‘See? You dumb fucking bitch. What happens now? I’ll tell you. You end up with no evidence for either charge against me, I walk free in the morning and make a formal complaint of your brutality. You’ll have a hell of a time of explaining all this.’
‘She’s got the bruises, Tom. We can prosecute without her.’ Victimless prosecutions were rare, but she was grasping at straws. When they did go ahead, juries found it difficult to convict beyond reasonable doubt without the testimony of a victim. She needed Anne on board.
‘An old bag that frail could bruise in so many ways. Like maybe when you reached for those books, Anne, you know on the top shelf and they fell on top of you? See, Officer? It’s that easy.’ Sarah was certain she’d separate his shoulder if she pressed down any harder.
‘Leave him alone, dear.’
Hearing it again confirmed Sarah’s losing battle. The sooner Dales arrived and Tom was carted off the better. Whatever the outcome, Anne needed medical attention as soon as possible.
‘Anne, rest your voice, my love. There’s no need to say any more,’ said Tom. There was a change in his tone, and Sarah noticed Anne was no longer looking at her, but looking down, directly at him.
‘Leave him alone, dear.’
‘Anne.’ Tom writhed underfoot.
‘Don’t make him burn his Bibles.’
‘Anne. Anne, stop.’
‘It’s dark in there and he’s scared. Jessie won’t stop barking at him.’
‘Stop talking this instant.’
‘He just wants you to stop hurting those boys.’
‘You think you’re in pain now? I will whip every inch of your body until you’re a blackened bloody stain on the floor.’
‘Put the knife down, dear. He’s our friend.’
NINETEEN
Anne provided a full interview to the police. The court gave an extension of the full ninety-six hours, allowing them enough time to gain Anne’s trust and convince her to be interviewed on video, a standard procedure for vulnerable or intimidated witnesses. Tom was charged with the murder of Father Michael and assault occasioning ABH. The doctors were surprised he hadn’t broken any bones; Anne was tougher than she looked. It was enough to hold Tom on remand whilst they built a case around all the historical offences from the past sixty years. Louise called the office, wanting to set the record straight. It wasn’t free money. She’d witnessed Tom beating Anne; the loan was a bribe to keep quiet. £200,000 bought her silence, something she regretted, was ashamed of and something she hoped giving evidence would put right. The build-up to the trial was tough. Sarah had to earn and keep Anne’s confidence throughout the long wait and the doubts, whilst everything inside screamed for her to return to Tom’s warped normality.
When the date finally came, the jury heard how Tom used to abuse some of the boys he babysat. Anne sat behind a screen in the courtroom as the video interview played. The jury saw every facial expression and every movement she made whilst recalling the traumatic events that brought her to the witness box. He would tell Anne to leave the room, but she knew what he was doing. She told them how he’d lend people money to buy their silence. He only confessed to taunt the priest. He liked the power it gave him; he could say anything he wanted and Father Michael couldn’t act on it. Her old-fashioned decency stopped her short of saying he got off on recounting it all, but the implication was there.
When Father Michael couldn’t take anymore, when he was going to risk his vocation and tell the police everything, Tom tortured and murdered him. He came back from the woods in a state. The storm had rearranged St Peter’s so much that he took too many wrong turns on the way to the burial site he’d selected. He dumped the body and planned on going back, but it had been too late. He’d told Anne where he dumped it and when Amy offered to walk the dogs, she suggested she take the eastern path, the closest to the body, relying on Jessie’s nose to do the rest. She didn’t name Tom’s young victims despite pleas for her to do so, but as the verdict was read, a slender man in his twenties, with rounded cheeks and big baby blues, abruptly left the court in tears. That investigation would have to wait for another time, and Sarah wanted to be the one to interrupt Tom’s life sentence to slap him with further charges.
No charges were laid for the burglary of Father Michael’s quarters. No witnesses, no claw hammer and with no one to say who was allowed access and who wasn’t, the results of the forensic examination, which mostly turned up glove marks in any case, didn’t take the investigation any further.
