The Good Priest by Gillian Galbraith Page A

Maybe the papers had got their facts wrong, that was commonplaceenough, and it was only a local rag after all. While he was there, he could tell them about the boy’s allegations about Father Bell, gauge their reaction to all of that too. Find out whether anything should be done in response to it. Alert them to his visit from the police as well.
    Finally resolved on his course of action, Vincent sighed to himself, and for the first time since he had left the bank, took in his surroundings. Finding himself in Parliament Square, standing by the red sandstone steeple of the town hall, he moved towards the octagonal gothic fountain, almost tripping over a board advertising ‘Eye Lash Tints – While You Wait.’ Beyond the beauty salon, he saw the red-and-white awning of Hunter’s, the butcher’s shop. He peered into their window. A family-sized steak pie caught his eye, and already visualising its filling and smelling the sweet scent of warm pastry, he fetched his wallet from his pocket and took out a five-pound note. It would be the perfect accompaniment to his left-over red.
    Slightly ill at ease, he sat on his own in the overheated side-room, listening to the low hum of conversation from the two middle-aged typists who guarded the reception area. He could make out scraps of their talk, their doubts over the authenticity of Father Theo’s explanation for a black eye mingling with their concern for his liver. Vincent had cleared his diary for the morning, determined to resolve matters as soon as possible. When asked the nature of his business earlier by one of the women, he had swithered for a moment or two, trying to think what bestto say. He knew both of them well, and didn’t want to offend them, but wanted to keep his business to himself.
    â€˜Yes, Father?’ Alison had prompted, trying to hurry him up. Chatter had eaten away the morning, and she had an important call to make before one-thirty.
    â€˜It’s about the Bishop. Well, not just him but …’
    â€˜Shall we just say personal?’ her colleague interjected, looking up from her computer and beaming at him, sure she had solved the problem.
    â€˜That’s right, Alison. Personal.’
    â€˜Urgent?’ Maureen enquired.
    â€˜Yes. Urgent too.’
    â€˜OK. Monsignor Drew will see you shortly. You just wait over there, please, Father.’
    As seemed so often to be the case nowadays, Vincent was not feeling his best. He had suffered another disturbed night and now had an ache behind his eyes and the beginnings of a headache. Earlier that morning, at 3 a.m., he had turned on the World Service only to hear yet another programme about the global financial crisis. It all seemed rather remote from Kinross, he thought. Money could only be lost if it had been there in the first place. Few of his parishioners had much in the way of savings, most living from week to week on their wages, or month to month on their salaries, if they were lucky.
    The call made, Alison was eating her sandwich and gazing at him through the open door. He, lost in his own thoughts, was quite oblivious to her scrutiny.
    â€˜He’s oddly attractive – nicely put together,’ she murmured, wiping a bit of tuna from the side of her mouth.
    â€˜Who? Ol’ Blue Eyes in there?’ Maureen replied, taking the lid off her plastic salad box and looking in his direction.
    â€˜Yeah.’
    â€˜But they’re not blue, they’re brown,’ Monsignor Drew said, catching the women unawares and pointing to his own eyes as he passed by them, embarrassing the secretaries and making Maureen, despite her years, blush.
    With his usual hurried little steps, he continued into the side-room, closing the door noisily behind him. He was a busy man, small-featured and with quick squirrel-like movements. He assumed that everyone knew just how busy he was, and could not understand, or accommodate, those used to a more leisurely tempo.