Mackie remains silent.
“I’m just going to ask you again, sir. I wonder if you could remove the dog collar for me?”
“I am not presently a father, I grant you that,” says Mackie with a long sigh. “But I was, and for many years. And that confers privileges and this collar is one. If I choose to wear it, and if I still choose to call myself Father Mackie, then that is my business.”
“Dr. Mackie,” says Chris, “this is a murder case. I need you to stop lying to me. PC De Freitas here has been through every record. The Church has been very helpful. Whatever you’ve said to us, whatever you said to the council, to Ian Ventham, to the ladies who protected the gate, you are not a priest, and you never were a priest. There is no record anywhere—no dusty ledger, no old photo. I have no idea why you are lying to us, but we have ourselves a dead body, and we’re looking for a murderer, so it’s probably best that we find out quickly. If I’m missing something important, I need you to tell me.”
Mackie looks at Chris for a moment, thinking. Then he shakes his head.
“Only if you arrest me,” replies Mackie. “Otherwise, I’d like to go home now. And no hard feelings; I know you are doing your job.”
Matthew Mackie crosses himself and stands. Chris stands too.
“I would stay, Dr. Mackie, if I were you.”
“The moment you charge me, I promise I will,” says Mackie. “But in the meantime.”
Donna stands and opens the interview room door for him, and Matthew Mackie takes his leave.
70.
It can be very hard to smoke in a sauna, but Jason Ritchie is giving it his best shot.
“Are you sure you’re okay with this, Dad?” he asks, sweat dripping from his brow.
“Just tell them everything,” replies Ron. “They’ll know what to do.”
“And you reckon they’ll find them?” asks Jason.
“I should think so,” says Ibrahim, stretched out on a lower bench. “If anyone can.”
The sauna door opens and Elizabeth and Joyce enter, with towels wrapped around swimsuits. Jason puts out his cigarette in a pile of hot ash.
“Well, this is nice,” says Joyce. “Eucalyptus.”
“Lovely to see you, Jason,” says Elizabeth, taking a seat opposite the half-naked boxer. “I believe you think that we might be of use to you. I must say, I agree.”
That’s it for pleasantries. She fixes her eyes on him. “So?”
Jason tells Elizabeth and Joyce the same story he told his dad. A copy of the photo is passed around the sauna. Ibrahim has had it laminated.
“I get the photo,” confirms Jason, “and I’m like, what’s this about? Where’s this from? Is this the papers? Is this the front page ofThe Suntomorrow? That’s what I was thinking. But there’s no message, nothing. There’s no journalist on the phone, and they’ve got a number for me, so what’s up?”
“And what was up?” asks Elizabeth.
“Well, I’m thinking, do I ring my PR? Maybe they’ve spoken to her. I was in shock, to be fair—this is twenty-odd years ago, this photo, and a world I’dleft behind. So I’m ready to deny whatever, or come up with something—bachelor party, fancy dress, anything to explain it away.”
“Ooh, that’s good,” says Joyce.
“So there I am, still looking at his picture, and something clicks. I think, well, maybe this is the game. Maybe Tony’s got hold of this photo, famous boxer surrounded by cash, jailbirds everywhere. He sends me a copy, looking for a bit of money. Give me 20k, whatever, and I don’t go to the papers. Fair enough, really, so I think, yeah, I should just ring him, have a little chat. See if we can work something out.”
“Was Tony Curran the sort of man who might blackmail you?” asks Elizabeth.
“Tony’s the sort of man who might do anything, yeah. So, first things first, I get hold of a new phone, cheap one, in town.”
“Afterward, will you tell me where? Because I’m looking for one at the moment,” says Ibrahim.
“Of course, Mr. Arif,” says Jason. “So, I ring him once, and no answer. So I ring him again, same, leave it twenty minutes, and try again. He’s still not picking up.”
