Daniel Blake - Soul Murder

‘You recognize these kids?’ Beradino asked.

‘Some of them, yeah. The ones who were there same time as me, sure.’

‘The ones you recognize; you guys were his favorites?’

‘I guess.’ Patrese riffled through a few prints till he found a couple of other guys in football uniform. ‘Kohler coached the football team. You played football, you were a bit…’ – Patrese sought the right word – ‘ special . Yeah, special. We called him the Pigskin Padre.’

‘Pigskin Padre. I like that.’ Beradino laughed softly and let a stack of photos fall gently on to the desk, where they fanned out as though dealt by a croupier. ‘You have favorite teachers as a kid, so why can’t teachers have favorite kids, huh?’

He gestured round the room; not at what was there, but at what wasn’t.

‘He had no one else, did he?’

They boxed the photos and sent them back by police courier to the North Shore, with orders that every child pictured should be traced and interviewed. The Sacred Heart’s ad ministrative office would have contact details for its alumni; they should start there.

At the edge of the police cordon around the bishop’s house, a woman with immaculately coiffed dark hair was talking urgently to one of the uniforms. He looked in the detectives’ direction. When they’d finished giving the courier his instructions, he hurried over.

‘That lady lives next door,’ he said. ‘She wants to tell you something.’

Patrese sized her up as they approached. Mid-forties, a figure which suggested good genes or a fastidious diet, blouse and skirt tailored just so, and a forehead whose perfection screamed Botox.

Typical Squirrel Hill dame, in other words.

‘Yesterday morning…’ she began.

‘Excuse me,’ Beradino said. ‘You are?’

‘I’m what?’

‘Your name.’

‘My name is Katharine Horowitz. I live there.’ She pointed to the nearest house, thirty yards away. It was half the size of the bishop’s, which still left it four times as big as Patrese’s apartment. ‘Yesterday morning, I heard the bishop shouting.’

‘Shouting?’

‘Yes. Like he was arguing with someone.’

Beradino looked across to Katharine’s house, and then back again. ‘You heard this all the way from there to here?’

‘I was in the garden.’

‘On a Sunday morning in November?’

‘I had some trimming and clipping to finish off before winter sets in for good. Anyhow, it wasn’t that cold yesterday. And so I could see that Father Gregory had a couple of windows open, overlooking his own garden.’

Sunday morning, little traffic noise, no one around. It was entirely plausible she could have heard him at that distance.

‘What time was this?’

‘About ten.’

‘What was he saying?’

‘I couldn’t catch all of it, but something about how this was all dead and buried, you – the other guy – had no right to bring it up now, show some respect and so on. He was really agitated. I’d never heard him like that before.’

‘You said “the other guy”. This was a man he was arguing with?’

‘Yes.’

‘What was he saying? What was this man saying?’

‘I couldn’t hear.’

‘You couldn’t hear what they were saying, or you couldn’t hear the other man’s voice at all?’

‘I couldn’t hear the voice at all.’

‘So how do you know he was a man?’

‘Because I heard his car draw up about three-quarters of an hour beforehand. I’d just started in the garden then.’

‘That might have been the bishop himself, returning from somewhere.’

‘No. I heard the bishop greet him, and the man say something back.’

‘You catch a look at him?’

‘No.’

‘The car?’

‘No.’

‘Pity.’

‘Anyone else see this man?’ Patrese asked.

‘How do you mean, anyone else?’

‘Your husband, perhaps?’

The slightest furrow fought its way through the Botox and rippled the perfection of Katharine Horowitz’ forehead.

‘I live alone, Detective.’

Rich divorcée, Patrese thought instantly; and the look of defensive defiance on her face told him he was spot on.

‘When you heard the bishop shouting; this man was still here?’

‘I presume so. I hadn’t heard the car leave, if that’s what you mean.’

‘OK. Thank you.’ Patrese reached into his jacket’s breast pocket and extracted a business card. ‘You think of anything else, you have any questions, you just ring the number here.’

‘I surely will,’ she said. ‘Such a tragedy. He was the best of men, Father Kohler.’

Beradino and Patrese walked out of her earshot.

‘You phoned Kohler around nine o’clock, you said?’ Beradino asked.

‘Yeah.’

‘So by the time you get off the phone, it’s nine ten, give or take. About nine fifteen, according to Katharine Horowitz, Kohler has a visitor. Forty-five minutes later, they’re having a pow-wow. You’re almost certainly the last person to speak with Kohler before this visitor arrived, you know?’

‘I guess. But it still doesn’t help, does it? Even if Katharine’s timings are a bit out, or mine are, I rang off before anyone arrived.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘I didn’t hear a doorbell, or someone else’s voice. Kohler didn’t break off to answer the door, try to hurry me off of the phone, nothing like that.’

Beradino clicked his tongue against his teeth. ‘Too much to hope for, huh?’

Patrese and Beradino were supposed to see Mayor Negley at ten. They sat in the antechamber to his office, on the fifth floor of the City-County building, for close on two hours, with one or other of Negley’s PAs appearing every few minutes to extend the mayor’s apologies, reiterate that he’d been caught up in meetings which had gone on much longer than anticipated, and promise he’d be with them as soon as he could.

Standard billionaire behavior. Treat anyone below your own level as supplicants to a medieval king, even when they had a major homicide investigation to run.

Had the meeting just been a progress report, Patrese and Beradino would have gone back to the North Shore long before. If Negley wanted to find out what was going on badly enough, he could make time for them, not vice versa.

But they wanted to see him for another reason entirely.

They’d discovered a connection between him and the two murder victims.

It was almost midday when he finally came bustling in, trailing a comet’s tail of advisers and assistants.

He gave both detectives a double-clasped handshake, his left hand clutching their wrists. Every politician Patrese had met did it, presumably in the belief that it made them seem open and sincere. Patrese thought it as phony as a seven-dollar bill.

‘Gentlemen, gentlemen. My apologies. This city is a demanding mistress.’

Interesting choice of phrase, Patrese thought.

Negley ushered them inside his office. Patrese was surprised at how small it was, before remembering it was municipal property. In Negley’s billionaire incarnation, he probably worked out of something the size of Heinz Field.

Negley took a seat behind his desk and directed the detectives to a nearby sofa. They’d be sitting lower than him. Corporate intimidation 101.

A secretary appeared with tea, coffee and cookies. When she’d gone, Negley clapped his hands together.

‘Now. What can I do you for?’ He chuckled at his wordplay.

Beradino held up a brochure. Glossy, high-end, four-color, its cover emblazoned with the words ‘ABRAHAMIC INTERFAITH FOUNDATION’.

‘You’re a member of this foundation’s board, I believe.’