He stopped at the pelican crossing on the
corner of Morley Street and waited for the green man to illuminate.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Rosen?’ A voice came from behind him, which Rosen recognized straight away. It was the androgynous voice at the end of the line when he had first phoned
Archbishop’s House. He turned to see a masculine-looking woman in her late fifties. He turned back to face the traffic.
‘Yes?’
‘Do you have some time to spare?’
‘Yes. You have something you’d like to share with me?’ asked Rosen.
‘Buy me a drink, and I’ll fill you in on Father Sebastian.’
——
I N THE D RAGON , a small pub near St George’s Road, Rosen bought Alice Stanley a large glass of red wine and himself a
sparkling mineral water. He sat facing her across a small rickety table.
‘How long have you worked for the diocese, Alice?’
‘Thirty years, as a secretary, receptionist, all-round dogsbody.’
Thirty years. Long enough to inspire undying loyalty or undiminished resentment.
‘Why do you want to tell me about Father Sebastian, Alice?’ probed Rosen.
‘Because Father Frazer isn’t in a position to be exactly . . . generous with the truth, and if it’s a police matter it must be serious. It’s the least I can do with the
information I have.’
In Rosen’s book, she went up four divisions in one leap.
‘Let me guess what Father Frazer told you about Flint.’ She repeated Frazer’s brief notes almost to the letter.
‘Are you ready, Detective Rosen?’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Father Frazer already told you Flint was a bit of a star student. He didn’t mention the Vatican, did he? After Cambridge, Flint went to the Vatican seminary: that’s where he
was top of the class, that’s how brilliant he was. He was ordained, spent six weeks in a regular parish on what amounted to a perfunctory work experience and then went back to the Vatican. He
was twenty-six, twenty-seven years old, tipped for greatness. Then, after twelve months in the corridors of power, he puts in a request for missionary service in East Africa. A request, mind, from
the most high to the most low. It was not well-received.’ Alice sipped her wine.
‘I’d have thought that marked him down as a genuine priest,’ said Rosen.
‘Genuine but not best-serving the interests of the Church. To draw a sporting analogy, it was like a high-scoring premiership striker asking for a transfer to a pub team. Flint was under
all kinds of pressure from all kinds of people to make him withdraw his request but nothing moved him, and then there was a meeting with the Holy Father. Private, behind closed doors, one on one.
It was due to last ten minutes, but it went on for an hour and, when he came out, the Holy Father apparently said,
Permission granted, request approved.
Flint went to Kenya.’
Outside, rain ground against the windows.
‘So, Father Sebastian went to Kenya. What happened to him out there?’
‘He got lynched by a hysterical mob,’ said Alice, without emotion.
‘Pardon?’ Rosen sat up a little in his seat. ‘Why?’
‘Flint was an exorcist.’
David Rosen, a lifelong sceptic, kept his mouth firmly shut, reminding himself that the woman opposite had made her central life choices based on a faith that made little or no sense to him.
‘I know what you must be thinking,’ said Alice. ‘Demonic possession in any context adds up to mental illness by any other name.’
‘Why did he get lynched?’ asked David.
‘Flint went to Kenya, in his late twenties and in perfect health, but came back twelve months later as if he’d been smashed on death’s door. He was based in a rural district,
in the highlands of south-western Kenya, north of Lake Victoria. It began with one case, one fifteen-year-old boy from a small band of nomadic farmers. The boy started with convulsive fits, then
went into a catatonic state. His grandmother – she was the family doctor, lawyer, soothsayer – tried
corner of Morley Street and waited for the green man to illuminate.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Rosen?’ A voice came from behind him, which Rosen recognized straight away. It was the androgynous voice at the end of the line when he had first phoned
Archbishop’s House. He turned to see a masculine-looking woman in her late fifties. He turned back to face the traffic.
‘Yes?’
‘Do you have some time to spare?’
‘Yes. You have something you’d like to share with me?’ asked Rosen.
‘Buy me a drink, and I’ll fill you in on Father Sebastian.’
——
I N THE D RAGON , a small pub near St George’s Road, Rosen bought Alice Stanley a large glass of red wine and himself a
sparkling mineral water. He sat facing her across a small rickety table.
‘How long have you worked for the diocese, Alice?’
‘Thirty years, as a secretary, receptionist, all-round dogsbody.’
Thirty years. Long enough to inspire undying loyalty or undiminished resentment.
‘Why do you want to tell me about Father Sebastian, Alice?’ probed Rosen.
‘Because Father Frazer isn’t in a position to be exactly . . . generous with the truth, and if it’s a police matter it must be serious. It’s the least I can do with the
information I have.’
In Rosen’s book, she went up four divisions in one leap.
‘Let me guess what Father Frazer told you about Flint.’ She repeated Frazer’s brief notes almost to the letter.
‘Are you ready, Detective Rosen?’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Father Frazer already told you Flint was a bit of a star student. He didn’t mention the Vatican, did he? After Cambridge, Flint went to the Vatican seminary: that’s where he
was top of the class, that’s how brilliant he was. He was ordained, spent six weeks in a regular parish on what amounted to a perfunctory work experience and then went back to the Vatican. He
was twenty-six, twenty-seven years old, tipped for greatness. Then, after twelve months in the corridors of power, he puts in a request for missionary service in East Africa. A request, mind, from
the most high to the most low. It was not well-received.’ Alice sipped her wine.
‘I’d have thought that marked him down as a genuine priest,’ said Rosen.
‘Genuine but not best-serving the interests of the Church. To draw a sporting analogy, it was like a high-scoring premiership striker asking for a transfer to a pub team. Flint was under
all kinds of pressure from all kinds of people to make him withdraw his request but nothing moved him, and then there was a meeting with the Holy Father. Private, behind closed doors, one on one.
It was due to last ten minutes, but it went on for an hour and, when he came out, the Holy Father apparently said,
Permission granted, request approved.
Flint went to Kenya.’
Outside, rain ground against the windows.
‘So, Father Sebastian went to Kenya. What happened to him out there?’
‘He got lynched by a hysterical mob,’ said Alice, without emotion.
‘Pardon?’ Rosen sat up a little in his seat. ‘Why?’
‘Flint was an exorcist.’
David Rosen, a lifelong sceptic, kept his mouth firmly shut, reminding himself that the woman opposite had made her central life choices based on a faith that made little or no sense to him.
‘I know what you must be thinking,’ said Alice. ‘Demonic possession in any context adds up to mental illness by any other name.’
‘Why did he get lynched?’ asked David.
‘Flint went to Kenya, in his late twenties and in perfect health, but came back twelve months later as if he’d been smashed on death’s door. He was based in a rural district,
in the highlands of south-western Kenya, north of Lake Victoria. It began with one case, one fifteen-year-old boy from a small band of nomadic farmers. The boy started with convulsive fits, then
went into a catatonic state. His grandmother – she was the family doctor, lawyer, soothsayer – tried
Similar Books
