A truthful man, p.10
A Truthful Man, page 10
“How’s Mary?” asked the bishop.
“Doing well.”
“I’m anxious she not get hurt by this whole sordid affair.”
There was no answer to that.
“You do realise, don’t you,” the bishop continued, “that I’ll have to tell her about my resignation from the charity?”
Mark coughed. “Is that really necessary?”
“Why, were you planning to tell her?”
“When the time is right, yes.”
“Now is the right time, Mark. You’ve dithered long enough. Tell her tonight, or she’ll be unpleasantly surprised by my text tomorrow, telling her how sorry I am to have had to step down.”
Mark’s shoulders slumped in defeat.
The two men sat in silence, sipping their drinks and avoiding eye contact until Brother John opened the door to admit a server carrying a tray, followed by a sommelier with a white cloth over his left arm, bearing a bottle of red wine.
Mark knew without looking that it was Châteauneuf-du-pape, his brother-in-law’s favourite. The wine steward stood by the bishop, opened the bottle, poured some into his glass, then waited for his approval.
Meanwhile, the other server was depositing a red beet salad with arugula and warmed goat cheese to the left of the two men’s folded napkins.
Bishop Marsden tasted the wine and nodded to the sommelier, who bowed slightly and poured it into both glasses. Then he left the open bottle on the table by the bishop and wrapped the white cloth around the neck.
He stood back while the waiter served two large plates of beef Wellington, roast potatoes, carrots and sugar snap peas.
The servers left the room and Brother John closed the door softly behind them.
“I hope you don’t mind having the entrée served at the same time as our salads,” said the bishop, “but I’d rather we not be disturbed for a while and this seemed to be the most expedient way of guaranteeing it.”
“Not at bit. This all looks delicious.”
Omitting to say grace, the bishop picked up his knife and fork and began eating.
Mark followed suit. The food was delicious, but he was too tense to enjoy it. His eyes kept wandering to the file and he wondered how much longer before the bishop let him see its contents?
They continued to eat without speaking. At times Mark could feel the bishop’s eyes on him, and knew they weren’t friendly.
Half-way through the meal, Bishop Marsden raised the wine bottle and gave his brother-in-law an inquiring look.
After a nod in reply, the bishop poured him another glass.
Perhaps the prelate was trying to get him too drunk to remember why he was here? He decided to broach the subject of the papers now.
“When can I look through that file?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
Mark wanted to spit. “Dammit, Robert! I don’t appreciate your playing games with me. Please hand it over.”
Bishop Marsden looked blandly at him. “Maybe you now understand how I feel about the games you’ve been playing with me.” He slid the file across the table.
Mark could feel his blood pressure soar as he opened the file. On the first page was Dave Miller’s email to him expressing concerns about Mark’s investing all the older clients’ money and no one else’s, and expressing his reservations about the company in question. ‘It looks far too risky to me.’
The second page contained a short email from Mark, saying he had it all under control and Dave wasn’t to worry. If this worked, they would then invest money from other accounts.
That was the extent of their email exchange. All other discussions about the situation had been conducted face to face in Mark’s office. There was no physical trail.
And yet he was staring at what appeared to be transcripts of snippets of those conversations. Had someone wired his office?
Mark winced at his response to Dave’s repeated misgivings.
‘Dave, we stand to make a huge gain. Isn’t that what we’re all about? If this pays off, they’ll thank me for providing them with a comfortable income in their golden years, as well as decent capital to pass onto their nearest and dearest after they’re gone.’
But Dave had again protested against Mark’s not spreading the risk across all their investors.
And again, Mark had pushed back. ‘Look, unlike our younger clientèle, the seniors won’t need their money for much longer. They can take a hit better than anyone. Anyway, stop worrying. It won’t come to that. We’ve always done well with our more adventurous deals.’
Then came his directives not to let anyone know that only the seniors’ funds were being used.
Next came his instructions after the dicey company went broke and the elderly lost all their money. ‘The official storyline will be that the seniors were hit hardest – not that they were the only ones hit.’
Now came his later conversations about setting up a charity to help the seniors whose money he’d lost, by giving them grants to get them back on their feet. ‘This is a win-win for us, Dave. It’ll help them and make us look good.’
Certain conversations were missing, namely those telling Dave he would make it worth his while to set up the fund and keep quiet about the investment gaffe.
There could only be one reason why the communications incriminating Dave Miller weren’t included. There was no wire in Mark’s office, the informant was Dave himself.
A copy of a typed memo was included, that Mark had never seen before. It mentioned monthly payments by the charity, each in the same amount, to an unidentified senior, who didn’t exist.
Despite the strong inference that funds were being misappropriated, there was no concrete proof that bribes were being paid. For that at least Mark was glad. But it all pointed to Dave being the whistle blower.
Although why the man should come forward and divulge everything was a mystery. He stood to lose everything, too.
He closed the file and glanced across at the bishop. “How do I explain your stepping down from the charity to Mary? Are you going to tell her the real reason?” He didn’t want to discuss the file contents.
