“The Southaven mortuary has space. We can work there.”
“What will you do with it?” Haysham asked the professor.
Braddock took off his glasses and shoved them into his shirt pocket. “First we’ll have to get the body out of the peat and give it a good clean. Then, depending on how well it’s preserved, we’ll run some tests and get a few specialists involved to find out the make of this chain and crate, for example. And the clothes. Sometimes these bog people are perfectly preserved, down to the buttons on their sleeves and what they ate right before they died.”
Father Gilbert touched Benson’s arm. “Let’s go,” he said softly.
Benson nodded. They moved out of the mud and back towards solid land.
As they removed the waders, Father Gilbert said, “The chain on the medallion had brown fibres stuck in the links. It may be the same cloth as the breeches on that bog body.”
Benson’s eyes widened. “If that’s true, then…”
Father Gilbert nodded.
“But how did the medallion get from here to the church tower?”
“They’re missing a man,” Father Gilbert reminded him.
“Colin Doyle?” It took a moment to register. “Was he the apparition you saw?”
There was no way to answer until Father Gilbert saw Colin Doyle himself.
He looked over at DS Sanders, who was busy taking a statement from Erskine.
He dreaded doing what he knew he had to do. It would push credulity to tell the detective about the encounter in the tower – and the arrival of the medallion there. But Father Gilbert knew he had no choice.
* * *
The office for the building site was a small trailer propped up on breeze blocks. The foreman – a man with deep furrows of worry on his brow – flipped through files in a dented metal cabinet.
Father Gilbert leaned against a scarred metal desk. His back hurt. The run up the tower stairs, the walk across Haysham’s estate, and the marching around in waders had done him no favours.
DS Sanders, who had accepted Father Gilbert’s story with more tolerance than the priest expected, stood in the centre of the office. “Tell me about Doyle. Is he a good worker? Reliable? Trustworthy?”
“Yes,” the foreman said. “I’m surprised he left early. He’s usually the first one here and the last one to go.”
Sanders’ eyes went to Father Gilbert.
“Here it is,” the foreman said. He pulled out a folder, dropped it on the desk, and sorted through the paperwork. A small photo fell to one side. He grabbed it and held it up for the detective and priest to see. “This is Colin Doyle.”
Father Gilbert knew the face immediately. Colin Doyle was the man on the tower.
DS Sanders took the photo from the foreman. “I assume this was a photo you took for security purposes.”
“And for the insurance. That’s why we have the gate set up with the scanner.”
“Gate?” Father Gilbert asked.
“A makeshift security gate, as you come around the drive from the house,” the foreman explained. “Only authorized workers come through. And it keeps the protesters at bay. Lord Haysham is afraid one of those idiots will try to sabotage our work.”
“What keeps them from coming across the marsh?” Father Gilbert asked.
The foreman shrugged. “They don’t want to get their clothes dirty?”
“Is there a log of everyone who comes and goes?” asked the detective.
“Names and times. It’s all computerized.”
“I want to see the log.”
“I’ll have to get it from the security company.”
“Please do.” DS Sanders turned to Father Gilbert. “Well?”
“It’s him.”
“You know Colin?” the foreman asked.
“Not really. But I’ve seen him.”
“This is beyond belief.” DS Sanders shook his head. “I’ll come back to your church to get a statement – and to bag that medallion.”
“Medallion?” the foreman asked.
“Just phone the security company, will you?” Sanders snapped.
The foreman held up his hands to make peace. He went around the desk to the phone.
Father Gilbert’s eyes returned to the photo of Colin Doyle. It was a head-shot, the kind enshrined on most photo IDs. Colin gazed at the camera with eyes that showed none of the despair the priest had seen earlier that morning.
He offered a prayer for the missing man. Dead or alive, he would need it.
CHAPTER 6
Benson was quiet as he drove Father Gilbert back to Stonebridge. Every now and then, he glanced quickly at his passenger. Then a tell-tale sigh.
