Free A Turbulent Priest by J. M. Gregson

and said, “We’ll be down as quickly as we can, Martha. But take your time with that tea — we have to be thorough. There may just be something here that will give us a clue as to who killed Father Bickerstaffe, you see.”
    Martha smiled and went hastily out on to the landing. She had to brush the tears from her eyes before she could trust herself to descend the familiar gloomy staircase.
    The team searched the room thoroughly, methodically, working to a system Jackson had devised through years of experience. It meant they came to the likeliest areas, the places which most people chose to hide things, at the very end of their search. And in this respect at least, Father John Bickerstaffe proved himself a conventional man. It was in the bottom drawer of his chest of drawers, beneath two pairs of underpants and a vest that had never been worn, that they found the material he had wanted to hide from the world. Pornographic material: stuff that these seasoned professionals had seen before, but which would have made poor old Martha’s grey hair stand on end.
    Paedophilic photographs, of the kind which are not displayed openly on newsagents’ shelves even in these liberated days, but which are readily obtainable in many parts of Europe. Soft porn, by the dubious standards of the new century. Boys with old-young faces, smiling mirthless smiles, in postures scarcely conducive to laughter. The team had seen much worse, but they supposed these prints had given a sick excitement to the sad and lonely celibate who had hidden them here.
    More interesting than the glossy photographs was the brief note which accompanied them. Joe Jackson picked it up deftly with his tweezers, for it might still provide fingerprints other than those of the dead man. There was no address, and the note said only, ‘ Thanks for the return of the magazines. Sorry to hear you don’t feel able to join our little group at the moment. Let me know if you reconsider. In the meantime, you might find these pictures of passing interest. Plenty more where these came from! Yours, Chris .’
    It was a casual, educated hand. A hand which had penned many words in its life. The signature was little more than a hasty scrawl, and there was no second name. Yet it was the signature that made Jackson sure that he had seen this hand before. He put the note between polythene sheets with extreme care, then made a note that it should be passed to their calligraphy expert as soon as it had been tested for prints. But in his own mind, he was already sure who had written that note.
    There were times when Inspectors earned their money, he thought. He was glad that it would be that cocky little sod Percy Peach who had to follow this up.
    ***
    A bright September morning with a soft breeze; white clouds moving gently across a bright blue sky; no rain since Monday, and none forecast, so the prospect of a dry round of golf on the trim acres of the North Lancs Golf Club at the weekend. All this should have made that Thursday morning a cheerful one for Percy Peach.
    Yet as he got out of the police car and walked with Lucy Blake into the primary school beneath the spire of the Roman Catholic church, the Inspector was not happy. It was partly because of the child abuse which lay beneath this murder case: no policeman likes dealing with children or parents when there have been accusations of crime in this area. It was also partly because he did not know quite how he was going to tackle a primary-school headmistress. His childhood experiences of the breed, like his later experience of marriage, had left him carrying psychological baggage he would rather have been without. Percy would not of course have admitted even to possessing a subconscious, still less to any notion that it might in any way inhibit him.
    The image Percy carried within him was that of a spinster, at least seventy years old in his childish eyes, acidic of expression and attitude, regarding him disapprovingly through lenses