St Benet's

by David Blake

  ‘What, like this?’

  ‘If I remember correctly, he’d opened up his wrists, but he was dressed in similar robes, and his bedroom at home was piled high with satanic books and magazines.’

  As the three of them got up, Tanner glanced around for Jenny, hoping she’d been spared the gruesome sight. Relieved to see that she’d had the good sense to remain beside the dead man’s feet, he turned back to Johnstone to say, ‘Is it really possible for someone to slice open their throat in such a way?’

  ‘Well, it would have taken a degree of determination.’

  ‘And to fall back on the altar like this?’

  ‘Looking at where most of the blood has ended up, I’d say so.’

  Tanner studied the body once again, before glancing over at Forrester. ‘I don’t know, sir, but there’s something about it which looks staged to me.’

  Returning his gaze, Forrester said, ‘That is the other possibility, of course: that it’s been set up to look like he took his own life. Hopefully forensics will be able to give us a more definitive idea.’

  ‘There’s something else, sir,’ Tanner observed. ‘How did he get here? I didn’t see any unfamiliar cars in the parking area.’

  ‘There’s a boat moored up on the river down there. I’ve just sent Cooper and Gilbert to take a look. Hopefully it belongs to him, and it will give us his identity. Tell you what, as we’re all here, we may as well head over there and see if they’ve been able to come up with anything.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  FROM THE FOOTPATH down towards the river, with the sun rising fast, the boat Forrester mentioned was easy enough to see.

  Having gained considerably more knowledge about watercraft since he’d moved into the area, and especially since he’d started to live on board a yacht, Tanner could tell straight away from the heavy use of wood that it was a traditional motor cruiser. Judging by the way the entire front section of the painted white hull swept gracefully upwards until level with its sliding cabin roof, he thought the design probably dated from the 1930s.

  The boat was on its own. The area was popular with fishermen; there were no public moorings down there, though that didn’t mean it was moored illegally. Apart from privately owned areas, there were few places in and around the Broads’ waterways where boats weren’t allowed to stop. However, most people preferred to use the designated areas as they had fixed anchor points. When tying up to a muddy grass bank, as was the case here, boat owners had to resort to using something known locally as a rhond hook, which served the same purpose as an anchor.

  Spotting DS Cooper’s mousey brown head of hair bob up from the open cockpit, Forrester called out, ‘How does it look?’

  ‘I reckon it’s his boat all right, sir,’ Cooper responded, nodding a greeting over at Jenny and Tanner.

  Pleased to have his assumption confirmed, Forrester asked, ‘Wishful thinking perhaps, but I don’t suppose there’s any sign of a suicide note?’

  ‘Well, sort of.’

  ‘Either there is or there isn’t.’

  ‘Sorry, sir. It’s difficult to explain. Maybe you should take a look?’

  His curiosity piqued, making sure not to touch anything with his hands, DCI Forrester hopped onto the boat’s side to invite Tanner and Jenny to do the same. Stepping down into the cockpit, the three of them followed Cooper through a narrow doorway, down some polished wooden steps and into a generously sized cabin, one lit by a series of circular portholes cut into rich mahogany panelling.

  Initial inspection suggested that the space had been used as a combination of office and lounge, with a mixture of books and files lining the shelves, with more piled up on two opposing bench seats.

  At the end of a table that ran down the middle of the cabin, DS Vicky Gilbert was picking her way through an old black box file.

  As they gathered inside, Cooper said, ‘We believe the boat belongs to a certain Martin Isaac.’

  Hearing the name, Jenny shot him a look to ask, ‘You don’t mean Reverend Martin Isaac?’

  ‘That’s the one,’ replied Cooper, with a note of surprise.

  ‘I take it you know him, DC Evans?’ Forrester said, turning to face her.

  ‘Well, I know of him, sir,’ she said. ‘He’s a priest, at least he used to be, back in the Seventies. He was charged with the murder of a girl from my old school.’