The pathologist’s report highlighted the loss of blood from the stab wounds and the genital injuries as the cause of death. It also documented ligature marks on his wrists and ankles, belt lashing welts on his back and burnt fingertips. It was suggested the severity of the injuries related to frustration at his own crimes, rather than anything to do with Father Michael, but when asked, Tom denied all counts. A knife fitting the width of the stab wounds was recovered from Tom’s house. The search team photographed his shed’s blackened walls. Sponges and buckets were in the corner and tarpaulin covered the windows. He’d kept one of Father Michael’s Bibles in his bedroom and forced him to burn the rest before murdering him; Anne had been made to watch it all. The SOCO’s report detailed burn marks in a circle in the shed.
The defence counsel argued against the use of the journals as evidence. The judge admitted them to be read, but directed the jury that they were hearsay and suggested it was a matter for themselves whether they believed they were Tom’s confessions or not. His barrister pointed out the journals had been found, kept in a larder, then stolen, and during that time anyone could have written anything in them. Enough for a reasonable doubt? The jury’s thoughts would, of course, remain a secret.
Making private confessionals public caused a wider media storm than Sarah had predicted. It was an unprecedented case. The judge relied on them not being transcripts to justify her decision. No names were used and the books had been curated to those most relevant to the case, leaving out any mention of townsfolk interfering with animals or wayward mothers. Some called for her head; others for her knighthood. In no other walk of life could someone admit to such disgusting acts and the confessor be unable to react. The Church were up in arms, seeing it as an attack on their sacraments, whilst privacy campaigners latched on to it as another erosion of their rights. Was the government spying on God now?
The CPS dropped John’s murder charge in light of Anne’s evidence. He was heard for the fraud and alongside Sean, who copped an aiding and abetting charge, for the burglary. His barrister suggested the notebooks pushed him over the edge of sanity and his client couldn’t be held responsible for his actions after such an emotional episode. The jury didn’t buy it. They both received three years, to serve eighteen months. John got a further two years for the fraud charge, to run concurrently. Jenny provided evidence to say he didn’t have permission to access her accounts and had no idea he knew her passwords. She confirmed nothing in journals related to her. John had been wrong all along. She’d spoken to Father Michael about the marriage. John’s drinking was out of control and he’d started spending less and less time with his son. He’d only started giving a shit once Josh was no longer there, she’d said. Father Michael had tried to talk her out of divorce, suggesting they stay in Sunbury a little longer before making the move to the city, just to see if things would work out. She was glad she hadn’t listened.
Suzanne wasn’t charged with the burglary. She provided a statement, as Dales predicted, and gave evidence to say Sean simply came round with some notebooks she knew nothing about, minutes before police arrived. She’d heard rumours about them, but nothing more. Not strictly true, but try proving otherwise.
The search team recovered Father Michael’s final notebook from Sean’s house. It mentioned he’d been recording the confessions, but little else was legible. The only readable words were on the final page:
‘I told him, I told him I’m going to do it. Come what may, I cannot leave this to
divine justice.’
Sunbury had lost its patrons. One was a good man of strong faith who’d struggled with his beliefs and desire to find the right thing to do. His decision take action against the wicked led to his torture and eventual death. The other was a vile sadist who spent years preying on the vulnerable: vulnerable children unable to protect themselves, a vulnerable woman who’d tragically fallen in love with him and the vulnerable-minded, willing to take money for their silence. The town loved them both, but now they were no longer there, they’d be remembered very differently.
The Professional Standards investigation had hung over Sarah’s head throughout the whole process. With the case in hand, it was time to face the inevitable. She crawled downstairs after a sleepless night to the smell of a full English breakfast. A delightful gesture, she just didn’t have the appetite for it.
‘I’m sorry, hon. It’s sweet, I just can’t stomach it this morning.’ She moved a Cumberland sausage around the plate with her fork.
