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“The famous gin still.” Garima rolled his eyes. “I’ve heard the legends. The stuff is undrinkable. He can’t sell it.” He snorted. “Poor man can’t even give it away.”
“Who told you about it?”
“Mrs Barrymore. Jock previously kept it in an outhouse attached to the rectory. My predecessor counted himself fortunate when Jock agreed to move it to the shed. Imagine the headlines if a church house exploded and showered the suburb in nasty gin.”
“Eek!” Lexi pictured the mental image. She sensed her brother growing morose. “Darlene looks after you very well,” she surmised. “I understand she’s a widow.”
Garima scrubbed his eyes with his knuckles. A shallow graze on his thumb oozed, a casualty of scrum practice. “Yes. For a while now. Not a happy marriage by all accounts. Her husband left her with some financial debts to call in after his death. Father Donald didn’t like her much, though he never expressed any specific gripe. Just a feeling really.” Garima’s shoulders hunched. “I missed so many clues, Lex. Father Donald was my friend. A good man. I sensed his distress after confession and thought I’d comforted him. But why didn’t I try harder?”
Lexi reached across and dragged his hand from his face. She gripped his fingers in hers. “You said he shouted at you and his behaviour seemed uncharacteristic.”
“Yes. He said he couldn’t cope with it anymore. I just stood there like an idiot, staring at him. He grabbed his things and stormed from the room. I heard his cell phone ring as I reached the corridor. He answered it, ignored me and kept walking.” Sparkles from the street lights betrayed the grief on his cheeks. “Why didn’t I follow him?”
Lexi pursed her lips and looked away. But her heart roiled in her chest in response to his anguish. She kept hold of his hand, rubbing her thumb over his fingers to infuse him with her empathy. “Do you know who called him?” She kept her voice low and soothing.
“No.” Garima shook his head.
“Did his tone change? You said he’d shouted at you. So, did he continue in the same vein or moderate it?” She faced her brother and considered her question. “Like, would you know if he took a call from the bishop?”
“Oh, yes!” Garima’s eyes widened in the darkness. His sclera glinted like half-moons beneath his irises. “One doesn’t shout at one’s bishop.” Lexi caught herself at the start of a laugh before realising he meant it.
“Good,” she concluded. “Then we can eliminate the bishop as his caller. Didn’t the police take his phone? They could trace the person.” She wrinkled her nose. “They don’t need the phone for that, actually. Just his number. Unless the other person called from an unregistered burner.”
“You’re speaking an unfamiliar language now,” Garima said with a sigh. He yawned and covered his mouth with his other hand. He lifted Lexi’s fingers and kissed them, a tactful signal for her to release his hand. “Anyway, the police didn’t find a phone or his bag.”
Lexi stared along the quiet street. Vehicles hogged both sides of the road, bumper to bumper. The newer properties had sacrificed driveways in favour of bigger houses. It created a parking nightmare in the evenings and at the weekend. Metal glinted with citrine gems beneath the yellow glow of the street lamps. It appeared the suburb held its breath until morning. Then, the vehicles would dribble away towards the town and the expressway with their owners, leaving the streets empty. Lexi much preferred it that way.
“Darlene said she saw Father Donald after he left you. He headed towards the rear of the church and waved to her. She thought he seemed cheery.”
Garima sighed. “But Jock didn’t see him.”
“Are you sure?” The grizzled pensioner seemed more intent on stewing his insides than serving the church in any serious capacity.
“Yes. The police detective checked. Jock drove to Paeroa to fetch a part for the boiler. His car broke down. A traffic cop stopped to help him. She drove Jock to the nearest garage for more petrol and then back again. She logged it, so she’s his alibi.”
“Lucky Jock,” Lexi mused. “Did she breathalyse him?”
Garima shrugged. “Dunno. I’ve never seen him drunk.” He sighed. “I guess the still is something else I should deal with. It’s not appropriate, really, is it?”
Lexi didn’t comment. She concentrated on the phone call taken by Father Donald before his death. “Whoever he spoke to made him feel better,” she mused. “Because Darlene wouldn’t refer to him as cheery if he continued stomping across the car park, would she?”
“No. I guess not.” Garima used the handle to wind down his side window on the old vehicle. His head bobbed with the effort. Then he stopped, his body rigid. “What if that call allayed all his fears?” He turned to Lexi, his face a picture of misery. “What if they told him not to worry? That the threat had ended and he should put his belongings back in the rectory.”
“So, Darlene saw him walking home. Relieved.”
Garima’s head bobbed with acknowledgement. His voice lowered to a hushed rasp. “The police found drag marks in the gravel behind the church. There are no windows and it’s out of sight of the main road. The killer dumped him in the skip and then stole his belongings. The detective suggested he fell foul of an opportunist who wanted drug money.” He closed his eyes and bowed his head. “Poor, poor Father Donald,” he breathed. “What a nasty way to die.”
Lexi considered the manner of death with less emotion than her brother. She looked at it from a practical point of view. “From a killer’s perspective, it’s noiseless. It causes immediate incapacitation. Once the killer secures the garrote, it guarantees all the victim’s focus is on trying to remove it. They could just walk away and leave them to expire. The biggest risk is that someone will find them. It takes a few minutes for the average human to die.” She tapped her bottom lip with her index finger. “A woman could garrote a man. But she’d have to take him by surprise and get the wire around his throat. I guess she’d need enough strength to hang onto both ends of it if he dipped forward. But once it’s twisted, the job’s done.” She mimicked binding two ends of wire together. “No mess either. And bloodless.”
“Lexicon!” Garima’s horrified cry shocked her. She turned towards him, infused with guilt at the stricken expression on her brother’s face.
“Sorry, sorry!” She patted his nearest shoulder with both hands as though trying to brush her tactless analysis from his clothing. “I should have internalised all of that. He was your friend. I’m sorry.”
Garima exhaled. He placed his hands over the steering wheel and stared forward through the windscreen. His eyes held a dangerous blankness. “I should go,” he said in a wooden tone. “I have confession at six tomorrow morning.”
“Stay here,” Lexi soothed. Her hunger for the hunt had stripped any light-heartedness from their conversation. She wished she could take the words back and swallow them whole.
“I’m good,” Garima lied. He fumbled for the ignition key.
“I feel terrible now.” Lexi squeezed the bridge of her nose. “I won’t forgive myself if you spend the night cleaning the rectory.”
“I won’t.” His smile held an inner peace which seemed to render him unreachable. Lexi ached for the emptiness in her soul, which jarred with it. Garima reached across and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “I’ve already forgiven you,” he whispered. “Sleep well. The Lord is watching over you because I asked Him to.”