“You tell her tonight that I’m leaving and make up the reason.”
“I’ll say that you’re too busy to continue.”
Bishop Marsden smiled insincerely. “That will work for the time being.”
Chapter Seventeen: Mark Pays Another Visit
Monday, 25th February
On the way home, Mark stopped off at a late-night café. While waiting for the waitress to notice him, he sat at a dark corner table and pulled out his phone.
Convinced now that Dave Miller was the culprit, and not caring that it was after 9 p.m., he dialled his employee’s number.
A groggy voice answered. “Yes?”
“Dave, this is Mark. We need to talk.”
The man was supposedly on sick leave, but now Mark suspected the real reason was that he was too embarrassed to show his face at work after his treachery. He felt no sympathy for him.
“Why?” Dave sounded nervous.
Good. “I’ll tell you when we meet.”
They arranged for Mark to visit Dave’s house the next day.
The waitress was now hovering and he ordered a large mug of black coffee. He needed to cover up his alcohol breath before breaking the news to his wife about her brother.
She’d know he was telling the truth about visiting the bishop tonight, but would she accept the official version of why he was walking away from the charity?
He mustered the nerve to tell her just before bedtime, and as soon as the words ‘your brother’s too busy’ came out of his mouth, Mary looked askance at him. “Why is he suddenly too busy?”
Mark’s eyes swerved to the right. “I’ve no idea, you’ll have to ask him.”
“What have you been up to?” Her hands were on her hips now.
“Having dinner with your brother, what else?”
“You know perfectly well what I mean, Mark.”
He sighed. “Does this mean another night on the sofa?”
“Only if you’re lying to me.”
Tuesday, 26th February
Mark lay next to his wife that night, his head churning over the evidence pointing to Dave Miller as the whistle blower.
*
The next morning, he told his secretary he planned to pay Dave Miller a visit that afternoon. It was, after all, the decent thing to do. The man had been home sick for quite a while.
At 3:30 p.m. he asked her to take messages if anyone called and he would get back to them tomorrow.
Human Resources had given him Dave’s address that morning and he lived in King’s Brambling. Dave was his man.
The BMW’s SatNav took him along the familiar road, past the sign reminding visitors that the hamlet was established in 1209. The number of inhabitants had been crossed through, and 562 replaced by the number 563. Underneath hung a banner reading ‘Welcome Baby Brendan!’
At the T junction facing the English Channel, the navigation told him to take a left instead of turning uphill towards the rectory.
He followed the coastline for an eighth of a mile before the road curved away from the sea for a hundred yards and arrived in the village. It comprised a tight group of squat Medieval homes in a wide horse shoe around half an acre of green grass, leaving the view of the beach unobstructed by buildings. Mark was impressed; even back then, the planners had had foresight.
He spotted the Post Office in the middle of the arc of buildings and drove along looking at the house numbers.
Number 11 was to the right, with Dave Miller’s grey VW diesel Jetta out in front.
Mark imagined the man at a desk in his dressing-gown, poring over books on the history of accounting and salivating over the intricacies of double entry book-keeping.
He couldn’t imagine what Dave was spending his bribe money on. It certainly didn’t show in the car he drove or his modest abode.
He parked behind the Jetta. As he stepped out of his vehicle, a vaguely familiar lady walked by him. She gave him a second look, as if she, too, thought she knew him, then went on her way.
Quickly forgetting her, Mark unlatched the gate that opened onto Dave’s short flagstone path, lined on either side with magenta, purple, and yellow winter pansies. It struck him that the flowers were spaced identically, with each colour exactly opposite its counterpart on the other side.
The flagstones were the same size and shape, no mean feat, and a matching close-cropped lawn lay to the left and right.
A man who paid meticulous attention to symmetry and detail lived here.
Mark lifted the heavy door knock as high as he could, then dropped it, hoping the loud clang would startle his host.
The door was opened by a pasty-faced version of the employee who’d gone on leave a month ago. He’d also dropped a lot of weight.
Mark had planned to greet him with a quip about how healthy he was looking for a sick man, but the man appeared deathly ill.
“Hello, Dave. How are you feeling?”
“So-so. Why don’t you come in?” A hand bordering on the skeletal ushered him in.
The front door led immediately into a pretty sitting room, and Mark was surprised by the bright chintz curtains and bold colours of the upholstery. Like the pansies outside, they indicated a cheerful side to the owner of the house.
“I’ve made us some tea,” Dave said. “Would you care for some biscuits?”
“No, thanks, but tea would be great.” Mark suddenly felt guilty about making the man go to such trouble.
“Back in a sec.” Limping, Dave disappeared from the room, and Mark forced himself to remember why he was here. That man was trying to ruin him. There was no room for sentiment!
While Dave poured the tea, Mark asked whether he was getting any better?
Dave replied that things weren’t good right now. He didn’t seem to want to elaborate, although Mark would have liked to know whether the man was expecting to come back to work any day soon.
