The Gordian Knot (Stone & Randall 2)

by Ellis, Tim

  ‘Devastated, Ma’am. She hadn’t heard the news today, so she just came straight here as she does most days apparently. I had to tell her the priest was dead.’

  Tony said, ‘She might know something about . . .’

  Molly interrupted him. ‘Yes, that’s what I was thinking. We’ll call round to her house when we’ve finished here.’

  The church was empty and cold, and Molly could see her own breath as she exhaled. The cross and the body had been removed, and the drying blood on the floor had been cordoned off with tape. She wondered who would clean the blood up. There were crime scene cleaning companies – would they do it? Whose responsibility was it to contact them? Who would pay? Maybe the church clearers would mop it up.

  They found the priest’s small office behind the Sanctuary, wedged between the Chapel and the Liturgical Storage Room. They had to pass through a short corridor with books crammed into bookshelves on either side to enter the priest’s office, and apart from a long thin frosted window there was no other entrance or exit to the room.

  Tony switched on the light. ‘It’s like the black hole of Calcutta in here.’

  The room was clean but dour. The paintwork had yellowed and it was in desperate need of some tender loving care. It was a room that was at odds with the well-cared for appearance of the church and suggested the priest simply didn’t care what it looked like.

  On the floor was an old frayed rug. There was a desk and chair against the wall on the right and a battered old easy chair in the corner on the left next to a wardrobe.

  Molly began searching the desk. On top was a dark green scratched and chipped lamp that she switched on to provide extra light, a pot of old pens and pencils, a desk mat with blotting paper that had been completely filled up with all manner of scribbles, numbers and doodles, and a BT digital telephone. She took out the blotting paper, but found that the three sheets underneath were in the same condition. And then after examining the desk mat surround more closely, she found that it had also been used as a notepad. She decided to take the mat and the sheets.

  On the right of the desk was a small cupboard. She opened it to find a stack of twelve old black bibles with red edging and a smaller stack of seven “Hymns Old & New” hymn books. She picked the top one up and opened it at random: 367: My Soul is Sad. She slammed it shut again – bloody religion.

  There were four drawers on the left of the desk. The top one contained general knick-knacks, more pens and pencils and an empty wire-ringed notepad. The second drawer had four folders inside entitled: Sermons 2013; The Choir; Coffee Mornings; and Nursery. She skimmed each one, but there was nothing of interest. The third drawer was empty. The bottom drawer contained diaries for the years 2011 and 2012. She took them out, and put them on top of the desk mat and blotting papers. The question that immediately sprang to her mind was: Where was the diary for this year?

  ‘Have you found a 2013 diary?’ she asked Tony.

  ‘I’ve found nothing, Gov.’

  ‘Maybe it’ll be at his house.’ She picked up the desk mat and the diaries and passed them to Tony. ‘Put those in the boot of your car, we’ll look at them later.’

  They made their way out of the church, borrowed the key off Constable Ross and crossed Hegel Street to the priest’s house opposite, which was a Victorian brick building with sash windows, fancy chimney pots and a round stained-glass window in the porch.

  ‘Priests like to live in style, don’t they?’ Tony said.

  ‘It belongs to the Catholic church remember,’ Molly reminded him. ‘They have more money than some countries.’

  ‘Really? Maybe I should become a priest.’

  ‘And practise celibacy?’

  ‘Oh yeah, I’d forgotten about that.’ He grinned. ‘Maybe I was being a bit hasty.’

  ‘And anyway, the priests don’t get any of that money.’

  Tony scratched his head. ‘I’m wondering who does.’

  She pulled a face. ‘I don’t think anybody gets it. They just hoard it in the catacombs beneath the Vatican.’

  ‘Surely they do good works with it.’

  ‘Have you ever heard a single report of the Catholic church spending money on good works?’

  ‘Now you come to mention it – no. Maybe they like to keep a low profile.’

  ‘They’re in the business of recruiting members, so why would they hide their light under a bushel?’

  Tony shrugged and opened the front door.

