by Ellis, Tim
‘Very good. I’ll be sorry to lose him.’
‘But not sorry enough to help us find out who killed him.’
The Archbishop didn’t respond.
‘Maybe I should come back with a warrant.’
‘No judge would authorise a warrant. The seal of the confessional is absolute.’
‘So, Father Grove confessed to you?’
Again, the Archbishop said nothing.
‘Come on, Tony. We seem to be flogging a priest who’s taken a vow of silence.’
They put their cups on the tray and stood up.
‘I’m sorry I couldn’t . . .’
‘Save it, Archbishop. I’m just surprised a man of God would let a killer get away.’
Outside the room, Father Fleming was waiting to escort them to the door.
‘Goodbye, Inspector Stone.’ Archbishop Godfrey closed the gap between them, took hold of her hand and whispered in her ear, ‘If you need to talk about your father or what Jacob did to you, call me.’
She snatched her hand away. How did he know about her father? How did he know what Jacob had done to her?
The corner of his mouth went up.
She turned on her heel and clip-clopped across the parquet floor.
Father Fleming opened the door, but before she could squeeze through the gap he slipped a piece of paper into her hand.
When she looked at him he ignored her.
‘Thank you for coming, Inspector. If there’s anything else we can help you with, please don’t hesitate to call.’
‘Oh yeah, like you’ve been very helpful this time round.’
The door closed behind them.
As they walked along the street to Tony’s red Alfa Romeo Spider he said, ‘What did the Archbishop whisper?’
‘Nothing of any interest.’ She opened the piece of paper that Father Fleming had slipped into in her hand and read what was on it:
07895 837417
Ring after 6pm
‘What’s that?’ Tony asked.
She passed it to him as they slid into the car seats. ‘From Father Fleming.’
‘What? He just gave it to you?’
‘Yes.’
‘There’s something’s going on, isn’t there?’
‘Something that we’re not privy to.’
‘We should get some lunch and plan our next move,’ Tony said.
‘Go on then.’ She’d had nothing all day.
‘Where?’
‘You choose.’
Tony pulled into The Tyburn on the corner of Edgware Road and Bayswater Road. A round stone inset into the pavement outside the pub marked the site of the tree where Oliver Cromwell was posthumously hanged following his exhumation from Westminster Abbey.
‘I expected sawdust on the floor, spittoons and serving wenches,’ Tony said.
The pub had recently been modernised. Glass had replaced the round wall. Now customers could watch the traffic and people passing as they ate and drank. There were proper tables and chairs, but there was also tall bistro tables where people could stand and graze. It was all very fashionable.
They both had chicken dippers with a selection of dips and orange juice, and sat at a normal table.
‘It’s fairly obvious that the Archbishop is using the seal of the confessional to keep information on Father Grove’s past from us,’ Tony said. ‘And he’s also right when he says that no judge will give us a warrant to obtain that information.’
‘We might not need a warrant if Father Fleming is going to spill the beans.’
‘If.’
‘What else could it be?’
Tony stuffed a dipper dripping in salsa sauce into his mouth. ‘Do you think that Father Grove was killed because of something in his past?’
‘That’s what we need to find out. We’ll go and search the church and the priest’s house after this.’
‘Perkins and his people did a thorough search of both places after you’d left this morning, you know.’
‘Of course they did, but now we know what we’re looking for.’
‘Did I say how great it was to have you back?’
‘You’re making me blush.’
‘Frank is okay, but he’s not you.’
‘I’m glad you’ve noticed.’
Archbishop Godfrey had obviously had her checked out, but why? And how had he found out about her father? As far as she knew, she and Dr Lytton were the only ones who had known about that. And how had he found out about what Jacob and his brothers had done to her? For some reason, Godfrey had made it personal. Maybe he was trying to blackmail her into backing off. But why? He was definitely hiding something, but what? Was it incriminating to Grove? Or the church? Or both? Was it another paedophile scandal? Why was Father Fleming going to blow the whistle? She needed answers.
And what the hell was Randall playing at? What was so urgent that he couldn’t talk to her? What the hell was he doing now?
Chapter Six
They made their way out of Blackwall Tunnel. The sky was overcast and heavy with snow. He felt self-conscious as he followed Bradley Bath to the Traffic Management Centre. If he’d had a round spiky brush he could easily have passed for a Victorian chimney sweep and auditioned for a singing and dancing part in Mary Poppins.
‘You can have a shower up there if you want to,’ Bath suggested.
It was certainly a tempting offer, but he had no clean clothes. There was a fair distance to travel on the tube to get back to Hammersmith. People would avoid him as if he’d just climbed out of the sewers, and they wouldn’t be far wrong.
‘I need some clean clothes to put on afterwards,’ he said.
Bath rubbed his chin, transferring more filth from his hands to his face. ‘Yeah . . . You can’t really go clothes shopping looking like that. I could probably rustle up a pair of overalls.’
‘It’s only to get me back to Hammersmith.’
‘We’ll do that then.’
The Traffic Management Centre was on the third floor of a high-rise to the left of the eastern tunnel. People hung back as the two of them caught the lift. Bath didn’t seem to mind how strangers turned their noses up at him.
