‘Vaguely. Years ago.’
‘Robin Gray Bonney. Know him?’
Vallins sucked on the cigarette, spat smoke, waved a hand. ‘Also a long time ago. Donkeys’ years. Why?’
‘Charles Bourgoyne,’ said Cashin. ‘You probably know Charles. Vaguely. From a long time ago. And Mr Crake of course.’
Vallins didn’t say anything, found a cigarette in a packet, lit it from his stub, had trouble docking, a shake in both hands. He ground the donor in the ashtray. ‘What is this nonsense?’ he said, high, proper voice. ‘Why have you come here to bother me?’
‘You may want to be in protective custody,’ said Cashin. ‘You may want to sit around and tell us about the Companions camps, those golden days. You looked really fit in the photographs. Took a lot of exercise then, did you, Mr Vallins? With the boys?’
‘There’s nothing I want to tell you,’ said Vallins. ‘Not a single thing. You can go now.’
‘Bit of a hermit here, are you, Mr Vallins? All alone in this place for Anglicans in need?’
‘None of your business. You know the way out.’
Cashin looked at Dove. Dove didn’t seem happy, he was scratching his skull. Did scalps still itch without hair? Why was that?
‘Fine,’ said Cashin. ‘On our way then. We’ll leave you to think about how your friends Arthur and Robin were tortured. Robin’s was nasty. Had something hot shoved up him. The knife sharpener. Know that thing? The steel? They think it was heated over the gas ring. Red hot. Came out the front.’
Vallins’ face screwed up. ‘What?’
‘Tortured and killed,’ said Cashin. ‘Bourgoyne, Bonney, Pollard. We’ll find our own way out then, Mr Vallins. Good night.’
Cashin walked. He was at the door when Vallins said, ‘Please wait, detective, I’m sorry, I didn’t know…’
‘Just stopped by to keep you informed of the mortality rate among people like you,’ said Cashin. ‘Offer extended and refused. That’s on record. Good luck and sleep tight, Mr Vallins.’
They were in the entrance hall, Cashin in front, then Dove, Vallins a pace behind.
‘I think you might be right, detective,’ said Vallins, high voice. ‘Do I need…’
‘I know what you need, Duncan,’ said a voice from above, from the gallery. ‘You need to repent your filthy life and die at peace with the Lord.’
CASHIN COULDN’T see the man. The light from the sitting room was too feeble.
‘Who is it?’ he said.
He knew.
Someone laughed, not the speaker. ‘Cops,’ he said. ‘I can smell cops, filthy stinking, rotten cops.’
Cashin looked at Dove. His eyes were on the gallery, he was pushing back his overcoat with his right hand, Cashin saw the spring-clip holster, the butt, Dove’s reaching fingers.
Bangs, bright red muzzle-flash.
Dove went backwards, spun around to face Cashin, Cashin saw his glasses glint, saw Dove’s open mouth, his hands coming up to his chest, he was falling sideways.
‘ONE DOWN!’
Cashin saw the fusebox on the wall beside the stained glass window. He went for it, two paces, dived, clawed at it with his left hand, off-balance, going down, saw the flash at the edge of his vision, felt a knife slice across his back below the shoulderblades.
‘TWO DOWN!’
Coal dark. He was on his knees, his whole back seemed to be on fire.
Shit, he thought, I’ve taken one.
‘Please!’ shouted Vallins. ‘I’ll give you money, I’ve got money!’
Cashin put out a hand and found Dove’s shoulder, the feel of cloth, touched his face. He was breathing. He crawled across, heard Dove’s small snoring noise. He felt for Dove’s holster, slid his hand down his body.
Empty.
Jesus, he got the gun out, dropped it. Where?
‘COMING FOR YOU, BOYS!’
The squeaking voice.
Cashin was groping frantically, the marble floor was ice-cold.
‘Please!’ shouted Vallins. ‘Pleeease!’
‘First you must repent, Duncan,’ said the deeper, calmer voice.
Cashin was crawling fast, there was a door to the right of the stairs, he needed to get there before they switched on the mains, they’d seen him switch off, they’d find it, you never went unarmed, you never needed the fucking thing until you needed it so badly that your teeth ached.
He crawled into a wall, stood up, went left, groping, knocked over something, a table, an object hit the floor, smashed.
Bang, gun-flash. From half-way down the stairs.
Cashin found a deep recess, found the door, found the doorknob, twisted, the door opened, he was inside.
A scent. A faint, sickly perfume.
Don’t close the door, they’ll hear the click.
He was feeling light-headed. He walked into something solid, thigh-high, turned right, felt his way, it was the back of something, it went on, it ended, a post, carved, he put out a hand and touched a wall.
A pew. This is a church. A chapel. That’s the smell.
Right hand on the wall, he took a step, felt something, knocked it off its mounting. It hit the floor, a loud noise, he stopped.
‘Over there,’ said the first voice. ‘He’s over there. He doesn’t have a gun.’
‘Blow this cop away,’ said the high voice. ‘Blow his head off.’
‘No, get the other cop, Justin. We’ll let this one bleed out. He’s a lamb of God. I’ll pray for him.’
Cashin heard a whimpering, a terrible sound, fear and pain combined.
He was trying to become accustomed to the dark, he was blinking, trying to blink quickly, but he couldn’t, his eyelids were too heavy. Loss of blood? He put his right hand under the overcoat, felt his back.
Wet. Warm.
He felt the need to sit. He put out his hand, found the back of a pew, leaned against it, urgency gone, it didn’t matter. He was going to die here, in this ice-cold and sickly-sweet room.
No. A way out of here. Find the door. Follow the wall.
His eyes weren’t working. He was underwater, black water, not water, something thicker. Blood. Trying to move in blood. Water and blood. Diab and Dove, he’d killed them both. He couldn’t feel his toes move. Couldn’t feel his legs. Couldn’t breathe. He took his hand off the pew and he felt himself falling, saw something, a pole, tried to grab it.
It was loose, fell with him. Something hit his head. Terrible pain, then nothing.
HE WAS IN the hospital, something cold on his face, they wiped your face with wet towels, it was someone speaking loudly. Not to him. It wasn’t close, it was the radio, the television…
Cashin didn’t open his eyes. He knew he wasn’t in hospital, he was lying on something stone hard. A floor. An icy marble floor. Everything came back.
‘Do you remember what you did to me, Duncan?’ said the voice. ‘How I cried out in pain? How I asked for mercy? Do you remember that, Duncan?’
A silence.
I’m alive, Cashin thought. I’m lying on the floor and I’m alive.
‘I was so happy when I found out you’d become a priest, Duncan,’ said the voice.
Jamie Bourgoyne. Except he was now his dead cousin, Mark Kingston Denby.
‘We’ve both given ourself to the Lord, Duncan,’ said Jamie. ‘It changes everything, doesn’t it? I was a sinner. I’ve done bad things, Duncan. I’ve caused terrible suffering to some of God’s creatures. You’ll understand that, won’t you? Of course, you will. You didn’t come to the Lord with a pure heart either.’
A sound of agony.
‘The little children, Duncan. Do you think about what our Saviour said? Answer me, Duncan.’
Words, a burbling of words.
‘Duncan, our Lord said, Suffer the little children to come unto me. What a wonderful thing to say, wasn’t it, Duncan? Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of God.’
The scream filled the chapel, filled Cashin’s head, seemed to enter his ear from the marble floor.