  ‘I’ll take downstairs,’ Molly said. ‘You take upstairs.’

  He nodded and ran up the stairs two at a time.

  She began in the kitchen.

  When she was in the priest’s office in the church, she had the feeling that Father Grove wasn’t staying. There was nothing personal, no keepsakes, certificates, or pictures on the wall. He hadn’t been reading a book, writing a report for the Church Times, or planning for the future. As far as she could tell, he was simply filling a vacant space.

  It could just be that he lived as a single man – nothing more, nothing less, because the cupboards were mostly bare. Father Grove had lived here for three years, and yet he hadn’t. The kitchen cupboards belonged to a man who was merely passing through. There was enough food in the fridge for one day – two if it was eked out. The drawers in the freezer were empty, and had been for some time. On the draining board was one plate, one mug and cutlery for one. Weren’t priests meant to be sociable? Didn’t they wine and dine people in the community? Who the hell was Father Nathan Grove?

  He employed a cleaner. As she moved into the living room, she realised that someone must have been employed to clean the house – it was dust-free, and she guessed the priest hadn’t run round with a feather duster himself.

  The living room was like the kitchen. If she didn’t know Father Grove had lived here for three years, she would have thought it was an empty house awaiting occupation by the appointed parish priest.

  Tony appeared. ‘Father Grove didn’t believe in unnecessary clutter. He was using the double bedroom – a few clothes and shoes etcetera, but nothing personal. In the bathroom was a toothbrush, toothpaste, razor and aftershave, oh . . . and some soap.’

  ‘He was ready to go at the first sign of danger.’

  ‘Yeah . . . I think you’re right, Gov. But danger from what?’

  ‘I think we already have the answer to that. Danger from someone who wanted to crucify him. What we don’t know is why.’

  ‘And that’s in his past?’

  ‘Exactly. The one place we don’t seem able to get access to at the moment.’

  ‘I wonder why the Archbishop won’t tell us.’

  Molly wandered out into the hallway. ‘It must be something that would embarrass the church.’

  ‘Maybe we should arrest him for perverting the course of justice.’

  ‘There’s nothing I’d like better. We could use some of the devices they employed during the Spanish Inquisition to extract the information.’

  ‘I see you’ve still got your sense of humour, Gov.’

  ‘Who said I was joking?’

  There was another smaller room that Father Grove had been using as a second office, but there was nothing of any interest in it. She couldn’t remember ever having been in a house that was so desolate.

  ‘We need to get forensics back,’ she said.

  ‘They’re not going to like that.’

  ‘Tough. There’s no diary for 2013. I think the killer took it, which means he had to find it first.’

  ‘Ah, you think he searched the house?’

  ‘And the church office. I want a sweep for fingerprints. Give Perkins a ring, tell him there’s still a vacant cell with his name on it unless he gets someone over here now.’

  ‘Will do.’

  She wandered from room to room and knew she was right. The man who had occupied this house, the church and possibly the parish, wasn’t really here. She didn’t know where he’d been before he came here, but she was determined to find ou
t.

  ‘Someone’s on the way,’ Tony said. ‘He also wanted to know if you’d like him to dust Hammersmith for fingerprints while he was sitting around contemplating his navel.’

  ‘Ring him back and tell him yes.’

  Tony grinned. ‘Mrs Izatt – the church helper?’ he prompted.

  She checked her watch. It was five to three. ‘You’ll have to go on your own. I have to be at Margravine Gardens at four o’clock, but I need to go back to the station and get my car first.’

  ‘Yeah, no point in going to Mrs Izatt’s and then having to leave before we’re finished.’

  ‘Ask her about a cleaner as well. Somebody cleaned the house regularly, and it wasn’t the priest.’

  They walked back across the road, returned the key to Constable Ross and told her about the forensic officer due to arrive.

  Chapter Eight

  Marvin and Megan O’Connor – Jim’s parents – lived at 27 Tavistock Street in Covent Garden. He didn’t have to switch tube lines because both Hammersmith and Covent Garden stations were on the Piccadilly Line.

