The Book of Souls (Inspector McLean #2)(70)
Which was probably what he wanted to do now, given the urgency of the knocking. Sighing, McLean put his takeaway curry on the counter by the stove and went through to the front hall to open the door.
‘Have you found it yet?’ Father Anton’s grey face gave no hint of emotion, as if the flesh itself had been long-since paralysed. But his eyes blazed with something that could almost have been desperation.
‘Come in, why don’t you,’ McLean said, barely able to step aside as the old man pushed past into the lobby.
‘Have you got it?’ Father Anton’s eyes flashed with hope, then something dead descended inside. ‘No, of course you haven’t. I was a fool to even think you might.’
The hall was dark; McLean still hadn’t quite got the hang of all the different switches and had only managed to turn on the carriage light above the outer door. It cast long shadows through the glass skylight, picking up some of his grandmother’s more eccentric furnishings in a macabre light. Father Anton stood beneath the empty shell of a giant tortoise, fixed to the wall like some bizarre trophy. He didn’t move any further into the house, but shuddered with a piercing cold.
‘Look, come through to the kitchen,’ McLean said. ‘It’s warmer there. You must’ve frozen half to death. What were you doing, waiting around like that anyway? You could’ve phoned if you wanted to talk.’
He led the way, startling the cat, which had been sniffing around the bag full of curry. The large stove cost a fortune in oil to run, but he didn’t care. It belted out a welcome heat and always reminded him of childhood. Shooing the cat away, he opened up one of the hobs and put the kettle on to boil before turning back to his uninvited guest. In the light, Father Anton looked even worse than he had before. His skin was white, his lips blue. He shuddered involuntarily every few moments, as if in the grip of some neurological disease. Maybe he was; it would certainly explain a thing or two.
‘Sit yourself down, father. I’ll make us some tea.’ He set about the cupboards, looking for everything he needed, but when he turned back, the old man was still standing, watching him with hooded eyes. His coat was still buttoned up to his chin, his gloved hands shoved under his armpits.
‘Look, I don’t know what it is you think I can do to help you. But at least have the sense to warm yourself up a bit. I’ll give the vicar a phone after you’ve had a cuppa. She’ll come and pick you up.’
‘I’m not senile, inspector.’ Father Anton’s voice took on a slightly annoyed edge, as if he felt patronised.
‘Are you sure?’ McLean looked sideways at his curry, congealing in its little metal box, so close and yet so far away. ‘You certainly seem to be behaving that way.’
There was a short silence, whilst he poured boiling water into the teapot and wondered what he thought he was doing. There was beer in the cellar and whisky in the library. He’d been looking forward to some of both before an early night. Now he was stuck here drinking tea with an old lunatic ex-monk.
‘I’m sorry, inspector,’ Father Anton said eventually. He took his hands from his armpits, slipped off gloves to reveal white flesh and spidery blue veins, unbuttoned his coat and then sat. ‘I had no right coming here.’
‘Why did you come here?’ McLean poured tea into mugs, added milk, found biscuits in a tin. All the while the old man said nothing. Only when they were both seated did he speak.
‘I told you about the book. That was no small thing. I broke a sacred vow to do that.’
‘If it’s any consolation, I haven’t told anyone. They’d probably think I was mad if I did.’
‘You might call it madness, inspector. But you cannot begin to understand the mysteries I’ve seen. Nor the sacrifices I have made in my life. Oh, I’m not looking for pity. I knew what I was getting into long ago. I accepted it, embraced it even. But that doesn’t make the pain any less for these tired old bones.’
McLean studied the old man as he took a sip of tea, shaking hands making the hot liquid slop against his lips. Here was a person he couldn’t begin to fathom; someone with absolute faith in God; someone who had dedicated his life to religious service. It made him uncomfortable to be in the presence of such undeniable certainty, but he was even more uncomfortable with what he was about to do. He fetched a thick folder from its resting place beside his takeaway, bringing it back to the table and opening it out.
‘I probably shouldn’t be showing you this.’ He pulled out a thin sheaf of photocopied papers and slid it across the table towards the old man.
‘What is it?’
‘It’s the full inventory of everything that was taken from Donald Anderson’s shop the day he was arrested.’ McLean remembered the exasperated look on DS Ritchie’s face as he’d made her go through it item by item, cross-referencing with the list from the auction house, the contents of the evidence locker and the few worthless bits and bobs that would likely turn up at the next police sale. It wasn’t unheard of for valuable but portable objects to go missing, but all of Anderson’s money had been in his stock, and that was all accounted for.
‘I don’t understand.’ Father Anton ran a thin finger down the list. Most of the books were recorded by description as well as title, since in some instances that had been hard to read. ‘This is everything?’