Divine Poison

by AB Morgan

  Having worked my magic, through a white lie, I saw that Sean and Manuela appeared less burdened. They could concentrate on finding their son.

  ‘Shall I ring the Green Man? The landlady may be able to shed some light on where Ben is now.’ The exhausted pair nodded gratefully.

  The landlady at the Green Man pub confirmed the inevitable. ‘He was here … last night, plastered. Haven’t seen him today. I’ll tell him you’re looking for him, shall I?’

  ‘His parents are the ones he needs to call. They’re worried sick.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it! Poor folks.’

  Switching both my phones on as I walked along, I made my way straight back to the car, and a tolerant Deefer had to cope with the shortest walk in his living memory. Messages beeped, and missed calls beeped, and answerphone messages beeped. ‘Oh dear, something’s up.’

  An understatement, as it turned out.

  Kelly at the office was furious when I reported in. ‘Where the hell have you been?’ she snarled. ‘Eddie called in to St David’s Church Hall. You weren’t there. You haven’t called in to report your plans for the day. I sent text messages, left voice mails, which you can’t be bothered to reply to. It makes you look like you’re too good for us mere mortals who are doing your work for you!’ She had made her views abundantly clear. I had no excuses to give.

  ‘You’re quite right. I’m all over the place since the break-in and I have no excuse whatsoever. I’ve been with Benito Tierney’s parents. They’re in a really bad way.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t think they had been told yet.’

  ‘About what bit? Father Joseph being dead, or Ben being a suspect?’ I asked.

  ‘No, Monica, about Ben being dead.’

  18

  The image on the screen, although grainy, was clear enough for me to see Benito Tierney stumbling along next to the train tracks away from Lensham Station in the direction of Hollberry. His arms were flailing around as if he were trying to swat away several wasps. Some way behind him, it was possible to make out the shapes of two men running to catch up, and they then launched themselves onto a steep bank away from the trackside. The express train appeared from the right of the screen, instantly obscuring the view of Ben. When it had passed by at tremendous speed, all that remained were scattered shreds of clothing with two legs protruding at an impossible angle. One had a shoeless foot still attached to it.

  ‘Where did the rest of him go?’ I asked Charlie as the screen was paused. We had silently watched a few minutes’ worth of CCTV footage, which had led up to this catastrophic accident.

  ‘Well, I’m afraid he was sucked towards the train as it passed, and the rest of him was a lot further back towards the main station. You didn’t have to watch that part, you know,’ Charlie said, trying to be reassuring. In truth, nothing much could have prepared me for what I had seen.

  ‘I wanted to see for myself, but I wish I hadn’t. That’s a sick way to die.’

  ‘Doesn’t look like he deliberately threw himself under a train, does it?’

  ‘No. Was he pissed that early in the day? He looked out of his tree.’

  Charlie was hopeful that the forensic post mortem report would shed some light on Ben’s erratic behaviour. ‘The toxicology report will give us a much better idea, if they can successfully complete one. Monica, did you recognise either of those two men chasing Ben? Do you want to see that part again?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, that bit. But can you stop the film before the train comes along? I don’t think my stomach can take seeing that one more time.’ I tried to smile and keep focussed but I was overwhelmingly nauseous. ‘Can I take a break first?’

  Reports had reached the police that Benito Tierney was being chased by two men onto the railway line immediately before he was killed by the passing express train to Nottingham. Deefer and I had been driven by Charlie to Lensham Railway Station extremely swiftly to try to help with the identification of Ben and, if possible, either of the two men who might have been implicated in his demise. The whole place was awash with ambulance crews, fire service, and police personnel.

  Earlier, I had followed behind Sean and Manuela’s car as they had driven home from the country park.

  ‘God, Deefer, they’re never going to cope with this.’ I was glad to have the dog in the car with me. He was a strong calming presence when I needed it most. I knew what was to happen next. Sean and Manuela did not.

