Peter May - The Chessmen

‘Oh yes, sir, the outcome would have been very different. Donna Murray and her baby would be dead, as would probably everyone else in the house that night. As it is, only one man died. A man whose stated intention was to murder an innocent girl and her child.’

Kelso snorted derisively. ‘How can you say that?’

‘Because I was there and you were not. And with the experience of a police officer of some fifteen years’ standing I can say without equivocation that the local police, unarmed and inexperienced as they were, could never have dealt with the situation.’

Kelso gave him a long, cold look, then slipped on his half-moons and lowered his eyes to the sheet of paper he held in his hand. ‘Well, let’s just return in detail to the events of that night.’

‘No.’ Fin shook his head. ‘I think we’ve heard more than enough about that.’

Kelso’s head jerked up in surprise.

Fin said, ‘I sat here all day yesterday listening to a bunch of Holy Willies pour out bile in the guise of piety.’ There was a shocked murmur of astonishment among the crowd as Fin ran his eyes among them, searching. Then suddenly he pointed. ‘There. Torquil Morrison. Used to get drunk and beat up his wife. Until he found God. Or God found him. Now butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.’ As gasps rose from the auditorium, he swung his finger across the sea of faces. ‘And there. Angus Smith. I can think of at least two illegitimate kids that he won’t acknowledge. I bet he wouldn’t have had the courage to kill a man to save either of their lives. I don’t know about the Reverend Murray’s other accusers, but I’d say this. He among you who is without sin, let him cast the first stone.’

The chairman of the Judicial Committee banged his gavel, his face flushed with anger and embarrassment. ‘That’s quite enough, Mr Macleod!’

‘I’m not finished,’ Fin said. ‘I’m here on my terms, not yours. I’m here because a good man did the only thing he could in impossible circumstances. Doing nothing wasn’t an option. Doing nothing would have meant the loss of innocent lives. Doing what he did saved those lives at the expense of one that, frankly, wasn’t worth a damn. And I don’t buy into all this sixth commandment crap. Thou Shalt Not Kill? No. Unless you happen to be German in World Wars I and II, or Iraqi in the Gulf War. Then it’s OK, because it’s. . justified . I didn’t know there was a rider to the sixth commandment, Mr Chairman. Thou Shalt Not Kill — unless it’s justified .’

Fin raised his head a little and sniffed the air.

‘I smell something familiar.’ He sniffed again. ‘I know what it is. I’ve smelled it before. It’s hypocrisy. It’s a rank smell, and there should be no place for it here.’ He swung around towards Donald, and was almost shocked to see his eyes filling up. Fin nearly choked on his own emotions before finally finding his voice. ‘Your God will judge you, Donald. And if He’s half the God you think He is, then He probably helped you pull the trigger.’

A hush fell over the crowd outside the hall as Fin exited with Marsaili on his arm. They parted silently, opening up a passage towards the gate for the departing couple. It wasn’t until they were halfway down Kenneth Street that Marsaili squeezed Fin’s arm and turned her cornflower-blue eyes on him, just as she had done that first day at school. ‘Proud of you,’ she said.

The Judicial Committee delivered its verdict on the third day. It was standing room only in the hall, and there were hundreds more out in the street. Donald sat cool and dispassionate at his table, hands folded one inside the other in front of him. And only once, before the members of the Judicial Committee filed in to take their seats, did he turn around to scan the faces in the crowd behind him. It was a look not missed by Fin. He turned to Marsaili, an eyebrow raised in query. She shrugged. ‘Still no sign of her.’

The one person conspicuous by her absence throughout the hearing had been Donald’s wife, Catriona. Fin’s heart ached for him. Whatever the verdict, his wife and mother of his child would not be there to offer comfort or share in his joy. Donald presented a lonely figure at the front of the hall.

Silence settled like down after a duck fight as the members of the Judicial Committee drew in chairs behind their long desk. It was impossible to tell from the row of grave faces they presented what decision it was they might have reached.

Proceedings opened, as they had each day, with a prayer. Then the Chairman looked towards Donald. ‘Would you be upstanding, please, Reverend Murray?’

Donald stood and faced his future.

‘This was an extremely difficult decision for the committee. We have been, as you were yourself, faced with a complex web of moral decision-making. And while we have had the advantage of time to make a considered decision, we appreciate that you did not. One could almost imagine that God had set a test for you, Reverend Murray, as He has done for us. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t. In the end, whatever the moral and religious arguments, we could only, each of us, ask ourselves in all humanity what we would have done in the same circumstance, and measure our actions against the expectations of the Lord our God. And, in the end, truly, only He can make that judgment.’

He took a long breath, briefly examining his hands on the table in front of him. When he raised his eyes again the silence was absolute.

‘However, we have been charged with reaching a decision. And so on that basis, we have decided not to uphold the libel against you. You are free to continue your ministry at Crobost for as long as your congregation wants you there.’

The roar that went up from the crowd, and the subsequent applause, was almost deafening. No doubting where the sentiments of the public lay. There was a rush to congratulate Donald, and among the many who shook his hand in the aftermath of the verdict were those who had earlier been afraid publicly to take his side. Donald himself appeared bewildered, lost among a sea of faces, a confusion of voices. The Chairman’s announcement that a full and detailed written account of the verdict would be published within two weeks was lost in the melee.

Fin and Marsaili waited outside in the crowd for Donald to emerge from the hall. When he did he looked pale and shaken. He had no coat but seemed impervious to the rain that fell on him from a leaden sky. He was jostled by supporters and reporters, and TV lights cast an unreal light upon the frantic scene in the car park.

He fell before anyone heard the shot. Because of his black shirt, the blood where the bullet had entered his chest was not immediately apparent. At first the crowd thought he had simply stumbled and fallen. But Fin recognized the crack that followed immediately as the report of a rifle.

As others rushed towards Donald, he turned in the direction of the skyline opposite, and saw the silhouette of a man, and the barrel of his rifle, as he vanished from view among the rooftops.

Then screams rose into the wet morning air as Donald’s blood oozed across the tarmac, and the crowd scattered in panic. Fin and Marsaili were the first to reach him, crouching down to assess the damage. His eyes were wide, staring up at them in fear and confusion. His whole body was trembling. Marsaili put her hand beneath his head to raise it from the wet. Fin bellowed, ‘Get an ambulance! Fast!’ He stripped off his jacket to lay it over Donald’s chest and shoulders. And he remembered that day when they were just boys, and Donald had returned in the dark to drag him off to safety when bullies had left him bleeding in the road. And the time they had taken Fin’s aunt for the drive of her life in an open-topped car, just months before she died. He felt Donald’s hand clutch his arm. His voice was a whisper.