All Saints- Murder on the Mersey

by Brian L. Porter

Byrne failed to answer right away, and Willis would swear to it that the priest looked as though his mind was a million miles away at that moment, his eyes seemingly focussed on a point in time and space that had little to do with the here and now.

  Willis now walked up to Byrne and placed a hand on his shoulder as he said again,

  “Father, are you alright?”

  Byrne suddenly appeared to return to life, as though he had indeed been in another time and place. He looked up and seemed surprised to see the worried face of David Willis staring down at him, his face a mask of concern. Byrne quickly attempted to pull himself together.

  “Oh dear, David, hello. I'm sorry if I frightened you, but I must have been miles away. I'm afraid daydreaming is almost a pastime of mine these days. So many faces, so many events over the years. Sometimes I remember and recall those events through harmless little daydreams, especially on warm sunny days like this. I'm sure you understand me, David, yes?”

  Although he didn't really understand what Byrne meant, and though he honestly believed something was deeply troubling Father Byrne, Willis just smiled and replied,

  “Of course Father. You've had a long and interesting life within the church and must have many happy memories. It's nice to be able to recall them I'm sure.”

  “Happy memories? Yes, David, I suppose most of them are.”

  Byrne said no more and David Willis diplomatically felt he should press no further, though he was certain something was on the older man's mind.

  “I'll go and make us a nice cup of tea, shall I Father?” he said instead and Byrne smiled up at him from his chair.

  “Yes, David, you do that. That would be nice. Yes, a cup of tea, very nice indeed.”

  * * *

  Lisa Kelly alighted from the bus and stood watching as it pulled away and disappeared into the distance. She began walking slowly but determinedly, knowing exactly where she was going. Soon afterwards, she arrived at her destination, the dunes at Formby Beach. Lisa had always loved coming here. Her mother had been taking her to the beach at Formby since she was a little girl, often taking a picnic with them and enjoying afternoons together walking along the beach, watching the red squirrels that frequented the 'squirrel walk', before catching the bus home as evening fell. After visiting the church that morning, Lisa had sat on a bench in the churchyard for ten minutes, contemplating her next move. Finally, knowing there was no other way, she checked her purse, making sure she had enough change for the bus fare, and set off for Formby. Lisa sat for a while, listening to the sound of the breeze as it played a soft concerto among and around the dunes. Taking her mobile phone from her purse, she turned it on, and over the next two minutes, recorded a message on its voice recorder that she hoped would explain her actions to her Mum and her priest, the nice new man, Father Byrne. Satisfied, she rose and began walking towards the beach. Being a weekday, there weren't too many people around and Lisa made sure she headed for the most isolated section of beach she could find.

  Arriving at the water's edge, she kicked off her shoes, and without hesitation, began slowly walking into the cold water, her eyes filled with tears as the waves grew taller the further out she walked, until her feet began to lose their purchase on the soft sand beneath. A sudden shout from behind her came from a man walking his dog, obviously aware of what she was doing, but Lisa simply ignored him and allowed the waves to take her, finally succumbing to the power of wind and wave as she sank below the waves, the weight of her clothes helping to carry her down, until finally, her head disappeared as the man and his dog stood helplessly looking on as witnesses to the final living moments of Lisa Kelly, just seventeen years old.

  Chapter 11

  Tea at the vicarage

  “Please come in, Inspector Ross, Sergeant Drake. I'm Simon, Simon Blake.”

  Ross and Drake followed the Vicar of St. Mark's church into a neat and tidy parlour, furnished as Ross would have expected a churchman's home to be, with a red leather three-piece suite taking centre stage in the room, a mahogany coffee table strategically placed in the middle of the room. Beneath the bay window, which overlooked an expansive lawn, planted with well established shrubs and trees of varying species, stood a desk, also in mahogany, on which stood a modern laptop computer and printer, an open invitation to a thief, Drake thought to herself, but also typical of the trusting nature of a man of the cloth. Along the adjacent wall a bookcase held a fairly eclectic collection of reading material, from religious tomes to crime thrillers and romantic fiction, quite clearly the reading material of the vicar's wife, Ross presumed. What immediately caught Ross's interest however, was a photograph of the man who stood before him in the typical dress of a Church of England Priest, black shirt and white 'dog collar,' that stood to one side of the mantlepiece across the rather old-fashioned granite fireplace. The photograph showed the Reverend Simon Blake, some years younger dressed in the uniform of a British Army officer. Ross would ask about that in due course.

