by Paul Gitsham
When the lights didn’t return after a few more seconds, Warren turned slowly to take stock of the situation; even the ever-present hum from the fridge-freezer was suddenly noticeable by its absence.
‘It looks as though the whole street is out,’ called Susan. ‘Not even the street lights are on.
By now, Warren’s eyes were starting to adjust to the sudden darkness. Faint, grey shadows slowly took form as the dim moonlight seeped through the slats in the still open kitchen blinds.
‘I think I left my mobile in my handbag, can you use yours?’ called Susan from the other room. Feeling foolish for forgetting that his phone was essentially a torch, Warren fumbled in his jacket pocket. Nothing. It must still be in his overcoat, hanging in the hallway.
The faint moonlight didn’t penetrate this far into the house and Warren found himself reaching out with his hands, shuffling slowly like a mummy from a childrens’ cartoon. They’d lived in the house for nearly four years, but he couldn’t for the life of him recall how many steps there were to the coat pegs. The flashing red light on the alarm system did nothing to help him judge the distance.
Or see Susan’s book bag at the bottom of the stairs.
After picking himself up and reassuring Susan that he was OK, Warren finally located his coat, and then his phone.
The light from its screen was dazzling, and Warren had to blink several times before he could focus enough to locate the icon that turned the phone’s camera flash into a powerful torch.
‘It’s a good job I got takeaway or we’d be eating cold baked beans like cavemen,’ joked Warren.
‘Well, unless we want to eat in the dark, we’d better find some candles soon, my phone battery is only on 10 per cent.’
Warren checked his, and found it wasn’t much better.
It took a couple of minutes of fumbling around before Susan located the box of candles left over from Christmas dinner at the back of a cupboard. Fortunately, she kept a box of matches in her school pencil case.
‘I knew there was a reason I married a science teacher, instead of a geography teacher,’ teased Warren.
‘I assumed it was the leather elbow patches that put you off geographers,’ replied Susan as she lit the candles. She reached around the table and gave Warren’s backside a playful squeeze. ‘Eat up quickly before the power comes back on, you know how candlelight makes me feel.’
Warren said nothing as he fumbled for his phone.
‘How could I be so stupid,’ he muttered, ignoring his wife’s flirting.
No signal. The power cut must have been quite extensive to have also taken out the local cell-tower.
Ignoring Susan’s questions, Warren scrolled through his contacts as he made his way to the hall phone. Fortunately, the local telephone exchange still had power and Tony Sutton picked up on the second ring.
‘You OK, boss? Have you lost your mobile or something?’
‘Have you got electricity?’
‘Yeah, course, I live in Middlesbury not Cornwall.’
Warren ignored the man’s attempt at humour.
‘I need you to check your email for Andy Harrison’s scene inventory and read it out for me.’
Still confused, Sutton nevertheless complied.
‘That’s it?’
‘That’s everything that’s listed. Andy’s pretty thorough, you know that. What’s this all about, Chief?’
Warren explained his flash of inspiration. There was a silence at the end of the phone before Sutton spoke again.
‘You’d better call Grayson and let him know. He needs to be the one to escalate the death to murder.’
Monday 23rd February
Chapter 9
Judging from the time displayed by the flashing clock on the oven, the electricity had been restored some hours previously, at about 1 a.m. A statement from the electricity company had been read out on the local radio as Warren drove into the office at 6 a.m., apologising to the thousand or so customers affected by a fault at the local substation.
Warren was half contemplating writing a letter of thanks.
‘Sorry I didn’t spot it sooner,’ said Warren.
Grayson waved a hand. ‘Nobody else did. So either somebody was with him when he set himself on fire, holding a light, or he was set alight by persons unknown? There’s no way he could have done it himself?’
Warren shook his head firmly.
‘The last reliable sighting of Father Nolan was after dark and there was hardly any moonlight. I can just about accept that he could find his way to the chapel, then let himself into the undercroft, but it would have been pitch black down there. There are electric lights, but they were turned off at the switch at the top of the stairs. I can’t believe that he would have gone down there, set up the chair, then gone back up the stairs, locked himself in, switched off the lights, come back downstairs, doused himself in petrol and then set himself alight in the pitch black.’
‘And there were no other sources of light at the scene?’
‘Nothing. No torch, his mobile phone was back in his room and there were no candles.’
‘He had a box of matches, could he have used those?’
‘Doubtful, the box was almost full and Forensics only found a single spent match in the whole area. Besides which, you know how volatile petrol is. It’s doubtful he could have slopped petrol over himself with an open source of ignition in the room, the vapour would have ignited immediately. Forensics didn’t find any burnt paper or rags at the scene to indicate that he made a fire to see by.’
Grayson pulled at his bottom lip. ‘You’re right. I’m not quite ready to publicly declare it a murder, but it should remain an unexplained death for now.’
‘There’s more,’ interjected Sutton. ‘I was thinking about this after last night’s call. There was no sign of any restraint, and I believe that the working hypothesis was that Father Nolan drank enough whiskey and took enough sleeping pills to numb the pain sufficiently not to run around like a mad thing when he set himself alight.’