Father Gilbert broke the silence. “Is there something you want to say?”
Benson tightened his grip on the steering wheel and squirmed in the seat. “I’m trying to get my mind around the idea that you’ve never seen Colin Doyle before.”
“Not that I’m aware.”
“But you saw him this morning in a dream, or as an apparition, and he gave you a medallion.” His knuckles turned white against the steering wheel. “And it turns out he’s the same man from the building site where a body has been found. And now he’s missing.”
Father Gilbert waited.
“Don’t you find it unnerving?”
“Yes,” Father Gilbert said. “Not because it happened, but because I don’t know what it means.”
“Does it have to mean something?”
“Everything has meaning,” said Father Gilbert. “It’s just a question of digging hard enough.”
They pulled into the church car park.
* * *
Father Gilbert dragged two guest chairs together in the middle of his office, then wheeled his leather-backed chair around the desk. DS Sanders and DC Adams arrived just as Benson dashed off to handle a hospital visit. Mrs Mayhew provided a tray of coffee and tea.
“We look like a therapy group,” said DC Adams, who sat a briefcase on the floor next to his chair.
DS Sanders asked Father Gilbert to repeat exactly what had happened on the tower and what the man – Colin Doyle – had said. Father Gilbert went through the scene again with a calmness in his voice he didn’t feel. DC Adams recorded the statement on a digital recording device and scribbled notes. Vacating the proffered chair, DS Sanders paced the office.
DC Adams stared at Father Gilbert. “You know this sounds insane, right? You’re describing something that didn’t actually happen. Colin Doyle wasn’t physically here.”
“He may have been here at some point,” Father Gilbert said. “How else can I explain the medallion?”
DC Adams looked at DS Sanders.
“May I see it?” DS Sanders asked.
Father Gilbert lifted it with two fingers by the chain. DS Sanders produced a clear plastic evidence bag. Father Gilbert dropped it in. DS Sanders sealed it, then looked at it more carefully through the plastic.
“Does it mean anything to you?” he asked the priest.
Father Gilbert detailed his thoughts about the design on the front and back – the upside-down crucifix, the peacock, and anything else he could think to mention. He then pointed out the brown fibres in the chain.
“We’ll check it for prints, then get it to the professor,” DS Sanders said and handed the evidence bag to DC Adams. “It may be connected to the bog body – or not.”
Adams turned the bag over and over, a mystified look on his face.
DS Sanders flipped open a notepad and said, “Colin Doyle’s address is in Southaven. I’m almost certain he’s a member of the builder family.”
“Those Doyles?” Father Gilbert asked. The Doyle name appeared on signs at a variety of building sites. They were wealthy – and notorious. They’d lived in the Southaven area for generations and were officially in the building business. Unofficially, Jack Doyle had his fingers in a lot of dubious enterprises around the area: the black market, maybe drugs and prostitution. It was an open secret that he was connected to
the London underworld, but the police could never build a case against him. Father Gilbert also remembered hearing about Doyle’s various philanthropic efforts – money to various charities and museums. He thought he’d heard that they attended the Cathedral in Southaven, at least on important occasions.
Father Gilbert asked, “Is the job at Lord Haysham’s a Doyle operation?”
“No,” said DS Sanders. “I’m curious about that. Why would a Doyle work for a competing company?”
“Maybe he got tired of all the corruption in the family business,” DC Adams said.
Father Gilbert mused, “The Colin I saw on the tower was in despair and extreme emotional distress. He said he didn’t have a choice but to kill himself. It was the only way to stop ‘them’.”
“What ‘them’?” DS Sanders asked.
“I don’t know,” Father Gilbert answered. “He then said they found something that shouldn’t have been found. The medallion.”
DC Adams lifted the evidence bag again. “There. But now it’s here.”
Father Gilbert continued, “Colin said staying alive was too painful. ‘They’ would make him do things. He said there were a few people who would wish they’d killed themselves before this whole business was over.”
