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Liquid filled Darlene’s eyes as though she fought the urge to vomit. She dropped her muffin back into its wrapper. “I saw his feet.” She stumbled through her account. “Father Donald always wore purple socks.” Her lips flattened into a sad smile. “There are many shades of purple. His socks rarely matched. I suspect he suffered from colour blindness but didn’t realise.” Her right hand rose, and she fiddled with her bandage again.
“I overheard a conversation stating the refuse collectors emptied the skip early yesterday?” Lexi pressed.
“Oh, they always miss us out.” A whine entered her voice. “Father Garima called in a favour and they arrived early yesterday. They left cardboard strewn across the car park. It took ages for Father Garima and me to collect it all.”
“Do you remember if the catch worked on the skip?” Lexi leaned forward. “They lock them, don’t they?”
“To prevent Joe Public dumping their bin bags on our dollar.” Darlene nodded. “Yes, I went outside to unfasten it when I arrived early yesterday morning. Just before nine.” Her pencilled brows drew into a line as she pushed the bandage higher. “I discovered the broken catch. We’re fortunate no one filled it to the brim with their household rubbish. People are quite disgusting nowadays,” she complained. “Selfish beyond belief.”
Lexi nodded in agreement. “Did the police ask about the catch?”
Darlene sighed. “No. That rude senior sergeant didn’t mention it. The only thing of interest to him was Father Garima. Asking me over and over if he’d argued with Father Donald. Very insistent. My son asked him to leave.” She shuddered. “The police officer phoned earlier. I’m expecting him back any minute to continue his interrogation.” Hope backlit her gaze. “I’m desperate not to face him alone. Could you wait with me until Father Garima returns?”
Lexi pinned the rising groan in her stomach to prevent its escape. She’d rather sit on razor blades than defend anyone against Rojas. Her head bobbed of its own accord and Darlene relaxed into Garima’s office chair. She smoothed the worn plastic arms as though caressing the priest. Lexi gulped and set her gaze on an oil painting of the crucified Lord. The catch on the skip seemed to have no connection to the priest’s death. “What time is confession?” she asked.
“Early. Six in the morning,” Darlene replied. “The fathers rotate responsibility. We cancelled this morning. Poor Father Garima will need to take them all now.”
“But Father Donald took the one on Monday?” Lexi kept her tone casual. “Did you attend?”
“No.” Lexi contained her disappointment as Darlene fiddled with her bandage. “The church warden opens the building and gets everything ready. The Ladies Group members work in the church on a weekly roster. But we’re volunteers. We don’t arrive until after nine. We’re all retired.” Her lashes fluttered and her irises glittered with unexpected amusement. “Pointless for us to come at the crack of dawn. Most of us have nothing naughty to confess.”
Lexi grinned and dropped her chin. “I should speak to the church warden. Do you know where I can find him?”
Darlene frowned. “You don’t think he killed Father Donald, do you?”
“No, not at all.” Lexi regretted piquing Darlene’s curiosity. She couldn’t reveal why Monday’s confession held such significance. She also doubted Garima would share the information with the police. “I wanted to ask him about the catch,” she said.
Darlene’s eyes narrowed. “Poor Father Donald didn’t end up in the skip by accident, did he?” Her irises hardened to granite circles as she crossed herself.
“I don’t know.” Lexi raised her palms outward. “I haven’t even heard how he died.”
“I can tell you that!” Darlene’s eyes rolled back into her head as the memory of the fallen priest rose to the fore. She ran a hand along her throat, smoothing the wrinkled flesh from jawline to collar. “I tried to pull him out.” Her voice wavered. “Such a small man, but on the bulky side. Too heavy for me.” She patted her bandage. “I know it’s ridiculous, but I thought perhaps he fell in putting a bag in the bottom. It happened to Ronnie Armitage once. She stood on a chair with a pile of shredded papers and dropped in with them.” She blew out a ragged breath. “When I let go of his shoe, he slipped further into the skip. I snatched hold of his shirt and it exposed the back of his neck.”
Lexi tipped forward in her chair. She held her breath. Her latte cooled in her right hand. “What did you see?” she whispered.
Darlene gulped. “Someone tied a silver thread around Father Donald’s neck and twisted it at the back.” She lifted her hands and patted her neat collar.
“You’re saying someone garroted him?” Lexi jerked backwards. Such a personal, intimate way to kill an unsuspecting priest.
Darlene nodded, taking wide, arching movements as though her neck had detached. “I told that police officer,” she blurted.
Lexi cocked her head and studied the other woman. A guardedness had settled over Darlene’s sharp features. It held more prominence than her obvious horror and genuine grief. “Why are you afraid of Senior Sergeant Rojas?” she asked in a gentle tone.
“Because I touched Father Donald’s shoe!” Darlene wailed. “My fingerprints are on the skip and the father’s shoe. Don’t you understand? He’ll think I killed him!”
