Cherringham: A Deadly Confession

by Neil Richards

  Sarah thought back to when she was a teenage girl and knew her daughter was cut from the same cloth.

  “Doesn’t matter how many doughnuts a kid eats, they’ll still be ready for more food,” said Jack.

  Sarah knew Jack had been there himself with his own daughter.

  Together they climbed the stairs to her office.

  “Seems odd coming in here on a Bank Holiday,” said Sarah.

  Although her web design company was always busy, Sarah made it a rule never to work on the big holidays — and Easter was still family time.

  She opened the office door and they went in.

  “You got the watch?” she said.

  Jack reached into his pocket and handed it over.

  “Why don’t you make us both a coffee — and I’ll get this set up,” she said, taking a seat at her desk.

  *

  Sarah downloaded a trial version of the running software that matched Father Byrne’s watch, then plugged the watch in. After a few minutes cracking passwords, she finally accessed the online storage area where all of the priest’s runs were recorded.

  A message box asked whether she wanted to upload the most recent run.

  New computer — but all the programme’s runs must be coded by date.

  Helpful that…

  Sarah clicked ‘yes’, as Jack stood behind her, looking down.

  “If there’s nothing here,” he said, “I can just hand the watch back to Sister Mary tomorrow.”

  And Sarah — for her part –was sure that the watch would tell the simple tale. In mid-run, Byrne had a heart attack and died.

  That’s it.“Okay, it’s uploaded. Can you see?” she said to Jack.

  “Hmm … right … time of run, average heartbeat, and—”

  She pointed to the screen. “See here?

  “It stops.”

  Sarah looked at the screen.

  Such an amazing thing — the display showing his heart rate rising as he ran, then the fluctuations during the run, then — nothing.

  “That’s when he died.”

  In the quiet of the office the words were chilling.

  “Wait a second…” Jack said.

  He leaned closer to the screen.

  “I’m no expert, but look at those heart rates … all okay at the start of his run, but see here, tops 130 … 140 … then so quickly, 150 … 160 just before his heart stopped.”

  “Happened so fast.”

  He turned and looked at her.

  “But he was on medication? That shouldn’t have happened.”

  “Yet it did. Another strange thing…” she said.

  “Yes?”

  “A watch like this. Should have made a noise when the heart rate entered some kind of red zone.”

  “Maybe it did? And he didn’t hear it? Looks like he went from okay to not in seconds.”

  “Did you find his medication back at the rectory?”

  “No — Sister Mary wouldn’t let me go upstairs to his bedroom — or the bathroom. But Liam had said it’s what let him run. He wouldn’t hit the trail without it.”

  “I think we can see something else here.”

  “Hmmm?” Jack said.

  “The watch has GPS. You see it links to Google Maps? It should be able to show us the exact spot where he stopped running.”

  “Really? Let’s look.”“Let’s see just where Father Byrne’s run ended…”

  Jack turned to the computer while Sarah started looking around on the main screen’s various menus.

  *

  Then she found it.

  “Here we are. ‘Map Your Run’.”

  “Technology,” Jack said. “Amazing…”

  The programme used the GPS record on the watch to create a map of the run. In seconds, she had a screen showing the nearby trails and woods that surrounded the convent, and a red line that weaved its way through the property and along the river bank.

  She flicked from map view to satellite.

  “You can pretty much see every tree and bush.”

  “Looks like he used to run past my boat,” said Jack.

  If she rolled over any part of the priest’s run, a small box highlighted data — heart rate, running pace.

  Until the red line came to a dog-leg.

  The running path on the screen did a ninety-degree turn to the right, about a hundred yards or so.

  “Wait a second…” Sarah said.

  “You see something?”

  Sarah rolled over part of the line, showing Byrne’s heart rate way up, pace fluctuating around an eight-minute mile.

  But then, moving to the dog-leg.

  The pace showed ‘two miles/hour’.

  “Jack, see that?”

  She retraced the cursor over the run, making the data boxes appear, until Jack could see that last one.

  “That pace. That’s not even a walk, or a crawl. And also, Jack, look at the heartbeat, the numbers are all over the place—”

  She turned to him, the air in the room suddenly cool.

  “That movement, that — what, hundred yards to the right or so? — occurred after his heart rate became zero.”

  “After he was dead.”

  Neither of them said anything for a moment.

  Then, Jack spoke quietly, the simple tale of a runner and his heart attack shifting.

  “Someone moved him.”

  Sarah realised it was the only explanation.

  Someone had moved Byrne after he died.“I don’t get it,” she said. “Maybe it was the medics? You know — carrying him?”

  “Don’t think so. Why move him like that? And from what Liam said — that’s the spot where his body was found.”

  Jack became quiet.

  He’s in detective mode, she thought. Thinking. Possibilities. Probabilities. And, as always, things that weren’t adding up.

  Finally, when he just seemed to keep looking at the screen, she had to ask.

  “I’d pay — what’s the expression? — more than a penny for your thoughts.”

  And that made him laugh.

  “Sorry. Tend to drift. When I get confused.”

