Free The Good Priest by Gillian Galbraith

Vincent’s face, ‘a call was made from a mobile to the emergency services. Early yesterday morning, like. Did you make that call?’
    â€˜I did make a call.’ The priest held a match to his cigarette and took a deep draw.
    â€˜The caller we’re interested in reported a murder – a possible murder. The victim was named as the Bishop, the Bishop of Inchkeld. Was it you that made that call?’
    â€˜I made a call, certainly.’
    Smiling, but without any humour, the policeman leaned towards the priest as if about to confide in him.
    â€˜We know that. Actually, we know you made that call. I heard a tape of it this afternoon. What I’d really like to know is how you knew, before anyone else I mean, what had happened to the Bishop?’
    Father Vincent slowly exhaled his smoke, determined to gather his thoughts before replying. He must not, on pain of excommunication, betray the sinner in any way, ‘by word or in any other manner or for any reason’. To do so would be to break the seal of the confessional. But hewould have to say something. Apart from anything else, for his own sake, he must be seen to be as co-operative as possible.
    â€˜I just heard about it …’ He paused again, considering whether there was any more he could safely add.
    â€˜Aha. You just heard about it?’ the policeman repeated, chivvying him on, prompting him to continue.
    In response, Vincent said nothing, drawing on his cigarette again. As he pondered, the policeman, now sounding impatient, boomed at him, ‘Well? I do need an answer to that one, sir!’
    â€˜ I heard about it . That’s all I can tell you, Sergeant,’ he repeated, raising his eyes and meeting the fellow’s stare.
    â€˜You heard about it? Yes, I’ve got that much. But what I need to know is where, who from, how? I need more than you just heard about it.’
    For a few seconds, Vincent rubbed his face with both hands, blocking out the man and his insistent questions. Behind them, his mind was buzzing, trying to work out what he could say and what he could not. What was safe? What was allowed? Whatever happened to him, he must not betray the sinner. So what more could he say?
    Another impatient-sounding ‘Well?’ was fired at him.
    â€˜Sergeant,’ he began, looking into the man’s unlined face, ‘I’m a priest, a Catholic priest. There are certain things I can’t tell you. Some of the things told to me in the course of my job, I can’t tell anybody. They’re confidential. That’s just the way it is. I’m sorry. You know that I rang 999, you know what I said. I alerted you to what happened. I did all that I could, more than I should.’
    â€˜Look, sir, a man was assaulted in his own house, do you understand that?’
    â€˜Of course I do,’ he shot back testily, irked by the predicament he found himself in and by the condescending tone of the question.
    â€˜Right, you’ve got that. The man was hit hard, he might have died. Do you appreciate that, sir?’
    â€˜Yes. That was why I phoned you, precisely to get help for him.’
    â€˜Fine. So out there – in the big bad world outside, as you might say, a violent criminal is loose. This time, he – she, whatever, did not manage to kill. But what about the next time, eh? Has that crossed your mind, Sir? So, I’ll ask you one more time – how did you know about the assault?’
    â€˜I told you. I can’t answer your question, officer.’
    Once more he held the youthful policeman’s sharp gaze, trying to get him to comprehend. Everyone knew about the seal of the confessional, didn’t they? It was not difficult to grasp. Policemen too had duties, including ones of confidentiality where necessary. Sanctions would apply to them, if they breached them. Their immortal souls might not be put in jeopardy, but their pensions could be vulnerable. However, the man