Chapter 44 Chapter Forty-Three

This is a local authority property, neat little house like a maze!The rooms are next to each other, and they are all gray like those old houses in the city. The door was opened by a young man with short hair and sad eyes, wearing baggy trousers and a shirt, none of which fit.He welcomes them, takes them to the kitchen, and serves tea and a plate of custard biscuits.Father Sholtham was upstairs, and coming down in a moment, he knew they were coming. Not long after, there were footsteps on the stairs, the sound of slippers being pulled.Father Gabriel Sholsam entered and introduced himself. Morrow stood up, shook hands with the priest, introduced himself and Harris.She looked down and saw that the priest's hands were big and soft, and there was a bruise on the back of his right hand, which must have been accidentally injured while beating something.

His face was square, with distinctive features, the kind of face that people would trust and obey naturally, the face of a policeman.They explained that they were coming from Glasgow, but he didn't look at them directly. He just lowered his eyes and looked at the kitchen counter. He poured himself a cup of black tea and added two pieces of sugar. He was wearing a gray T-shirt, a gray sweater, black pants, and blue slippers.The slippers were suede and covered with dried up spots and stains.Moreau didn't want to guess what splashed it. He pulled out a chair and sat down at the table.

"We are the police and we are investigating the death of Sarah Errol," Morrow said, "and we know you have some relevant information." The priest stirred the black tea, blinked, a tiny twitch.Moreau didn't know if it was the tingling pain in his eye caused by the hangover, or if he had mentioned Sarah's name.He finally spoke, his voice low and slightly Irish with a West Coast accent.What he said sounded thoughtful, as if he was testifying in court. "I read about it in the papers and I talked to people about it, I was stupid and I wasted your time and sent you all the way here, I'm so sorry."

"I see," Moreau said. She didn't know how harsh to be, and the priest seemed vulnerable. "It's not enough, Father, because you know the details of the girl's death, something that isn't in the newspaper." He already knew this.He sipped his tea one after another, making loud noises, deliberately not looking up at them. "Then," said Moreau softly, "either you were involved in the murder, or you knew someone who was involved." The priest glanced at her, then looked away quickly to the teacup. "Maybe I'm part of this crime," he said, with deep sadness in his eyes.He drank hot tea, trying to suppress his sorrow.

"Part of the crime?" "Yes." He said into his teacup. It's interesting.Moreau had a gift for spotting lies and liars.She knew how to catch people who pretended to be telling the truth, asking for details, asking them again after a while, after they forgot what they had said, confronting inconsistencies.She knew how to spot an impressionable person, how to spot a liar, pretend not to know they were lying, ask weird questions, see if they agreed that they had killed JFK.But this man is attempting a different kind of deception, one who tackles theologically, tiptoes around bloody whoppers with great care, and would rather be accused of murder than surrender.She felt that if she asked, he would tell the truth, but she had to ask the right questions.

"What did you do?" Her voice was soft. "Father, what did you do?" He frowned and shook his head. "What did you do to make you 'part of the crime'?" He wasn't ready to answer the question, "I don't know." "Okay, then let's recall carefully: you broke into her house illegally?" "No." "Did you sneak into her house and run upstairs to her childhood room?" "No." His voice was crisp, but his eyes flicked around the table, trying to pick out the angle of the problem, where the ambush was coming from.

"Then you found her asleep in bed from a long day's travel. You woke her up and threatened her?" "No, I didn't do that." "She ran downstairs, you chased after her, and she fell down the stairs?" "No." "You stood on it and stomped on her face with your heels, over and over again?" "No." "You stomped on her nose with all your strength, and you stomped so hard that her eyeballs—" He started to cry and whispered, "No, I didn't do those things, no." She made him cry.Harris' hands rested on the table, clasped tightly together.She handed Father Sholtham a tissue.He took it, thanked her, and wiped his nose.She started asking again.

"Well, you didn't drive the intruder away?" "I can't drive, my driver's license is suspended..." "They just brutally murdered an innocent woman, and I don't think they'll stop to check your driver's license." Morrow took a custard biscuit, took a bite, chewed, and faced the innocent priest, "You didn't and Car delivery—” "No, I didn't drive them, I wasn't there - I was in hospital when it happened, having my teeth pulled." "Did you ever leave the hospital that day—" "No, I had eight teeth extracted, they gave me general anesthesia, the operation was during the day, and I was discharged at 8 o'clock in the evening."

"Then where did you go?" "Back to the parish house, where I was still living . . . back then." She bit another biscuit, chewed, and watched him wipe his face with a tissue that had shrunk to the size of a mint, rubbing his eyes. "Can I ask you about the drinks?" He nodded. "Have you ever had such a problem before?" "Yes." He seemed to feel a deeper, more genuine shame at this, more shame than at the suggestion that he had been involved in the murder, and his voice dropped to a whisper, almost to a whisper.He looked like he was too sad to open his mouth to speak anymore.

"But you haven't had a drink for a long time?" "Yes, for a long time." "how long?" "Eight and a half years." "It's a dark place, isn't it?" The priest looked into Moreau's eyes, looking for sympathy, but found none.He looked away in disappointment and looked at the table. "When did you start drinking again?" "A few days ago." "How many days ago?" He tried to answer, but couldn't remember, "What day is today?" "Thursday." She could see him calculating, "Tuesday, I think."

