by A. J. Cross
She read the references to the inverted crucifix tattoos and the plant residue on the remains of both Matthew and Callum Foley. They’d had a shared fear. Of what? Had somebody threatened them? Drugs. Had they angered someone involved in the illicit drug trade as Watts had suggested? But, if that was the case, what kind of protection did they imagine they would get from inverted crucifixes and plants? She clasped her hands at her mouth. Devil’s Claw. Were they fearful of something neither of them understood? Had they been made fearful? She recalled the pentagram Delaney had told them was daubed on the church door. Her eyes drifted over the many lines. Did evil live somewhere in this case? Hanson gave a vehement headshake. She had no time for evil as a concept but it had to be considered. Others believed in it. It was what the evidence was telling her. She glanced to the window and the bright, cold day beyond it. I need to get out there. Walk the campus. Cut the thinking. Move. Breathe.
‘Back in half an hour, Crystal!’
Hanson was back in her room, standing before the flip chart. Whatever this killer’s motivation, he was now out of his own control. She picked up the marker and wrote names. Not suspects because she and her colleagues didn’t know enough to identify any. These were persons of interest, a broad net to gather the possibilities together: Brad Flynn. Richard Burns. Jeremy Fellowes. Father Delaney. What about Will Graham? Zach Addison? Their being on remand recently had raised doubts about their involvement in the murder of Alfred Best but without a full understanding of this case she was taking no chances: everyone needed to be considered.
Hanson stared at the names, thinking of Brad Flynn. If this case was about money, there had to be a lot of it. She looked at other names. Most of them had withheld information. Possibly because they’d forgotten it, maybe not. She looked at one name in particular. Let’s start at the top.
She picked up her phone, selected a number and waited.
TWENTY-SIX
Watts parked next to Hanson and opened her passenger door. This was typical of the Doc. Whatever she wanted, she wanted it now. Huffing, he lowered himself inside. ‘Next time you buy a car, think “bigger”.’ He settled himself, almost filling the available space. ‘OK. What’s set your underwear on fire?’
She reminded him of the Flynn family’s lack of openness about its contact with the church, plus Delaney’s own omission. ‘As soon as Delaney was aware whose remains were in the crypt he should have told us right then what he knew of the Flynn family. He didn’t. He has to tell us now.’
Watts looked across at Church House on its high ground, all red brick and black paintwork. Victorian as an antimacassar and as inviting as the headstones a few metres away. He looked at her. ‘Right. Let’s get it done.’
They approached the house, went up the steps to the veranda and on to the front door. Watts jabbed the bell. They heard it ring inside, then nothing. He jabbed it again. A shadow appeared on the other side of the glass beyond the heavy, lace curtain. It slowly approached, getting bigger. The door was opened by Gorridge, her face set. ‘No need to ring twice. We’re not deaf. What do you want?’
Watts had had a hard day so far and this woman who looked like she’d forgotten to shave, wasn’t improving it. ‘We’re here to see Father Delaney. Tell him.’
She gave him a furious glare. ‘He’s in but he’s busy!’
A voice drifted down the hall towards them. ‘Who is it, Mrs Gorridge?’
‘It’s them from the police. Shall I let ’em in?’ Getting an affirmative she stood aside. ‘Hurry up! You’re letting the heat out.’
They came into the hall and Watts glanced at Hanson. She got his drift. What heat?
‘Wait here,’ said Gorridge with a direct look at Hanson.
They watched her walk away, huge hips and thighs encased in leggings patterned this time in a riot of yellows, reds and greens. She opened the door of the room which Hanson knew was Delaney’s study. They waited in the heavy silence, the housekeeper’s words drifting towards them through the open door. ‘It’s that fat bloke, the detective, and that posh woman who thinks she owns the—’
‘Thank you, Mrs Gorridge. Leave it with me.’
Gorridge emerged with a last sharp look at Hanson as she stomped in the direction of the kitchen. Delaney appearing in the doorway of his study, motioning them with his hand. ‘Please. Come on in.’
