Lafferty assessed and considered the implications of the new theory. It meant that the powerful people behind this whole awful affair probably had nothing to do with devil worship or black magic. And whoever had killed the yobs knew why Simon Main had never been buried at all.
Lafferty ran through everything again, making sure that it all fitted. The Black Mass story had most likely been an invention of John McKirrop. He had made the whole thing up to attract attention to himself, or perhaps he’d even been paid to do it? Come to think of it, that might have been the reason he’d ended up in hospital for a second time. Maybe he had got greedy and asked for more.
The four ‘yobs’ as they had been described by both McKirrop and Main had been just that. They had been drunken louts who had dug up a grave for kicks — something they hadn’t really denied according to Main, but the coffin had been empty! That would be why they’d told Main he’d got it wrong. That was why they had referred to McKirrop as a liar in the pub.
The big question was what had really happened to Simon Main’s body? Some kind of mortuary mix-up perhaps? It was not entirely unknown for such things to happen. In fact, it probably happened a great deal more often than anyone cared to admit. If couples could occasionally leave hospital with the wrong baby in the back of the car then surely which body went into which coffin was even more open to occasional error.
Lafferty dismissed the notion almost as quickly as it arose. If five people had been murdered, it was nothing to do with any kind of mix-up or mistake, however embarrassing it might have been. It was something much more serious and organised than that. He checked the time and saw that it was a quarter to two. He had a funeral to conduct in just over eight hours.
A slight lightening of the sky warned Lafferty that morning had come. He hadn’t been to bed at all and felt relieved that daylight had returned — problems always seemed worse during the hours of darkness. He got up from the chair where he had spent the last few hours wondering what he should do about his new hypothesis and went over to the window to look at out at what was a cold grey world. His legs felt stiff and the stubble on his face rasped against his collar when he turned his head. It made him think about shaving and hot water but that only served to remind him of the furnace heating the water and what was fuelling it. It wasn’t a bad dream; it had really happened. He shivered and rubbed his arms before shuffling through to the bathroom in his stocking feet — removing his shoes had been his sole concession to undressing.
Feeling better after a shave and a hot bath, he made himself toast and tea and sat down at the kitchen table while examining his notes for the O’Donnell funeral, not that they were copious. He had failed to come up with a magic formula for providing comfort in the circumstances. He had no idea why God had allowed such a thing to happen. It was going to have to be a variation on the theme of the ways of the Lord being strange. Have faith and trust in him; there are some things that we are not meant to understand just yet.
His mind started to wander again. He was still undecided about telling John Main about his new theory. The man was on an emotional knife edge; he would have to be awfully sure of his ground before saying anything. He did decide however, to contact Sarah Lasseter and tell her of his suspicions. If he was right about Simon Main never having been buried in the first place then the starting point for any investigation would be in HTU, where the boy had died. He suddenly realised that he had come up with a motive for the death of John McKirrop at the hands of one of the staff in HTU, something that he and Sarah had failed to do at in their last conversation. It made him more certain than ever that he was on the right track but time was getting on. He started to look out his vestments for the funeral.
The O’Donnells had decided that their daughter’s body should be cremated but they had also expressed a wish that there should be a short service at St Xavier’s before going down to the crematorium. Lafferty had readily agreed, hoping at the time that this was a sign that Jean’s faith was winning through if she could demonstrate her affection for the church. His hopes had been dashed however, when Jean had explained that she hated the chapel down at the crematorium. “It’s a toilet,” she said when Lafferty had asked her why not.
It was a view he could sympathise with. The crematorium chapel did not have much going for it in the way of atmosphere. It was a bare, almost circular room with doors diametrically opposed to each other so that mourners entered by one door and left by another. This was so that the chain of the day was unbroken. As one funeral party left another arrived. As for decor, there was none. It was as impersonal as a hotel room. Not even the flowers were a constant. When each funeral was over the flowers left too.
It had already started to rain as Mary O’Donnell’s coffin was brought into St Xavier’s and laid down gently on its catafalque in front of Lafferty. He watched the mourners file in. Their dress ranged from charcoal grey suits to fluorescent yellow bomber jackets. Some of the relatives had obviously not seen each other for some time and gave exaggerated smiles of recognition as their eyes met before mouthing silent greetings. A number of women were sobbing and Lafferty could see that it was going to be a distressing service. Sobbing, like laughter, could be infectious.
Jean O’Donnell was not weeping. She stood beside Joe, who looked red eyed and vulnerable but she herself remained quite composed. Lafferty sneaked a look at her and saw that her eyes were cold. She was being sustained by bitterness. At that moment he would have given a lot to see tears run down her cheeks.
“We are gathered here today to give thanks for the life of Mary O’Donnell...”
Thirteen
Lafferty managed on autopilot until the first hymn took the pressure off him for a couple of minutes. When it ended, the sobbing in the church had become widespread. Several of the men were now holding handkerchiefs to their faces. Only Jean O’Donnell remained cool and composed. Lafferty felt himself become mesmerised by her. As the last chord of the organ faded away he decided it was time to throw himself on her mercy.
“As your priest it is my job to explain things to you when they might not be obvious in themselves,” he began. “Today you look to me to explain why a young life, that of Mary O’Donnell, has been taken away in the manner it was and I have to say to you that I cannot.”