Her phone rang. She opened an eye and looked at the caller ID, wondering if it was someone she could ignore. Maruma would get answered, as would the whole of the MCU, but literally everyone else would be ignor…
Unknown caller. A mobile she didn’t know. That was a pain, because she was intrigued, and police work just made that all the keener. While there was a 90% chance this was some bullshit salesman, she jabbed a button and put the phone to her ear.
“Hello,” said a voice timidly.
Grayling knew immediately she’d done the right thing. This wasn’t a sales call.
“Hi, this is Rebecca Grayling.”
“The police? Yes?”
“That’s correct. Can I help you.”
“I… don’t want to give my name.”
“That is absolutely fine,” by now Grayling was up, a pen in her other hand.
“A journalist rang me, said you wanted to talk. About that church.”
“Please, in your own time, it would be very helpful.”
“I’m… a lesbian. A married lesbian now, with a lovely wife; I don’t want this brought back up. But yeah, I used to be ashamed of being queer cos the church told me it was bad. I was so ashamed, thought I was so wrong, I let them try and turn me straight. What they did…” she hesitated.
“What did they do?”
“Twice-weekly sessions, one on one, in which we were prayed for, admonished, made to say what we’d been thinking, confess anything we’d done, beg forgiveness… it was horrible. I know now it’s torture. But then… then I thought it would save me. Oh god.”
“It’s okay, it’s okay, you’ve gone past that now.”
“I had therapy, actual therapy for a year to get past what they did. To be me and marry. But they wanted me to get with a guy, so I’d get over my urges, they said. Be with a guy, if you know what I mean, and then pray with the tutor for forgiveness.”
Which to Grayling all sounded horribly voyeuristic, as well as blatantly cruel. “Do you have a name for this tutor?”
“Edward.”
“Edward Quince?”
“No, no, he runs the whole church. Edward Gregson was who ran my classes, ran the conversion thing. I don’t know if he’s still there or what, but I hope his life is hell. You can’t arrest him though, can you, this isn’t illegal, and he knows it.”
“Oh, I’m working on something. Are you willing to make a statement?”
“No. I’ll tell you what I know in secret, so you know where to look, but I’m not getting back into it. My name’s not going anywhere. My wife won’t know what I did.”
“Okay, well I appreciate you telling me. Sounds like hell. Edward Gregson. Okay.”
“Is there anything else you want to ask?”
Lots, Grayling thought; lots and lots. “Do you know anyone who might go on the record.”
“I left totally. Don’t know any of them. Didn’t even know that journo still had my number and I won’t be ringing you after tonight.”
“Okay, I really appreciate this. You’ve helped a lot of people. Thanks.”
“Open up! Open up!” The banging was loud and didn’t stop until the door opened, and a wet man in a towel stood there.
He began to protest “What do you want sir?”
Quince looked angry and started to walk into the flat, so the man had to dive back and out of the way.
“I’m trying to have a shower, watch the wrestling, what’s wrong?”
“Harry,” Quince began, “Harry… have you been running gay conversion therapy classes?”
Harry Webb stood there utterly confused. “Yes. You know I have. You helped me organise them.”
“That’s irrelevant,” Quince said in an epic moment of buck passing, even though it was perfectly true, “have you been running them badly?”
“What, no! We have a great track record and take the upmost care…”
“Jonathan Stewart and Kofi Salmons are dead, and both were being ‘straightened out’ by you right?”
“Yes, and that’s tragic; the devil was strong in them and they both chose him…”
“I don’t care why Harry, you were dealing with them and now they’re dead, and the public relations disaster is becoming volcanic.”
“Have you been drinking sir?”
“Do you know why Cribb is dead?”
“No!”
“Are you sure?”
“I just run the classes sir, which you approved and which Cribb helped pay for. That’s it. I don’t know about any murder and the public relations aspect quite frankly doesn’t worry me as much as two souls lost to the enemy.”
“Well, you’re going to have to be more bloody careful! When you resumed these classes, you told me we would be saving people, not destroying me!”
“Sir, you came to me to restart.”
“Oh, you’ve got words for everything haven’t you,” Quince shouted back.
“Maybe sir, you need to go home, have some coffee, try and get some rest. You’re obviously very upset and to be honest you aren’t making any sense at all.”
“Are you patronising me!”
“No,” said a man standing naked except for a towel, having their boss shout at them. He actually felt afraid and was nearly about to beg, but Quince turned, stormed through the front door (which he had left open) and back out and down the street.
Harry Webb sank into an armchair and began to cry.
DCI Wick looked at the clock. It was definitely time to go home, even if his had felt so empty since his wife had passed away. But home he must go, and he stood, packed his things, swigged the last of what must have been his eighth coffee, and closed his office door. Then he noticed lights were on in the Bunker, so he went inside to find Green stood there. He had a felt pen in one hand and was dashing to-and-fro in front of the white board; every movement leaving either a line or a number, some with more than a few zeroes.
“What… are you doing? Is this a game for Maruma?”
The board was covered in a dense web of lines, all with numbers attached. But then Wick began to notice things; like the names of church elders and what seemed to be sort codes and account numbers. “What is this?” he asked.
