by Chris Simms
God isn’t your mate, someone you might just turn to when feeling low. God is to be feared. His wrath is terrible. It will be too late for most when the truth of this becomes apparent.’ He turned his gaze on Jon. ‘I pity you. I’ve pitied you ever since you wouldn’t pray with me when I first came to see you.’
Jon unclipped his seatbelt so he could look Robson in the face. ‘So come on, you pious prick. Enlighten me as to why Troy Wilkes, Valerie Evans and Skye Booth deserve to die. God doesn’t speak to me, maybe you’ll pass his message on.’
‘Serberos Tavovitch is the person you should be interviewing,’ Robson replied. ‘Not me.’
Jon rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. They didn’t have time for this shit. He couldn’t help glancing again at Robson’s thumb. He thought about the boot of their car, and the taser locked inside it. Hook the fucker up to it, and start pressing the trigger. Christ, it was tempting.
‘Henry,’ Rick said. ‘You’re a Christian?’
‘Of course.’
Jon sat back. Go on mate, he thought, you’re welcome to have a go.
‘Circumstances have led you to make a terrible mistake. What you did to that young man in your garage cannot be excused. Not from any moral or religious standpoint. Do you agree?’
Robson glared defiantly back. ‘I thought he had murdered my son.’
‘So, an eye for an eye then?’ Rick replied.
‘No. I would never have killed him. I just wanted him to admit what he’d done. To admit the truth.’
Rick twisted round. ‘But you did kill Troy Wilkes and Valerie
Evans.’
Robson’s eyes were shining. ‘They were serving the devil. I didn’t kill them, but their fate does not sadden me. At least they are now feeling the true error of their ways.’
‘They’re in hell, you mean?’ Rick asked. Robson gave a satisfied nod.
‘Like your wife?’
His eyes dropped momentarily. ‘What she suffers now, she brought upon herself.’
‘I thought there was a recent edict from the Pope clarifying that limbo doesn’t apply to suicides or aborted babies?’
‘The Pope,’ Robson sneered. ‘You cannot twist the words of the Lord to suit the sensibilities of a corrupt society. “And the sea gave up the dead that were in it: and death and hell gave up their dead that were in them. And they were judged, every one according to their works. And hell and death were cast into a pool of fire. This is the second death. And whosoever was not found written in the book of life was cast into the pool of fire.” That is what the Bible says.’
‘What sort of an effect did you think saying something like that would have on your son?’
‘He needed to know the truth. It’s all anyone needs.’
‘The truth. So you tortured Tavovitch for it. Surely you realise that was wrong?’
‘It was a necessary measure. I was dealing with someone who is evil.’ He looked directly at Rick. ‘And you, Officer. There is a whiff of the homosexual about you.’
‘What did you say?’
‘Are you a homosexual?’
Rick glanced at Jon before his eyes fell. ‘I do not believe this man.’
‘“As Sodom and Gomorrah and the neighbouring cities, in like manner, having given themselves to fornication and going after other flesh, were made an example, suffering the punishment of eternal fire.” Start praying Officer. End times are upon us, tribulation is coming.’
‘Shut up,’ Rick replied, turning round.
Robson pointed a finger at his back. ‘“Little children, it is the last time: and as ye have heard that antichrist shall come, even now are there many antichrists; whereby we know that it is the last time.”’
‘Henry, you’re going to prison for this,’ Rick said, staring at the windscreen. ‘You understand what will happen to you there? You’ll be anally raped. You will be sodomised.’
Jon spotted the tears glistening in Robson’s eyes as he jutted his chin forward. ‘Many good Christians have suffered far more than that.’
Oh for fuck’s sake, thought Jon, he’ll be saying God told him to do everything next. The last refuge of those who realise no one on earth is prepared to agree with their actions. ‘Let’s just drive him somewhere quiet and kick the living fuck out of him.’
‘No,’ Rick said quietly. ‘Henry, if you hold your Christian beliefs so dear, tell us where Skye Booth is. Start putting right your mistakes.’
Jon could see Robson’s jaw muscles working, but his mouth remained shut.