‘It’s okay. I understand. What time’s the meeting?’ Mark pulled the plate towards him. ‘What? It’s a shame to waste it.’ He rolled up the sleeves of his pink work shirt and tucked in, careful not to get food in his beard.
‘It is indeed. It looks delicious, but, well, you know. On any other morning.’ She wondered how he kept in such good shape with such a terrible diet. Fry-ups were a treat for her, but with Mark’s working culture he could go from this to a boozy lunch followed by an office Chinese before the day was out. He managed to keep the pounds off, but she worried about what it was doing to his arteries. ‘Nine thirty at HQ. I’ve got to get going soon.’ The girls ran downstairs and into the kitchen. ‘Slow down!’
‘We’re a little late, Mum. Ellie woke up late.’ Sophie shovelled a slice of hot buttered toast into her mouth, the crumbs dropping onto the brown jumper of her school uniform.
‘No I didn’t,’ replied Ellie, bending down into the fridge to get her lunch box. It wasn’t long ago she couldn’t reach the door and now she has to crouch, thought Sarah.
‘Now remember girls, straight home after school. We’re going to visit Grandma, remember.’
‘Yes, Mum,’ replied Soph.
‘Tie your hair up!’ she said, as Sophie ran past her, unbrushed brown hair falling past her shoulders. It was too late; the twins were already in the hallway. ‘Love you!’
‘Love you too,’ they replied in unison as the door slammed.
‘Where does the time go?’ he said, tucking into a still sizzling slice of salty bacon.
‘Well, at least I’ll be seeing a lot more of them after today.’
‘Don’t talk like that. It’ll be fine. He got convicted, right?’ He put his fork down and put his arm around her. ‘They can’t fire you for that.’
‘It’s not about that. It’s about not following orders. What if I had been wrong? Look, it’s best we don’t talk about it, I’ll just get upset again.’
‘You’re right. How’s your mum?’
‘Nice change of subject. From one misery to another. The doctors still aren’t sure. Whenever I talk to them, it’s always the same. The same non-committal answers. She seems fine when I visit, but from what they say, given her age and the head injury, she may never fully recover. Okay, on to happier subjects. How’s your work been, Mr Bigshot?’
‘Not quite Mr Bigshot yet. We’re still struggling for investors. Until that happens, we’ll just plough on as we are.’ He finished up, took the plates to the sink and started washing up.
‘I better get a move on.’
‘Okay, call me when you come out.’
‘I will.’ She kissed him and went upstairs to change into her uniform.
The office of the Professional Standards Department was at the end of long corridor that seemed to have been designed to intimidate. Closed doors lined both sides, broken up with professional photos of various senior officers: Chief Inspector this and Superintendent that, all complete with a string of letters after their names. A lady sat behind a large, oak desk and shuffled some paper to one side. She leant back into her black leather chair and beckoned Sarah to sit down. They wore the same uniform – black trousers, white shirt with epaulettes – Sarah’s with 310105 and the Chief Inspector’s with three pips.
‘Sarah Gladstone?’ She looked at the file on her desk, running her index finger along Sarah’s name. ‘Your badge?’ Was it that quick? Was she just going to give in her badge and leave? ‘For identification.’ Sarah removed her badge from her back pocket and opened it. The CI ticked the relevant box on the form in front of her. She didn’t hand the badge back, instead placed it on the desk, resting her hand on top of it. Sarah was too nervous to speak. She’d never been in this position before in any of her careers, didn’t know what to do, what to say or how to act. ‘Do you have a Fed rep?’
‘Yes. Yes, Ma’am, but he can’t make it today. He sat with me for the interviews. He was good. It was nice to have him. But he can’t make today. He asked me to call him afterwards though.’Just stop talking, she thought, as her mouth took on a mind of its own.
