Divine Poison: a crime mystery you won't be able to put down

by AB Morgan

  ‘Yeah, well, I expect you were followed home by a couple of lowlifes needing drug money.’ All she wanted to know was when would I be showing my face at the office.

  ‘I’ll let you know as soon as I’ve sorted myself out. It’s not a pleasant feeling knowing that someone has been rummaging around in your smalls, uninvited.’

  ‘No, I quite understand.’ Her attempt at empathy didn’t sound convincing.

  When I finally managed to speak to Emma, she was between farmyard duties and childcare responsibilities. Initially, she was fairly laid back in her response to the news of our break-in and as usual was pragmatic, with her sense of humour firmly intact.

  ‘Blimey, that’s at least two mysteries for us to solve and we haven’t even set up our private investigator business yet. You’ll have to go part-time, Mon. I have to say; I’m a bit shocked by the news that Nick is dead. I thought he might have been in an accident or been taken seriously ill, but not dead. How sad.’

  Even though she was joking about setting up as private investigators, Emma had spent a few more hours the previous evening leafing through Nick Shafer’s notebooks. The name of Aitken, Brown and Partners, which had caught my attention the previous evening, appeared intermittently in amongst other written details that were forming the signposts and patterns to evidence of Nick Shafer’s life as Liam Brookes. Emma was thrilled to hear of the link to the stolen journals. At least, that was what we were assuming at the time.

  ‘I suggest that we continue our independent research as planned, gather the relevant information, and meet at the weekend to get our heads together,’ I said. Three days to get through and as Nick Shafer would not be returning we could use the Lodge House as the HQ for our investigations.

  ‘Good plan, Sherlock.’

  Within fifteen minutes, Emma had phoned me back. ‘What the fuck is going on?’ Emma swearing again, as she used to before she had the children, was a serious matter. ‘We’ve called the police. Some bastard has broken into the Lodge House and trashed the place. It’s a bloody mess. The motorbike is still there, as is pretty much everything of value but the desk area has been thoroughly wrecked. I’m not sure exactly what they were looking for but the pin board seems to have gone.’

  ‘Bollocks, Emma, this is getting a bit scary. Whatever they’re looking for, we have had it or have it in our possession. They were definitely after the journals at my place and I think the journals are connected with Nick Shafer and his solicitors. Are the police coming out to see you? They haven’t bothered with us and just gave us a crime reference number as if we didn’t count.’

  ‘I don’t think we’re on their list of priorities either. Nothing of value stolen, so no need to bother. Jake is furious. He thinks the only reason the burglars didn’t call on us is the two collies and the geese in the yard.’

  ‘Yes, well, Deefer was a dead loss as a guard dog, so he’s possibly right with that guess.’ My work mobile was ringing, demanding my attention, cutting short the conversation with Emma.

  ‘I’ve another call coming in, I’ll have to phone you back later.’

  It was Kelly again. The police station was requesting my presence to see Ben Tierney. The officers had realised their error and needed an appropriate adult under the requirements of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act, in order to question him properly and formally charge him with a number of offences. The solicitor allocated to Ben had been adamant in this request. Good for him.

  Kelly informed me, rather brusquely, that I also had a message from Father Raymond, asking me to contact him to arrange a meeting. To ensure I was in no doubt as to her irritation, she then took great pleasure in informing me that a formal request had been made from the Coroner’s Office for a report on Jan Collins. I had a fortnight to complete it and the full hearing would be in six weeks’ time.

  ‘You’re not expected to be called to give evidence at the hearing but the Coroner’s Office have laid out exactly what they’re expecting in a report, if you can spare the time, of course.’

  I heaved a steadying breath before answering her as politely as I could through slightly gritted teeth, choosing my words carefully. ‘Kelly, I realise that the team are under pressure because of the medication amnesty, but I do really have a lot on my plate, so bear with me. I will go to the police station today as requested, I will write the report for the coroner as and when I can, and if you have a number for Father Raymond, I will call him back.’

