Authors: Kevin Ashman
Mortuus Virgo (32 page)
‘Cheers, Mike,’ said Brandon, ‘I owe you one.’
‘That’s right,’ said Mike, ‘You do!’ and rang off.
----
An hour and a half later the taxi pulled up outside St Giles.
‘Can you wait here?’ asked Brandon.
‘Whatever you say, Mister, meter’s running,’ said Murray with a grin.
‘Oh come on, Murray, give me a break here. You’ve already got five hundred off me.’
The driver turned and stared at Brandon.
‘Look guv,’ he said, I don’t know what you’re into, and I don’t want to know, but whatever it is, it sure sounds dodgy. If it’s something illegal I could lose my license.’
‘I promise you won’t lose your license,’ said Brandon. ‘You turn that goddamn meter off, drive me around for the rest of the day and I’ll give you another five hundred cash, but that’s it. What do you say?’
‘A grand for a days work,’ smiled Murray,’ I’ve had worse days, I suppose.’
‘Good!’ said Brandon. ‘Wait here, I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.’
He left the car and made his way to the church entrance, this time the door was open.
‘Hello!’ he called ‘Anyone here?’ His voice echoed around the empty church and he walked towards the back and called out again.
‘Hello, anyone at home?’
He continued towards the office and stopped dead in his tracks. Before him was part of a bloody footprint on the flagstone. His hand crept to his pocket and he withdrew his ever present gun, pulling back on the slide to load the chamber.
Brandon pushed the door open slowly, careful not to expose too much of his body to any gunman. The office was trashed and behind the upturned desk, Brandon could see a body. He checked around the room before crouching besides the man, placing his gun in his inside jacket pocket. A pool of scarlet spread from the victim’s bleeding skull, a nearby discarded candlestick, the obvious attack weapon.
Brandon took in the scene, frowning as he did so. Something was wrong. This was no vicar on the floor, and though he didn’t know him, he seemed strangely familiar. The man’s eyes opened and stared up at Brandon.
‘Don’t worry, son,’ said Brandon, fishing for his mobile, ‘I’ll get an ambulance. Who’s done this to you?’
The man struggled with a few breaths, coughing up blood as he did.
‘Him,’ said the man, ‘The priest.’
‘The
priest
!’ gasped Brandon incredulously, ‘Why would he do this?’
‘Mortuus Virgo,’ said the man though bubbles of blood in his throat, ‘I didn’t realise, you must stop them.’
‘Who are Mortuus Virgo,’ asked Brandon, his voice raised in frustration, ‘Where is India? Come on man, I need some help here.’
The man’s eyes closed as he struggled with his last breaths, and, as he died, Brandon realised why the he had seemed so familiar. This was the man they had been seeking, Jason Venezelos.
He laid the man back down on the floor, trying to make sense of the situation. If he was correct, and this was indeed the second Venezelos brother, then that trail had just come to an abrupt end. He looked around the room, searching for anything that would give him any idea where to look next. After searching the room, including the drawers and cupboards he was none the wiser and left the office to return to the taxi. As he entered the church itself, he heard someone approaching, and, though he froze against the wall, was relieved to see it was the same cleaning lady he had seen the previous day. He stepped out of the shadows, coughing to attract her attention.
‘Oh my word,’ said the woman, jumping back slightly, ‘You gave me such a start. I didn’t expect to see anyone here today. Can I help you?’
‘Possibly,’ said Brandon, ‘Do you work here?’
‘I do,’ said the lady, ‘Iaid esm sorry, who are you?’
‘I think you had better sit down,’ said Brandon, indicating a nearby pew. He pulled out his wallet and showed her his ID.
‘Can I ask you your name?’ he asked.
‘Colleen,’ she said, ‘Colleen McNamara. What is this about?’
‘Colleen, in a moment we need to call the police, but first I need to ask you some questions.’
Why, what’s happened?’ she asked, her brows frowning in concern.
‘I’m afraid there’s been a murder,’ said Brandon.
Colleen’s hand flew to her mouth.
‘Oh my God,’ she gasped, ‘Is it Father O’Brian?’
‘Is Father O Brian the priest of this church?’ he asked.
‘Yes, is he okay?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Brandon.
‘But you said…’
‘The dead person is not from around here,’ said Brandon, ‘And there is no sign of father o Brian. But I do need to know some things about him. Can you help me?’
‘I’ll try,’ she said, ‘What do you want to know?’
‘How long have you worked here, Colleen?’
‘About ten years, in all,’ she said, ‘A couple of hours cleaning here and there and I sort the flowers for weddings and funerals.’
‘So you knew father O Brian well?’
‘Not really,’ she said.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Brandon.
‘Well, he was okay, nice enough if you know what I mean, said good morning as he passed but tended to keep himself to himself.’
‘Isn’t that a bit strange for a priest?’ asked Brandon.
‘Oh, he was okay when he was here, but spent a lot of time away from the church, so he did.’
‘Do you know where exactly?’
‘Don’t know,’ she answered shrugging her shoulders, ‘We only open on Sundays and for weddings and funerals. I was called in when needed, you see.’
‘But you must have talked to him to arrange the details of your tasks.’
‘Not at all, I took my instructions from Sister Wendy.’
‘And who is she?’
‘One of the Nuns who works here.’
‘There are Nuns here?’
‘Sister Wendy came in every week to meet with Father O’Brian, but sometimes others came as well.’
