David Balaam - No One Is Sacrosanct

NO ONE IS SACROSANCT

by

David E Balaam

Other titles by the same author;

Columbus Day

The Letter

Nothing is Sacrosanct

Copyright © 2020 David E Balaam

All rights reserved

Published by: davidbalaam-books.co.uk

1st UK edition 2020

Cover Image: David Balaam

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real.

Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organisations is entirely coincidental. Actual names of living or dead are used for historical purpose only.

All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

‘I Hear Those Voices That Will Not Be Drowned’

Benjamin Britten

Deep within us, there is a dormant, dark, embryo. An embryo containing another us - another you . Mostly, due to good parenting, a stoic education, peer assertiveness, and of course, in part for some, religious guilt, these dormant seeds never surface - and we lead good, normal healthy lives - that is, most of us do.

Ordinary people leading ordinary lives; neighbors, work colleagues, relatives. Also public figures; entertainers, politicians, clergymen, businessmen - all going about their lives, day in, day out. We pay them no heed. They pay us no heed. Invisible, yet recognizable. So what is it that changes a person’s inner soul - releases the dark-matter? Makes them want to destroy life - a young life, without remorse, without shame or understanding for the wider grief they inflict - what makes them a sex predator - a paedophile.

Between 1969 and 1999 there was a man who took it upon himself to hand out retribution to those individuals who had escaped justice for heinous acts of abuse, rape, and even murder. The condemned men in question were ‘low life’, with little self-esteem, unemployed or in low-paid employment, usually centered around, or in close proximity to children. One of them, however, was in a different level of employment and trust - he was a Priest. Father Peter Dunfold was spared the indignity of his pursuer’s usual reckoning - hanging by a rope and deprived of his genitalia - as he was arrested and sent to trial, receiving a life sentence based on video evidence. During the investigation in the mid-1990s, it was thought Dunfold and others were part of a wider circle of child abusers, but no other names were revealed by Dunfold during his interrogation. The only important evidence was a coded notebook found at Dunfold’s house and sent to the investigating officer, DI Christine Ling. The ‘evidence’ mysteriously disappeared when Chief Superintendent James Jarvis claimed he knew someone who could decipher it. The one entry in the notebook DI Ling remembered before it disappeared was 'Seek vital demon' . The only two people outside the case to know this, was a crossword compiler, Graham King, who was asked to decipher it, and Mandy Silver, to whom he eventually gave the answer. Both have since died - he from a heart attack, and she in a hit and run car incident.

2002

The small 16th century stone chapel in the Gloucestershire village of Pennsylvania was unusually quiet for a funeral. Just two elderly women mourners sat close together holding hands - heads bowed in respect. The organist was playing something by Mozart, not that Barbara would know the name of it, but she thought it very appropriate, him being from Austria as well.

She had tried to contact Isabel and Charlie but they were out of the country on a photo assignment - well, Isabel was, Charlie was probably along for the ride. Rosa wiped away another tear and rested her head on Barbara’s shoulder. What will their lives be like now, with him gone, she thought. In truth, the two women had been without him for two years since his sudden departure to France, where he had found a new family - his son, with wife, and grandchildren. Marcus had requested to be cremated, quietly, without fuss, but Barbara and Rosa, against his wishes, had arranged a burial in the grounds of this small remote sanctuary. The women had talked at length about going against his wishes, but they could not live with the thought of him being burned - they wanted a grave - somewhere they could visit occasionally and reflect in quiet contemplation their past lives together.

Marcus’s son, Henri, with his wife, had said their goodbyes in France where he had died and decided not to travel to England for the funeral. He had only known his father for a couple of years and was still confused about his relationship with his mother, Simone, who had died ten years previous of a broken heart.

The priest had finished the funeral rites and the pall-bearers carried the coffin out into the bright sunshine where they passed one other mourner, dressed soberly in black, head bowed and motionless. Barbara and Rosa followed the coffin to the burial plot unaware of the stranger who was now observing them from the shadows of the chapel entrance.

Standing over the sunken coffin Barbara and Rosa each dropped a red rose, taken from the cottage rose garden, on to the polished wood sarcophagus and wiped away another tear. “Goodbye, my love. Sleep in Peace. We will never forget.” Barbara turned towards the chapel entrance.

“Did you see someone there, Rosa?”

“No,” Rosa whispered. Barbara dismissed the thought immediately, but the stranger had left, having seemingly paid their respects and witnessing the passing of an old friend.

2002

Chief Superintendent James Jarvis should have retired five years previously, but he was driven by greed, power and ambition. Few, if any of his subordinates could tolerate him, so when his death was announced a collective sigh of relief was apparent to even the casual observer. During the days following his death, two of the CID team at Bell Street were assigned to collect Jarvis’s belongings and personal effects from his office and box them up and deliver them to his wife. “I'll drop these into Mrs Jarvis, Mike. It’s on my way home.”

. . .

2004

The news of Mandy Silver’s death was a particular blow to Christine Ling. They had been friends for many years and it was Mandy who had, in a way, helped Christine to acclimatise to the metropolis which was Newcastle.

When Christine moved south to Slough and been promoted to DCI, they had vowed to meet at least once a year, no matter what, but that promise has now been annulled by her tragic and untimely death.

St Matthew’s is a typical 1950’s brick-built church which lacked history. The walls were white and clean, and Christine felt the atmosphere too sterile for her liking. Although she was raised a Christian she did not have any religious convictions of her own. She was also a little surprised to find that Mandy was to have a church funeral, as she knew very well that Mandy was not one to seek spiritual assistance, unless it was in a glass. It transpired that her parents had insisted on the local church, despite their daughter’s lapse of faith. It was probably a good decision, as over a hundred mourners filled the church pews – friends and family, work colleagues, old school friends and people she had helped over the years as a reporter.

A local hotel had been hired for the wake, and Christine was keen to mix and mingle with Mandy’s colleagues to see if anything was worrying them about Mandy’s accident. Holding a glass of white wine she slowly mingled with the subdued mourners, nodding politely here and there, until she spied a small group who seemed more jovial than others. Christine stopped and introduced herself.