  It was plain that I was unpopular at the moment with almost every single one of my colleagues, none of whom had contacted me to enquire after my welfare. They would all know about the burglary because Kelly would have been delighted to tell them. Kelly was usually a reliable barometer as to the mood in the camp. Current mood: disgruntled.

  The NHS Trust board of directors had requested that I concentrate on ensuring the smooth marketing of the medication amnesty. My hard-working, downtrodden teammates had been given no option but to share my caseload between them. As far as I was concerned, it was a godsend. However, Eddie spoke to me in private to let me know that the team were royally pissed off and they saw me as some sort of self-serving NHS puppet.

  Much more of this and I would become an outcast.

  I pinged a brief text message to DS Charlie Adams to let him know that I had been requested to attend the station. I didn’t want to find myself in the awkward situation of being seen by him there without any forewarning. He may assume I was breaching confidence about his visit to our house that very morning. This was going to be a tricky enough trip to the nick as it was. After all, I was not supposed to know that Father Joseph was dead nor that Liam Brookes, aka Nick Shafer, was also dead.

  In a pokey, square interview room, I sat with Ben, waiting for the police and the solicitor to organise carrying out a formal interview under caution. As indicators for his overall physical state, Ben was unshaven and unwashed, with filthy fingernails. The faint whiff of stale vomit paled into insignificance when Ben spoke and almost floored me with the foul, rancid stench of his breath. He looked absolutely dreadful, indicating that further vomiting was highly likely, thus explaining the need for the bucket placed on the floor to his immediate left. He had been dressed in a plain, pale green tunic and trousers, and wrapped in a blanket as he was shivering from a stupendous hangover. That was my best guess. He was trembling as he took a gulp or two from the glass of water placed in front of him and managed a weak grin in my direction.

  ‘I’ve fucked up this time all right, Monica.’ As if I needed telling. ‘Can’t remember most of it though, so I don’t know if I’ve done the things they said.’

  All I could usefully do was to advise Ben to listen to what his solicitor offered. The police doctor had deemed him fit to be questioned that morning and had not requested an assessment under the Mental Health Act, so Ben was in the hands of the criminal justice system. I was there because he was a vulnerable adult, not to assess or to provide treatment. I had to make sure I was seen to be acting in his best interests.

  I wasn’t sure what to do when DS Adams, still looking exhausted, strode into the interview room. In my uncertainty, I said, ‘Good afternoon, officer.’ Then I stopped and stared at him.

  Thankfully, Charlie reached across and officiously shook my hand. ‘Nice to see you again, Monica. Thanks for stepping in. It’s so much easier for all concerned to have an appropriate adult that knows the individual. Ben, we are waiting for Mr Dorman, your solicitor, to finish an urgent phone call before we can begin. This will be a recorded interview, so I’ll get set up. Monica, I’ll need to ask you to confirm your name for the recording and to say in what capacity you are present, although you’ve probably done this before.’

  ‘Yes, a fair few times.’

  ‘Ben. How are you doing? The doctor has said that you’re fit for interview. I have to say that you look a bit peaky to me, so don’t forget to use that bucket if you have to. I don’t want to have clear up and disinfect an interview room. Understand?’


  So, this was DS Charles Adams at work. Calm and authoritative, with an air of efficient determination about him that I, for one, would not question.

  A uniformed officer stuck his head around the door beckoning to DS Adams. ‘Sorry, sir …’

  Charlie stepped outside the door and when he re-entered a matter of minutes later, a diminutive, slim, bird-faced man in a pinstriped suit followed him. This tiny man looked every inch the archetypal lawyer but one who had been washed on a boil cycle and who had shrunk as a result. The contrast between me, as a woman of Amazonian proportions and the pint-sized Mr Dorman, was comical. It was purely the seriousness of the situation that prevented my mouth from announcing my thoughts out loud. Mr Dormouse.

  Tiny dormouse solicitor introduced himself to Ben. He had been allocated the case, and had never met Ben, or me, in his life before. I would have remembered if he had.