  Once he’d exited Covent Garden station he still had a fair distance to walk to reach the house, but he didn’t mind. He’d spent a year in the asylum without the freedom to walk where he wanted to and during that time he’d learnt to appreciate what they’d taken away from him. He turned left along Long Acre, and right onto Bow Street, which at the crossroads became Washington Street. He eventually reached Tavistock Street on his right and turned into it.

  The houses used to belong to the council, but under the right-to-buy scheme the O’Connors had made a killing. Over the years property in the area had soared, and the three-bedroom semis along the street were now worth close to a million pounds each.

  He walked past a three year old dark blue Ford Focus parked on the driveway and realised that it was the car Jim and Colleen O’Connor were driving when they disappeared in the Blackwall Tunnel. He’d ask Jim’s parents if he could examine it after he’d spoken to them and found out who their son was.

  The corner of his mouth went up as he knocked twice using the door knocker. A memory of the rent man knocking to collect the rent jumped into his head. He hadn’t always lived in London. His childhood had been spent in the backstreets of King’s Lynn. He recalled his mother dreading a knock at the door because it usually meant bad news. The people who knew you simply walked right in and helped themselves to sugar, tea, cigarettes and so on – there was no privacy in those days.

  An over-the-hill woman in her late sixties with dark brown hair out of a bottle and bright red lipstick opened the door.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Cole Randall from AI Investigations.’

  ‘Oh yes. Please come in. Marvin and I have been expecting you.’

  He stepped into the hallway and she closed the door behind him. The smell of burnt food rifled up his nose and made him think of the asylum again. Burnt meat pie was usually on a Thursday, but that didn’t rule out getting burnt meals on other days as well. It was just that you could depend on the meat pie being cremated on Thursdays. It was always comforting to know that Thursday had arrived and that you’d made it through another week. It was a dim light to aim for in the darkness of non-existence.

  ‘Mr Randall?’

  ‘Oh sorry.’ He was daydreaming. ‘The smell of food brought back a memory.’

  She laughed. ‘I wouldn’t call that the smell of food exactly. Marvin’s having a bit of a bad cooking day. The trouble is, he thinks he can multitask like a woman. I’ve told him that drinking a can of beer while watching Tottenham lose isn’t multitasking.’

  He smiled. ‘You’re probably right.’ He wondered why Marvin was busy in the kitchen, and what else he was trying to do while he was doing the cooking, but he didn’t ask.

  She showed him through into the living room. ‘Can I get you something to drink?’

  ‘No, I’m fine thanks.’

  ‘I’ll get Marvin. He’s messing about in his vegetable plot.’

  While she was gone he looked around the room. He’d seen rooms like this before, but not for a long time. One wall had been painted a dark purple gloss. He could see the brush strokes in the paint, but it wasn’t a work of art. The other walls had been painted a matt white some time ago.

  In front of the purple wall was a tall wooden bookshelf that appeared to be leaning and sagging at the same time under the weight of books. He peered at the literature on the shelves. There were some old and new mysteries: The Seeds of Time by Faith Mortimer; Regret No More by Seb Kirby; and The Stranger by Georges Simenon to name just three. He also spotted a thick Book of 1001 Jokes, and a whole stack of crossword and puzzle books.

  This was detective work.

  Who wouldn’t love being a detective given the opportunity? He’d had it taken away from him a year ago, but nobody was ever going to do that to him again.

  He’d examined the crime scene earlier, and now he was questioning people linked to the missing couple. He was gathering facts, building up a picture of who the O’Connors were.

  Was the fact that Jim’s parents liked mystery novels, crosswords and puzzles relevant to his investigation? Was there a conspiracy? Did they already know what had happened to their son and his wife? Was his investigation merely part of the magic trick to help the couple disappear?