"A day after Sarah was killed?" "Yeah? I started drinking again because of the surgery...they put me on opiates for the pain...I'm confused." He knew this excuse for drinking was bullshit, and he knew it was the day after Sarah died.Moreau gave him a reproachful look, and he lowered his eyes in shame. She watched him for a while.He felt her gaze, took a sip of tea, smacked his lips, savoring the bitterness of the tea. It's clear he's a man bound by conscience, and he's protecting someone.She didn't know why he did it, she found it annoying. She tapped her fingers on the table, "You wait here." She stood up and motioned for Harris to follow. They went out through the hall.The young man came out of the living room and waved at them, trying to get their attention; he wanted to chat, but Moreau closed the door behind him.They went back to the car and got in. "He was lying to protect someone," Moreau said, "and I think it was another priest." "No," Harris said with certainty, "someone confessed to him, he blurted it out because he was drunk, and now he's trying to save his soul by taking the blame." "How did you know?" Harris laughed. "I'm a pope." She didn't know what to say, "Well... you're really good." Harris laughed even wider, because it was an absurd thing to say, and he could see how hard she was trying. She raised her hand in surrender, "I don't know what to say, I don't know." "Okay." He said awkwardly.He didn't know what to say. "You're very good," she continued, "and what is it, then? That he has to bear the guilt because someone has confessed to him?" "No, he swore never to repeat what other people said in confession, but now he broke his vow, which is a terrible crime for the Catholic Church, so he tried to make up for it by sacrificing himself." "Is he using confession to wash away his crime?" "When can confession be used to wash away crimes?" They looked back at the house and saw Father Sholsam standing at the kitchen window, watching them in the car. "No, it mitigates the guilt, doesn't it?" "This kind of thing is not allowed." "So, Monsieur Pope, what shall we do now?" Harris fastened his seat belt and "find the man who confessed to him." As the car started, Moreau looked back, and Sholtham was still watching them: a sad man was standing at the window, his hands hanging limply at his sides, fingers slightly bent, waiting for God to judge him. The house in the parish is generally better than the house in the municipal government. It is next to the church in the downtown street. The needle-shaped spires on the narrow and pointed windows and the sharp corners on the door echo the architectural style of the church. The color of the stone wall does not coordinate.The church was built of local gray stone, and the little house next to it was red, with golden tracery around the windows. "Have you spoken to Leonard?" Moreau asked Harris after getting out of the car. "sometimes." "What do you think of her?" "Very good, very smart," he didn't mention whether Leonard was sexy, which Morrow was satisfied with, "She understands architecture and cultural relics," Morrow followed closely behind him, waiting to cross the busy street, "she very smart." The main entrance has two steps, very steep, which discourages wanderers. Harris went up, reached out and rang the doorbell, which sounded like an announcement of death. "Do you think she has any hope of promotion?" Harris didn't want to answer, "Maybe." "Bannerman may be suspended for an investigation, and we're going to need someone to step up and take on the role of detective," Morrow said, returning to the conversation at the gas station. "I hope it's you, but, you know..." They look at the door. Harris cleared his throat. "I'm making more now...you know, plus overtime." "Yes." They heard someone coming along the stone corridor. "Are you worried that there will be a coup without someone taking over?" "What do you mean?" "Well, I'm going on maternity leave, and we need a detective, someone...someone in control." The door latch squeaked, "They'll call in, I don't know what kind of person it's going to be, you know ? There will be a power vacuum.” Harris laughed, "Exactly what Leonard said, she said this is the situation after Napoleon came to power." He was just passing on an interesting comment from Leonard, but revealed that he had indeed talked to other officers about the safety call line, turning it into a movement.They look at each other. "So, you admit it was a coup?" Harris looked terrified. The door opened. "What can I do for you?" A small old woman in a rayon shirt and a plain pleated skirt looked at them. "From Strathclyde Police," said Morrow, "we want to know about Father Shortham." The housekeeper is happy to reveal everything she knows about Sholtham's actions on the day after Sarah's death.She was very angry with the priest, but she seemed like the kind of person who woke up every morning angry.She kept asking them what makes a man of faith drink like that?Why would he do that, make himself so ridiculous?Why? Father Sholtham usually eats breakfast when he is sober, and then attends early mass next door at eight o'clock, after which no confessions are accepted until five o'clock in the afternoon.He started drinking that morning and she noticed he was behaving strangely, but he said he had the flu.He went to a meeting at a nearby school, she thought he really had the flu, he looked different than usual, he had lunch at school and then came back and said prayers in his room.He didn't answer any calls, which she knew well because the phone was in the lobby.Moreau was eager to know about the tea-time confession, but the housekeeper kept on telling his prayers in the room, and she said that maybe that was the immediate trigger why a man would drink like that and hurt himself—Mo Luo interrupted her. "Who's doing the confession?" "Father Haggerty." "that's it?" "No," interrupted Harris, "the Inspector means who made the confession to Father Sholtham?" "No one," said the housekeeper, "no one confessed to him. Father Haggerty accepted the confession." "Father Sholtham?" "No, he was scheduled for confession at 5 p.m., but he went out for a walk, and when he came back, he was obviously very drunk. He didn't have the flu at all, and he lied about it in the morning, Father Haggerty found out. Then he did the confession in his place and brought him back. We put him to bed, and from then on, he got drunk every day." They could not get from the housekeeper a list of those who had attended Mass that morning.She did not come until 9 o'clock that morning, and although she often attended Mass, she did not that morning. After coming out, Harris told Morrow that there must be some people who go to mass every morning, and you can ask those people if anyone called the priest aside after mass that morning or had a long conversation with Sholtham. With little hope, they decided to visit the school.