Randall guessed Bath was used to the way people behaved when he was in the vicinity. ‘You’ve got over twenty years in the job then?’
‘Yep.’
‘Ever thought of going into something else?’
Bath laughed. ‘Going into something else. Yeah, I like that. No, not really. Oh, I have days when I wonder what the hell I’m doing with my life, but they pass. I think of myself as a guardian of Greenwich history. Somebody had to look after her. If not me, then who? When they write the official history of the tunnel, my name will be in there somewhere – that’s what keeps me going. I’m the longest-serving maintenance worker you know.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. By the time I retire I’ll have been here thirty-five years.’
The lift came to a stop. ‘Doors opening,’ a disconnected female voice informed them.
‘Here we are. Do you want to shower while I go and get you a copy of that DVD?’
‘Yeah, I think so.’
Bath showed him to the locker and shower room. ‘We keep spares for visitors,’ he said, and opened a locker that had towels, shampoo and soap inside. ‘Help yourself. I’ll go and get a clean pair of overalls.’
Bath left him on his own.
He stripped off his clothes and walked into the shower room. The water was hot. It felt good to wash the filth off his face and hands, and excavate the crud from his nose.
After a good twenty minutes in the shower he dried himself, put his boxers back on, sat on a wooden bench in the locker room with the towel wrapped around his waist and waited for Bradley Bath to return with the overalls. He’d expected him to have been back by now, and hoped there was no problem with either the overalls or the DVD. He decided to phone Molly.
‘About time you bloody called.’
‘Hello, Molly. How are
you?’
‘Don’t pretend you care.’
‘You’re back at work now?’
‘How would you know?’
He smiled. Of course he knew. He’d been receiving regular texts from Salih Reis and John Crabbe. He knew that she and Read had been to see Archbishop Henry Godfrey and they were now having lunch at the Tyburn pub on Edgware Road. ‘Did you ring to give me a hard time?’
‘You rang me.’
‘I’m just returning your call.’
‘You’ve left me with a pile of shit.’
‘If you recall, I left in a bit of a hurry.’
‘I’m not talking about that. David Haig asked the CCRC to review his case. They think it might be a miscarriage of justice and the case has just gone into the review stage. I’ve got to meet one of their flunkies at the Margravine Gardens warehouse to hand over all of the evidence.’
‘That case is watertight. His DNA was found inside the victim.’
‘I said as much to the Chief. The bastard has a journalist helping him – a Kelly Upshaw from the Hammersmith Herald. She’s running a campaign to free him and has a website linked to the Miscarriage of Justice site.’
‘What grounds has he got for a review?’
‘Am I your secretary?’
‘I’m looking for a secretary who can make a decent cup of coffee if you’re interested.’
‘So am I if you’re interested. You know if they find that you fucked the case up they’ll come after you?’
‘It’s watertight.’
‘You sound like an echo.’
‘Thanks.’
‘How come it’s at the review stage if it’s watertight?’
‘I don’t know, but I’ll find out.’
‘So, what are you doing now?’
‘I’m sitting in a men’s locker room with no clothes on.’
‘I’ve heard those places can be dangerous, especially if you’re looking for a bar of soap.’
‘Thanks for the warning.’
‘Well?’
‘I’m a private investigator.’
She made a noise. ‘Divorce cases?’
‘How did you guess? What about you?’
‘You know, just another boring old murder.’
‘Well, if you need my help you know where I am.’
‘I can break the law all on my own now, thank you.’
‘How are you feeling?’
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Same old Molly.’
‘Same old Randall, and less of the old. In comparison to you I’m a foetus.’
‘Keep in touch then.’
‘Hey, are you going to meet me at Margravine Gardens?’
‘I don’t think so. I’ll stay in the background for now.’
‘Sometimes I really hate you, Randall.’
She ended the call.
Mmmm! David Haig was the worst kind of scumbag – a rapist and a murderer. The jury had convicted him without a second thought. The judge had given him a life sentence – although life didn’t actually mean life anymore – if it ever did. He hadn’t been handed a whole-life sentence. As such, he’d be eligible for parole after a minimum-term of fifteen years. He’d been in HMP Belmarsh for about five years now. There was no doubt he had raped and murdered Chelsea Mey, so what had changed? He phoned Ruby again.
‘Twice in one day? Am I lucky, or what?’
‘I love the sound of your voice, Ruby.’
‘Yeah, right.’
‘David Haig . . .’
‘I remember him.’
‘Oh?’
‘He was the bastard that raped and murdered that Chelsea something-or-other, wasn’t he?’
‘Chelsea Mey. Yes. He’s trying to get out of prison and the Criminal Cases Review Commission are investigating his case. Can you . . .’
‘Leave it with me, Mr Randall. There’s no fucking way he’s getting out if I have anything to do with it. God, I hate rapists.’
‘And . . .’
‘Yeah?’
‘Kelly Upshaw. She works for the Hammersmith Herald. She’s running a campaign to free him and she has a website.’
‘Why would a woman do something like that?’
‘I don’t know, but we’re going to find out.’