Dave handed him a full cup of tea and Mark sat back, sipping on it for a moment, assessing his opponent. The Financial Director didn’t appear to have any fight in him, so this should be easy.
Peering at the accountant, he said, “I know you recorded the private conversations we had in my office about the senior investments as well as the charity. And you gave damning evidence about me to Father James.”
Dave looked at his boss with blank eyes. “Did I?”
“Don’t prevaricate,” said Mark, stealing the bishop’s useful word. “Everything points to you. Otherwise, how come my financial offer to you to keep quiet about it isn’t included in that evidence?”
Dave stared at the thick red carpet and said nothing.
“Unless you take back your accusations and say you made up those transcripts, I have no choice but to cut off your extra money.”
Dave’s eyes met his. “I’ve been putting that money back into the charity for a long time now, via my sister, Joyce Renfrew. Haven’t you seen the amounts coming in?”
“Why would I? I’m not in charge of the book-keeping. Don’t expect to come back to work. You’re fired!”
“I don’t care. I can’t stand having this whole mess on my conscience. Losing my job is worth it.” He gave a lopsided grin. “Although there’s probably some law preventing you from firing me when I’m sick.”
Mark snorted. “Even so, no one’s going to give credence to supposed evidence given to your parish priest by a disgruntled employee. Neither is anyone going to pay attention to documents handed over by a disgraced priest to the bishop.”
Dave looked up sharply. “Did you have anything to do with Father James’ removal?”
“No, he did it to himself.” Mark leaned back to observe the effect of this statement.
But the man quickly rallied. “I don’t believe you. And how are you going to explain the extra payments to me?”
Mark’s expression was blasé. “I’ll say you stole the money from the company. When you thought you’d get caught, you then took it from the charity.”
Dave’s laugh was hollow. “Don’t forget, I can prove they were bribes. I still have the recording of you offering them to me.”
Mark lunged at him. “I’ll ruin you!”
Dave didn’t move a muscle. “Go for it.”
Envisaging the headlines, Bullying Business Tycoon Strangles Sick Employee, Mark backed off. “I hope you never get better!” he yelled, and stormed out of the house.
Mark drove quickly away from the horrible village. He realised that he’d never stood a chance of getting the original evidence and disposing of it. Having already threatened to stop paying the bribes to Dave Miller, and now fired him, he had no more leverage against the man.
He cursed. Instead of losing his temper, he should have looked for another way to silence him. With nothing to lose anymore, the man would go public with his information.
All Mark could do now was research the best company law firms.
Chapter Eighteen: Rebecca’s Bed & Breakfast
Wednesday, 27th February
Father James sat on the bed of his room on the first floor of Rebecca Luckton’s Bed & Breakfast. Hers was the last house in the horse shoe around the green and the priest’s accommodation was at the front of the building.
He gazed out of the window at the beach; a big change from his view of the Channel from the rectory.
Up there, he’d become used to the incessant crash of waves dashing against the cliffs below. But here they broke gently onto the sand and provided a soothing background.
He was now on day three of his ousting.
Father Gregory Baker had arrived on Monday afternoon, full of apology, and accompanied Father James on a short tour of the rectory and church before sitting down to tea with the priest he was replacing.
While imparting as much information as he could, Father James’ thoughts drifted to the four packets of McVitie’s chocolate biscuits in the pantry. He hoped it wasn’t wrong of him to have packed a couple to take to his temporary home.
After the two men had cleared away the tea things and washed up, he wished the new administrator good luck and piled his suitcases into the old Triumph.
Judith walked under the lychgate with him to the church, and lay next to him while he prayed for strength.
Please, Lord, don’t let me be swayed from proclaiming the Truth, whatever the cost!
The dog lay motionless for twenty minutes while her owner knelt in the back pew.
She recognised the Sign of the Cross that ended the session and rose before he did.
Then she jumped into the passenger seat of the old car and peered intently through the windscreen, tail wagging in excitement at this change of routine.
*
Father James immediately adopted the habit of saying his morning prayers from the comfort of an old armchair in the corner of his new room.
Afterwards, he’d take Judith for a walk along the beach. The Border Collie would rush into the water to fetch her ball, then dig in the sand, and he watched her enjoy her new environment with no concern for tomorrow.
Once he’d dried her off, he would say Mass in private at the little makeshift altar Rebecca had set up in his room on the antique chest of drawers.
Hound and human would then descend the rickety wooden stairs and part ways at the bottom.
Judith padded off to eat in the kitchen and Father James walked to his table in the breakfast room. Soon Rebecca would appear, bearing bacon and eggs with toast and marmalade.
This ritual was the highlight of his day. After it, he felt rather lost. There were no confessions to hear, no parish office duties to perform, no sermons to prepare, no baptisms, First Holy Communions or Confirmations to plan. It was disorientating.
But he wouldn’t go back to St. Jude and become a tame priest to please his bishop. Obedience had its limits and Father James must remain loyal to his mission of saving souls by telling them the Truth.
He’d continue to say his daily prayers at the prescribed times, celebrate Mass in private, and look for a new way to serve the Lord.
