That night Cross decided to pay Stephen a visit. It had been on his mind for a while. Specifically, after Ottey had commented that as a friend he should look in on him and see how he was faring. The concept of Stephen being his ‘friend’ was something that Cross was still juggling in his mind. He preferred his life to be without complication of any kind, particularly of the social relationship ilk. This meant that he’d never really had any friends, and now that he apparently did, he wasn’t entirely sure how to deal with it. This apparent obligation to pay Stephen a social visit in order to determine how he was coping in the aftermath of his brother’s murder was exactly the sort of decision that had to be made based on various emotional factors and instincts, that he normally shied away from. It was the very reason he’d avoided entertaining the idea of social relationships his entire life.
‘It’s not Thursday,’ observed Stephen as he opened the door to the parsonage.
‘Agreed. It is Monday,’ replied the detective.
‘Come in, come in,’ said the priest ushering him in without touching him. ‘Has something happened?’
‘With regard to what?’ asked Cross.
‘The case.’
‘Oh, I see. There is some progress, yes. We’ve issued a warrant for the arrest of a former work colleague of your brother’s.’
‘Oh, all right. Good. I think. Do you need to ask me something?’
‘No,’ replied Cross.
‘Then why are you here?’
‘I’m not entirely sure. Josie told me to come.’
‘Ah, right. Well in that case, I’m fine, thank you.’
‘I didn’t ask. Was I supposed to?’ said Cross.
‘I think so.’
‘Duly noted,’ said Cross who then noticed that the kitchen table was covered with letters, old photographs and books, which Stephen was obviously sorting through.
‘This is all I have of my brother. Not a lot. But hardly surprising, really. What is surprising, though, is how pleasant it is going through it all. Sad, obviously, but tinged with happiness. Remembering how we used to be.’
‘Were you close?’
‘When young, yes. But not as adults,’ Stephen replied.
‘I find that part of this a little curious,’ Cross replied. ‘That his devotion to God robbed you of your relationship with him.’
‘I don’t see it that way.’
‘Why should a life devoted to God deny that same life to others?’ asked Cross. ‘Particularly his family.’
‘God chooses different paths for us all, George. Alex worshipped God to the exclusion of everything and everyone else, including me, in the knowledge that we would be reunited in the glory of God at a later date,’ replied Stephen.
‘Belief,’ corrected Cross.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Your belief, not knowledge. If it was knowledge there would be no need of faith. Isn’t faith one of the load-bearing pillars of religion?’ Cross went on.
‘You are, of course, completely right.’
‘It must be some comfort to know—’ Cross began.
‘Believe,’ corrected Stephen.
‘Well, there you are. I’m now doing it myself. Your very presence is indoctrinating me. What I meant to say was that it must be some comfort to believe that you will get to see him again, make up for lost time,’ said Cross.
‘I suppose so. The truth is, though, I’m finding very little comfort in any of this, George.’
‘Perfectly understandable. When you think about it why would a god to whom you’ve both devoted your lives let this happen to one of you? After such a life of devotion?’ Cross continued.
‘What I’m finding disconcerting is that if Alex hadn’t been murdered, it’s quite possible I would’ve gone to my grave not knowing what had happened to him, where he was, what he was doing. His murder brought him back into my life.’
Cross was thinking about this while he was handling Dominic’s leather-bound bible which he’d picked up from the table. The leather was incredibly supple, he was thinking. It was beautifully made.
‘He was immensely talented,’ Cross said.
‘Wasn’t he?’ Stephen answered with obvious fraternal pride. ‘I’m so glad to have that bible. It’s a strange feeling to think of the many hours he held it in his hand, either at prayer or just reading.’
‘Another comfort,’ said Cross.
‘I think so, yes.’
Cross then noticed something. He was looking at the marbled paper on the inside cover of the bible. He flicked through to the end and looked at the paper in the back. They seemed identical, as presumably they had been taken from the same single sheet. But as Cross looked closer, he noticed small differences.
‘Do these pages look the same to you? The front and back inside covers?’ he asked Stephen, passing him the bible. Stephen looked carefully.
‘No. They’re different. Ever so slightly. But they’re definitely different,’ Stephen observed.
‘I need to borrow this,’ Cross said, taking the bible back from Stephen and getting up.
‘Of course, why?’
But Cross had already turned on his heels and left.