  “And where did you drift to?”

  “For the first time, I’m thinking something is wrong here. Not sure what, or why…”

  He reached into his pocket and dropped a pile of tickets onto her desk.

  “Maybe something to do with all these.”

  “What are they?”

  “Old racing tickets. I picked them up in Byrne’s office. Guess he kept even the losers. Quite the collection, and a big outlay of cash. If he had a gambling problem — priest or no priest — then he could have been dealing with all sorts of unsavoury characters.”

  “Unsavoury? Or deadly.”

  “Think the lines blur there. But I’ve seen enough that I want to know more.”

  “So what do we do, detective?”

  “Can you get this map to print out? With the heartbeats on it?”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll put a matrix together with the times and the rates, too.”

  “Maybe at some point you can find out what medication Byrne was on? Really like to know what happened to it…”

  “You mentioned loan sharks. Any other suspects?”

  “Little early, hmm? But O’Connor did mention that Byrne led a colourful life — for a priest. Let’s see what we can find out about that.”

  She turned back to the screen, made some screen grabs and hit ‘print’.

  “And about this?”

  Jack nodded.

  “Been a while since I ran. But maybe I could do the same run with Father Byrne’s good friend. More of a jog, I guess. See the spot where he died…”

  “As opposed to the spot where he was found?”

  Jack nodded and she watched him go over to the printer to grab the sheets as they emerged.

  Though they didn’t have an idea yet about what had happened to Eamon Byrne, up here in her small office, with the busy holiday sounds o
f the village coming up from the square below her windows, she felt that they had learned something important.

  Something — she had to admit — that made her feel scared.

  “And maybe,” Jack said, folding the printed maps, “hold onto that watch for now. I’ll clear it with good Sister Mary.”

  “Too right. Don’t want her coming after me.”

  Jack shook his head, smiling. “Absolutely.”

  And then Sarah turned off the computer and followed Jack out of the office to the still sunny evening waiting outside.

  7. A Jog with Liam

  Jack leaned against the low brick wall of St. Vincent’s churchyard, watching the busy morning traffic heading in and out of Cherringham. He rarely came up to the village at this time of the day and it always surprised him how fast crazy people drove on these little roads on their way to work.

  He checked his watch — 7.25 a.m.

  According to Eamon’s GPS watch his Good Friday run — his last — had started at 7.30 and Jack wanted to match that schedule as close as he could. So where was Liam?

  He looked down the long road, the old Roman road, which ran west — no sign. In the distance the horizon was heavy with grey, leaden clouds. Jack knew by now that this was a typical English April morning: damp, cold, grey with the sure-fire promise of rain later.

  This is one Cotswold picture they don’t put in the tourist brochures, he thought.

  He was glad of the fleece he’d thrown on at the last minute, and looking down at his white legs he realised this was the first time since he came to England he’d put his running shorts on.

  Could be the start of a whole new me, he thought.

  He looked up — as a black Audi two-seater pulled up in the church lay-by. Liam O’Connor climbed out, in bright running gear, water bottle in one hand.

  “You ready, Jack?” he called with a grin, bleeping the car to lock it.

  “As I’ll ever be,” said Jack. “Nice car.”

  “One of the many advantages of leaving the priesthood,” said Liam.

  “You never told me what you ended up doing instead.” said Jack.

  “No,” said Liam, smiling. “I didn’t.”

  Jack waited for him to elaborate, but he clearly wasn’t going to.

  “Which way we going?” he said.

  He watched as Liam set his own running watch, then pointed up the road.

  “There’s a public footpath runs alongside the church — you see it?”

  Jack nodded.

  “You sure you want to do the full ten kilometres?”

  “Need to see the whole run,” said Jack. “But we’ll do it at my pace, if you don’t mind.”

  “Sure,” said Liam. He pressed a button on his watch, then turned and headed off down the path.

  “It’s not a race,” he called over his shoulder. “We’ll start at a gentle jog.”

  Jack sped after the disappearing figure.

  Some jog, he thought. These days, this is pretty much my top speed.

  *

  Jack caught up with his fellow runner as they passed behind the walled rectory garden. Jack could see that Eamon had been no gardener: long grass, white plastic chairs and a washing line was all that the walls contained.

  And obviously no money for someone to tend the garden.

  “So this is the route you guys ran every day?”

  “Rain or shine,” said Liam. “Apart from Friday.”

  “So,” Jack had to time his words, taking deep breaths in, “he phoned you Thursday night, said he wasn’t well, didn’t want to run?”

  “That’s right,” said Liam. “He must have woken, felt better — decided to go for it.”

  “What was the routine then?”

  “Well … Eamon would be waiting at the back gate there, and we’d head down the hill past the convent. Across the river, then north for a couple of miles to the top bridge.”

  Jack settled alongside him as Liam dropped to a slower, steady pace.

  “…then round Ingleston church, back across the meadows, along the towpath—”

  “Opposite my boat,” said Jack, keeping his contribution to the conversation as brief as he could.

