‘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.’
Twelve
‘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 alclass="underline" 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.