The dog stood, his legs appearing too long for the size of his body. Now suddenly alert, he shook himself. “Too clever by half, this dog! Anything else?”
“What was the matter?”
“Didn’t say, seemed a little rushed but I guess it was a throat infection or the like, sounded hoarse, raspy. I told him to take good care and he hung up. Probably that man flu!” She chuckled to herself and then looked skyward as if expecting some kind of divine retribution to break from the blue.
“Did he ring from his house line or his mobile?”
Mrs Fleet stood and stared at April. Her facial expression said everything but the words quickly followed in case there was any doubt. “He rang. How do I know what phone he used?”
“Was his the last call you received today, you see I’m from the police and that’s a vital piece of information. If it were the last call you received then by dialling 1471, I can see the number he called you on.” April showed her ID. She could now see the anxiety appear on Mrs Fleet’s face.
“He is all right?”
“Yes, I just need to check that number.”
“The house phone, it’s there on the kitchen wall. He is all right, isn’t he?”
As April entered, Mrs Fleet unhooked the chain that fastened the dog to the kennel and she attached a lead to his collar, moving him toward the bantams and the fence. The dog put his nose to the wire and watched them scratch and peck. April left the house and waved her thanks, eager to return to the vicarage. She was not expecting a no number stored message. She saw Mrs Fleet turn to come towards her whilst tugging at the lead and grumbling at Ralph. April took the opportunity to slip down the passageway to her car.
Cyril answered her call.
“Uncomfortable feeling about this, sir.” She described her morning whilst driving back.
“When you get to the vicarage, wait outside, stay with your car, I’m going to get one of the locals to do the search with you. Everything! Garage, shed, garden, loft, the lot. Touch as little as possible.”
Cyril moved to one of the seated officers and jotted down Fella’s details. “Get as much info on him as possible, please make it a priority.” He rested a hand on his shoulder. “As soon as.” He smiled and went to his room.
The officer brought some overshoes and gloves. “I was told we should use these, just in case. It could be nothing and then again…” His sentence trailed away and he bent to put on the overshoes.
As before, the bungalow was empty, nothing appeared to have been disturbed. The adjoining garage was the same. The bicycle was propped against the wall and the shelves were neatly stacked apart from one cardboard box left on the workbench that seemed to contain different cords, ropes and elastic ties. A few other items cluttered the space.
The constable’s radio burst into life. “Go ahead.”
“According to the electoral roll, he lives alone. No known police record.”
“Thanks.”
They opened the door at the back of the garage that led into the garden. A small patio filled the space. Some rusting metal chairs leaned on the round table. Grass was growing through the gaps in the flags. “Not a gardener then!”
April smiled.
The garden area was large in comparison to the size of the house. Mature trees formed a boundary to two sides; an open fence bordered the field at the bottom. A structure, that could have been a large shed or summerhouse, was positioned near the far end of what could loosely be described as a lawn. Net curtains covered the windows.
“I’ll check this if you wander over and look around the trees just in case he’s collapsed there.”
April frowned and followed the instructions as the PC put his hand against the glass and tried to see inside before moving to the door. It was locked.
He turned to April. “Please see if there’s a key in the garage or the kitchen for this place.” He watched as she re-entered the garage. He walked around the back of the structure, stopped immediately before taking two steps backwards. He fumbled for his radio. “Control, 633. Fast paramedic. Immediate request.”
April came into the garden carrying a key on a long string. She noted the expression on her colleague’s face. He pointed to behind the building.
“No wonder he couldn’t make your meeting. He’s here.”
19
Cyril and Owen walked up the path to the vicarage. Tape fluttered along the fence and across the road, dissecting the main thoroughfare through Clipton. The central area was isolated but a few inquisitive spectators were already hovering on the periphery. The officer stood at the door and directed Cyril and Owen around the side of the building in order to maintain the integrity of the house, pending the arrival of a full forensics team.
“He’s where he was found, sir.”
A screen had been erected on the drive. A forensic tent allowed both Cyril and Owen privacy when donning the necessary plastic overshoes, suits and gloves before moving towards the summerhouse. A temporary screen had been built, shielding the corpse from the open farmland at the rear of the property. The Reverend Ian Fella hung from the large hook that was secured to the timber frame. A rope dug into his deformed neck. A short distance away from his feet was a tumbled stepladder.
Owen noticed his clothing first. “He’s dressed in red.”
“It’s a convocational robe, a red chimere. Now that’s unusual as they’re originally meant for bishops.” Cyril looked carefully at the way the noose bit into the flesh of Ian's neck and made a mental note.
The officer who accompanied them suddenly spoke. “He’s got something in his hand, sir, but we can’t see all of it. It’s screwed up tightly. Looks like a piece of paper.”
Owen moved more closely, careful to position his feet on the step plates that had been placed to protect the scene.
Cyril called out a warning. “The plastic plates are slippery when wet. Seen many a copper come a cropper.”
Owen lifted his hand in acknowledgement and moved with great delicacy for a big man. He wanted to see if he could determine what the vicar was holding but moved away quickly; as with all hangings the bowels of the deceased had opened. “We’ll wait.” He lifted his hand to his nose.