‘Right, well, if we’re not waiting for anyone, we may as well start. As you know, you’ve been under investigation for misconduct matters pertaining to a murder investigation. The allegations fall under the categories of failing to investigate, in that you failed to secure critical evidence in the correct manner and failing to adhere to force policy, in that you failed to listen to a lawful order given by a senior officer.’ She rattled it off as if it was the tenth one of these she’d done today. Sarah wanted to protest again, to tell her that she’d had no other choices back at Sunbury and that by ignoring orders, she arrested and jailed the correct suspect, but she’d given her side in the interview and she wanted to leave with some dignity intact. ‘Do you understand?’
‘Yes.’ She clenched her fingers together and waited for the hit.
‘Now, I will apologise for how long it’s taken to get here. No one wants something like this hanging over their head, but we needed your help to secure that conviction. We’ve taken everything into account and have reached a decision on the outcome. I’m afraid that by unanimous agreement, your actions have been found to amount to misconduct on both counts. We cannot have officers wilfully disregarding orders, regardless of the results produced. There are regulations and guidelines about how we conduct ourselves and they are there for a reason.’ She handed her a sealed envelope. ‘A full explanation is in there with every aspect under both counts explained. Don’t open it now. Take it home, read it and think it over. It also explains the appeal process should you wish to lodge one.’
‘Ok.’ She wanted to cry. She wanted to tell her to go fuck herself and storm out of the door. She’d put away a killer and this was how the job treated her.
‘After deciding that your actions fell well below those expected of a serving police officer, it fell to the panel to decide what disciplinary action we were going to take. There are a range of options available to us, which I’m sure your Fed rep has talked through with you. Again, everything is taken into account. We’ve considered the position you were put in, the actions you took, everything you said in your interviews, your previous disciplinary record and conduct. We also took character references from people who have supervised you. In short, we were looking to see if your actions are the culmination of years of sloppy behaviour or if you can move on from this, learn and improve.’ It was patronising, but it was a lifeline. ‘One person in particular spoke very highly of you. I’ll let him explain. He has an offer and I suggest you take it.’ The Chief Inspector stood up and left the room.
‘Sarah.’ She didn’t expect to see him here, but she was happy for the familiar face.
‘I feel like I’m being dangled over a shark tank. Do I have a job or not?’ She held the envelope up.
Dales walked in and stood between her and the desk. ‘That’s up to you really.’
‘I’m pretty sure it’s up to that lady who just walked out?’
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‘They’re launching a new Detective Fast Track programme. No one’s been signing up for the course since the pay freeze. People never used to mind; they got two pay rises a year and that offset the extra stress and responsibility. Now they’re less interested and I don’t blame them. Why take on the life of a detective for no extra benefit? So, they’ve come up with a programme to get people from uniform to substantive DC in four months. Do the course, do the exam, three months being tutored by a DS and you’re out. It’s about bums on seats more than anything else. They’ll publicise a large increase in detectives; whether the public will get the quality they deserve remains to be seen. And, if you want it, you’ve got one of two places reserved on the initial trial run, PC Guinea Pig.’
‘Should I feel more privileged than I do?’
‘Not really; no one else wants it. It’d be like a fat kid feeling privileged being picked to stand in goal.’
‘You’ve not lost your charm. And if I say no?’
‘They justify firing you by saying they offered you a chance to improve and you didn’t take it.’
‘They allowed to do that?’
‘You must be new here. I’ll be tutoring you and we’ll be working out of Mavenswood nick. Want to know a fun fact? Mavenswood has recently become famous for attaining the highest number of suicides in the country.’
‘Nice. Short commute, though.’
‘I’m glad you can see the positives. So, what’s it going to be?’
She picked up her badge from the desk, placed it in her rear pocket and handed Dales the envelope.
‘I don’t want to read it.’ She’d done the right thing that day, she didn’t need any desk-bound jobsworth telling her otherwise. They walked to the car park and Dales lit a Marlboro red.
‘Couldn’t run me to the station? The wife’s had her cats in the car, keeps taking them to these moggy playdates at her sister’s. The hairs bring me out in a rash, so I’m reduced to using public transport.’
A Journal of Sin Page 22