Hunter thought about his next words. He knew he was about to venture into dangerous territory.

Twenty-Eight

‘Did Father Fabian ever talk to you about doubting his decision to become a Catholic priest or his intention to leave it all behind?’ Hunter asked and saw Father Malcolm’s demeanor change. He looked offended. He narrowed his eyes and surveyed Hunter.

‘What we do is based solemnly on faith and on the desire to serve Our Lord, Detective Hunter.’ The priest’s voice was steady but firm, as if reprimanding a disobedient child. ‘We don’t do it for money or thrills. It’s a call. I must admit that sometimes it gets tough. We’re humans and as such we have our moments of weakness, our uncertainties. It’s not uncommon for those of us who choose a life of servitude to God to question that decision every now and then. But our faith always proves stronger than any doubt. Do you understand what faith means, detective?’

‘I think so,’ Hunter replied with a nod. ‘Blind belief without questioning or proof.’

Father Malcolm smiled, showing yellow-stained teeth. ‘That belief keeps us on the right path. It drowns our doubts. So in answer to your question, detective – yes, Father Fabian and I talked about his uncertainties and his dilemmas. Just because we decide to serve God it doesn’t make us immune to temptation and unclear thoughts. And just because cloudy thoughts enter our minds, it doesn’t mean we’re gonna go through with them. He was a man of unquestionable faith.’

‘Please don’t get me wrong, father,’ Hunter said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. ‘I’m not questioning his or your faith. I was just wondering if there was a reason for these “unclear” thoughts. If there was, it could give us a lead. Did Father Fabian ever tell you he was thinking about giving up the priesthood?’

Father Malcolm scratched a small scar above his right eyebrow. Hunter could see he was debating if he should answer the question or not. ‘It really is important,’ Hunter pressed.

‘Yes,’ Father Malcolm said after several unsettling seconds. ‘After Fabian’s mother passed away, his faith was unbalanced.’

‘Were they close?’

‘He tried.’

‘Tried?’

‘Fabian never knew his father. His mother brought him up on her own, but she was a bitter woman. She expected her only son to become a lawyer or a doctor or something that would make him rich so he could pay her back.’

Hunter shifted on his seat.

The priest looked down at his clasped hands. ‘She had problems. She battled with alcoholism for many years. Even though she resented him for becoming a priest, he loved her. He prayed for her every day, for as long as I can remember. When she got ill, it all happened very fast. She was taken into hospital and within a week she passed away. He took it very badly.’

‘How badly?’

‘He was angry.’ Father Malcolm bit his lip and rethought his words. ‘No, I think the correct word would be discontent. He was discontent with God. He hoped that after so many years praying for the same thing, God would’ve listened. He kept on saying he never asked for a miracle. He only wanted God to give his mother a fighting chance. But instead, God took her away.’

Hunter sat motionless battling with his own memories. His eyes were fixed on the priest but unfocused. ‘I know exactly how he felt.’

Father Malcolm noticed pain in Hunter’s expression and leaned forward. ‘Can I ask you something, detective?’

‘Of course.’

‘Is it true what the papers said? About Fabian being decapitated? About the dog’s head?’

‘Yes.’

The priest let out a deep sigh. ‘You probably already know that Saint Fabian, who Father Fabian got his pseudonym from, was beheaded.’

Hunter nodded.

‘Do you think there’s a relation?’

‘It’s a possibility.’ Hunter leaned back again. ‘What do you think, father? Do you think the killer wanted Father Fabian to die the same way Saint Fabian did?’

The priest stood up and approached the bookcase next to his desk. ‘In years gone by, a great number of people who were misunderstood were arrested and tortured before being sentenced to death,’ he said, reaching for a book on the top shelf. ‘For centuries, most death sentences in the Western world meant decapitation.’

Hunter considered this. ‘So if Father Fabian had chosen any other saint’s name, death by decapitation would’ve probably matched the saint’s death anyway,’ he concluded.

A slow nod.

‘How about a dog’s head? Does it mean anything to you, or to the Catholic faith?’

The priest took a deep breath. ‘The devil,’ he replied. As he spoke a cold draft entered the room. Hunter instinctively pulled the collar of his jacket tighter around his neck.

Father Malcolm returned to his seat. ‘Without being insolent, detective, I think that maybe you’re going down the wrong path.’

‘How’s that, father?’ Hunter asked, meeting the priest’s eyes.

‘I believe that this has been an aggression against the Catholic Church. Someone who wants to hurt the Church as a whole, not an individual priest. Fabian was a tragic casualty. It could’ve been any of us. The killer could’ve chosen any of our churches for his act of anger.’ He paused as his next words worried him. ‘And something tells me he will kill again. Maybe he already has.’ The priest’s tone caused the tiny hairs on Hunter’s arms to rise.

Twenty-Nine

Amanda Reilly felt incredibly cold and thirsty. Her head thumped with such ferocity that she thought her temples would explode. As she tried to move she realized she was tied down. Her wrists had been bound to the arms and her ankles to the legs of an uncomfortable metal armchair – so tight the wires were cutting into her skin.

Her eyelids felt heavy and sticky. As far as she could tell she wasn’t blindfolded, but something was keeping her from opening her eyes. She tried to scream but her lips wouldn’t come apart. There was a bitter and sickening taste in her mouth. Instinctively, she pushed her tongue against her lips and felt a rigid, thin layer of something unidentified between them. She tried forcing her mouth open and felt the tender skin on her lips start to tear.

Oh my God!

Shivering, she finally understood what’d happened.

Her mouth had been super-glued shut.

Panic took over and she jerked her body violently from side to side, kicking out, trying to free herself. Blood started dripping from where the wires had cut into her wrists and ankles.

The chair didn’t budge. It was either too heavy or it had been nailed to the floor. Her screams, muffled by her tightly shut lips, sounded like animal grunts.

An uncontrollable shudder came over her body, and she fought to keep her teeth from chattering.

Tears sprang in the corners of her closed eyes, forced their way through and started rolling down her face, washing away some of the sticky substance that had been smothered over her eyelids. She felt them coming unstuck. Very slowly, she managed to get them open. They stung as if burned by fire, forcing her into a blinking frenzy.

It took several minutes for the pain to subside and for her eyes to regain some focus. They were puffy and their whites had turned crimson. At first everything was blurred, but the candlelit room looked familiar. She recognized some of the furniture, but where from?

The thumping in her head had intensified, and her muddied thoughts weren’t making any sense. She took deep, steady breaths and forced herself to concentrate on her heartbeat. Her memory slowly started putting together images of what had happened.