  On arrival at their house, the Tierneys were met by DS Charlie Adams. He had been sent to break the news to Ben’s parents that a tragic accident had occurred less than an hour previously. He then radioed for an ambulance as Sean collapsed with what looked like a heart attack. Manuela was also an appalling pale colour and the ambulance crew responded magnificently, treating her for shock, rushing her and her broken husband to A&E.

  Charlie and I were both having a bad day at the office again.

  There had been a few moments that morning when I thought I would be heading for a breakdown myself. How many more deaths? Two dead patients, one dead investigative journalist, and a deceased priest. Never had there been so much death in such a short span throughout my career.

  I was useless at recognising either of the two shadowy figures who were seen pursuing Ben along the rail tracks. However, there were more camera angles and film to be watched. Information was coming in from police at the station itself, and from officers who were retracing Ben’s hasty and erratic steps.

  ‘I saw him running down Bushmead Road myself,’ I had said to Charlie before we settled down to watch the CCTV footage.

  ‘What time was that?’

  This was where my memory was not clever enough to give a spontaneous reply. ‘Crikey, let me think. I’d just finished talking to Father Raymond, on my mobile phone. I was parked outside the church hall in St David’s Road. Well before nine, I would think.’

  ‘Let’s have a look on your mobile,’ Charlie demanded, then rapidly scrolled through the phone menu and took down the details of the time I had received a call from “Fat Ray”.

  ‘It’s not meant to be rude. It’s shorthand code,’ I said by way of explanation.

  ‘So I see …’

  ‘I was going to follow Ben towards town in my car, but I had a call on my personal mobile from my friend, and I couldn’t find him after that.’

  ‘Did anyone chase after Ben at the time you saw him run past?’

  ‘I didn’t notice. I was talking to Emma for a couple of minutes.’

  ‘Ah well, never mind. We’ll see if anything else shows on the CCTV cameras. One of the team is checking the tapes at the Green Man, too.’

  Charlie Adams didn’t sound disappointed that I had failed to recognise the two men. ‘Never mind, it was worth a shot. We’ll try some of the other tapes. Standard police work …’ The door opened behind us and was filled by an enormous, imposing man. DI Lynch had popped in to see how we were progressing and to ask if he could adopt Deefer, who he spotted sitting by my feet. Deefer wagged at the large man.

  ‘I love Staffies. A much-maligned breed. Totally undeserving of the negative press. No such thing as a bad Staffie, only a bad owner. Mrs Davis, you have a lovely dog and are a credit to him.’ His booming voice filled the small room. ‘No luck? Never mind. Mystery solved anyway. The two gentlemen we are looking for are here at the station. They seem to be suffering from the shock of today’s events, but they’ve made our officers aware of the circumstances leading to their actions. They knew the young man. Lucky they didn’t get killed.’

  He frowned at me. ‘You look shattered, why don’t you take your dog home and take a break from work for a few days. I’m sure they can manage without you. We’ll call you if we think you can help.’

  ‘Thanks,’ was my feeble reply.

  ‘Hardly surprising, sir,’ added Charlie. ‘Monica here has been having a rough time of it lately. This is your second patient death this month, isn’t it?’

  I didn’t need reminding.

&
nbsp; ‘Keep an eye on Mrs Davis, Detective Sergeant Adams, one more and it becomes a pattern …’ DI Lynch was making his whole body wobble by laughing at his own joke. I wanted to find it funny, but my recent emotional turmoil had left me flat and drained. I didn’t even register that DI Lynch was calling me by my married name.

  ‘Right, Detective Sergeant Adams, let’s scrape the rest of the unlucky sod from the tracks and get the railways running again, shall we? Update me with any significant findings, but there’s nothing untoward apparent. Yet another death of a mental patient.’ DI Lynch’s voice and thoughtless words could be heard echoing as I left the station through a staff entrance, and walked back to my car, which had been abandoned outside the Tierneys’ house. I was grateful for a moment alone with Deefer. He appreciated the walk, too.

