoothly. She assumed he’d had some public speaking experience somewhere in his career to be able to take charge of a situation like this without any given authority. Public speaking wasn’t one of her strongpoints. The idea of performing in any way gave her the shivers, and after briefly joining the debating society at university to try and conquer her fears, she had hoped she wouldn’t have to stand in front of a crowd again. The whole thing made her feel a little too much on show.

  ‘The government’s just leaving us here. They don’t care about anything outside of London. People’s homes are flooded; my gran can’t leave the first floor of her house for all the water, and what’s being done? Nothing. And when it’s all over, do you think the insurance will pay out? They’ll find some way round it. We’re fucked,’ said a fat man in a tweed jacket. The crowd cheered, some patted him on the back. It wasn’t a question, but an expression of a sentiment they all felt. For most, the feeling of a shared misery had garnered a strong sense of community, whereas for others, it was a harbinger of despair and a sign those in power had little interest in their welfare or safety.

  ‘There’s no arguing with what you’re saying. It certainly seems that they’re slow to react to anything north of the M25. But, this is an unprecedented storm, the scale of which has been absolutely devastating. Now, no one can say they didn’t have time to prepare. We all knew this was coming and we all prepared in our own ways,’ Tom continued, the crowd responding with nods and mumbled confirmations. The lady with the purple shawl stood up again as he finished his water, but he waved at her to sit down. ‘I can see why you’re angry, but it doesn’t help the situation. We just have to be patient.’ Sarah wondered whether he was doing this because he knew the town needed a leader, felt some responsibility as one of the oldest residents, or whether he just revelled in being in charge.

  ‘Has anybody heard from Father Michael?’ asked a lady from the row behind her.

  ‘Ahh, I was just about to come to that. As I’m sure word has gotten round, Father Michael hasn’t been seen since the storm. As far as I know, he’s the only person unaccounted for.’ There were a few gasps, but the announcement wasn’t a surprise to most of the audience. Word spread fast around small towns and Sunbury was no different. ‘Now, we’re all very fond of him and I don’t want anyone to panic. He’s a very popular man with many friends here in Sunbury and I’ve no doubt plenty more elsewhere. It’s likely he waited the storm out in absolute safety and we’ll hear from him soon enough. It so happens, by pure luck, that we have PC Gladstone here with us looking into it. I’m sure she’ll be able to tell us more.’ He pointed straight at Sarah and the crowd followed the tip of his finger to the tip of her nose. Her fair skin made a blush hard to hide. She wasn’t prepared for this and had hoped Father Michael would have turned up by now. ‘Officer?’ Tom beckoned her up to the podium.

  She stood up, straightened her blouse and edged her way to the end of her row. The girl with the straight brown hair and baby-fat cheeks looked at her again and John waved from the crowd, but every other face was a blur as her mind raced with what to say. Everything entered her head at once: what she knew, what she didn’t know, what she knew that she couldn’t say and what she didn’t know that she didn’t want to let on to.

  ‘Don’t look so nervous,’ said Tom as she reached the podium, placing one hand on her shoulder. He may as well have given me a pat on the head and a pinch on the cheek, she thought. He was very tall up close and had a sharp face, a Romanesque nose with orderly wrinkles and thinning white hair. His small eyes looked straight through her, before a smile came across his face and he turned back to his audience, ‘PC Gladstone, everyone.’

  They all clapped. It was a strange response and more than likely due to not knowing what else to do. They didn’t often see a police officer here and, if they did, it was only the local bobby doing the rounds from shop to pub to street corner and back again. He was in his fifties, had let his standards go and was due to retire in a matter of months. Sarah was a tall, young officer standing up straight in front of them, who, they hoped, had some answers about what had happened to their friend. This, it seemed, had elevated her to a minor celebrity status.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Speak up,’ shouted a voice from the back.

