Page 21 of Go Now
‘Can anyone prove that?’
‘I’m a Roman Catholic priest,’ he growled.
‘Forgive me, Father, but that doesn’t make you incapable of lying.’
Torres gave a short, bitter laugh.‘I’m sure it doesn’t.What I’m saying is – nobody shares my bed.’
‘Did you speak to anyone in that time?’
‘Between one and five in the morning?Yes, I had a whole crowd of people round, we ate empanadas and we listened to Ivy Queen.’
Kate didn’t smile.‘This is a murder investigation, Father.’
‘Then ask me sensible questions,’ Torres rumbled.He took a deep breath, clearly mastering his anger.‘Agents, look -’ He leant forward, his hands open, a gesture of respect and, to some degree, conciliation.‘There are pockets of deprivation in this parish that are comparable to the slums of San Juan.People come to see me because they are facing eviction. Because their sons have gotten mixed up with Las Ñetas, and other gangs.Because they need medical care, which they can’t afford. And in the midst of trying to help in a system that is rigged against them from the second they’re born, I try to sustain them with faith in a God who loves and who cares and listens.So yes; yes, I’m angry at anyone who seeks to ridicule that faith, who mocks them for clinging to the one thing that gives them hope.But above all else, I just try to help.That’s what I do, all day, every day, from the moment I open my eyes.I don’t have time or energy to obsess over this one, talentless jerk.I am too busy, trying to help my people.’
My people, Kate thought.Who did the guy think he was?Moses?
There was a gentle knock on the door.
‘Hola?’ Torres called.
There was no reply.After a few moments, the knock came again.Torres sighed and went to the door. One of the old ladies was there. Torres and the woman had a short exchange in Spanish.
‘Excuse me one moment,’ the priest said to the agents.‘I have to sign for a parcel.’
He went out.Holding a finger to his lips, Marcus went quickly over to the door and shut it.
‘His alibi’s non-existent,’ he said, quietly.‘But… I don’t know.I don’t think he knew what happened to Ashworth.I don’t think anyone could fake that, do you?’
Kate didn’t reply.
‘Vee?’
He followed the direction of her gaze to the wall.Next to the calendar, the assorted flyers and memos, there was another collection of material tacked to the wall. Loose corners flapped gently in the warm rising air from the radiator.
Fresh Scandal Over “Blasphemous” Artist
Exhibition is Hate Speech, Says Priest
Shut It Down And Shut Him Up: Torres
Artist “Doing Satan’s Work”
There was page upon page of news articles, picture upon picture of Brandon Ashworth.Dating back years.Words underlined.Phrases highlighted in every colour of the spectrum.It was like a 3-D demonstration of the word ‘obsession’.
The very thing Torres claimed he didn’t have time for.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Another thing that never appeared in the recruitment ads, Kate thought.Working in a budget hotel room, slowly asphyxiating as the oxygen was replaced by coffee and burger fumes, the scent of weariness and unmade beds.She wished she could open a window, to wake herself up a bit, but that was a luxury beyond their budget.
She was mopping-up, as they called it: following up the various loose threads of the investigation so far.And making good progress, too.Henk Steensma, who'd sent the most recent blood-and-thunder letter to Ashworth's agent, was a carer for his elderly mother.The nurse who provided night cover for him three nights a week confirmed he'd been home, asleep, at the time of the artist's murder.
That, combined with the mammoth amount of work Marcus had already done on the letters sent to the dead artist and his agent, left just seven outstanding, two of which were completely illegible. She pushed the folder away, unable to tackle any more religiously-inspired death threats right now.
Besides, she doubted strongly whether the killer would have advertised their intentions prior to taking Ashworth's life.Letters tended to be serial-killer stuff, a way for them to taunt the authorities and the media as they claimed scalp after scalp.And whoever it was who had stood over Brandon Ashworth and beaten his brains out, caveman-style, with a rock, they were primarily a visual person.That much was evident from the crime scene, their targeting of an artist, the skill that went into that unsettling effigy left with the body.They weren't about words.They were all about actions and pictures, of the bloodiest kind.
She shivered, despite the stuffiness of the room.Marcus suddenly strode in, making her jump.She gave a little involuntary cry, then felt ridiculous.