Cyril could not help but smile. “You returned faster than you went. Lesson learned, Owen, lesson learned.”
“Still very pungent, sir. Makes you wonder why a man of the cloth would take his own life. He always seemed such a happy man, involved in so many community activities,” the attending officer said as he moved a little further away, already aware of the stench.
Owen turned to the officer. “How well did you know him?”
“As I said, he gets involved in a lot of community stuff. I take a local youth football team and he likes to come along. Gets quite worked up, wears a team-coloured scarf and always brings a football rattle, belonged to his father, he told me. The kids loved it. When was the last time you saw one of those?”
Owen looked at Cyril with a puzzled expression.
“Like the old police rattle, popular post-war with football supporters until they were banned in the 1970s. Used them as weapons.” Cyril then turned to the officer. “When was the last time you saw him?”
“Sunday at church, my wife’s in the choir. I help out as a sidesman. He was fine. In very positive spirits.”
“This might seem like an odd question considering the circumstances…” Cyril turned his head and looked at the hanging figure and then back to the officer. “Do you remember the theme of his sermon last Sunday?”
There was a long pause. “To be honest, I wasn’t really listening, the wife’ll know.”
“I’d appreciate a call when you find out.” Cyril smiled.
Two Crime Scene Investigators vans arrived in support of the first and as the investigators unpacked, Cyril and Owen moved away. Caner, the pathologist, unfolded a blue, plastic sheet and placed his case onto it.
“Cyril, Owen.” Caner smiled and nodded to each. “Dr Pritchett tells me that you have
a head for heights when it comes to a post mortem, Owen. Not many officers like the cut and thrust, do they, Cyril?” He smiled at Owen. “I’m impressed.”
Owen returned the smile, more out of shock. He had always considered Caner to be a miserable old bugger devoid of any personality or warmth. Now he was seeing a different side to his character.
“I don’t even carve the Sunday roast, Isaac, and I like my steak well done, no blood,” Cyril said and gave Owen a wink. “We’ll leave you to it, please give me an approximate time of death when you can.”
Dr Caner nodded, this time the smile was absent. “As soon as.”
Cyril and Owen stripped off their protective clothing and deposited it within the clinical waste bin on the edge of the crime scene.
“May I ask a question, sir?”
Cyril paused and looked at Owen.
“Have you always had a fear of bodily fluids?”
“When I was a nipper my mother took me on a day trip to Southport, father was working. We boarded the coach early morning and we set off along windy, country roads like the proverbial bat out of hell. Despite protestations from the passengers, the driver seemed determined to get there before we’d set off. Halfway through the journey I was feeling decidedly grim but luckily we pulled up at a roadside café for a toilet and coffee stop. We were near the back and the passengers were moving more slowly than the contents of my stomach. My mother just managed to hold out the shopping bag containing our packed lunch and I exploded into it as well as covering the front of my clothing. As I'd no spares, I spent the rest of the day feeling decidedly ill with the continuous smell of vomit hitting my nostrils. Never really got over it. As you know, I still don’t travel well as a passenger when being driven at speed. As for blood, Owen, that story can wait. Now look, the vultures have gathered.”
Cyril noticed that the local press had already arrived, recognising a young lady standing by the tape. He walked over and had a quiet word, assuring her that a full statement would be made in due course. He then ducked back under the tape and moved towards the cars that were trapped within the two bands of police tape. April was sitting in her car working on an iPad.
“You okay?” Cyril asked leaning on the car roof.
She looked up and smiled. “It’s not the first time that I’ve found a body but I always hope that it might be the last.”
Cyril paused respectfully, understanding full well how she was feeling before responding. “Nothing prepares you for such a discovery. April, take Owen and go and chat with the lady you spoke to earlier this morning. See if Fella was acting differently recently, you know the routine; I don’t need to say anything about the sensitivity of the situation do I?” Cyril looked at both of them.
Dr Caner was waiting by the gate to the vicarage, his bag resting on the fence. Cyril approached as April’s car pulled away from the kerb. An officer lifted the tape to allow its egress.
“Four hours at most. Although the ambient temperature is low, the body was overly dressed and so it’s only a rough estimate. My profession is, Cyril, after all, a blend of art and science, it’s a delicate balance of je ne sais quoi!” He paused momentarily. “What I should say from what I’ve seen, however, is that you’re not looking for anyone else involved directly with the hanging. Whatever is in his hand will stay there until we get him on the table. I take it Owen will attend?”
Cyril smiled. “Why train a good dog and then bark yourself, Isaac?” He brought to mind his initial meeting with Ian Fella and pondered on their conversation. He did not seem to be a man who was unduly stressed or worried and certainly not a man who would consider taking his own life. He appeared contented with his lot. Cyril then reflected on the dangling corpse, thinking about the tightly held note. He was sure that Caner was wrong, but then, what did he know?
A black van was allowed through the cordon. It quickly reversed onto the driveway as directed with minimum fuss and maximum discretion. The screens were swiftly moved to the front of it before the gurney was slid from the rear. The wheels suddenly dropped as if it were an aircraft about to land. It was then trundled into the garage and the door was closed. Cyril climbed into his car and headed for Newby Wiske.