  For now, he and Drake sat side by side on the sofa, at the vicar's invitation. Before Ross could ask anything, Blake took the initiative and asked the first and perhaps predictable question,

  “Would you both like a cup of tea? I imagine you could both use one after seeing that poor man out there.”

  “Yes please, Vicar,” Ross replied. I think you're right, that's kind of you.”

  “Just a moment and I'll ask my wife to prepare the tea, and then I'll answer whatever questions you may have for me.”

  “Right, yes, thank you,” said Ross, who noticed Izzie Drake smiling at him in a way he took to mean she was amused at seeing the vicar apparently taking charge. It was usually the other way round, and she knew Ross well enough to know he'd feel a little strange, being 'organised' by the man in the clerical collar.

  Blake walked to the door and called to his wife, who Ross assumed must be in the kitchen or dining room perhaps.

  “Darling, would you mind popping in here for a moment please?”

  “Be right there, Simon,” a disembodied voice replied from another room, followed seconds later by the entry into the parlour of a striking brunette, probably in her late thirties, with a figure that wouldn't have looked out of place on a woman half her age. Her hair was neatly styled in a fashionable bob, and her skirt fell invitingly just above the knee. Ross found himself thinking that if all vicars' wives looked like Mrs. Blake, the churches might be a little fuller each week.

  Blake immediately crossed the room and stood beside his wife as he made the introductions.

  “Darling, this is Detective Inspector Ross and Detective Sergeant Drake. Inspector, may I introduce my wife, Cilla?”

  Both detectives looked at one another with a shared look. Ross was glad when Drake spoke first.

  “Er, Cilla Blake?” she asked with a hint of levity in her voice.

  “I'm afraid so,” Mrs. Blake replied, smiling as she spoke. “It's quite alright to react as you have. You must remember though, that Blake is my married name. I was born Cilla Marianne Prentice, Inspector. My Dad, bless his soul, was a fanatical fan of 60s pop music and loved Cilla Black and Marianne Faithfull. He had all their records, and so when I came along he named me after them. It was a big decision to make for me, when Simon proposed as I realised right away how people would react to my married name.”

  “Hey,” Simon Blake began, but Cilla intervened.

  “Of course, he knows I'm only joking, don't you darling?” She reached up and kissed her husband on the cheek. “After all, it's only a name isn't it? Now, I suppose you'll be wanting me to make the tea, Simon, while you discuss the awful business outside?”

  “Would you, please, darling?”

  “Of course. Won't be long, and do make yourselves at home, Inspector, Sergeant. You've both had a terrible experience, I imagine. I haven't seen that poor man of course, but from what Simon has told me…”

  She left it there and quickly withdrew to carry out what she obviously saw as her duty as a good vicar's wife.


  “Your wife seems a very capable woman, Reverend Blake,” Ross observed, after Cilla had left the room.”

  “Oh yes, she certainly is, and please, Inspector, call me Simon.”

  “Very well, Simon. Now, you found the body, I believe?”

  “Yes, I did. Terrible, just terrible.”

  “Tell me how it came about, please.”

  “Well, as you can see, the vicarage is immediately across the road from the church. Every morning, I cross the road and make a quick tour of the church, whether we have a service or not that day, just to make sure everything's alright, if you know what I mean?”

  Ross knew only too well what Blake meant. So many churches had become easy targets for thieves, either for the lead from their roofs, or the communion plate or other valuable items stored within church buildings.

  “Anyway, I came through the front gate, walked up the path, unlocked the church and spent five minutes making sure everything was okay. I left through the front door, locked up and then noticed the side gate on the north side was open. I always make sure it's closed at night, and I thought perhaps we'd had vandals in the graveyard again. It wouldn't be the first time we've had graves desecrated, Inspector. No criticism intended but I'm afraid the police have been singularly impotent when it comes to catching whoever is committing such acts.”