‘You do know I don’t work for free, don’t you?’
‘Of course. When you’ve done the work, you can charge me what you think is fair. If you need something up front just let me know.’
‘Wicked.’
The call ended.
Eventually Bath returned.
‘Sorry, mate. Got waylaid by a pretty lady from clerical.’ He thrust the overalls at him and put the DVD on the bench.
The overalls were a bit tight round the crotch and the legs were about two inches too short.
‘Anything a bit longer.’
‘Yeah, they’re a bit snug, aren’t they? Sorry, they were the best I could find.’
‘Oh well, they’ll have to do I suppose. There isn’t a plastic bag lying around that I can put my dirty clothes in, is there?’
Bradley searched and found one.
Randall thanked Bath for all his help and made his way out onto the street. Although people looked at him quizzically his trip was uneventful, and he reached Hammersmith station by ten to two. After putting his dirty clothes in the dry cleaners he went to the cafe and had lunch. Kiri was too busy to talk, but she did give him a strange look.
In the flat he put clean clothes on and liberated his old donkey jacket from a bag by the door that was destined for the charity shop along the street. Kiri had found it in the back of the cupboard where he’d hidden it. Against his better judgement he’d let her take it, but he felt like a collaborator – as though he’d betrayed an old friend to the authorities. The jacket was well past its sell-by date, but it was only for a couple of days. He’d meant to buy a new one, but they took months to break in and he kept putting it off.
He put the DVD in his laptop and watched as vehicles entered and left the tunnel. He saw the O’Connor car go in, and could see Jim and Colleen clearly in the early morning sun – Colleen was driving. Eventually, the maintenance worker drove the car out the other end of the tunnel and parked it up. The car was then in view of the camera until the police arrived and examined the vehicle. It would take some time to cross-reference the number plates of vehicles entering and leaving the tunnel. And then he needed to check out the owners of the vehicles. He could have passed the task to Molly, but in view of her new case and the CCRC review of Haig he decided not to.
That left Ruby – again!
It was going to cost him a stack of money if he kept using Ruby, but it was also obvious that he couldn’t be a PI without technological back-up.
He rang Athena.
‘Hello, Mr Randall.’
‘Hello, Athena. How are you?’
‘I’m very well, thank you. What about yourself?’
‘Yes, I’m good.’
‘Are you going to tell me why you rang me now?’
‘We need a board meeting.’
‘Oh, and why is that?’
‘I’m paying a woman to find things out for me.’
‘I see.’
‘Did I hear you mention computer security when we spoke last?’
‘It’s something I’m looking into as a means of expanding the company.’
‘Because I need someone to do research for me.’
‘If you bring it into the company it has to be legal.’
‘Ah!’
‘Are you still there, Mr Randall?’
‘Yes, I’m still here. Most of what she’s doing . . . well, in fact all of what she’s doing is illegal.’
‘In which case I would suggest that you keep things just the way they are.’
‘I’m glad I rang you, Athena.’
‘So am I. How’s the investigation going?’
‘Early days yet. I’ve been mucking out in the Blackwall Tunnel all morning, and now I need a
new donkey jacket.’
‘I’ll see you soon, Mr Randall.’
The call ended.
So, Ruby was his dirty little secret. He’d give her a ring later and put the ad hoc basis of their relationship onto a more permanent footing.
Now though he had an appointment with Mr and Mrs O’Connor.
Chapter Seven
St Peter-in-Chains church was still a crime scene, and although there was a queue of people who wanted to enter the church for various reasons, they were told by Constable Deborah Ross – who had been tasked to prevent entry to unauthorised persons – to come back the next day when it might be available.
The press were also in attendance. As Molly arrived the cameras began clicking and flashing. ‘What can you tell us, DI Stone?’ a female reporter asked.
‘I can tell you that there’ll be a press briefing at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.’ She nearly double-booked herself for four o’clock that day, but remembered in time that she had to meet the CCRC flunky at Margravine Gardens.
She ducked under the yellow and black “Crime Scene – Do Not Cross” tape that Tony held up for her.
‘I’ve made a list, Ma’am,’ Constable Ross said.
Molly looked at Ross as if she’d just staggered out of the jungle carrying the rotting corpse of an alligator. ‘You shouldn’t really be compiling your shopping list while you’re meant to be guarding a crime scene, Constable.’
Constable Ross shook her head. ‘No, Ma’am.’ She pulled her notebook out of her breast pocket, tore out a page and thrust it at Molly. ‘A list of the people who have asked to enter the church while I’ve been standing here.’
Molly took the paper.
‘That’s excellent,’ Tony said. ‘Well done, Ross.’
‘Thank you, Sir.’
‘No, I’m not a “Sir” yet. You can call me “Detective”, or if you’re free tonight I’ll let you call me . . .’
‘DC Read,’ Molly said. ‘Put the Constable down, you don’t know where she’s been.’
Ross blushed.
Molly examined the list. Most of the people simply wanted access to the church to pray, but one person – a Mrs Mary Izatt – was a church helper, and Ross had written down her address. ‘Yes, good job, Ross. How did the church helper – Mrs Izatt – seem to you?’