Echoes of the Dead Read Free

come to this house of death, he told himself. There had part of him, at least, which had hoped he would arrive too late to give absolution – because there was a part of him which had hoped that Fred Howerd would burn in hell for all eternity.
    But Fred Howerd’s fate had not been his to decide, and in merely holding on to that hope he had failed – not for the first time – to carry out the task that God had entrusted him with.
    â€˜But I will not fail again,’ he promised, as he felt the rain trickling down his neck. ‘I will see that justice is done – here on earth – for Fred Howerd.’

ONE
    M onika Paniatowski had only ever had one bad experience with a priest, but that had been more than enough to make her wary of them as a breed, and the moment she saw Father O’Brien sitting in the ‘cosy’ corner of George Baxter’s office, her stomach lurched.
    Priests had no business visiting chief constables, she told herself, in an attempt to rationalize what was beyond rationalization.
    Priests and chief constables inhabited different worlds – worlds which rarely touched.
    But they must be touching now, mustn’t they, Monika? asked a mocking voice somewhere in the back of her mind. The very fact that this priest is here at all must mean they’re bloody near colliding!
    Baxter stood up – he was always a gentleman, even in the presence of his minions – and said, ‘Ah, Chief Inspector Paniatowski! Would you care to join us?’
    No, Paniatowski thought, I wouldn’t.
    But she crossed the room, and sat down in the armchair opposite her boss, anyway.
    Baxter ran his hand through his shock of sandy hair – something he always did when he was nervous.
    â€˜This is Father O’Brien,’ he said. He turned his attention back to the priest. ‘Tell the chief inspector what you told me, Father.’
    â€˜May I smoke?’ O’Brien asked.
    Baxter glanced involuntarily down at the almost over-spilling ashtray in front of the priest, smiled, and said, ‘Of course, Father.’
    As the priest lit up, Paniatowski took the opportunity to study him. He was around forty-five, she guessed. His black clerical shirt was stained grey with the ash of innumerable cigarettes, and though he had shaved that morning, he had done so either hurriedly or distractedly.
    He was a man who would always try to do the right thing in every situation, she decided, but he was not a strong man – a confident man – and if other priests were available, she suspected his parishioners would much prefer to take their problems to them.
    The priest cleared his throat. ‘Yesterday, I administered the last rites to a man called Frederick Howerd,’ he said.
    He paused, as if expecting Paniatowski to react in some way.
    â€˜The case was before our time, Monika,’ George Baxter explained. ‘Howerd served twenty-two years for the rape and murder of a young girl. He was only finally released because he was dying.’
    Paniatowski nodded, as if she understood – though she didn’t.
    â€˜Just before he died, he told me that he was not guilty of the crime,’ O’Brien said portentously.
    Paniatowski shrugged uneasily. ‘That’s not at all unusual,’ she said. ‘I’ve known men who killed their victims in front of half a dozen witnesses, but who still refused – right to the end – to admit that they did it.’
    â€˜When you say “right to the end”, you mean right to the end of their trials , don’t you?’ the priest asked.
    â€˜Yes,’ Paniatowski agreed.
    â€˜But not to the end of their lives ,’ the priest said, with emphasis. ‘Are you a member of the Faith, Chief Inspector?’
    â€˜I don’t see what that has to do with anything ,’ Paniatowski replied, suddenly defensive.
    â€˜Frederick Howerd knew he was dying,’ the priest said slowly.