‘How often was that?’
‘Christmas, Easter, the usual holidays.’
‘Is that normal, to have Nuns come to a church as small as this?’
‘Haven’t given it much thought, really,’ she said, ‘It was quite nice to have someone to talk to.’
‘Did you know them all?’
‘No, I only got to know Sister Wendy, though once a year there were quite a few.’
‘At Christmas?’
‘No, it was in June, though the dates escape me.’
‘How many?’
‘Sorry?’
‘How many Nuns came in June?’
‘At least twelve, I suppose.’
‘What did they do?’
‘I don’t know, the church was locked up whilst the service went on.’ She paused. ‘I’m not being much help, am I?’
Brandon took her hands in his.
‘Of course you are,’ he said, ‘You’ve been a great help. I don’t suppose you know the name of the order, do you?’
‘Of course, the order of Santa Rosa,’ she said, confirming what Brandon already suspected.
‘And do you know where I can find them?’
‘No, sorry, though you could ask in St Lawrence’s church in Littlewick Green. I do know they often went there as well.’
Brandon stood up and gave her a card from his wallet.
‘Colleen, I want you to call the police and wait outside for them. When they arrive, give them this card. They will contact me direct. Don’t go in the office, there’s nothing you can do for the man in there, he is dead.’
‘Okay,’ she said, nervously glancing over to the closed door.
‘Right, I have to go,’ he said but as he walked away, Colleen called out.
‘There is one more thing,’ she said.
‘What’s that?’ asked Brandon.
‘It’s probably nothing,’ said Colleen, ‘But I have noticed that after their private service every June, there are flowers left at the foot of Aesculpius.’
‘Aesculpius?’ asked Brandon, ‘Who is he?’
‘Greek God of medicine,’ she said, her face showing great delight at sharing this impressive knowledge, ‘You know, the statue in the outside wall of the church. You must know about it, it is quite famous.’
‘Yes, I’ve seen it,’ said Brandon, ‘Though I didn’t know it was of Greek God of medicine, I was told it was a Roman goddess.’
Her brow furrowed again.
‘That’s strange,’ she said, ‘You’re the second person to say that in a few days’
‘Who was the other one?’ asked Brandon quickly.
‘A foreign gent,’ said Colleen, ‘Had an accent and a good sun tan. Do you know him?’
‘I think so,’ sighed Brandon, glancing towards the back room, where the body of Jason Venezelos lay. ‘So, what is so strange about the Nuns leaving flowers?’
‘Well that’s just it,’ said Colleen, ‘Their not flowers really, just the stalks. Bunches of stalks bent over and tied around the middle. Very Strange.’
‘Anything else?’ asked Brandon.
‘No,’ said Colleen. ‘Should I phone the police now?’
‘You do that,’ said Brandon and shook her hand. ‘Thank you, Colleen, you have been a great help.’
----
Murray was leaning on the bonnet, smoking a cigarette.
‘Find what you wanted?’ asked the driver.
‘Nope,’ said Brandon, opening the passenger door, ‘Come on there’s one more place to try.’
The driver took a last drag and flicked the stub across the road before squeezing his ample frame behind the steering wheel.
‘Where now?’ he asked, as Brandon jumped in the car.
‘St Lawrence church, Littlewick Green, as quick as you can.’
‘Where the fuck is that?’ asked Murray.
‘Call yourself a taxi driver?’ quipped Brandon.
‘Bit out of my patch,’ said Murray.
‘Head for the M4,’ said Brandon, retrieving his I phone, ‘I’ll Google the postcode.’
‘Fucking hell, it’s like the bloody Sweeney,’ said Murray, gunning the engine.
----
England 2010
Brandon slammed the taxi door shut and walked down the pavement towards the town centre. They had been sat in a traffic jam for forty five minutes crawling at a snail’s pace, the product of unseen road works, and when the spire of the church appeared in the distance, he decided to run the rest of the way.
Five minutes later he found himself outside the double doors of St Lawrence.
‘Feels like I’m going in circles,’ he murmured to himself as he entered the church again. Knowing that there was a killer loose, he was much more careful and kept his hand wrapped around the butt of the pistol in his pocket.
There were fewer people in the church this time, some sat in isolation on the pews, wrapped in their own thoughts, while some wandered around the aisles reading the various inscriptions on the plaques screwed to the walls or sunk in to the floor. Brandon assumed the role of another tourist and wandered around the walls, making his way slowly towards the vestry.
He stopped at the steps before the draped altar, looking up at the figure of the crucifixion looming above him, getting lost in the moment as he became transfixed by the piercing eyes of the wooden messiah. He jumped slightly as a voice interrupted his reverie.
‘Hello, again,’ said the man.
Brandon spun around and looked into a vaguely familiar face.
‘Hi,’ said Brandon, his eyes screwing up slightly as he struggled to recall how he knew him.
‘Sorry,’ said the man, ‘It’s Father Grant. We met yesterday. You were with your lady friend and interested in the Roman Temple.’
‘Of course,’ said Brandon, ‘I didn’t recognise you, without your, um, you know…’ He pointed at the lack of collar around the Priest’s neck.
‘Ah yes,’ said Father Grant, glancing down at his jeans and baggy t shirt. ‘Out of uniform today. Day off, you see.’
‘Oh, I thought you had to wear that stuff all the time.’