They walked across the wide hall and along the passageway into the study. Watts got straight to what was on his and Hanson’s minds. ‘Tell us about your connection to Brad Flynn and his business interests, Father Delaney.’
Delaney’s eyes moved calmly between them. ‘We’ve been fortunate very occasionally to receive a donation from him. Once, twice, he’s advised us on raising money.’
Watts wasn’t about to leave it at that. ‘You didn’t tell us that Flynn has a connection with this church.’
He responded, his tone easy, patient. ‘That, detective sergeant, is because he doesn’t. He’s not a member of this congregation. He has never visited the church itself but as one of the city’s foremost entrepreneurs, what he has done is make donations, as I have just acknowledged. It was on one of those occasions that he advised me that St Bartholomew’s could benefit from being organised and run on business lines. A simple, throwaway remark as far as he was concerned, I’m sure, but knowing of his success I thought about it. It took months of hard work on my part to apply what he advised to this church.’
‘So why not mention that at the outset?’
Delaney’s fleshy face took on a long-suffering look. ‘Because those instances were barely contacts. His name was on my list of potential donors. I phoned him twice, I believe. He was kind enough to agree a donation each time. Relatively modest sums, as far as I can recall – a couple of hundred pounds each time. He also offered the advice I’ve described. That was the sum total of my contact with him. Prior to Matthew Flynn’s remains being found here, I was not even aware that he had sons.’
Watts wasn’t satisfied. ‘As soon as you knew the identity of the remains, you should have mentioned this contact you had with Flynn.’
‘There was nothing secret about it,’ protested Delaney. ‘Nothing clandestine. The donations were entered into our financial records.’ He looked from Watts to Hanson, perturbed now. ‘It simply did not occur to me as being relevant.’
‘We make that kind of judgement,’ snapped Watts. ‘When did this advice-giving happen?’
Delaney gazed towards the ceiling. ‘St Bartholomew’s has been run on business lines for at least five or six years so it was prior to that, obviously. I don’t remember precisely when.’
‘Did Mr Flynn mention his personal life at all? His family?’
Delaney looked exasperated. ‘I just told you, detective sergeant, I know nothing of his family. My focus was always on St Bartholomew’s. His advice felt somewhat alien to me at the time but we’ve seen the benefits.’
Watts filled the silence. ‘You’ve heard the news about Mrs Flynn’s suicide?’
Delaney’s eyes widened within their pouches. ‘Was that his wife? I heard a report on the local radio but I didn’t make the connection. How dreadful. No one’s life is theirs to destroy. Life belongs to God. He calls each of us in his time.’
‘Alfred Best,’ said Hanson. ‘Tell us about him.’
Delaney looked puzzled. ‘What about him?’
Watts saw Hanson lean forward, her eyes on him, thinking that if Delaney knew what was good for him he’d better give her some real answers. ‘Tell us how it is that Alfred had a significant personal fortune yet when he died he was virtually impoverished.’
Delaney shook his head. ‘That, I cannot tell you. Alfred gave freely of his time here and, yes, he made financial gifts to the church. Modest ones, I assure you. I was aware that he was a little concerned about money during this last year. I assumed that his wife’s care was a heavy financial burden. When I last spoke to him some weeks ago, I suggested he stop all donations to the church. I also assured him that the
church would do whatever it could to provide for him in future.’ He gave each of them a direct look. ‘That is one of the benefits of running St Bartholomew’s as a business: we invest in projects and also in people. When those people need our help, we have the funds to do so.’
They were outside, a stiff wind blowing. Watts looked up at the house and the scudding clouds. ‘I’m not sure what to make of him. How about you?’ She stared across the open land. ‘Assessing a minister of the church is a new experience for me. He sounds sincere but I can’t decide if what he says is him talking, or just words and phrases that are part of his job.’ She frowned. ‘And then there’s this business in America. He’s a paradox. What do you think of his explanation as to why he didn’t tell us he knew Brad Flynn?’
‘Like you just said, he talks a good talk but afterwards you’re left wondering.’