“What was that stuff about being an angel?” DS Sanders asked.
“He said he didn’t want to become one.”
“But then he cut his own throat and threw himself over the side,” DC Adams said. “A funny way to avoid being an angel.”
Father Gilbert smiled at the detective’s mistake. “Angels aren’t humans who’ve died. We don’t go to some cloud in the sky, sprout wings, and play harps for eternity. Angels are distinct from us.”
DC Adams shrugged at the difference. “Then what did he mean?”
Father Gilbert shook his head. “He didn’t explain.”
DS Sanders said, “I like ghost stories as much as anyone, Father. But I don’t know what to make of this.”
“There’s nothing to make of it,” DC Adams said sourly.
The detective sergeant turned to his co-worker. “Put Father Gilbert’s ‘vision’ aside for a moment. The medallion is a physical fact. If it’s linked to that body – which is part of a crime scene – then we have to take every piece of evidence seriously.”
DC Adams lowered his eyes. “It’s a load of rubbish.”
DS Sanders’ mobile phone rang. “Pardon me.” He picked it up and moved to the far side of the office with his back to them.
“I know how you feel,” Father Gilbert said to DC Adams. “The whole situation seems beyond plausibility.”
DC Adams grunted.
A tap on the door sounded and Mrs Mayhew stepped in. “Father, should we adjust the church schedule? Is there anything I ought to cancel?”
He thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No. Leave my schedule as it is. I believe we’re almost finished here.”
“Yes, Father.” She took the tea tray and left.
DS Sanders shoved the mobile phone into his pocket. He turned and looked at them with a grim expression. “They found Colin Doyle.”
“Where was he?”
“He hanged himself in his garage.”
Father Gilbert groaned.
DC Adams uttered a profanity, and then said quickly to the priest, “Sorry, Father.”
DS Sanders’ eyes were fixed on Father Gilbert. “His wife found a note. Colin wrote he’d found the medallion and had no choice. Dying was the only way to stop the pain. He didn’t want to be an angel, he wrote. The same words you claim he said to you in your dream, Father.”
DC Adams’ eyes darted to Father Gilbert. “How do you explain that?”
“I can’t.”
The two police officers gazed at him. For lack of a plausible explanation, Father Gilbert was now a suspect. And so he should be, if they were any good at their jobs. He’d admitted to seeing Colin Doyle earlier. He had the medallion in his possession – a medallion mentioned in a suicide note that Doyle might have truly written, or might have been coerced to write, or which might have been forged by the priest. Doyle’s hanging could have been staged to look like a suicide.
Those were only a few of the possibilities the detectives should now be considering. That Father Gilbert’s motives were unknown to them didn’t make any difference at this point. Motives would be sorted out later.
DS Sanders moved towards the door. “Don’t leave the area, Father.”
CHAPTER 7
“You’re a suspect?” Benson asked when he returned to Father Gilbert’s office.
“Not officially,” Father Gilbert said, “but they’ll be back with more questions. The obvious one being how I came into possession of that medallion.”
“You told them—”
“An unbelievable story,” Father Gilbert said. “The likely scenario is that Colin Doyle took the medallion from the Haysham site and brought it to me.”
“Why?”
“For money, perhaps. The black-market antiques trade can be lucrative. And the Doyles are known for dabbling in it.”
“But you’re not connected to—”
“I’m telling you what the police are probably thinking,” Father Gilbert reminded him.
“And then – what? You met him at his garage and murdered him in a way that makes it look like a suicide?”
“Possibly.”
“You don’t have a car.”
“It’s easy enough to make people believe I don’t have a car. There are plenty of ways to get around.”
Benson thought for a moment. “How do you get off the suspect list?”