  Forrester raised an eyebrow at her, sending furrows up one half of his wide forehead.

  Taking the look as encouragement, she went on to say, ‘He was eventually acquitted, but only after a lengthy trial. Afterwards he left the Church and went on to write some sort of anti-God type book, one which became a best-seller, but which had the Christian community up in arms.’

  ‘Was it called Christianity in Purgatory by any chance?’ asked Cooper, staring down at a large hard-backed book that lay open on the table in front of him.

  ‘I think so,’ she replied. ‘After the book’s success he went on to set up some sort of a satanic cult, which became very popular, at least it was back then.’

  To Cooper, Forrester said, ‘I assume you’re thinking that the body up in the ruins is this Isaac character?’

  ‘I’d have thought so, sir, yes. We found his wallet in amongst some clothes left on the bed in the cabin at the back, so it looks like he changed into the robes he was wearing before making his way up.’

  ‘And you mentioned a suicide note?’

  ‘Well, as I said, sir, it’s not a note as such. We found this book left open at a page, and one of the paragraphs has been highlighted.’

  As Cooper pointed down towards the passage in question, Forrester moved forward to see for himself.

  Putting on a pair of glasses, he bent down to read. ‘Fear not, I am the first and the last, and the living one. I died, and behold I am alive forevermore, and I have the keys of Death.’

  Straightening up, Forrester removed his glasses to look back at Cooper and say, ‘It’s a quote from Revelations.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Cooper agreed, although he only knew that because it was credited as such underneath the text.

  ‘You’re not seriously telling me that because some old guy left a book open with a quote highlighted from Revelations, that he was therefore intending to kill himself?’

  ‘Well, not on its own, sir, no. The quote is included within a chapter entitled Ritual for Resurrection. I’ve had a quick scan through. It seems to be about human self-sacrifice and ends by saying how he planned to cheat death by offering himself up to - well, to the Devil, sir.’

  ‘The guy sounds like a complete looney!’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Cooper. ‘I suspect he probably was.’

  ‘And so you think he left this page open to signify that that was his intention - to sacrifice himself?’

  With a shrug of his shoulders, Cooper said, ‘It’s a possibility.’

  ‘And it was a Blood Moon last night, sir,’ interjected DS Gilbert, from the other end of the table.

  ‘What the hell’s that got to do with anything?’ Forrester demanded.

  Looking as if she wished she’d kept her mouth shut, Gilbert cleared her throat. ‘It’s just that it was on the local news last night, sir, about how a Blood Moon has always had associations with spiritualism and the occult.’

  With Forrester’s eyes still firmly fixed on hers, she added, ‘And…well, sir. I just thought that if someone was going to sacrifice themselves to the Devil, then last night would have been quite a good time.’

  As Tanner and Jenny exchanged an amused look, Forrester shook his head to say, ‘So anyway, leaving aside all this Devil worshipping nonsense, I assume you’re both of the opinion that the man up there is this Martin Isaac character, and that for whatever bizarre reason he chose to end it all by cutting open his own throat?’

  With Gilbert remaining quiet, it was left for Cooper to reply. ‘Unless forensics finds evidence to the contrary, then I’d have to go with that, sir, yes.’

  From behind them, Ta
nner entered the conversation by saying, ‘Although it would have been easy enough for someone else to have left the book open like this, even highlighting the passage. I mean, it’s hardly a hand-written note.’

  Nodding in agreement, Forrester turned back to Cooper and Gilbert. ‘Was the boat locked?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Cooper replied. ‘The cabin doors were closed, but not locked, and the cockpit roof was left wide open.’

  ‘So, it is possible then that someone else killed him, and set it up to make it look like he’d done it as part of some sort of satanic self-sacrifice?’

  ‘I suppose so, sir, but he’d dressed himself up for something. His normal clothes are lying on his bed.’

  ‘But for someone to cut open their own throat like that!’ exclaimed Tanner. ‘I must admit that I’ve never seen anything like it before.’