Rick sighed. ‘Why, in your opinion, were Troy Wilkes and
Valerie Evans serving the devil?’
‘They lectured at the Psychic Academy. They were luring people into diabolical beliefs. Encouraging people to try and see the future by conjuring Satan, letting loose evil that spreads further every day.’
‘So, in other words, they deserved to die because no one is permitted to hold any religious beliefs other than your own?’
Robson sat up. ‘There is more at stake here than what happens in this life. There is the welfare of our souls to consider. When Judgement Day comes, and it will be soon, mark my words, the Lord will decide which of us goes to be with him in heaven and which of us goes to hell. That decision is for all eternity. Ignore it at your peril.’
Jon wanted to hang his head in his hands. How do you reason with a person like this? He didn’t know. The ring of his mobile shattered the silence in the car. DC Murray’s name was on the screen. He climbed out and took the call. ‘Hugh, what have you got?’
‘It’s not looking good, Sir.’
‘How so?’
‘Henry Robson was down in Birmingham the night Valerie Evans died. His work confirmed he’d been sent down there to fix a printing press. Some new model made in Germany. The part he needed had to be flown over from the manufacturer’s outside Hamburg. It was easier for Robson to stay there overnight and do the job when it arrived the next morning.’
‘So he was in a hotel on his own?’
‘No. The production line manager put him up for the night.’
‘You spoke to this person yourself ?’
‘Sorry boss. It all checks out. The job took him most of the next day. He couldn’t have been in Manchester when Skye disappeared.’
Jon looked down at the grass, soft and long. He wanted to lie back in it and shut his eyes. ‘That fucks the chances of it being him then.’
Murray kept quiet for a moment. ‘Oh, the office manager is asking where you are. The Bishop of Manchester is waiting for you upstairs.’
‘Who?’
‘The Bishop of Manchester, believe it or not.’
‘He’s waiting for me at the station?’
‘He turned up about ten minutes ago. You’ve been phoning a colleague of his, Canon Maurice Kelly?’
‘What does he want?’
‘I don’t know. He said he has information to share with you.’
Jon looked across at the converted church. ‘The Bishop? Well, he can wait. His colleague was in no hurry to return our calls.’
‘Where shall I say you are?’
‘Is Buchanon wanting to know?’
‘No. He’s in with the ACC at the moment.’
‘We’re ten minutes away. Anyone wants to know, we’ve been caught in traffic.’ He climbed back into the car.
‘I’d like to see my son now.’
‘Would you?’ Jon sought out Robson’s eyes in the rearview mirror. ‘Believe me, the last person on earth he wants to see is you.’ He pulled back on to the roundabout shaking his head. Henry Robson was deluded, his son was tripping. Humpries was sedated. Arkell was somewhere at large. And they were no nearer to finding Skye Booth.
Chapter 29
As they marched Henry Robson up to the custody sergeant’s desk, a uniformed officer called down the corridor. ‘DI Spicer? A kitbag’s been handed in. Found by a dog walker on waste ground behind the Sacred Heart.’
Jon paused, one hand clamped roun
d Robson’s upper arm.
‘And?’
‘It had a membership card for a hockey club in it belonging to Father Ben Waters.’
‘That’s great. You may have spotted I’m quite busy right now.’
The young officer blushed. ‘It’s just that the receiver said I should let you know.’
‘Cheers. You’ve let me know.’ He turned to Rick. ‘Book him in, will you? I’d better go upstairs and see what his Holiness wants.’
He was halfway up when his mobile rang again. Pausing on the landing, he glanced at the screen. No number he recognised.
‘DI Spicer here.’
‘Detective, it’s Dean Webster, the fire investigation officer over at the Sacred Heart.’
‘Dean, can I call you back?’
‘I’ve found something you should know about.’ Jon started on the next flight. ‘I’m listening.’
‘The hydrocarbon dog arrived a bit earlier. We took her into the church and let her have a good sniff around.’
Jon was now at the doors to the incident room. Buchanon was in his inner office, glaring at him through the glass. A fat bloke in a black robe with red buttons was in there too. ‘What did it find?’