Hanson was half-heartedly gathering up textbooks and files inside her room. She carried books across the room, distributed a few to shelves, then dumped the rest on the floor and went directly to the flip chart. She’d already added what she and Watts had gathered from Delaney. Her eyes skimmed the black words, drifted down to the photographs, to Matthew’s ‘in love’ face, according to Crystal. This was never about drugs. Yes, drug cautions indirectly led Matthew and Callum to their deaths in a way we still don’t understand. No, this is about money. She frowned at everything she’d written in the last few days. Three people dead. Matthew. Callum. Alfred. After meeting Callum’s mother, her sympathies were with Callum who probably never had a chance. That isn’t all I know about him. I know he was a friend to Matthew Flynn. He’d supported Matthew at the tattoo parlour, as any friend might. There was good in Callum Foley. We know there was good in Matthew: he was kind. Someone who did his best. Not materialistic. Naïve. And both he and Callum were united by a shared fear. Hanson stood, her eyes fixed on her notes. Alfred was also a good person. Kind.
She went to the window, watched leaves hurling themselves across the campus. There had to be something else, something she couldn’t see or didn’t know about which had led to those three deaths. She looked up at sullen clouds. Why did people kill? She didn’t need to search for answers. Her training, her job, told her: for pleasure, greed, jealousy, resentment, rage.
She turned from the window. They also killed out of fear. She was back at the flip chart. Most of those reasons presuppose a relationship with, or at the least some knowledge of, all three victims. Maybe we need to widen the investigation beyond the church?
She got her coat and other belongings and went to the door. Switching off the light she looked at black words on white in the failing light. No. They already had their link: St Bartholomew’s Church. All three victims were associated with it.
Charlie was out for the evening with one of his ex-colleagues. She’d agreed with Maisie that they have a ‘girls’ evening, which these days involved Maisie purloining all of Hanson’s bath and hair products. Hanson had given herself a pedicure, after which she’d painted Maisie’s toenails bright red, refusing to do the same to her fingernails. ‘Maisie, stop the constant pushing, please. You know that it’s school tomorrow.’
‘Nobody will notice!’
Hanson held up a pale shell pink polish. ‘My one and only offer.’
Maisie eyed it and pulled a face. ‘Mom, has anybody ever told you you’re a total control freak?’ Your father. Many times.
Hanson jiggled the bottle. ‘Yes or no?’
Maisie submitted her fingernails to a thin layer of shell pink. ‘When I’m eighteen I’ll, like do super-mad stuff. Go crazy. Have weird hair and everything and then you’ll realise what you did, Mom: kept me down, like a prisoner, suppressed my personality and you’ll be well-sorry.’
‘There you are,’ said Hanson, head on one side, eyeing the small, glossy nails. ‘They look nice.’
Maisie scrutinised them. ‘Yeah, but I’m having only black nail polish when I’m older.’
Hanson put the manicure accoutrements back into their little bag. ‘Sounds dramatic. Want a snack before bed?’
TWENTY-SEVEN
In his head he was running like the wind, gazelle-like through early-morning mist towards sanctuary. He beat against the door, desperate now. It stood, immutable. He flattened his back against it, chest burning, eyes wide, his breath billowing from his mouth. Terrified, his head spun towards a disembodied voice telling him to stop. He needed sanctuary. One he himself had made. Pressing his fist to his mouth, panicked now, he sprinted among the headstones to the only place he would be safe: home.
‘He’s on the move, sarge! Look!’
Watts was out of the car, swearing under his breath. He hissed to the young constable. ‘Are you thick or just wanting to make a bad situation worse? Shut it!’
He and Corrigan headed in the direction of raised voices, a short, plump man accompanying them.
‘The moment he’s detained, I must be allowed to go to him.’