  “That’s right,” said Liam. “Then up Marchmain’s Hill to the top, and sprint the last few hundred metres back to the rectory.”

  Jack looked over to his left where the convent could clearly be seen through a line of trees.

  Under them he spotted the stables area, where he’d parked for the fête the previous day. The curtains were open and he could see figures standing together talking.

  Which meant that if those windows had been open on Good Friday morning, the occupants might well have seen Father Byrne go by on his run.

  “What’s with the stables?” he asked.

  “Oh — that’s where the retreaters stay,” said Liam. “Come for a week usually. Miraculously find themselves — then go home again.”

  “You don’t sound convinced.”

  “Like I said — I handed in my membership card.”

  “Did Eamon get involved with the retreaters?”

  “Not if he could help it,” said Liam. “Said mass. Heard confessions.”

  “But he didn’t spend time with them?”

  “‘Not his job’ he used to say. He was the parish priest — he looked after the parishioners. The retreat was run by the convent.”

  “So the retreaters who are in there this week — would they have met him?”

  “Sure. Couple of times, maybe. The Easter lot come for Holy Week. They’ll be heading home in a day or two I expect.”

  Jack ran for a while in silence. He felt good — his breath coming nice and regular, his legs not complaining — so far.

  “What about the nuns? Did he have much to do with them?”

  “Same thing. He’d turn up to say mass, hear confession. The church doesn’t exactly encourage male priests to hang around with nuns. Know what I mean?”

  “Sure.”

  “Watch the road here.”

  Jack followed Liam as he climbed over a stile and onto the road which crossed over the Thames.

  When they reached the other side, they swung north to follow a footpath that ran alongside fields of wheat and rape.

  “How we doing?” Jack said.

  “Three K. Not exactly Olympic pace, but respectable enough.”

  “First time I’ve been called respectable.”

  *

  Forty-five minutes later and Jack decided enough was enough. His chest was pounding, his legs felt like the muscles were being shredded from the bone and his knees were clicking so loudly even Liam could hear them.

  “Let’s walk from here — okay?” he said, stopping and leaning on a fence post to get his breath.

  “No problem,” said Liam, sipping water from his bottle. “To be honest Jack I never thought you’d get this far. You did well.”

  “Learned a lesson, I’ll tell you that.”

  “Which is?”

  “I gotta get fit. I feel ashamed of myself.”

  “It’ll come. Just don’t start with 10K. Couple of miles a day for a month, you’ll be feeling terrific.”

  Jack looked around. They’d run through the meadows from the church, past his boat, and were now on the edge of the dogleg in the river which led up to Marchmain’s Hill.

  He took out the map of Eamon’s run which Sarah had printed, held it out, and got his bearings.

  “According to this, Eamon turned off the tow-path right here and headed up the hill.”

  “Staying by the river’s too easy. Too flat. That’s why we do things the hard way — up there.”

  Jack looked up at the trail, which climbed steeply until it disappeared in the woods.

  “So what are we waiting for?” he said, for once taking the lead.

  Halfway up, he knew there was no way he could have run up here — even in the days when he was fit. He kept the map open and checked their progress against the satellite view.
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  “Here’s the really tough part,” said Liam.

  “You don’t say.”

  “This is where Eamon’s heart rate usually peaked — but since he started taking the drugs it always stayed below the danger zone. Always.”

  Jack stopped and checked for landmarks. The trees and forest growth spilled over onto the trail. “According to the map — he came to a stop just around here.”

  “He never gave up on this hill, in all the time I ran with him.”

  “But maybe he spotted how high his heart rate was,” said Jack. “The watch has an alert, right? Thing is — it stayed high for two — nearly three minutes — then it went even higher—”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” said Liam. “If he stopped running, his heart would be recovering. Might be a slow recovery, but still — it should decrease…”

  “Nope. Goes higher — then — stops.”

  “Stops for good, you mean?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “So what happened then?”

  “You sure you want to hear this?” said Jack, aware that not everybody can deal with death like a cop.

  “Of course. Eamon was my friend. I owe it to him.”

  “Okay. The watch shows that he was here, with no heartbeat, for nearly five minutes. Then he suddenly moves at two miles an hour through the trees there and stops on a path on the other side.”

  “We never ran that side of the wood. Ever.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Maybe his watch went wrong?”

  “Possible, I guess. But I don’t think so. I think he died here — and then somebody picked up his body and carried it through the woods to the other path.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  Jack hesitated.

  Only one answer made sense.

  “Hide the evidence.”

  “Are you saying he was murdered?”

  “I certainly think his death was suspicious.

  “So what do we do now?”

  “We start looking for that evidence, Liam.”

  *

  While Liam mooched about in the ferns and bracken by the side of the track, Jack worked from the centre of the trail outwards. He walked slowly — taking a pace then stopping, crouching, looking at the earth and the vegetation for signs.

  He didn’t know what signs — but he knew he’d know them when he saw them.

  He had to assume the map could be off by a few yards either way — GPS couldn’t be that accurate, especially on a steep hill.