Warren agreed; he could see where Sutton was headed.
‘Well, is it likely that somebody that far out of it would have the manual dexterity to light a match, apparently first time?’
The three men were silent as they thought through the implications.
‘We need the results of the toxicology,’ said Warren finally.
‘Call the lab and get it fast-tracked, I’ll authorise the cost,’ ordered Grayson.
‘If the bloods come back and show that he was so insensate that he could be covered in petrol and ignited without any signs of restraint or a struggle, then that raises questions about how he got in that state in the first place,’ said Sutton.
‘Go on,’ said Warren.
‘The way I see it, there are two possibilities. First, that he drank the whiskey and potentially took his sleeping pills in situ. That is more believable if it was a suicide, otherwise how would you convince him to do it otherwise? There was no sign of a restraint or struggle. And why on earth would he go down to the undercroft with somebody?’
‘He could have been threatened or coerced in some way?’ suggested Grayson.
‘In which case it’s likely a murder,’ continued Sutton, ‘or he took the whiskey and pills elsewhere, probably his room, as it is private, and was then led down to the undercroft by his killer, who left the bottle and pills there to mislead us.’
‘Or a combination of the two scenarios,’ interjected Grayson.
‘Either way, it implies that he must have known his killer, at least to some degree,’ said Sutton. ‘Not only would they need him to have been comfortable enough to drink with him in his room or to go down to the chapel with him, they would also need to know about his medication.’
‘Which means we need the results back from the forensics in his room, and the likely route he took down to the chapel,’ said Warren. ‘We also need to know the whereabouts of all of the other residents, staff and carers that night.’
Chapter 10
‘Preliminary results are back in from the forensic examination of Father Nolan’s room,’ said Rachel Pymm as Warren, Sutton and Grayson joined Ruskin around her workspace. In deference to the fact that her job was almost entirely computer-based, her desk was adorned with three large monitors, arranged in a horseshoe.
Warren felt a pang of sadness, quickly repressed. One of his last requisition requests from Gary Hastings had been just such a set-up. He’d largely taken over from DS Pete Kent as the unit’s expert user of the HOLMES2 crime management system and ‘officer in the case’, the person in charge of keeping track of the all the information flowing into a major inquiry, such as a murder. DS Rachel Pymm now did that job full-time.
‘Give me the highlights.’
‘First of all, surfaces that we’d expect to have Father Nolan’s fingerprints on, as well as whoever cleaned his room last, are completely clean,’ said Pymm.
‘What about the glass tumblers?’ asked Warren.
‘Again, suspiciously clean, with no observable fingerprints. Both glasses had also been well-rinsed. Tests are ongoing of the droplets of liquid in the bottom of the glass but early indications are that it was almost entirely tap water, with traces of ethanol and complex aromatic compounds of the type typically found in a grain-based spirit.’
‘Sounds like whiskey,’ suggested Grayson.
‘That’s what they think. More detailed tests should be able to confirm that and possibly identify the brand.’
‘So he shared a drink with his killer?’
‘Perhaps. They are doing their best to isolate any stray DNA from around the rim of the glass, but CSM Harrison says don’t hold your breath.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Nothing much. Just some residue in one of the glasses that may be an anti-depressant.’
Warren choked back a response; Pymm smiled sweetly.
‘They also found tiny polymer fragments in the sink trap that could be from the capsule surrounding a timed-release tablet, again consistent with the anti-depressant prescribed to Father Nolan. Identification has been fast-tracked.’
‘Bloody hell,’ breathed Warren. ‘Anything more?’ His tone suggested that the time for teasing was over.
‘Several different shoe prints have been isolated from the ground outside the fire exit and the corridor immediately adjacent to it. Their orientation suggests that people have walked both in and out of the exit. Some of the prints on the ground outside heading away from the house match examples in the footwear reference database for men’s size ten Clarks of the type Father Nolan was wearing the night he died. Obviously there was too much damage from the fire to make a definitive match between these prints and his shoes.’
‘So, Father Nolan could have exited the house via the fire exit. Is the door not alarmed?’ asked Ruskin.
‘The wires to the contacts that trigger the alarm if the door is opened look as though they may have been tampered with, although it isn’t conclusive. The crash bar on the door is also suspiciously free of prints, but a clear hand-print on the right-hand wall as you look towards the door could be from Father Nolan. They are looking for a better source for comparison prints amongst his belongings before they declare a positive match.’
‘So, Father Nolan walked out of the fire exit, without triggering the alarm. As he did so, he leant against the wall – which might be an indication that he was unsteady on his feet, from having consumed alcohol and prescription drugs,’ suggested Sutton.
‘I’d be interested to know how mobile Father Nolan was,’ said Warren. ‘Assuming these footprints are from when he left the house with his killer, then he was still on his feet at that stage – the drugs and alcohol hadn’t rendered him entirely helpless. What about by the time he made it to the chapel? Was he still upright or did he need carrying? That might indicate if there was more than one killer.’
‘Forensics are still examining the most likely routes between the house and the chapel, but the pathways up by the house are pretty well-trod and weren’t immediately closed off,’ said Pymm.