Green turned, grinning. “I’ve been all through the accounts found on Cribb’s office PC. He’s connected to a cloud. I can see all the spreadsheets no one’s meant to see. This is the movement of money through accounts.”
Oh, of course, Wick realised, Green’s memory was perfect, he could read figures, remember them and draw them in a chart without referring back. Obviously, it would be triple checked if it was relevant but…
Wick might regard his main job as supporting his family of staff, but he was still a detective and he looked at the chart. “Are the elders stealing money?”
“Not really boss. You see, for me, stealing implies some sort of hidden action. Some sort of attempt to hide. This is just nakedly moving money from church coffers to their own. No Swiss bank accounts, no middlemen, no white-collar subtlety at all. Just ‘oh I want three-grand, send it to me’.”
“Well it’s a good thing you don’t work for the CPS. This looks like massive financial abuse. Fraud.”
“Well, yeah, if you want to be picky.”
“Kind of our job. But this is all on the computer from the office?”
“That we found,” Green said grinning.
“If that’s what’s in the office, what on earth is on the laptop we’re missing?”
“Presumed hidden?”
“Oh yes, very presumed. I can see why Quince didn’t want us to go through all this. There’s enough to get him into trouble here.”
“Dunno.”
“You keep saying that, why?”
“Well, I don’t know how the church is registered. It might be hard to pin him down on anything.”
“Oh, don’t worry, if we need to find a financial expert we will. I’m sure we could charge Quince with something.”
“Yeah but it doesn’t solve the
murder, for that we’re going to need a list of everyone these transactions affected.”
“And I assume you have one?”
Green tapped his head and started writing a column of names out on the board. After a while Wick asked, “is this list ever going to end?”
“Sol, Sol you free?”
The flats Grayling and Maruma lived in didn’t open onto an open-air corridor, but an internal one. That meant no windows in the door, but Maruma still came straight over when he heard his friend use her key and stick her head in his place.
“Hey there. What’s up?”
“I decided to have a doze, but I got a call. Someone who’d been through the CT.”
“Oooh!”
“Sort of. They don’t want to give a statement, but they did give me the name of the person who ran the classes.”
“Sounds like a double six to me.”
“Yeah, except I can’t very well ring them this late and now I can’t sleep. So, I was hoping you’d entertain me.”
“Of course, come in,” which she already had done. “Can I get you a drink?”
“Yes, yes good idea. Better stay off caffeine, got any fizzy orange?”
“Sugar is just as bad as a nightcap.”
“Maybe vodka would make me sleepy.”
“Fizzy orange and vodka coming up.”
“Awesome. So, what you up to?”
“Just coming up with some more puzzles,” Sol explained.
“Ah, nice, how’s the game design going?”
“The puzzle making is great fun. Programming it into an app is certainly using my head and is like having a new puzzle every minute for my own use. The downside is dealing with the artists, which is like chasing cats who’ve ingested a load of cocaine and grown wings.”
“They say hell is other people. Which we know all about.”
“Indeed, they do. Artists are a special breed, I’m discovering, and by special, I mean royal pains in my arse. Still, it’s not like I can illustrate myself.”
“Yes,” Grayling agreed, “I saw your test pieces.”
“Feel free to say something nice about them.”
“I can’t, I really can’t.”
“I think I’ll have to develop the board game while I wait for the rest to click into place.”
Drinks made, they relaxed into the sofa. “Shall we watch something?” Maruma asked.
“Yes, go on.”
“How about Bob Ross?”
“The ultra-calming painter?”
“Him.”
“Yes let’s, but are we watching this for my benefit, so I relax, or for you so your faith in artists is restored?”
“Definitely for you, oh yes, I have not been rumbled at all.”
Soon Bob was on the screen, hair big and brush to match.
“Has he beaten the devil out?” Rebecca wondered as the man painted a sky which started with a smear of paint and soon became a majestic force of nature.
“Always.”
“The beauty of art,” Grayling noted, “is that something can look utter shit for ages, and suck up a huge amount of work, and then suddenly it all clicks, and it looks wonderful.”
“Are you trying to make this a huge metaphor about life?”
“That is exactly what I am trying to do. Is it working?”
“No, it is not, but if you keep talking, I am sure it will snap into place and look really deep.”
“I see what you did there. He’s beating, he’s beating! Get the devil out Bob.”
“I bet that’s how they talk at New Hope.”
“Have a good party,” the delivery man said, before waving and walking back down the street. Rob Lindleman looked at the pile of pizza boxes he had and went into the lounge.
“Hey,” he said to his husband, “he thinks we’re having a party.”
“What?” Jo said looking up from programming the next online match.
“We’ve ordered so many pizzas the delivery staff think we’re having a load of lads round. I’ve been called fucking fat by a pizza shop.
“Have we ordered a lot? I’ve got a large for now, you’ve got a large for now, we’ve got garlic bread, a chocolate pizza for dessert and then two mediums for tomorrow morning. That’s not a lot is it?”
“Alright don’t you start; you’re meant to be on my side.”