  ‘It must be your lucky day, Ben.’ Charlie had a face like thunder, and I was convinced that Ben was in for a rough time. ‘You are not going to be questioned in regard to specific threats against a Father Joseph Kavanagh. These allegations, although serious in nature, have been dropped. However, we will proceed with allegations of common assault, of public nuisance, and a number of public order offences.’

  Christ, now what? I tried to catch Charlie’s eye but his face remained expressionless as he began the process of ensuring Ben was aware of his rights and then whisking through details of the evidence and the charges. Why had the charges relating to threats against Father Joseph been dropped, I wondered?

  Mr Dorman made no objections other than to voice his concern that Ben had been unfairly treated during the early hours, and to announce that a complaint would be filed to that effect with the IPCC.

  Two more surprises awaited me as I was leaving the station. Sean and Manuela Tierney were both standing in the corridor that led from the main front desk. Uniformed officers were at their sides, thanking them for their time. The Tierneys were wide-eyed and anxious. Sean shifted from one leg to the other, holding his wife’s hand firmly in his own. I stood back against a wall to prevent them from seeing me. As I listened to them confirming that they were agreeing to help with enquiries in relation to the unexplained death of Father Joseph Kavanagh, I was holding my breath. I thought they had come to see Ben.

  ‘We haven’t done anything, Manuela, so don’t worry. The officers have to ask us questions to find out how Father Joseph died, and we may have been the last people to see him alive.’ Sean looked ashen as they were taken into separate rooms.

  Charlie arrived beside me, and, hand on my elbow, firmly bundled me along the corridor, escorting me to the exit, while expressing his gratitude for my assistance. He buzzed me through to the front desk and from there the duty sergeant allowed my escape.

  I took in the air outside the station doors. It was town flavoured, not refreshing, but a preferable alternative to the rank smell of Ben’s nervous sweat, and of vomit. Watching from the steps of the police station, I stood frozen to the spot as the police vehicle directly in front of me disgorged a furious-looking, handcuffed Frank Hughes. Despite being escorted by two uniformed officers, the sight of me enraged him, and he let rip. ‘If this is down to you, you cunning, vindictive bitch, I’ll find you! I will find you! And when I do, you’ll wish you were dead.’ I glanced behind me in the belief that Frank Hughes and his shark eyes were aiming his threats at someone else, but I stood alone.

  ‘That’s enough,’ one of the officers sternly ordered. ‘It wasn’t anything to do with this lady. It was to do with you breaking the law. Several laws in fact, so if you don’t hold your tongue we’ll do you for threats and harassment.’ The officer then motioned for me to leave and to make way for his obstreperous prisoner to be marched, unceremoniously, into the station, which gave me enough courage to make a quaking but hasty escape. I wasn’t even sure what it was I had done to upset the vile, repellent git-of-a-man, but whatever he thought I’d done had created bitter violent anger.

  Even though I was persona non grata, I returned to the sanctuary of the office base, and fortunately, putting aside her unfavourable opinion of me, Kelly recognised my fragile mental state as I walked in.

  ‘Looks like a cup of strong, sweet tea is in order,’ she said. I agreed, and made us both one. No hard feelings.

  Hiding at my desk, I managed to produce a first draft of a chronology on which to base the report for the Coroner’s Office. Two weeks was not long to complete a comprehensive report and to have it scrutinised by Eddie. As I wrote it, I sensed that I had missed some factual information, or that what I had written did not fit with the rest of the detail. There was a contradiction, an anomaly, which I couldn’t identify. Not to do with timings or dates, but reasons behind actions that Jan had taken. It was so frustrating not to have my brain in full working order. I really could have done with a good night’s sleep.

  Having achieved at least the bare bones of a report, I phoned the number for Father Raymond, which I had stored in my mobile phone. A task on my list of things to do. I debated whether or not this was wise. He had found Father Joseph dead the night before and he was sure to be having a terrible time. And yet, I told myself, I could lend him a sympathetic ear.

  ‘Thanks for calling, Monica. I appreciate you getting back to me so rapidly.’

  I stopped myself at the very last second. Shit. I had almost revealed that I already knew of Father Joseph’s death. ‘No problem. Have I called at a convenient time to discuss my concerns about Liam Brookes?’