  On the ceiling was an integrated fan and light that he thought was only used in hot countries. The doors were unpainted wood. The sofa he was sitting on was bright green and completely different to the other seats in the room, which were grey. There was a white plastic coffee table and the floor was a dark wood. The whole room was a mishmash of designs and periods. Not that he was any expert. He’d always left anything to do with room design to Sarah, and now he wouldn’t dream of telling Kiri how to arrange her flat – and it was her flat. He’d moved in with his few possessions, but it was her flat.

  Megan O’Connor, with her husband Marvin following behind her, came in. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr Randall,’ she said.

  They sat down next to each other on a grey sofa opposite him.

  ‘How’s your investigation going?’ Megan asked.

  ‘This morning I was in the Blackwall Tunnel trying to understand what had happened.’

  ‘Any luck?’ Marvin asked.

  ‘I’m exploring a number of possibilities. What I need now is to find out everything I can about the lives of your son and his wife.’ He took out his notebook. ‘How old is Jim?’

  ‘Twenty-nine.’

  He wrote it down and looked at Megan O’Connor. ‘If you don’t mind me asking, how old were you when you gave birth to him?’

  She glanced at Marvin, then looked down at the floor and began twisting her hands round each other. ‘Too old.’

  He knew very well when people were lying to him. He closed his notebook and said, ‘If you’re not willing to tell me the truth then . . .’

  ‘Why do you need to know?’

  ‘If I’m going to find out what happened to your son and his wife then I need to know everything about them.’

  Marvin offered his hand to her and she grasped it in both of hers. ‘We knew this day would come. He was adopted, but please don’t ever tell him. He doesn’t know. I couldn’t have children. We tried everything, but . . . So, in the end, we applied to adopt. Jim was six weeks old when we got him from Charing Cross Social Services. We always planned to tell him when he was old enough . . . Didn’t we, Marvin?’

  Her husband’s lips tightened and he nodded slowly.

  Randall kept his notebook closed. ‘I see. Do you think he could have found out by himself?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. Marvin and I are the only two people who know. Well . . . now you know.’

  He felt they were still holding back. ‘Do you have any paperwork relating to the adoption?’

  ‘Just a minute.’ Megan stood up and left the room.

  He heard her trudging up the stairs. Then, after a few minutes, coming back down
again. She reappeared in the room carrying a small wooden box and handed it to him.

  ‘That’s all we have.’

  He opened the box. There was a certificate of a live birth from Charing Cross Hospital dated 17th October 1984, and an adoption certificate dated 1st December 1984 in the name of Charlie Cross issued by Bow Magistrates Court.

  ‘I’m confused.’ He could see that the O’Connors were clearly uncomfortable talking about the subject of their son’s birth.

  ‘Jim was an abandoned baby. His mother simply left him in a doorway at the rear of the hospital on Wednesday 17th October 1984. The tradition then was for the nurses to name abandoned babies – so they called him Charlie Cross.’

  ‘And you changed his name to James O’Connor?’

  ‘We did more than that, and I know we’ll probably end up in prison because of it, but we registered him as our own child.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  Marvin squeezed his wife’s forearm and took over. ‘They knew nothing about the child. No mother, no father and no place of birth. It used to be that whoever found an abandoned baby could register its birth.’ He shrugged. ‘Legally, we were ten years too late, but we did it anyway. We hid the adoption certificate and passed him off as our own son.’

  Megan passed him a copy of a birth certificate for James Charlie Cross O’Connor that she’d been hiding.

  He thought about what they’d told him for a handful of minutes and then said, ‘What you’ve done is certainly illegal, but I’m not going to inform anybody – especially not your son. And to be perfectly honest, I think your secret will remain a secret.’

  Megan and Marvin smiled at each other.

  ‘Unless . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Your son has found out he was adopted, or his biological mother has somehow returned from the past to reclaim him.’

  Megan’s eyes opened wide. ‘After twenty-nine years?’

  He shrugged. ‘I merely mention it as a possibility.’

  After recording the relevant details in his notebook he folded the documents up, put them back in the box and passed it back to Megan. ‘Also, after all this time, the authorities finding out would be unlikely to lead to a custodial sentence.’