Echoes of the Dead Read Free Page A

‘There can be absolutely no doubt about it.’
    Paniatowski shrugged again. ‘I’ll accept that,’ she conceded.
    â€˜And he knew more,’ the priest continued. ‘He knew that if he died in a state of mortal sin, he would burn in the everlasting pit forever. That is why you can be certain that what he told me was the truth.’
    Paniatowski felt a tingling which Charlie Woodend – her mentor, the man she most admired in the whole world – would have called a ‘gut feeling’. She was treading on dangerous ground, she warned herself, and though she had no idea why that ground should be dangerous, it would be best to get clear of it as soon as possible.
    â€˜Surely, whatever he told you under the seal of confession should be absolutely confidential,’ she said.
    â€˜So you are a believer,’ the priest countered.
    Paniatowski shook her head.
    But sometimes she was! Sometimes, despite herself, she was .
    â€˜I have struggled long and hard with the knowledge I have been entrusted with,’ the priest told her. ‘And I have finally decided that since what Fred Howerd confessed to me was that he had not committed a sin, I am not bound by the seal.’
    Paniatowski’s already queasy stomach did another somersault. This was going to be bad – she just knew it was.
    â€˜Even if he was innocent, there’ll be no proof of that – not after twenty-two years,’ she said, realizing how desperate she sounded – and wondering why she sounded so desperate. ‘And if mistakes were made, there’s nothing you can do about it now.’
    â€˜No mistake was made,’ the priest said heavily. ‘It was all very deliberate. Fred Howerd was “fitted up”.’
    The last two words fell uncomfortably from his lips.
    As if they were not natural to him.
    As if he had made a conscious effort to speak to the police in their own language.
    â€˜It’s twenty-two years ,’ Paniatowski repeated. ‘The officers responsible are probably dead by now. And the same will be true of the real murderer, for God’s sake! That is, if it really wasn’t Howerd who did it.’
    â€˜Do not take the name of the Lord your God in vain,’ the priest said sternly.
    â€˜I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you,’ Paniatowski said contritely.
    â€˜It is not I you have offended,’ O’Brien told her.
    Paniatowski turned to Baxter – looking for support, waiting for him to tell the troublesome priest that he was on a hiding to nothing.
    The chief constable gazed back at her, with eyes that were filled with pain.
    And the pain was for her , she suddenly realized – for his ex-lover who he’d never quite been able to bring himself to stop caring for just a little.
    â€˜What . . . what do you want?’ she asked the priest, stuttering over her words. ‘Are you asking for compensation for Howerd’s family?’
    â€˜I want justice for a man who has been sorely wronged,’ the priest intoned. ‘I want the officers who framed him to be punished for their crime.’
    â€˜You’re asking for the impossible,’ Paniatowski said harshly. ‘Good God . . .’ and this time she used the phrase with baiting deliberation, ‘do you even know their names or where they are now?’
    â€˜Yes,’ the priest said. ‘I do. The sergeant involved still works at Scotland Yard. His name is Bannerman.’ He paused for a moment. ‘And the chief inspector – the one who was in charge of the investigation and who must therefore shoulder most of the blame – is retired and lives in Spain.’
    Now, finally, Paniatowski understood why her gut had been playing her up from the second she walked into the room. Now, finally, she could read the look of pain in George Baxter’s eyes. Now, finally, it was all brutally – horrifically –