  ‘Well, in truth, this is a difficult day. I have the police here at the moment. I’m not even certain that I can tell you why that is … but I’m sure it won’t be too long before the press gets hold of the story, so you’ll find out soon enough.’

  ‘Oh dear … I’ll call another day, shall I? Or better still, I’ll wait for you to call me back.’ Due to bad acting skills I didn’t sound convincingly surprised that the police were with Father Raymond. What an idiot.

  ‘That’s a good idea. Thanks.’

  16

  I unloaded my car boot when I made it home, and staggered into the hallway, depositing the box and wire tray taken from the Lodge House onto the hall table. There was no Deefer wagging his tail and bouncing around excitedly at my arrival. No Deefer to take for a walk to freshen my resolve for sorting through the paperwork from the Lodge House.

  Max had taken him to work. ‘I’m worried about him. It must have been horrible to be shut in the shed in the dark all alone.’ I couldn’t believe what I had heard. Max never worried about my mental state, which I suspected was not as solid and dependable as it used to be, so I went for a walk without the dog. A very peculiar feeling it was too, walking without Deefer; nevertheless it allowed thinking space for a review of the previous twenty-four hours.

  Why did the thief choose that day and time to search for the journals? He or she would have had to know that Max and I were going out. Why not turn up when we were both at work? Did they only go to the Lodge House at Emma’s farm because they didn’t find what they were looking for in my house? How did they get both of these addresses?

  I started with the first question. Who knew that Max and I were going out that night? I think I mentioned it to Vanessa over a cup of tea at St David’s Church Hall. Did I?

  I couldn’t have been heard talking to Emma on the phone confirming arrangements, as I was in my car. Was the car window open? I couldn’t remember. I was tired and muddled. Was it Frank Hughes, had he followed me?

  This would probably come back to me in the middle of the night when all my temporary memory losses seemed to correct themselves. Is it an age thing, or stress? I questioned.

  The dining room was the ideal place to spread the paperwork out, so I divided the correspondence contained in the wire tray into letters or emails to aid my fact-finding. Nick Shafer had printed a number of emails from and to Aitken, Brown and Partners. But it was one of the letters that had me reaching for my mobile phone.


  The letter was in an unopened white envelope, foolscap size, which Emma and I had picked up from the doormat of the Lodge House. Contained within were several sheets of paper, and my married name and address appeared amongst a list of others on the top page. This list was of people who had purchased items at Yarlsmere’s auction on the day that I bought my cabinet. Against our names were listed the items we had bought, and a description of each one of us, as well as anyone we were with or standing next to. I was described as ‘female, late thirties/early forties, shoulder-length dark hair, medium build, tall, approx. 6ft. Roman nose.’

  Harsh. My nose is aquiline, not Roman. Some people argue that both words mean the same thing, but aquiline sounds much more attractive. At least they didn’t describe my nose as “hooked”. Once I had recovered from the stark description of myself, I soon realised that someone at the auction had carefully watched me, and that someone, whoever they were, had taken photographs. I pulled the colour photos from the envelope. There were a number of shots of me, and each one included the familiar form of Father Raymond.

  Someone, with the full knowledge of Aitken, Brown and Partners, had been at the auction watching every sale. Had that someone been sent to retrieve this information from the Lodge House?

  These creeping realisations made me feel uneasy, cold, and vulnerable. The house was too quiet; unnerved, I went through to the kitchen to put on the radio for company. As I passed by, I checked that the front door was securely locked. The crapometer readings were rising rapidly again.

  ‘Max, are you on your way home? You’re where? What for? Blimey.’

  My husband was more perturbed by our break-in than I had appreciated. When I phoned him, he had been at a local DIY superstore buying bolts and motion sensor lights and I had disturbed him in the aisle containing CCTV security systems.

  It was a welcome relief to see him when he marched through the house with his purchases, heading for the garage, albeit that I had misunderstood his intent. I had stupidly assumed the additional security would be for the house. Wrong. It was for his precious sodding motorbikes.