  ‘Hello. Hello, yes, as Tom said, I’ve been looking into Father Michael’s disappearance. Like Tom said, and from my own experience, it’s often the case that people who are reported missing return soon enough safe and well. I’ve searched his quarters. There were no indicators as to where he was likely to have gone.’ She held onto the burglary and confessional notes. Some things were best kept confidential. Somebody in this room knew about the notes. Somebody in this room committed the burglary and that somebody was hanging on every word she said. Her nerves twitched. She couldn’t slip up. Enquiries, keep it short and sweet, tell them what you’re doing and wrap it up, she thought. ‘So, I’ll be looking to find out who saw him last and if anyone knows any friends or family outside of Sunbury he may have gone to stay with.’

  ‘I saw him just before the storm started. He seemed fine,’ said a lady in the front row.

  ‘I don’t think he has anyone else local,’ said another.

  ‘He was a very quiet man. I knew his mother,’ said another.

  ‘He liked walking in the woods.’ Within moments, the crowd were chattering about Father Michael with limited useful information coming forward. It took the attention off her for a little while, enough to take a sip of water and ease her dry mouth.

  ‘Well, if you have any information, please see me after the meeting. I’ll pass you back to Tom,’ she said. Letting on to the burglary would cause undue concern. People were already worried about Michael and panic would set in if they knew he’d been burgled. She’d reluctantly taken the journals to her mother’s house for safekeeping and clearly wasn’t the only one that thought they were important. Someone in this God-fearing town may have thought they were so important, they were willing to break into a church to retrieve them. She stepped down from the podium, relieved the spotlight had been turned off.

  ‘Erm, officer, if you would.’ Tom motioned for her to step back up, ‘Officer –’

  ‘Please, it’s Sarah.’ She hated being called officer and in doing so, Tom added to his pompous tone, which was starting to get under her skin a little. Having to be up there in the first place made her irritable enough; anything else would send her over the edge. She had to keep her cool.

  ‘Sarah. What state was his room in?’ asked Tom. The question irked her a little and something gave her the impression it was supposed to.

  ‘His room?’ She bought herself a little time. Had John told anyone about the search? If he’d mentioned the break-in and she didn’t, she’d be exposed as a liar right here, in front of the whole town. She felt as
though she was being cross-examined by a barrister who followed the age-old rule: Don’t ask anything you don’t already know the answer to. She looked at John; his face didn’t offer any clues. ‘His room was fine. Fine, I suppose. I don’t know how tidy he tends to be, so that’s something I’ll be asking anyone who has any knowledge to tell me.’ It wasn’t the most convincing answer, but it stuck out amongst all the conflicting thoughts she was having.

  ‘Fine?’ he asked, pulling a bemused face. ‘Anything to say whether he’d just left or had gone before the storm?’

  ‘It’s difficult to say either way.’ Keep it nice and simple.

  ‘What did you find there?’ said a voice from the crowd. She looked over to see a large, red-faced man who’d definitely heard his fair share of closing-time bells. ‘Anything unusual?’ This was turning from a brief announcement to a Q and A at an ‘NCIS’ fan convention.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,’ she said. Of course he hadn’t offered it, but she thought it wise to note who was asking what.

  ‘Sean. Sean Willoughby.’

  ‘Nothing I wouldn’t expect to find, Sean.’ Sean was the first person on her list to talk to once the meeting was over.

  ‘Ok, well was anything missing?’ he asked.

  ‘Or anything left behind?’ asked a lady who sat next to John.

  ‘Well, I couldn’t possibly know for sure –’

  ‘Well yes, but anything obviously taken?’ asked Sean again.

  ‘No, nothing.’ She thought less about her answers, as hesitating too much would allow them to see just how much she was panicking inside. She had to be like a swan, frantically paddling underwater, but remaining graceful on the surface. The crowd were content to nod their heads and shuffle in their seats, so she assumed she was making a reasonable impression.

  ‘What about forensics? Did you find any forensics?’ asked a woman in the front row. Sarah recognised her straight away. She spilled over the sides her chair and her walking stick laid across her lap, encroaching on the laps of those either side of her, something she either didn’t notice or didn’t care about. Rather than tackle the inaccuracy of the question, as she would have promptly done had it come from her husband or one of her friends, Sarah opted for simply saying no. If everyone who watched cop dramas on TV spent a day with a forensics team, they’d soon realise that the real magic of the shows is how they transformed a very tedious and repetitive job into a successful television programme. ‘What, none?’