Past Lives (19 page)

'I see,' said Macandrew with a sinking feeling. No one was on the way to help Burnett. 'But there must be! That's what he said, I'm sure of it.'

'Have you any idea why this man should consider himself to be in danger sir?' asked Clements.

Macandrew shook his head and confessed, ‘I hardly knew him.'

The policemen exchanged glances then Clements said, 'Have you any idea why he should call you instead of say . . . us, for instance?'

Macandrew shook his head again and said, 'No. I haven’t. He’s a monk.'

'A monk?’

'Sorry, a postulant. Benedictine.'

‘
Good God, do they still have such things? And he telephoned you?’

‘
Yes.’

'From St Bede's?'

'On a mobile phone.’

'A monk with a mobile phone,' said Clements slowly. His sergeant covered his mouth to hide a smile. 'They do say everyone's got one these days.'

'He said he had stolen it from whoever was holding him against his will. This is serious, God damn it!' said Macandrew. 'A man's life is in danger.'

'Just trying to establish the facts sir,' said Clements.

'Did you check the phone book?' asked Macandrew.

'And the local tax and rates registers. No St Bede’s.’

'Maybe the church authorities?' suggested Macandrew.

'We thought of that too. It's just a bit difficult to raise them at this time of night. Office hours, you know. Jesus apparently knocks off at five too.'

The sergeant's radio crackled into life and he half turned away to respond to the call. When he turned back again his face had taken on a new animation. 'It does exist sir,' he said. 'The desk sergeant at Haddington remembered it. He says it's been closed for ten years or more but it was definitely called St Bede's and he's told us how to find it. It's off the road between Haddington and Longniddry. The local blokes are on their way.'

'Thank God,' said Macandrew.

'We'd best get down there,' said Clements. 'We'll keep you informed, sir.'

'I don't suppose you'd let me come with you?'

Clements indicated uncertainty with various facial contortions. 'I don't think that’s a very good . . .’

'He's been ill and I'm a doctor,' said Macandrew.

'All right,' said Clements. 'Get your coat.'

'How did you come to know this man?' Clements asked as the police car sped south to join the city by-pass. Sergeant Malcolm sat in front beside the uniformed driver. Clements and Macandrew sat in the back.

'He’s a researcher in a field I'm interested in,' replied Macandrew. 'I thought that, as I was in Scotland, I would look him up. It was then I found out he was in the process of becoming, a Benedictine monk.'

'That must have come as a bit of a shock,' said Clements.

'You can say that again.’

'What field would that be?'

'I'm a neurosurgeon. Burnett had carried out some interesting research on brain tumours and their after effects. It seemed promising stuff.'

‘
But then it all went wrong and he killed someone?’

‘
Pardon?’ said Macandrew, taken aback.

‘
Sorry, I thought I saw a guilt trip looming up,’ said Clements. ‘I had a Catholic upbringing - spent a week in a monastery once. My mother – a devout woman all her days, God bless her – thought it would do me good to be exposed to truly good people who had denied themselves everything to follow God.’ Clements snorted and turned to look out of the car window.

‘
I take it, it didn’t work?’

‘
I don’t think there was a single one of them – apart from maybe a little Irishman, who had never known anything else - who wasn’t on some kind of guilt trip. They hadn’t given up anything at all: they were running away from things; hiding; the lot of them; and mainly from their real selves. Show me a monk and I’ll show you one screwed-up individual with a past.’

Macandrew didn’t comment, but was forced to concede that guilt might well be playing a role in George Burnett’s life. He had seemed a deeply troubled man.

'Shit!' exclaimed the driver suddenly and the car braked and swerved slightly as a slower car in front pulled out to overtake. The driver hit the siren and got the required response from the vehicle in front. Macandrew saw a very sheepish man cower behind his wheel and stare straight ahead as they passed.

'I don't know,' rasped the driver. 'We're lit up like a runaway Christmas tree and still the buggers don't see us!'

'Just drive,' said Clements. 'You all right?' he asked Macandrew.

'Sure.'

Macandrew sensed that they were slowing.

'Haddington,' said the driver.

'We're being met at the second roundabout,' said Malcolm to the driver.

Almost on cue, the orange stripe on the side of a blue and white police patrol car was picked out in their headlights. It was parked on a grass verge to the left of the entrance to the roundabout, its blue roof light flashing silently up at the night sky.

'They haven't seen us,' said Malcolm.

A whoop of the siren and the silhouettes in the front seats of the panda sprang to life as if being attacked by a swarm of bees. Caps were replaced, the engine was started and the car bumped heavily on to the road to lead the way.

‘
Shit, I felt that . . .’ murmured the driver.

It was less than two miles from the main road to the long stone building that had once been the seminary of St Bede's. The last four hundred metres took them up a rough, stony track that had the car bouncing on the limits of its suspension. When they finally came to the broad, ivy-covered entrance, there were two police cars already there and signs of intense activity.

'I think you'd better wait in the car,' said Clements to Macandrew. It made him nervous. He suspected that Clements knew what all the activity was about while he could only speculate. He watched Clements confer with a uniformed man with braid on his cap who seemed to be in charge. When they both glanced back at the car, he sensed that they were talking about him.

The two men were joined by Sergeant Malcolm and they disappeared inside the building. Macandrew was left alone with the driver. 'My sister's married to an American,' he said.

'He's dead, isn't he?' said Macandrew, ignoring the small talk.

'Looks like it,' agreed the driver quietly. 'They’re setting up a mobile incident room.’

Macandrew let out his breath in a long weary sigh. He stared glumly at the comings and goings outside the building until Clements and the two others emerged and came towards the car. Clements got in the back and shut the door.