  I don’t usually do as I’m told by strangers, but DI Lynch had given sound advice. I called Kelly, absented myself formally from work, and went home where I locked the door securely behind me. Lying on the bed fully clothed, I cuddled Deefer and sipped at a cup of tea. I didn’t want to sleep. Every time I closed my eyes with the intention of relaxing, I saw the mangled bottom half of Ben. A tortured soul. Crushed and bloodied.

  Sliding from the bed I knelt on the floor, pulling towards me the only remaining G.C. journal, which I had hidden again underneath my bedside cabinet. Was it a work of fiction? Why would someone want to steal the journals in my possession? Did they know this one was missing? ‘Oh, shut up, head,’ I shouted at myself. ‘Just read the bloody thing.’

  I settled back onto neatly arranged pillows, journal in one hand, mug of tea in the other. Skimming over The Ten Commandments for poisoners, I reminded myself of the sad story of the accidental killing by Mr M, of the lady housekeeper. ‘A bit like the chilli con carne …’ I said aloud, without conscious thought. As soon as the words left my lips I sat upright with such a jolt that I spilt my tea. Holy crap! What if the chilli had been poisoned but it was meant for Father Raymond and not Father Joseph? Or it had been meant for both of them? If it wasn’t poisoned by Sean, Manuela, or Ben, then it had to be Father Raymond who poisoned the chilli after it had been delivered.

  ‘Read on. Read on,’ I told myself sternly. The answer had to be in the journals. I flipped pages back and forth reading a few lines here and there, trying to find a key phrase that would alert me to the core clue.

  There it was. Four words: …Catholic boys’ home deaths. I grabbed my notebook and a pen and trawled back through the italicised writing until I came to the beginning of that section.

  Mr M and I had never been asked to undertake a commission for the church and neither of us had predicted that such a request would ever arise. In 1978 however, I began researching and planning a non-commissioned work to remove four members of the Catholic Church. It was never carried out at my hand.

  Our GP, Dr K, had been called to the local Catholic boys’ home, St Ignatius’ Home for Boys, (this is a pseudonym to protect the innocent), where three unexplained deaths had occurred. These were young boys, aged about twelve, who had been found dead after eating what were thought to be wild mushrooms. The coroner’s investigation into the tragic incident reached an open verdict. It could not be determined whether the fungi had been accidentally or deliberately ingested.

  Dr K held wider suspicions. He had never been asked to attend to any illness in the home, and none of the boys or staff had registered with his surgery. The health and welfare of the children was undertaken wholly by the church, it seemed. When Dr K had been asked to confirm the deaths of the boys, he witnessed the interactions between a number of the children and the priest who ran the home. Whatever he saw led Dr K to make special arrangements to speak to a number of the boys during a school day, when they were routinely examined by the school nurse, Nitty Nora. There was no Catholic school for fifty miles and this resulted in the boys from the home having to attend a local secondary school. Usually, the children from the boys’ home were excluded from the annual school nurse inspection of backs for straightness, feet for corns, bunions or verrucae, and hair for lice; but on this occasion an exception was made by the headmistress. She was Dr K’s wife.

  Dr K was an old and trusted friend of Mr M, who was then approaching his eightieth birthday. Dr K was in a state of despair when they met. Before he left the school gates Dr K had phoned social services asking for them to take the children of St Ignatius Catholic Home for Boys into safe care and he called for the police.

  According to Mr M, who sat with Dr K the evening after he had made his reports to the authorities, Dr K had taken the right moral action. The boys spoken to by Dr K had revealed, independently of each other, that the priests at the home had routinely forced the children into sexual acts in the name of God. Dr K had the names of the priests involved and had told the police the shameful truth. Dr K had come to ask Mr M about the toxicity of the mushrooms and details about how the three boys who had died may have found this particular type. He was highly suspicious about the way in which the three boys had died. His suspicions were well founded.

  Dr K had written to the coroner to advise that the particular mushrooms identified could not have be picked by them unless they were under supervision, as the death cap would usually be found in deciduous woodland, whereas the report from the press indicated that they had been picking field mushrooms. Dr K questioned why the priests at the home failed to seek medical attention for the boys who would have had severe vomiting and although they may have given the impression of recovery after a couple of days, had then died of kidney and liver failure. Yet no ambulance was called.

