‘I’m a different person when it happens. I’m no longer me,’ Quentin James told me as he stood by the grave he had dug, waiting for me to forgive him.

Was that my excuse too?

Maybe. But I don’t think so. I wasn’t switching between

personae. Alcohol made Quentin James the man he was, and

he would live with a foot in each of those worlds, existing as two separate men. I’m different. Quentin James made me into a

different kind of man, and there’s no going back from that. There is only one Theodore Tate.

When I get home my body is exhausted but my mind is still

racing with excitement:it’s a weird combination that makes me

want to sleep but at the same time pace the room. I don’t get to do either, because walking from the driveway to my house I’m

brought to a stop by Casey Horwell and her cameraman. I don’t

see a van anywhere, and assume they must have been camped out

in a dark red sedan parked opposite. Again Horwell is wearing

enough make-up to look like the media whore she is. I can see

the thin lines and cracks in the foundation. She smells like stale coffee. I lower the bag of tapes and statements and hold it to my side, out of sight of the camera.

‘Mr Tate,’ she says, getting into my face. ‘It hasn’t taken you long to get behind the wheel of a car since losing your licence. You manage this, and you’re a suspect in the murder of Father Julian.

Your friends in the department you seem exceedingly proud of

must really be working overtime to keep you out of jail.’

‘I thought reporters liked asking questions, not giving

statements,’ I say, immediately wishing I was saying nothing.

‘Actually we do both.’

‘Just not accurately.’

I start to move around her, but she side-steps into my way.

She probably wants me to push her, and that’s exactly what

I feel like doing. I want to grab her by the arm and escort her off my property, but then I change my mind and go with a different tactic.

‘Would you care to tell us how the murder weapon came to be

found in your garage?’

‘What murder weapon?’ I ask.

‘The hammer.’

‘What hammer?’

‘The one that killed Father Julian.’

‘Who’s Father Julian?’

She frowns a little, unsure of where I’m going with this. ‘The man whose church you have been parked outside of for the last

four weeks.’

‘What church?’

The frown becomes a deeper crease and breaks a line into her

make-up. ‘Is this a game to you?’

‘What game?’

‘People are showing up dead and you’re the only

commonality’

‘What’s a commonality?’

The creases deepen. Her smirk fades, quickly replaced by her

annoyance, and beneath the surface of her make-up a different

Casey Horwell is simmering.

‘Where is Sidney Alderman?’ she asks.

‘What’s an Alderman?’

She turns to her cameraman. ‘That’s it,’ she says, and the

camera is lowered.

‘You’re fucked,’ she says. ‘We got you on tape driving into the street, and that makes you look bad.’

‘You think that’s the best you can do?’

‘Actually no. You haven’t seen the best I can do, but you will.

Come on, Phil,’ she says, turning to her cameraman, ‘let’s go.’

‘Wait,’ I say.

‘What for?’

‘Your source. Who is it?’

Are you that fucking stupid? You think I’m going to tell

you?’

‘Just tell me this. Is it a cop?’

“I’m not telling you anything.’

‘Is it a cop?’ I ask, and this time I yell it at her.

She takes a step back, and the cameraman swings his camera

back up and starts to film me again.

“I suggest you back down, Tate.’

And I suggest you think about what you’ve got yourself into,’

I say. ‘This source of yours, if it’s not a cop, then who can it be, huh? Who else can possibly have fed you all that bullshit about the murder weapon, huh? There’s only one possibility. You’re

being played, Horwell, and you’re too stupid to know it, and

when you figure it out you’ll be too arrogant to admit it. But you’re responsible for anything that happens now, you get that?

If you keep that name to yourself and it turns out to be the guy who killed those girls, and he kills again, then that’s on you. You get that? You keep your mouth shut and don’t go to the police, you’re as good as helping him.’

‘Fuck you,’ she says. ‘You don’t know a damn thing. You’re

some washed-up private detective who thinks he can do what the hell he wants and get away with it, just because his daughter got herself killed. You think her death is going to keep people feeling sympathetic towards you even after all of this? You’re the one who’s arrogant and stupid, Tate. Your career is fucked and I’m going to make sure of it. You’re a piece of shit murderer who isn’t going to keep getting away with it. And you’re going to see me every single day of your trial and I’m going to expose you to the world as the man you really are.’

I feel like jumping on her and slapping her until she gives up the name of her source, but that’s not going to happen, especially with the cameraman standing here probably hoping I do. I just

have to trust that the tapes and the statements will tell me what she won’t.

I move past her and shut the door. I stand in the hallway, my

heart rate up, feeling angry at her and also angry at myself for letting her get to me. I go into my office and sit down, but I can’t focus on anything. I leave the tapes and the bank statements on my desk and I head out to the lounge. I switch on the CD player and turn the music up and walk around my kitchen, opening

up cupboards looking for something to eat, and end up making

myself some coffee. I need something to calm me down, and I

decide coffee isn’t it, and I let it sit on my bench and watch it go cold. The anger starts to fade. I do what I can to push Casey Horwell from my thoughts, and when she is far enough in the

background I go back to the office and sit down with the bank

statements.

I reckon the original statements would have changed colour

and style as the bank updated its logo and even its name from

time to time but the printouts all look identical. I start adding up the amounts, comparing them against the logs Father Julian

kept. Over the years he has taken in almost one hundred and fifty thousand dollars in deposits. He has made the exact same amount in withdrawals. The deposits are from the people on the tapes

who didn’t know their Bless me, Father, because I have sinneds weren’t the first steps up to salvation but steps down into Father Julian’s world. The logs go back twenty-four years. So do the

bank statements.

The logs and statements and tapes all add up to blackmail.

There really isn’t any other way to see it. Over the course of twenty-four years Father Julian blackmailed more than a hundred people. The amounts are different, and this probably reflects two things — the amount the victim was earning, and the amount the victim had to lose if his or her secret was found out. Maybe those being blackmailed never knew who had their secret. Could be they suspected, but people with secrets might be paranoid enough to believe someone more than just their priest knows. For almost a quarter of a century Father Julian played with fire. He must have known it would eventually burn him. Or perhaps it burned him

the entire time. He was taking the money and using it to put out smaller fires.

In the end the fire got him. He recorded somebody who

wasn’t willing to pay, and that somebody knew I was following

the priest and would be an easy target to frame. It wouldn’t have been hard. Just flick on the TV and there I was, covered in blood one night and accused of murdering the caretaker, and a month

later accused of stalking the priest.