'You're going to tell me, Burnett's dead,' said Macandrew.

'I'm sorry,' said Clements. 'At least you two weren't close.'

'How did he die?'

Clements turned and looked at Macandrew with a look that suggested he might be editing his reply. 'He was murdered.’

‘
Shot? Stabbed? Strangled?’

‘
Stabbed . . . in the end . . .’

‘
Jesus.’

'Do you feel up to identifying him?'

Macandrew nodded. He felt numb.

The building had clearly not been used for a long time. It harboured the kind of damp, clinging coldness that only stone buildings in the depth of winter can manage and there was a strong smell of mouldy plaster. There was no electricity so police torches and flashlights sufficed while they waited for a generator to arrive.

'He's in here,' said Clements as they came to a solid wooden door. He led the way and Macandrew followed. Sergeant Malcolm brought up the rear, doing his best to provide illumination of the floor ahead to complement Clements' horizontal torch beam.

There were two parallel rows of wooden benches facing a raised stone altar – currently without adornment - behind which, a tall, arched stained glass window rose. Macandrew felt puzzled. There was no sign of Burnett's body. 'Where is he?' he asked.

'Behind you,' said Clements.

Macandrew turned round to see John Burnett, wearing the habit of a Benedictine monk. He had been crucified to the back of the chapel door.

'Sweet Jesus Christ,' he whispered, starting to feel vaguely unwell. His throat had tightened: he found he couldn’t swallow.

'Are you all right?' asked Clements.

Macandrew nodded, putting his hand over his mouth until he felt composed enough to continue.

'Is it John Burnett?'

Macandrew approached and looked up into the monk’s cowl. Sergeant Malcolm directed his torch beam up into the agonised face of the dead man.

‘
Yes, this is John Burnett,’ murmured Macandrew. ‘For God’s sake, why do that to him?’

‘
Somebody wanted to know something,’ said Clements. ‘They tortured him by banging nails into him until he told them what they wanted to know or until they were satisfied that he really didn’t know. At some point they broke his left kneecap too. They finished him off with a knife under the ribs to the heart.’

Macandrew noted the large bloodstain on the front of Burnett’s habit. ‘Sweet Jesus Christ,’ he whispered.

‘
Sic transit gloria mundae
,’ said Clements dryly.

‘
Whatever happened to Brigadoon?’ murmured Macandrew.

‘
Walters Scott and Disney both have a lot to answer for,’ replied Clements.

Macandrew saw that the forensic team was anxious to be about its business. He turned and headed for the door. The fresh air smelt good. He took several deep breaths and relished the cutting cold of it. It seemed clean, antiseptically clean.

'I'm going to be here for some time,' said Clements, joining him outside. 'I'll have someone drive you back but we'll need to talk to you later.'

Macandrew didn't protest. He now regretted having come in the first place. He was pleased when the same driver who had brought them down was detailed to take him back to Edinburgh. He wanted to hear all about his sister and her American husband.

Macandrew threw back a second whisky and reflected on how his vacation had turned into a living nightmare. He couldn’t understand how Burnett had ended up where he had. Why had be been ‘called to Edinburgh’ in the first place? Once again he was forced to conclude with a sinking feeling that the Abbot of Cauldstane would know the answers to these questions. But would he tell? And more importantly, did he really want to know any more?

The manner of Burnett’s death had shaken him to the core and the agonised expression on the dead man’s face would live with him for a long time to come. Right now, he wanted to walk away from everything but it wasn’t that easy. He felt an obligation to comply with Burnett’s (last?) request that he warn Simone Robin even though common sense was telling him that the minute he set out on that course, he too would become involved and therefore be at risk. Jane Francini’s plight was also playing a part in his thinking. Simone Robin knew something about Hartman's tumours that no one else did.

The whisky dulled his unease although he still felt far from relaxed about what he was getting into. He decided that he would go to Paris, but first - and much against his will for he had very little heart for it - he would confront the Abbot of Cauldstane yet again in an attempt to get more information out of him. He needed to know as much as possible up front if he were to cross swords with the sort of people who’d done what they had to John Burnett. He would drive up to the abbey in the morning after trying to contact Simone Robin by telephone. If everything went to plan, he would fly to Paris the following day.

Macandrew got the number for the Seventh University of Paris from International Directory Enquiries and tried calling at eight am when it would be nine in France. There was no reply from Simone Robin's extension. He tried at fifteen minute intervals until, at a quarter before ten, a woman's voice answered, 'Oui?'

'Dr Robin?'

'Oui.'

'You don’t know me but my name is Dr John Macandrew. I'm calling from Edinburgh, in Scotland. I'm afraid I have some bad news for you.' He told her of John Burnett's death and heard the sharp intake of breath.

'But how?'

'There’s no easy way to say this, I’m afraid. He was murdered.'

'Murdered?' exclaimed Simone. 'But that’s ridiculous. John was the kindest, most gentle man. Who would want to murder him? . . . Who are you? How do you know me?’

'John telephoned me before he died: he asked me to pass on a warning to you that you were in danger too.'

'Who are you?'

'I'm a neurosurgeon at Kansas University Medical Center; I’m here in Scotland on vacation. I went to see John to ask about his – your - work on brain tumours. The university told me about his change of . . . direction, so I went to see him at the monastery. He suggested I should come to Paris to speak to you.’

'John said you should speak to me?'

'Yes.'

'I don't believe you.'

'It’s true,’ insisted Macandrew. ‘I admit it wasn’t easy. He didn't want to tell me anything at all but I bullied or shamed or embarrassed him, whatever you want to call it, into helping me.'