  ‘There is another possibility,’ Jenny said.

  Catching her eye, Forrester asked, ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘That he had help.’

  ‘You mean euthanasia?’

  ‘I was actually thinking more along the lines of it being done as part of a group ritual, and that someone else did the actual cutting.’

  As Forrester digested that suggestion, he glanced around the cabin before eventually asking, ‘I assume we can rule out robbery?’

  ‘There’s no sign of it,’ Cooper said. ‘His wallet still had cash in it, although not much else.’

  ‘Do we know where he lived?’

  ‘Not yet, sir, but we can check with the boat authorities. They should have an address on file.’

  Looking back down at the box she’d been going through, Gilbert said, ‘There’s nothing in here except page after page of handwritten notes, most of which seem to be illegible.’

  Forrester thought for a moment, before saying, ‘Had he left a note stating what his specific intentions were, and had he taken his life by a less challenging method, then I think we’d be able to move forward on the basis that this is a case of suicide, whatever his misguided reason. But with just a highlighted passage from his book, and his throat cut open in such a manner, I think it’s safe to say that it’s suspicious enough to warrant further investigation. However, that doesn’t mean to say we think its murder, so I don’t want you all going around telling everyone it is. Is that understood?’

  Seeing his four officers nod back in agreement, Forrester continued.

  ‘Until we’ve heard back from Dr Johnstone, we can’t make any assumptions. Cooper, make sure forensics give this boat a thorough once over. We need to know if there are any signs that anyone else has been on board recently, especially around the table area and where you said he’d left his clothes. Then we’re going to need to start talking to his family and friends; cult followers if he still has any. If he was planning to “sacrifice” himself last night, as suggested in his book, then I think it’s probable he would have told someone of his intentions; or as DC Evans has suggested, they may have even helped him. Background checks on them all will be in order. If he did set up some sort of weird satanic cult, did he do so with anyone else?

  ‘Cooper and Gilbert, get access to his email and phone accounts. Social media, if he was into that sort of thing. Find out who he’s been talking to. See if you can put together his movements over the last two weeks leading up to last night.

  ‘Tanner and Evans, I want you to take a look into his business dealings, especially in relation to this cult organisation. If he was heading up some sort of satanic church, we need to know how it was funded, who else was involved, and what their specific roles were.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  BACK AT THE station, the team initially drew a blank in their attempts to discover more about Martin Isaac, in particular who his associates were, and if he still had links to the occult.

  For Tanner and Jenny, they couldn’t find much in the public domain to add to what they already knew. Google had brought up a handful of results, all of which were in relation to his life leading up to when he published his book, but nothing afterwards. There was a Wikipedia entry for him, but it only contained the barest of information; there wasn’t even a photograph.

  Cooper and Gilbert hadn’t fared much better either. He didn’t seem to own a phone, at least not one with a contract, nor did he have an email account, let alone anything relating to social media. All they were able to find were the basics; a birth certificate, national insurance and NHS numbers, and a bank account, which after they had gained permission to take a closer look was found to be virtually empty. The address listed for that account was over five years old, and after further investigation they discovered it was now occupied by someone who had no knowledge of anyone by the name of Isaac. They couldn’t even find him on the current electoral roll. The only physical location they had for him was his boat, which had been registered under his name with the Broads Authority, giving them reason to believe that it must have been his only residence.

  It was Jenny who had the idea of trying to contact his book’s publisher, to see if they knew anything more about him. But the publishing house had gone into administration a long time before. All they could find were the names of its editor, Margot Falkner, and its proofreader, Alan Birch. Fortunately they were easy enough to track down, helped largely by the fact that they’d become husband and wife at some point after the book was published, and were now listed as being the owners of an independent book shop, just down the road in the village of Coltishall.

  Within ten minutes Tanner was pulling up outside the business address, in a quiet road just off the village high street.