“It depends on the timing of when Colin Doyle left the worksite and when the coroner determines he died in his garage.” Father Gilbert wanted to inject some hope into the conversation, though he wasn’t sure if it was for Benson’s sake or his own. “If it’s a window of time when I was here, then Mrs Mayhew and Mr Urquhart are my alibi. And the five people who attended the 7 a.m. service.”
Benson fell silent.
Father Gilbert went to his bookcase and found Crockford’s annual directory for the Church of England. “The Doyles have some connection to the Cathedral in Southaven. I know Sean Fisher. He’s the Canon there.”
A knock at the door and Mrs Mayhew peeked in. “David Todd wants to see you before the meeting,” she said.
“Meeting?”
“The building committee,” she said. “You instructed me not to change the schedule.”
“Right.”
Benson raised an enquiring eyebrow.
“We’re discussing how to raise money for the bell tower,” Father Gilbert explained. “Mr Urquhart insists that it’s in danger of falling over if we don’t do repairs.”
“Shall I allow David Todd to come in?” Mrs Mayhew asked.
“Of course.”
Benson stood up to relinquish his chair as David Todd entered. His curly hair was wet and he wore a casual outfit of jeans with a polo shirt under a jacket. Father Gilbert assumed he’d had a quick shower before coming to the church.
“Hello, Father.”
“Hello, David. What happened with your protest?”
“The police broke us up. It was Haysham’s doing, I’m sure.” He put his hand out to Benson. “David Todd, in case you don’t remember me.”
Benson shook his hand. “Of course.”
“So, what are they going to do with the body?” Todd asked, trying to sound casual, without success.
“They’ve taken it in for examination,” said Father Gilbert.
“I heard it might be a couple of centuries old.”
“Possibly.”
“Too bad for Lord Haysham, then.”
“Why?” Benson asked.
A smug smile was on David Todd’s lips. “If it has historical significance, then his land can’t be used for development. It’ll have to be explored and excavated.”
“Perhaps,” Father Gilbert said, thinking, Don’t get your hopes up.
“I heard the police were here,” Todd said. “Why did they want to talk to you?”
“Oh, the usual. They wanted the benefit of my skills as a former detective with the Yard.”
Todd eyed him. “You’re not going to tell me what’s really going on, are you?”
Father Gilbert smiled back at him as an answer in and of itself.
“All right, then. I’ll see you at the meeting,” Todd said. He nodded to Benson, then stepped out of the office.
“I don’t know what to make of him,” Benson said.
“You’re going to see a lot of David Todd around St Mark’s. His family’s relationship with the church goes back a long way. As does Lord Haysham’s.”
“Will Lord Haysham be here for the meeting?”
“He’s on this particular committee, yes.”
“Isn’t that trouble?”
Father Gilbert nodded. “Fortunately, they don’t often argue when they’re at St Mark’s. It’s supposed to be neutral ground.”
Benson shook his head. “Isn’t it hypocritical for them to pretend to worship together and still hate each other?”
Father Gilbert gazed at the young priest. “Is the church for people who are changed by their faith or for those who are still changing?”
“If you’re going to get all spiritual about it, I withdraw the question.” Benson feigned a look of contrition and moved to the door. He lingered there.
“Something else?”
“Just for the record: we don’t believe in curses, do we?”
“Curses?”
“Colin Doyle said he was cursed.”
“I can’t spell out the official Anglican position,” Father Gilbert said. “Not sure we have one. I suppose it depends on the curse. Though, in this case, it’s not whether we believe in them or not. It’s whether others believe.”
“Why others?”
“People who truly believe in curses are apt to do stupid things.”
CHAPTER 8
Alone for a few moments before the committee meeting, Father Gilbert phoned Canon Sean Fisher at Southaven Cathedral. He left a message on the voicemail system. He then leaned back in his chair, pressed his fingers together, and closed his eyes. His current co-workers would have assumed he was praying. His former coworkers at Scotland Yard would have known he was going over the facts of the case in his mind.
The Body Under the Bridge Page 4