‘Nothing of real note around the point of origin or the window that had been smashed. But when we took her to the other side of the aisle, we got a result.’
Jon saw Buchanon’s impatient wave and turned away. ‘Go on.’
‘She identified a trail of droplets and splashes leading back to the vestry door. The one that had been forced open from the inside so they could drag out the books and surplices to help start the fire. It’s where the trail was lit from, the door to the vestry.’ Jon was trying to think, but the noise in the incident room was too loud. ‘What’s the significance?’
‘The dog also identified traces of accelerant on the handle and key hole area of the vestry’s outer door.’
‘So the arsonist probably left the building that way?’
‘But Detective, that door wasn’t broken open. Whoever left the accelerant on it probably did so as they were locking up behind them.’
Buchanon appeared at his side. ‘DI Spicer, my office. Now.’
‘I’ll call you back Dean, sorry.’
As his SIO led the way across the incident room, Jon called over to DC Murray. ‘Hugh, see if Henry Robson had any involvement with the Sacred Heart that might involve him possessing a key to the building.’
Buchanon ushered him into his office and shut the door.
‘Bishop, I’m so sorry you’ve been kept waiting. Jon, this is the
Right Reverend Terence Doyle.’
The man stood, brushing his robe as he did so, ‘Sorry for all the garb. I’ve come direct from an official function.’ He proffered his hand.
Jon hesitated, thinking of all the Catholic churches, children’s homes, schools and other organisations this man presided over. He wondered how much abuse had been carried out in them all over the years. He took the Bishop’s hand, feeling the soft, fat fingers against his. He overdid the squeeze before breaking contact. ‘There was no need to come in person.’
‘Ah, that may not be the case,’ the Bishop replied, flexing his fingers.
Buchanon gestured to the seats. ‘Gentlemen, please.’
As they all sat down Jon took in the flesh bulging over the man’s dog collar. It appeared to restrict his circulation, making his eyes bulge.
‘Reverend Canon Kelly finally got through to the refuge in Spain, where Father Waters had been booked in.’ He glanced awkwardly at Jon. ‘There appears to have been a slight breakdown in communication.’
‘What’s that code for?’ Jon asked.
‘It appears Father Waters isn’t at the retreat.’ Jon sat up. ‘When did he leave?’
The Bishop raised a hand and coughed lightly. Jon noticed the gold ring on his right hand. Worth enough to feed a few African AIDS orphans for quite some time, he thought. ‘He never actually arrived.’
‘Never actually arrived?’
‘No. Reverend Kelly gave him his plane tickets and drove him to the airport. He should have got to the retreat a few hours later. But the room put aside for him hasn’t been occupied.’
‘So where is he?’ Jon demanded.
‘I would like to know myself.’
Jon rubbed a forefinger across his top lip. Ben Waters was organising the group opposing the opening of the Psychic Academy. Everyone killed so far, with the possible exception of Luke Stevens, was somehow involved with the place. Luke Stevens was killed in Waters’ church, possible by someone with a key to the building. ‘How long have you known this?’
The Bishop’s eyelids fluttered. ‘Well, my assistant made an initial call to the retreat possibly yesterday.’
‘I said, how long have you known this.’
Buchanon directed a finger at Jon. ‘Detective, show some respect with your questions.’
Jon kept his eyes on the Bishop. ‘How long?’
‘The retreat didn’t return our call immediately.’ Jon leaned forward. ‘That is not an answer.’
‘DI Spicer, this is not an interview,’ Buchanon said. ‘Bishop, I must apologise for my colleague’s tone.’
‘I found out yesterday afternoon.’
‘Yesterday afternoon?’ Jon whispered. ‘You’ve sat on this for twenty-four hours? Skye Booth was snatched around this time yesterday afternoon.’
Buchanon cut in. ‘Jon, I hope you are not implying that
Father Waters is somehow involved in all this!’
‘I am, Sir.’ He turned back to the Bishop. ‘I also intend to see your phone records. If you’re lying about when that call was—’
‘Enough, DI Spicer! Enough. Now before you get out, I want you to apologise for that comment.’