  ‘Not the best location for a shop,’ he observed, as he stepped out of his car to glance up and down a road that was devoid of both traffic and people.

  Crossing to the other side, he studied the shop, the outside of which had been painted black. On display behind a leaded bay window was a collection of weird and wonderful books, none of which looked even remotely like the latest best sellers.

  The name was unassuming enough: Coltishall Books, which had been painted in elaborate gold lettering above the window, as well as on the door’s glass panel.

  As he pushed open the door, a small bell rang above his head with a tinkling sound, one that was in perfect keeping with the shop’s Victorian frontage.

  The inside was littered with all manner of old books, crammed into shelves and piled high on tables, from which there seemed to emanate a dry musty smell.

  With nobody around, either behind the counter or anywhere else, Tanner was eventually forced to clear his throat and call out, ‘Hello?’

  A moment later they heard the distant sound of a man’s voice, which echoed out from somewhere near the back of the shop to say, ‘I’ll be with you in just one minute!’

  As they waited, they began browsing through the collection of ancient-looking piled-up books.

  ‘Do you think they’ve got the latest Stephen King?’ enquired Jenny, as she picked up one particularly hefty leather-bound volume from off of a table.

  ‘I think they’re probably more likely to stock Charles Dickens,’ said Tanner with a wry look. ‘They may even have his latest!’

  They soon heard footsteps rattling down an ornate iron spiral staircase in the far corner of the shop, and it wasn’t long before a sprightly old man with a thin frame, a quick step and a cheerful countenance appeared.

  ‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ he said, skirting the half dozen or so display tables as he made his way over to join them. ‘We’ve just had some new books come in.’

  Whispering over to Jenny, Tanner said, ‘Maybe they do have the latest Stephen King after all!’

  As the man reached the counter, Jenny raised her hand to hide what she knew would have been a most inappropriate smirk.

  Offering them each a warm smile, the man asked, ‘Now, how may I help?’

  Bringing their minds back to the task at hand, they each pulled out their IDs.

  ‘Detective Inspector Tanner and Detective Co
nstable Evans, Norfolk Police. Are we speaking to Alan Birch?’

  ‘You are, yes,’ he answered, concern creasing his forehead. ‘There’s nothing wrong, I hope?’

  Getting straight to the point, Tanner asked, ‘Do you by any chance know a man called Martin Isaac?’

  ‘I don’t think so, no. Why?’

  Tanner’s eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘Apparently, he’s sometimes called Reverend Martin Isaac, if that helps?’

  ‘Sorry, but I’m not sure I know any clergymen.’

  ‘He’s not a clergyman.’

  ‘Well, that explains it then. Now, is there anything else I can help you with?’

  ‘At least, not anymore,’ Tanner went on, as though the man hadn’t spoken. ‘In fact, I don’t think he’s much of anything.’

  With concern turning to confusion, the bookshop owner said, ‘Sorry, I’m not with you.’

  Changing tack, Tanner asked, ‘Have you ever heard of a book called Christianity in Purgatory?’

  Glancing around the shop as if looking for it, the man eventually said, ‘I can’t say it rings a bell, no.’

  ‘That’s funny,’ said Tanner, ‘since you’re accredited as being its proofreader.’

  ‘Then you must be looking for a different Alan Birch. I’m fairly sure I’m not the only one.’

  ‘But your wife’s accredited as the editor, under her maiden name, Margot Falkner.’

  Birch continued to stare at him, but the cheerful smile had faded, leaving in its place a cold, blank expression.

  ‘Margot is your wife’s name, is it not?’

  There was no reply.

  Raising one of his solid dark eyebrows, Tanner persisted, ‘It’s just that Martin Isaac is the author, which is why I’m going to have to assume that you do know him, even if you say that you don’t.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ the man eventually said, ‘but I’m afraid I can’t help you.’

  ‘Oh dear. That’s a shame. It’s just that this man you say you don’t know - Martin Isaac - he was found this morning.’