  “I'm sorry we…”

  “No, please, forget it. It's not important right now. Of course, I followed the path round the church and saw…well, you know what I saw, Inspector. That poor man was just hanging, sort of suspended, I'd call it, from the statue of the angel on the Renton's family grave. What suffering he went through, I'd hate to imagine, and I've seen a few appalling acts of cruelty in my time, I can tell you.”

  Ross looked again at the photograph.

  “You were in the Army?” he asked.

  “I was in the Army Chaplain's Branch, Inspector. I held the honorary rank of Captain, but was universally known by all and sundry as 'Padre' as I'm sure you're aware if you know anything about the military.

  “Yes, of course,” Ross nodded. “I was wondering about the photo on your mantelpiece.”

  “Yes, you were probably wondering how a soldier became a vicar. Most people who don't know my past ask that same question. It's not always possible to make out the crosses on the uniform unless you look closely at the photo, and even then, some folk probably wouldn't know what they signify. Anyway, I served in a few trouble spots, ministering to the troops, and saw the results of men being blown apart by land mines, gunfire, air-to-ground missiles and cannon fire. All of it was horrendous, but to be honest, what happened out there in my churchyard this morning is on a par with the worst excesses I've witnessed of man's ability to cause pain and suffering to his fellow beings, Inspector.”

  The door was pushed open and Cilla Blake walked into the room carrying a tray, complete with teapot, cups and saucers and the almost obligatory plate of assorted biscuits. Izzie Drake jumped up to help her and held the door back as the vicar's wife placed the tray on the coffee table in the centre of the room.

  “Thanks, darling,” Blake smiled at her.

  “You're welcome. Would you like me to stay and pour, or would you rather speak to my husband on his own, Inspector?”

  Ross smiled warmly at Cilla Blake.

  “Please stay, Mrs. Blake. You may be able to help us.”

  “Oh, I doubt that very much,” she replied. “I was at home here while Simon was making his gruesome discovery.”

  “Even so, please stay,” said Ross. “You may help your husband in remembering something.”

  Cilla nodded her agreement and sat on the arm of her husband's chair, smoothing her skirt in an attempt to appear demure as she did so. Ross thought it made her look even more attractive.

  “So,” Ross went on, “You saw the body and, then what, Simon?”

  Blake paused for thought before replying.

  “The first thing I did on seeing the man on the angel, realising he was dead, was to offer up a prayer to God. Then I approached the grave and stood some yards away. I knew the police wouldn't want anyone disturbing the scene, but I felt I needed to get a closer look, to see if perhaps I recognised the poor man.”

  “And did you recognise him?”

  “No, Inspector. I did not.”

  “Could he have visited your church, perhaps as a member of the congregation?” Drake added.

  “If he did, I can honestly say he never made himself known to me, Sergeant. As I said, I didn't recognise him at all.”

  Blake's reaction was just the same as Father Donovan's the previous day. Again, an unknown man had been murdered and left on display in his churchyard. Why? Ross needed to solve that one before he could go further.

  “Okay, now please think carefully, you too Mrs. Blake.”

  “Oh, please call me Cilla, inspector.”

  “Right, yes, well, you too Cilla. As I said, take your time, think very carefully. Have either of you seen any strangers hanging around the church or its grounds in recent days, or weeks even? Whoever did this must have had a reason for choosing your church. It's possible they reconnoitred the area first, before picking St. Mark's. Maybe you noticed a strange van or car that was parked nearby more then once perhaps, or someone on foot watching the church, that kind of thing.”

  “I'm sorry, Inspector,” Blake replied. “If I'm not sitting here writing my next sermon on the laptop over by the window, I'm usually out and about taking care of the work of the parish. I don't exactly spend all my time at the church. If I'd noticed anything out of the ordinary I'd tell you about it, without a doubt.”