  Dr K never had the chance to see the results of his brave stand against the Catholic Church. The police and social services did investigate abuse at the home, but by the time they took any action, there had been a miraculous change of staff. Dr K was damned in the press for making unfounded malicious and litigious accusations against the Catholic Church. They blamed the fact that he was Jewish. His wife lost her post at the school on the grounds of mismanagement of child welfare. The school nurse was cross-questioned about Dr K’s interviewing of the children regarding abuse, and doubt was thrown on his motives. In the end Dr K was portrayed as a sensation-seeking sex-fiend. He and his wife took their lives in what was reported to be a suicide pact. Neither Mr M nor I believed that to be a true fact.

  Mr M had the names of the priests that Dr K had given him and we set about finding these men. We could not trace them at first, but what we found was an endless web of hidden abuse and financial misappropriation. There is evidence that the Catholic Church and its allies will go to any length to preserve their reputation. A whole religious authority and its protectors stood between us and the truth.

  ‘Oh no, I can’t read the rest, it’s all smudged and stained,’ I moan. ‘What happened to the boys?’ Deefer pricked his ears up and tilted his head to one side.

  The Jesuits were formed as soldiers of the Catholic Church … a small glimmer of hope … one true Jesuit …

  ‘Crap. Double crap. What about the bloody Jesuits? What have they got to do with the price of sliced bread?’ There was a hole in the page and then a final couple of lines written in Grace’s familiar hand.

  Two boys from the home have carried on the work I could not finish. Whoever is reading this, please help them.

  19

  I remained ambivalent about the story in the journal. It couldn’t be a memoir. I wasn’t even sure what had possessed me to think that it held vital information, other than the fact that some mysterious person had ransacked our home and taken every single one of the others.

  ‘Time for your tea, Deefer, and then we shall give Sophie and Thea a treat. They can play dressing up with you.’ Deefer sighed loudly. ‘Give over, you love it really,’ I teased.

  Emma was in a determined mood when Deefer and I found her in the warmth of the kitchen at Folly Farm. The two farm collies had ignored us. They were familiar with our smell and recognised us, saving them the bother of rounding us
up. The geese were in the yard and these creatures had other ideas.

  ‘The damn things frighten me to death,’ I exclaimed to Emma.

  ‘That’s the general idea, dopey. Poor Deefer, don’t look so worried, they won’t eat you.’ I knew Emma had meant to give my dog reassurances about the geese, but at that moment, a couple of squealing miniature Emmas pranced in through the internal door. Two giggling girls swamped Deefer in hugs and cuddles. They took his lead from me without a word of welcome, and marched purposefully towards their bedroom where their grandmother was waiting to read them a favourite story. I smiled at the innocence and sheer delight on their faces. Suddenly, however, there was a dreadful screeching noise followed by screams. Emma and I turned to run towards the children when Sparkey flew past, fur puffed up on his back. He shot out of the small kitchen window, which had become his new cat flap.

  ‘Oops, we forgot about Sparkey,’ I said, as Emma checked upstairs with the girls who were now laughing. Grandma Frost confirmed that all was well and no harm done.

  Recovering quickly, Emma and I set up HQ on the vast farmhouse table that stood centre stage in her kitchen. She collected a large blackboard from the adjoining room and perched it neatly onto an easel. Next to this she placed a flipchart board stocked with a new pad of paper and fat felt pens.

  ‘I feel like I’m at a training session, or a personal seminar. You’ve excelled yourself again, my dear Watson.’

  ‘You ain’t seen nothin’ yet, my dear Holmes,’ Emma said, producing half a dozen plastic figures.

  ‘What the hell are they? They look like mini hedgehog people.’

  ‘No getting anything past you, is there, Holmes? That’s exactly what they are. These, Sherlock old bean, are Sylvanian tree-family people, courtesy of Sophie and Thea. Each one of these small toys represents a victim, and these are the potential suspects,’ she said, producing from a box a further selection of small white plastic mice-people, in frocks.