The police left, having made Paula promise that she would get in touch if anything occurred to her that might help the case. Rossi placed her business card on the countertop and gave her a pointed look.
Paula went upstairs and dressed in a daze. A suicide pact. And the gruesome heart?
She shuddered and looked at herself in her long mirror. Black jeans. Dark-blue blouse. Black jacket. She hadn’t even considered the clothes. It seemed being a widow had come to her without thought.
Widow. She winced at the word, ripped the black jacket off, turned to her wardrobe and put her hand on a red one. But she found she couldn’t do it. She slowly pulled the black one on again. What did it matter…?
Shortly after, she was outside the manse house at Father Joe’s parish church. She knocked and he opened it straight away, as if he’d been waiting for her.
Paula stepped inside.
‘Aye, come in,’ said Father Joe with a half-smile.
‘Too early for a gin?’ Paula asked, sniffing the air pointedly. She looked him over. Dog collar, black shirt, black trousers, finished off with a dark-green cardigan. She looked at his feet. Brown corduroy slippers. All topped off with a grey and harried expression.
‘That’s Eau de Morning after the Night Before,’ answered Joe although his face seemed to strain to form a smile.
Paula gave him a quick hug. ‘No judgement from me, Father. But you might want to brush your teeth before you meet one of your parishioners.’
He crossed his arms. ‘I presume you’ve heard about Kevin Farrell?’ Joe crossed himself. ‘God bless his soul.’
‘I have. The police came to ask me about it this morning.’
His expression slumped. ‘Really? Well I guess they have to do their job. And poor Elaine. It’s all over the news.’
‘Can we go and take a seat?’
‘Of course. Where’s my manners?’ Joe smiled. ‘The sitting room.’
They sat on opposite sides of the ancient seventies’ three-bar electric fire set in a wooden fire-surround. Joe leaned forwards, elbows on his knees and hands clasped as if in prayer. There was a slight tremble there and Paula had the thought that this was more than a hangover.
‘You okay, Joe?’
‘Sure, sure,’ he said and rocked back in his seat. ‘Actually, no. This killing has really thrown me.’
‘Killing?’ Paula asked. ‘You’re not buying the suicide pact thing?’
Joe made a weak trumpet sound out of pursed lips. ‘No way were they having an affair. Elaine Teenan was devoted to her husband and kids.’ He paused and looked into the distance as if he saw nothing but a bleak future there. ‘Those poor boys, growing up without their mother.’ He shook his head. ‘She treated Kevin like he was her feckless younger brother. Did his books. Kept his diary. Washed the egg stains off his ties.’ He shook his head.
Paula sat back in her seat, crossed her legs and arms. ‘You seem to know a lot about them.’ And she thought about what she’d told the police – she knew nothing of Elaine’s home life.
‘Not really. Just an impression formed from a few random visits to the office over the years.’ Joe crossed his arms too.
‘Joe?’ Her tone was a request for more information. What wasn’t he telling her?
He stood up. ‘Look, I’ve got Mass in fifteen minutes.’
‘Doesn’t Father Martin normally take the noon service?’
‘Some kind of stomach bug.’ Joe made a face.
‘Hope you don’t catch it,’ Paula said as she got to her feet, but thinking this wasn’t right. Was he trying to get away from her?
‘I think it must be the gin keeping me disease free,’ Joe said with a weak smile that was clearly an effort. ‘The preservative effect. It’s definitely a thing. They should look into that.’ He walked to the doorway. Turned back to her. ‘See yourself out?’
Paula went to the sitting room door and watched him as he walked along the long narrow corridor that led to the sacristy. His head was bowed, hands in his trouser pockets.
She was right. Something was very wrong with her brother-in-law. He was trying to give her his usual chat, but it was like he was phoning it in. Working on auto, while his real attention was focussed inward. And this was more than grief. Or, more correctly, something other than grief, because she was sure Thomas’s death was something Joe would never quite come to terms with.
He said he was performing the service? She considered when she’d left her house and pulled her phone out of her jacket pocket to look at the time. It read 12:02. If Joe was giving Mass, he was going to be late.
She hesitated for a second, then followed him down the corridor. She came to a tall, unpainted door. She knocked.
There was no response.
This was the only door he could have gone through, so she knocked again.
Silence. She pressed her head to the door and heard a faint cough. She pushed the door open, calling ‘Joe?’ as she stepped inside.
She looked around her. It was a small room. High ceilinged with a tall, narrow window inset among wooden panels. Under the window there was a large cabinet made of the same wood as the panels. So this was the sacristy. The only women who ever entered had a duster in one hand and a brush in the other.
Bill, Thomas and Joe had all been altar boys and at family events they often talked about their antics in here while the priests were getting ready for Mass. Stealing sips of the altar wine. Putting big dollops of Brylcreem on the back of each other’s heads. And one occasion when they’d arrived too early, Thomas had put on the priest’s vestments and blessed his brothers, only to be caught having gotten as far as In the name of the Father – and was then given a slippering for his trouble – being hit by a slipper on his bare backside by old Father McLaughlan.
A movement, and she was plucked from her reverie by the sight of Joe sitting as if folded up on a small wooden chair just beyond the vestments that were hanging off a series of hooks. He looked up at her, opened his mouth, just as Father Martin’s voice boomed through the wall from the church PA system.
‘Joe?’ Paula said. The sympathy in her voice enough that Joe fell forwards in his seat, hands over his face and sobbed.
‘Joe,’ she said again and stepped across the room, kneeled before him and took his hands in hers. ‘Joe, what’s going on?’
He looked at her, his eyes dull with tears, imploring forgiveness. ‘It’s all my fault, Paula. All my fault.’
‘What’s all your fault?’
‘Everything, Paula. Thomas’s death. Kevin and Elaine’s murders. Everything.’