Jon stood. ‘I’ve no respect for your kind, Bishop. No respect at all.’
He stormed out of the office to see Nikki Kington sitting by his desk. Jesus Christ, this is all I need, he thought.
‘Jon, everything all right?’ She asked, turning a small black book over in her hands.
‘No.’ He fell into his seat, then dug his fingers deep into the armrests. ‘We’ve been pissing in the wind all along.’
‘What do you mean?’
He shook his head. ‘I’ll tell you some other time.’ The gold cross on the cover of her book caught his eye. ‘What’s that?’
‘It was dropped off for Father Ben Waters. With the church and vicarage ruined, I didn’t know what to do with it. I was hoping you could forward it on.’
Jon held out his hand and she passed it to him. ‘Who dropped it off ?’
‘The relatives of one of his parishioners, a Mr Bouras. He passed away the other night. They’ve been sorting out his personal effects at Saint Mary’s Hospice and wanted to give it back.’
Jon opened it up. A prayer book, with a label for The Sacred
Heart on its inner cover. ‘Saint Mary’s hospice.’
‘Yes. Father Waters fetched it for him on Monday night. The relatives were keen to return it before they fly back to Poland.’ Jon rotated it in his hands, thinking back to what Ben Waters had said the night his church had burned down. He’d claimed to have been at St Mary’s Hospice all night, at the bedside of a dying parishioner. The parishioner, evidently, was this Bouras person. But, if that was the case, how could the relatives be claiming Waters had nipped away to fetch a prayer book?
‘You’re sure the relatives said it was Monday night that Waters went to get this?’
She frowned. ‘Yes. They said it was the last thing their dad was able to ask for, but by the time Father Waters returned with it he was unconscious. He died early on Tuesday morning.’
‘Exactly what time did Waters leave to fetch this book?’
‘I don’t know. Christ, Jon, I only said I’d pass it on to you.’ Jon lifted his fingers to his nose. Petrol. His fingers smelled of petrol. He lifted the book and sniffed it. The same cloying aroma.
Mu
rray was walking across the room. ‘Robson insists he’s never set foot in the Sacred Heart.’
‘Forget him,’ Jon replied. ‘We need to find Ben Waters.’
‘The priest? Isn’t he in Spain?’
‘He never went. And I’ve got a horrible feeling he’s been here the whole time. DC Gardiner! You checked out Waters’ statement with the staff at Saint Mary’s Hospice. Who verified that he’d been there all night?’
Gardiner’s face had gone white and Jon knew exactly what she was thinking. Please don’t let this fuck-up be down to me. She scrabbled about then stood up, note book in her hands. ‘The nurse on duty that night. Here, Sister Caroline Morrison.’
‘She definitely said he hadn’t left the building at any point?’
‘Yes. It’s here.’
‘I think she was mistaken. Nikki, these relatives. They were flying back to Poland?’
‘This afternoon.’
‘From Manchester airport?’
‘I assume so. There was a taxi waiting for them.’
‘Were they a couple?’
‘Yes, in their fifties. The man’s son and his wife.’
‘Hugh, Susan, get over to the airport. Flights to Warsaw, Krakow or wherever. Can’t be many flights to Poland every day. A Mr and Mrs Bouras. We need to know exactly when Father Waters left the hospice and returned to The Sacred Heart to get this prayer book.’
Rick was approaching their desk, looking puzzled. ‘I don’t understand. Waters is here, in England?’
‘He’s certainly not out near Salamanca.’ Jon jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. ‘The fat fuck in Buchanon’s office just confirmed that.’
‘So you reckon he could have . . .’ Rick let the question hang.
‘With this case, who knows. But we have to find him.’
‘DI Spicer, what’s going on?’
McCloughlin. Jon made himself take a breath before answering. ‘I’m not sure, Sir.’
‘Why all this activity?’ The older officer was coming out from behind the desk he’d been sitting at. Sensing something afoot, wanting to be involved.
Fucking hyena, Jon thought. ‘Just let me think.’ He looked across the room, searching for the Receiver. ‘You mentioned Father Waters’ kitbag was recovered earlier on. Where is it?’