  Izzie Drake suddenly noticed an odd look on the face of the vicar's wife.

  “Cilla, you saw something didn't you?” she hazarded a guess.

  “Well, now I come to think of it, yes. Last week I was dusting in here when a van pulled up just outside the church gates. I half expected it to be a delivery for Simon. He often receives parcels of books or garden plants that are usually delivered by courier. Then I dismissed that thought because there was no writing on the van.”

  “What colour was it?” Drake prompted her.

  “White, definitely white,” she answered.

  “Did you see the driver at all, “Ross asked.

  “I'm afraid not. I did hear a door slam as though someone had got out of the van but I never saw who it was.”

  Ross thought of something.

  “Do you recall which way the van was pointing?”

  “Oh yes, it was on the correct side of the road, so it would have been pointing that way,” she pointed in the direction she was indicating, which would have placed the vehicle on the far side of the road from the vicarage, with the passenger door closest to the gate into the churchyard.

  “Clever bugger,” said Ross, then, “Sorry about the language, Simon.”

  “No problem, Inspector. I'm a vicar, not a member of the language police. We all slip up now and then, even me, and you have good reason today, I think.”

  “What are you getting at, sir?” Drake asked.

  “Well, if he was pointing that way, in order not to be seen from here, he'd get out of the passenger door. That way, Cilla here would have heard the van door shut, but even if she'd tried she'd not have seen him and he'd have been through the gate and into the churchyard in a couple of seconds.”

  “So you think that van contained the killer?” Cilla Blake asked. “Oh, my, that's positively scary.”

  “I'm sure he wouldn't have bothered you, Darling,” said Simon Blake, reassuring his wife. “If he really was reconnoitring the church and churchyard he'd have remained as unobtrusive as possible. Even if you'd walked out there to him, he'd probably have made up some valid excuse for being there.”

  “Your husband is quite right, Cilla,” Drake said to the worried-looking woman. “He'd probably have just said he was looking for the grave of a dead relative of friend and I would think you'd have been quite satisfied with an answer
like that. After all, you would have had no reason to suspect anything, would you?”

  Cilla Blake looked a little relieved as she realised her husband and the sergeant were both, in all probability quite correct in their assumption. She felt a little better as she picked up her willow-pattern tea cup, sipping the contents, and then reaching out to the still warm teapot to pour herself a refill, automatically doing the same for everyone else.

  “So, if we assume that the occupant of that van was the killer,” Ross re-entered the conversation, “we know that he owns, or perhaps borrowed or rented a white van in advance of the murders, though I'd plump for it being his own van. It would be difficult to erase any forensic trace evidence as it is, and he wouldn't want to risk a rental company or even a friend coming across anything incriminating if he'd slipped up somewhere.”

  “Er, Inspector Ross, can I say something, please?”

  “Of course, Simon,” Ross replied as the vicar looked at him with a look of deep intensity on his face.

  “I'm not a police officer of course, and far be it from me to tell you or Sergeant Drake your jobs, but, well a thought just came to me and I hope you won't me mentioning it.”

  “If it's a helpful thought, I don't mind in the slightest,” Ross replied, wondering just what Blake might have thought of that he could have missed. The answer that followed really did stop him in his tracks, making him wonder why he hadn't thought of it in the first place.

  Simon Blake paused before replying, sipping from his cup, much as his wife had just done. The great British stress reliever at work before his eyes, Ross thought to himself. When all else fails, 'Put the kettle on, Mother.'

  “Well, Inspector, if you don't mind me saying, and I don't mean to sound critical, but you and the sergeant are both talking as if you believe you're only dealing with an individual killer here. Believe me, having been in the Army, the Royal Engineers in particular, I've witnessed plenty of scenes where it was necessary to haul heavy objects around and it's not always a simple task. Heaving that poor man out there up and into position on the statue of the angel took some doing, is all I'm saying. My question therefore is this. Have you at any time, since that poor man turned up yesterday at St. Matthew's which was on the news this morning, and that I knew about through the ecclesiastical grapevine within hours yesterday by the way, considered the fact that there could be two people involved in these murders?”