‘Why aren’t Father Nolan’s footprints inside the hallway?’ asked Ruskin.
Pymm answered, ‘The footprints outside are impressions in the soft earth. The footprints inside are transfer from the dirty soles of somebody’s shoes. They were only visible using electrostatic transfer.’
Ruskin paused, before blushing slightly. ‘Oh, I see. Father Nolan only walked out of the fire exit. The killer entered from outside, tracking mud inside, then walked back out with Father Nolan.’ He paused again. ‘Do any of the unknown footprints head in as well as out?’
Sutton clapped the young constable on the shoulder. ‘Exactly the right question to ask, Moray. Rachel?’
‘Yes, two sets.’ She smirked. ‘We’ll make a detective out of you yet, junior.’
‘Bugger off,’ the Scotsman muttered as everyone chuckled.
‘Bugger off, Sergeant, show some respect,’ responded Pymm primly.
‘What next, Moray?’ asked Warren.
‘We should try and identify who the other shoe prints belong to and find out who has access to the fire exit. Was anyone spotted nearby in the hours before and afterwards?’
‘Anything else?’ prompted Sutton.
‘Who would know about his medication, and who would he be comfortable enough with to let his guard down in their presence, assuming he wasn’t taken against his will?’
‘And what else?’
The young constable thought for a moment, ‘We should also speak to a forensic pharmacologist about the likely effects of the amount of sedatives and alcohol found in his system.’
‘Good,’ said Warren. ‘As luck would have it that’s exactly who we are waiting to get back to us.’ He turned to the rest of the team. ‘You all heard the man, let’s get going.’
Tuesday 24th February
Chapter 11
The report from the forensic pharmacologist was waiting in Warren’s email inbox when he arrived at work that morning. He took one look at it and headed to the coffee urn. He’d slept poorly the night before; suddenly, the journey that he and Susan were about to embark upon seemed real. For months, the couple had undergone endless tests, spoken to numerous specialists and now the time had come. At exactly 8 p.m. the previous night, Susan had injected herself with a shot of hormones, triggering the start of the IVF process. The injection had been over in a matter of seconds, yet Warren couldn’t clear his mind of what was happening inside his wife’s body. All being well, her ovaries should now be gearing up to produce mature eggs, ready for the fertility specialists to harvest.
Amazingly, an hour or so after the injection, Susan had simply gone to bed, falling asleep within moments of her head hitting the pillow. Unfortunately for Warren, sleep wasn’t as forthcoming. He’d lain awake for hours listening to his wife’s breathing, picturing the next nine months with an alternating combination of excitement and fear. When he’d finally dozed off, his dreams had been fractured and muddled, his over-stimulated imagination mixing the investigation with his impending fatherhood. He’d awoken earlier than normal, with a feeling of disquiet.
Even after a second mug of coffee, the report still meant nothing to him and so he was forced to elicit the assistance of Ryan Jordan to interpret it; he called Moray Ruskin in to listen in on the conference call.
‘They measured his blood alcohol level at 152 milligrams per millilitre, although there is some margin for error given the trauma he suffered before he died. That volume of alcohol would have made him a bit unsteady on his feet, but probably wouldn’t have made him insensate.’
‘What about the drugs tests?’ asked Ruskin.
‘The level of doxepin in his system was significantly higher than would have been expected if he had taken his prescribed amount, even allowing for the fact that Father Nolan was in the habit of ignoring medi
cal advice and taking a nightcap to amplify its affects. However, I found fewer fragments of the pill’s capsule in his stomach than I’d expect for such a large amount. I’d even hazard a guess that the fragments represent his prescribed dosage of one tablet.’
‘Suggesting that he took his usual pill, but then additional capsules were opened and the contents poured into his drink?’ suggested Warren.
‘Entirely plausible. Doxepin is soluble in alcohol, and a lot of patients report dysgeusia, an alteration to their sense of taste, so he may not have noticed it. It also means that the drug would be absorbed much faster. That’s why you shouldn’t ever grind up pills unless told that it is safe to do so. Plenty of people have given themselves overdoses that way.’
‘OK Ryan, cards on the table; would this combination of alcohol and drugs have left Father Nolan sufficiently mobile to get down to the chapel, largely under his own power, but rendered him compliant enough not to need restraint?’ Warren held his breath.
Jordan sounded reluctant as he answered.
‘I spoke to the forensic pharmacologist myself. She says that most people would have been on a steady downward spiral towards unconsciousness within thirty minutes to an hour after consuming that mixture. The rate would depend on the person’s individual physiology, how quickly they drank it and how much they had eaten etc.
‘It is possible that Father Nolan could have been confused enough to be led into the chapel, presumably by someone he knew, where he then slumped in the chair. The shock of the fire may have been enough to rouse him temporarily.
‘It is equally possible that the drugs may have rendered him unconscious in just a few minutes, meaning he would have needed to be carried down to the chapel or transported another way.’
‘Could he have taken himself down there, doused himself in petrol and then ignited himself with a box of matches, in the dark?’
The pause was even longer.