“I swore ‘til death us do part,” Joseph explained, “and after we’ve eaten these pizza’s you’ll be dead.”
“And you won’t be?”
“No, cos you normally eat half of mine, pizza-thief.”
“I feel like I’m being ganged up on.”
“By one person.”
“With a big personality.”
“Was that why you married me?”
“No, I was old and desperate.”
“You said it.”
The pizzas were spread out on the table and Rob picked his controller up. “Ooh Star Wars?”
“Yes, I feel like shooting some rebel scum.”
“Good. I shall use my death grip.”
“Oh, that reminds me,” Joseph said, “I saw your M.H.T.T. today.”
“And what does that stand for again? It’s late and all I can think of is pizza and lightsabres.”
“Mental Health Triage Team.”
“Oh, yeah, sorry, duh. Apparently, they’re well busy.”
“Yeah, they said they’re run off their feet. Keeps people out of the cells though they said.”
“I believe so. Which is obviously great. But I’ll tell you what, we actually had to run a fucking fundraiser to pay for the car they go around in. PCC said, ‘yeah, this sounds like a great idea, we’ll fund it for three months’, and we did it for that, and it was a massive hit. Massive. Helped the sick, helped us, helped the hospitals. And then, then, she says you can only keep it going if you raise funds. I mean it was saving us money, but the mental health charities had to go out, get a few grand and donate it to us so we could have a car. Fucking stupid; why weren’t we just doing it?”
“And relax!”
“Oh yeah, sorry, winds me up. The PCC is about soundbites and the Super is like Scrooge giving us a block of coal on a winter’s day. Although obviously there is only one block of coal.”
“I know exactly how you feel,” Joseph said.
“Oh, yeah sorry, fuck, you’re NHS, you really know how it is.”
“Correct. So, let’s drown our stomachs in pizza, kill some people we’ve never met and have a restorative cuddle.”
“Let’s do it. Let’s fucking do it. Fire up the lightsabres.”
Grayling stretched her arms out and felt her muscles tense and then relax. She’d just arrived at work with Maruma, and Susan was pulling into the car park, visible out of the window. She thus began the day the normal and operationally correct way: making three coffees. Then she admired the white board and the fact someone had assaulted it with a marker.
“To be quite honest,” Maruma said, “if you told me there was some arcane mystery hidden inside that, I’d believe you. It is very ‘puzzle book’.”
“Right, business,” Grayling walked over to Green. He smiled at her. “In the files you looked through, did you find a staff member of the church, or someone connected called Edward Gregson?”
Without even needing to look, Green said “yes. Actual employee, did groups and courses.”
“Do you know his number?”
“Sort of. Thing is, Gregson doesn’t work there now. There was rumour of a scandal and he left. It’s in his record. His phone number is given and it’s a mobile not linked to the church, so he might still be on it…”
“How long ago was this scandal?”
“I bet it was when the newspaper article came out,” Maruma tried.
“Spot on,” Green confirmed.
“Makes sense,” not for the first time Grayling wished she had Green’s memory. And her own social skills. “What’s the number?”
He came straight out with it, no looking up.
Grayling and Maruma went to their desk and dialled.
It rang.
After a moment, it was answered. “Dr Edward Gregson speaking.”
“Hello, I’m DC Grayling, I believe you once worked for New Hope Church?”
“I have no comment,” he snapped, “well I do, I mean, that was a long time ago, my work on conversion therapy was perfectly legal and approved by research in America, and I have had nothing to do with them since that damn article ruined my practice.”
“So, you definitely did CT for New Hope Church, but have now stopped and moved?”
“Absolutely correct. Don’t call me again,” the phone went dead.
“Well that puts us back a bit,” Maruma noted. “We know the church did it and we strongly suspect they still do it, but we don’t know who is running it, this all sounds a bit vague, but you know what I mean.”
“Yes, I do. What did he mean by research?”
From across the office, Rob’s voice called out “Bullshiiiiiiiiiit!”
“Yeah, I was assuming that too,” Grayling explained. “Research can prove anything if you pay them the money. Right then, back to the hunt.”
“I don’t need to do that now I’m married.”
“Shut up Lindleman, I really don’t need your ring in my face.”
“I really, really am trying hard not to reply to that, I am, I don’t want to be disciplined I don’t. Oh god.” He started laughing and turned away, laughing even harder.
Grayling looked at Susan. “We’re professionals. Really.”
“Hello, is there anybody here?” Wick called out as he entered the church. It was a grand old building, originally Norman and then extended so much as money had passed through the area, you’d be better describing it as a mongrel. There was a big metal gate on the front of the old wooden doors, because as Wick knew, if you nailed something valuable down, they’d even take the nails these days. But both doors were open, which suggested someone was inside. “Hello?” he said again.
A woman appeared from out of a door at the far end. Was that the vestry? Wick wasn’t sure.
“Good day, how may I help you?” she said. Short hair, cropped in a Julie Andrews style, and a beaming smile which seemed genuine.
“I’m Detective Chief Inspector Wick, and guessing from your collar, you’re the local vicar?”
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