After soothing Darlene’s fears, Lexi sought the church warden. She found him as per Darlene’s directions. He hid in a shed on the far side of the property. Two fence panels shielded the rickety structure from view. Without Darlene’s instructions, Lexi would have walked right past it.
The church warden sipped coffee laced with liquor strong enough to cause a haze in the tiny space. The fumes hit Lexi in the face as she pushed open the door.
“Just a minute!” he called. A metal pail clanked before her eyes could adjust.
Lexi cleared her throat and pursed her lips. “Is that a still?” Her voice rose at the end of her sentence.
“Shush!” The old man dashed to close the door behind her. “It’s for private use. I don’t sell what I make. Are you a cop?”
She pointed at the copper urn burping and bubbling in the corner. Tubes led to and from it as though life support kept it alive. “But you’re stealing the church’s electricity,” she protested. Her gaze traced live cables to a dodgy-looking extension block nailed to a wall. “Is that safe?” she demanded. “You could burn down the church.”
“I’m keeping it for a friend.” His voice held the rasp of a chain smoker.
“I’m not a cop,” Lexi admitted. “I’m Father Garima’s sister. But why didn’t the police check this shed after discovering the body in the skip?” She spun in a tight circle.
The old man sank into his threadbare deck chair with a groan. He shifted the pail and withdrew his mud coloured drink. “Please, don’t tell,” he begged her. A sip fortified him. “The shed technically doesn’t belong to the church. My warden’s house backs onto the boundary. The rectory cuts off this back corner. Ownership is a wee bit muddy. Perhaps the cops just overlooked it. Most people do.”
Lexi exhaled and stared at the man’s bowed head. Strings of dirty white hair covered his bald pate. One length slid free, hanging like a pony tail behind his right ear. It left a gap across his freckled scalp. “Did Father Donald Douglas know about this?” She fixed her hands on her hips and considered him a suspect. A bent spine and bandy legs made his ability to tip Father Donald into the skip doubtful. But someone could have helped him.
“No.” He sounded certain. “The fathers don’t know. The electricity spikes on bottling day, but not enough to draw attention.” His lower lip wobbled. “Anyway, I work for more than my paid hours. They have me locking and unlocking the church at all times of the day and night. Figure it’s only fair.”
Lexi studied him. Darlene had told her the man’s name. Jock Petersen. “Mrs Barrymore found Father Donald in the skip on Monday afternoon. She told me she discovered the catch broken in the morning, before the rubbish collection. Did she mention it to you?”
Jock’s lower lip spread out in a ledge undercut by coarse whispers. “They’re meant to empty the skip on a Friday,” he mused. “I unlocked it then, but they didn’t come.”
“Then the catch and padlock were in working order before the weekend?”
“Aye.” Jock slurped his brew.
“You opened the church early on Monday, Mr Petersen?” Lexi continued. “Do you hang around while the priest sits in the confessional?”
“Aye.” His head bobbed like a toy dog’s. “Someone always stays in the nave. We put away valuables, but people do stupid things sometimes. A woman once chipped a piece off the font.” Bushy brows obscured his eyes. He took another sip of his loaded brew. “Who does stuff like that?”
“I don’t know,” Lexi mused. Garima once told her that churches should act as hospitals and not museums. She wondered how he kept his faith in the face of so many reasons to just abandon people in their dirt. Her shoulders slumped, and she released a sigh. “Do you see everyone who comes to confession?” she asked.
“Aye, they sit in the pews and wait their turn.”
“And Monday?” Hope burgeoned in her heart.
Jock peered up at her from beneath his curly grey brows. “I take little notice,” he admitted. A hoary fingernail tapped the side of his mug. Lexi gave the still a pointed glance, and he revised his answer. “A couple came on Monday.” His declaration made a lie of his earlier protestation. Lexi imagined him with his ear pressed against the wooden walls of the confessional. “Man and a lady. Older people. Mid-fifties. The man confessed, but the lady sat on the front pew. Then, they left together.”
“Clothes, hair?” Lexi demanded.
Jock wrinkled his nose. “Dressed in black. Both. She wore a headscarf. Might have red hair or sky-blue-pink underneath it. I wouldn’t know. Man wore a Jackaroo. You know what that is?”
“A cowboy hat.” Lexi nodded.
“An Australian cowboy hat.” Jock released a wicked cackle. “I just assumed they visited on holiday. Tourists. So, I took no notice. Aussies have a lot to confess.”
Lexi sighed. “Did they look tall, short, average?”
“Not sure,” he replied. His interest waned with the range of a child’s. Lexi doubted the authenticity of his description.
“Any distinguishing features? Moles, scars, two heads, three eyes each?”
“Do you think the cops will want to check this shed?” Worry stampeded across his face.
“Not sure,” Lexi mused. “Perhaps today should be a bottling day.”