They nodded. As far as Watts was concerned the psychiatrist was welcome. They reached the parking area which was full of official vehicles, their lights picking up a thin male, his eyes wide, turning this way and that, clearly disoriented. Like a cornered animal, thought Watts as several uniforms took hold of the man and brought him to the ground. Watts shook his head. It had been relatively easy. It could have been a fiasco. If it had been, they’d all have been for the high jump. He followed as Corrigan accelerated towards the distressed figure on the ground. Watts nodded to the gasping psychiatrist just catching up. ‘He’s all yours.’ They watched him approach the now prone figure, kneel, and place his hands gently around the man’s head.
‘Richard? Richard, this is Dr Solomons, remember? I’ve come to look after you.’
Corrigan had rung to tell Hanson of Richard Burns’s arrest early that morning. She had gone directly to headquarters’ custody suite to look at Burns, his psychiatrist still in attendance. She took in Burns’s thin stature, the unkempt hair, the lower face covered with several weeks’ growth of beard. She recalled the attack on her inside St Bartholomew’s Church. A careful, planned, silent attack by someone who was clean and wearing cologne.
‘Say it: You don’t like Burns as your attacker.’ They were back in UCU and this was the second time Watts had said it.
‘He is not the one. You saw him. He’s got a significant mental health problem.’
‘Tell us something we don’t know. We went to his house at five this morning, fetched his medication, got in touch with his psychiatrist who filled us in on the hallucinations, the paranoia.’ He stared at her, pugnacious as always. ‘Think about it. You went to that church expecting Burns to be there. You saw the state of his house. He’s as mad as a bloody hatter. We need to at least consider him as the one who hit you.’
She closed her eyes, momentarily blocking out Watts’s determined face, the jabbing forefinger. ‘It was not Burns who hit me inside that church.’
‘I don’t see how you can be that sure.’
‘It’s what my senses told me at the time and I’ve since told you. Whoever it was, he was physically clean. Yes, we saw a lot of evidence in his bathroom that Burns set great store by personal cleanliness but now we know that his mental health has declined. He’s ill-kempt, his behaviour is disturbed. Whoever hit me was clean, silent and wears cologne.’ She hesitated. ‘And of heavier build.’
Watts went heavy-footed to the board, circled two names already written there with his forefinger and returned to the table. ‘OK, brass-tacks time. We’ve got Burns, who you don’t like for the assault on you but there’s also Delaney. It’s his church. He lives right there. He told you Burns would be at the church. It could have been Delaney who set you up, hit you and was back inside his house in minutes.’
She shot him an exasperated look. ‘Delaney coming up behind me would have been like an eclipse!’ She paused, recalling how light on his feet she’d observed him to be for such a huge man. He didn’t have personal care problems either. But did he
wear cologne? She couldn’t recall.
The door opened. Corrigan came inside, papers in one hand. He spread them out on the table, pointed at a brochure, on the cover of which was a photograph of a modern building set in pastoral landscape. ‘This here’s the place which runs retreats for the clergy.’
‘Don’t tell us,’ said Watts, looking sour. ‘All the gruel you can eat and your own personal cat-o-nine-tails.’ He picked it up, glanced through it, brows climbing. ‘Blimey. It’s like a five-star hotel.’ He held it up. ‘Look, doc. A bathroom fit for somebody like Burns with “personal issues”.’
‘I’ve been on the phone to them,’ said Corrigan. ‘They’ve confirmed that Richard Burns was a no-show for the whole of the three weeks.’ He looked at Hanson. ‘His neighbour was right. He was home. I also phoned Delaney who sounded surprised when I told him. Said he’d persuaded Burns he needed the break and to look on it as a vacation. He described Burns as looking forward to going.’
Watts grunted, his eyes on Hanson. ‘Delaney knows Burns has serious mental health problems and is potentially dangerous, yet he told you that Burns would be inside the church that afternoon. He let you walk straight into a risky situation. I want proper answers from him and not wrapped up in the kind of chat he gives his congregation or us the other day.’
The door opened and a young, blonde constable leant inside, giving Corrigan a wide smile. Hanson rolled her eyes. ‘Sarge, the chief asked me to tell you he’s instructed that Richard Burns be released into the care of his psychiatrist.’