April knocked on the door and Ralph replied with a long, low bark. She turned to Owen. “Ralph!”
Mrs Fleet opened the door and on seeing April, smiled. “You again and you’ve brought a handsome young man with you.”
April lifted her warrant card and introduced Owen who was still smiling from the compliment. “May we come in?”
“I’ll just put Ralph in the yard. Please wait there.” Mrs Fleet closed the door.
“Is that a dog or a donkey?” Owen asked.
“That’s Ralph.”
The door was then opened fully and they were shown into the conservatory at the back of the house. Ralph was sitting just outside the French windows.
“He’s a good dog, likes females but unsure when he’s around bonny young men.” She smiled at Owen. “Nothing personal you’ll understand. Must have been badly treated as a pup. He’s a rescue dog.”
Owen lifted his hand.
April was quick to respond. “How was Ralph with Reverend Fella?”
Mrs Fleet turned and looked at the dog and then back at her. “You haven’t met Ian have you? I said he didn’t like bonny young men. If you had you’d understand. He was fine, Ralph liked him; mind Ian always brings him a pig’s ear every time he visits.” The smile disappeared as quickly as it had come and Mrs Fleet looked April squarely in the eye. “What are you really getting at and what’s this all about? Something’s happened, hasn’t it? I knew that when you left so rudely this morning. I could tell that you were keeping something from me.”
April ignored the comment but continued with her questions. “Mrs Fleet, how well did you know Reverend Fella?”
Both officers watched Mrs Fleet’s expression closely.
“He’s been the vicar in the area for a number of years, involved here, next door. We’ve known each other for ages and we’ve worked together for a long time. We’re both very committed to the church.” The last part of the sentence faded to become almost inaudible. After a short, uncomfortable pause, she asked April. “What’s happened? Please tell me Ian’s all right.”
“I’m sorry to tell you that Ian Fella was found dead this morning. I cannot tell you more, I’m sorry.”
There was a long silence as Mrs Fleet put her hand swiftly to her mouth. She shook her head, clearly shocked by what she had just heard. “I know he sounded ill when he rang but I’d never have guessed he was so ill. Goodness me.”
She held the chair arm and sat down. Her face was ashen. At the same time a tear streamed down her cheek. Ralph moved closer to the window and barked as if sensing his owner’s emotional trauma.
“I’ll put the kettle on. You need a warm drink.” April stood and went through to the kitchen. Ralph watched her every move and barked a second time. Mrs Fleet placed her hand reassuringly on the glass door.
20
Cyril turned off the road onto the driveway at Newby Wisk, the North Yorkshire Police Headquarters. He had been coming there a long time but that was to change. Soon it was to be a centre for adventure holidays for children and their teachers after the recent sale of the site. He paused and admired the beauty of the building. He knew Alveston Court in Northallerton, the new, purpose-built headquarters, would be a better centre, more able to deal with modern day policing, but he was still saddened by the imminent move. He smiled to himself as he wondered how the Chief Constable’s desk would be transferred. He knew it as the Eiger, a mountain of papers, a personal filing system that was horizontal and secured by different pebbles and rocks.
The Chief Constable’s secretary greeted Cyril like an old friend.
“You’re looking well, Cyril. A spring in your step too, I see.”
Cyril kissed her on the cheek. “Thank you, busy, but then…” He didn’t finish as the large mahogany door opened and the Chie
f Constable approached. There was no hint of a smile.
“Proverbial hit the fan with the alleged racist attack in your neck of the woods, Cyril, and now I believe we have a suicide, an established member of the Christian and broader community. Let’s hope that they don’t come in threes, not with all of this going on.” He raised his hands as if in despair. “Come!” He turned and walked back through the large doors. Cyril looked at the secretary who pulled a face as Cyril raised his eyebrows. “To the lion’s den.” He quickly followed.
“I’ll bring coffee, that will help calm troubled waters, usually does.”
“The Reverend Ian Fella, fifty-four. Unmarried, been at Clipton for some time, also involved in the local smaller churches and communities. He was also in the forces as a young man, Falklands War veteran, Marine, mentioned in despatches. Took to the church after his service. Tell me why you were there today. I read in your report that you visited him a short time ago.” The Chief Constable looked down at some notes he had made that were lodged on the edge of the heavily laden desk before returning his attention to Cyril. “Have we disturbed a hornets’ nest? Considering some of the goings on, what with discovering Christian symbols left around Harrogate, now these two incidents falling so closely together and showing clear signs of being linked, doesn’t look like a coincidence to me, Cyril.”
Cyril spread his hands. “Routine enquiries regarding Gideon Fletcher, it’s all on file. Fella was the last to see Fletcher before he disappeared. However, we have a strong suspicion that he’s returned or that someone is using his past and his connection with the past as some kind of cover. We had the initial link to Fletcher from the discovery of dyed hair attached to crosses and that led to my interviewing Fella. However, that brought its own questions after we were told of Fletcher’s final words to the vicar.”
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