Forgive Me Father

by Paul Gitsham

  He deleted the chancers and forwarded on the attempted bribery to Professional Standards, copying in DSI Grayson; he doubted they would do much more than rebuke the paper (who would immediately apologise and blame it on an over-eager junior reporter), nevertheless he didn’t want any suggestion that he had colluded with them. Doubtless Grayson would remind the team of their ethical and legal obligations the next morning in case anyone else had received a similar offer.

  Monday 2nd March

  Chapter 31

  ‘This is what we know about Father Gerry Daugherty, so far.’ Tony Sutton was presenting the morning briefing. Behind him on the wall screen, a picture of a clean-shaven man in his sixties, with a shock of silvery hair, smiled at the camera, the head shot clearly showing the traditional black shirt and the white collar of a Roman Catholic priest. At the back of the room, Warren covered his mouth, stifling a yawn. Neither he nor Susan had slept properly the night before; today was a big day for them.

  ‘Born in 1947 in Cardiff to second generation Irish parents, he moved to Liverpool when he was three years old. He went to St Cuthbert’s College in Ushaw, Durham to train for the priesthood in 1965 and was ordained in 1971. He was a parish priest back in Liverpool for the next fifteen years, then when his parents retired in 1986 and moved down to South Cambridgeshire to be closer to his father’s family, he decided to make the move also. He wound up just over the border in Hertfordshire, where he took on the role of school chaplain at Saint Thomas Aquinas Catholic Comprehensive. He reportedly stayed there until retiring in 2005 on the grounds of ill health – likely mental health related – and moving to St Cecil’s.’

  ‘Father Nolan was also a school chaplain, could they have known each other?’ asked Hutchinson.

  ‘It’s not impossible that their paths crossed from time to time, but they trained at different seminaries and so far, we have no evidence that they knew each other before they met at the retirement home.’

  ‘What sort of relationship did they have?’ asked Richardson.

  ‘Nobody we’ve spoken to mentioned anything notable,’ said Sutton. ‘They were neither close friends, nor did anyone ever see them arguing. They had different hobbies and supported different football teams. Like Father Nolan, Father Daugherty rarely used the communal PC and didn’t own a laptop or smartphone. I’ve requested his mobile phone records, but everyone I’ve spoken to say that he rarely used it.’

  ‘How was he regarded by the other residents and staff?’ asked Pymm.

  ‘With great affection from what I can tell. Father Nolan was largely regarded as a pleasant, but quiet man. Father Daugherty on the other hand was a bit of a character. The kids at school nicknamed him Father Scouse on account of his accent, and he loved to live up to the stereotype; he was very witty. As far as anyone was aware, nobody disliked him.’

  ‘Do we know how he took Father Nolan’s death?’

  ‘The whole community were shocked obviously, and Father Daugherty was said to be especially quiet. He was usually a source of humour and wit, but he was supposedly very down about the death, particularly its very violent nature.’

  ‘Both Father Nolan and Father Daugherty took early retirement on the grounds of poor mental health, could there be a connection?’ asked Hutchinson.

  ‘They were both registered at the same GP practice, but it’s the nearest one to the home, so that would be expected. We’re currently applying to get their medical records released.’

  ‘What about family and friends outside the home?’ asked Richardson.

  ‘No wife and kids obviously, but he had a niece and a nephew on his father’s side, both of whom lived in Devon, and he was reportedly very fond of their children. He would visit a few times a year, particularly around Christmas and Easter. Outside the home, like Father Nolan, he was also a football fan – Everton – and he frequented the Duke of Wellington pub, which is in the opposite direction to the Cock and Lion where Father Nolan drank. There’s no indication that he was a gambler.’

  ‘We should get someone to question the landlord, to see if there were any notable changes in his behaviour, or if he mentioned any worries,’ said Warren. ‘Do we know why he was on the bridge that night, or how he got there?’

  ‘Well, he was in the habit of taking an evening constitutional,’ said Sutton. ‘He’d usually head out after evening meal, for an hour or so between seven and nine. It was a regular thing, even in winter or when it was raining. He enjoyed the peace and quiet. The last person to see him was Sister Clara, who said she saw him putting his coat on before heading out at about seven.’

  ‘Could he have seen something the night of Father Nolan’s death? If the killer thought Father Daugherty saw him acting suspiciously, he could have decided to kill him to keep him quiet,’ suggested Ruskin.

  ‘He didn’t mention anything when he was originally interviewed over Father Nolan’s death,’ offered Hutchinson.

  ‘Nevertheless, it’s a good suggestion,’ said Warren.

  ‘Would his walk have taken him to the bridge?’ asked Hutchinson.

  Sutton shook his head and switched slides to a plan of the abbey grounds. Hand-drawn, the title proclaimed it to be from the fourteenth century.

  ‘Doubtful. The bridge over the river Herrot dates back to the original abbey, when there used to be a water mill just inside the abbey perimeter. The bridge was a convenient way to transport wheat to the mill house. A gate next to it was wide enough to allow a fully laden horse and cart into the grounds, and provided easy access to the gardeners and cook’s quarters that existed at the time.’

  He switched slides, this one a modern plan of the abbey grounds.

  ‘You can see how things have changed. The water mill and the mill house are gone, as are the old cook and gardener’s quarters. The house that eventually became the retirement home was built on the land that the infirmary once stood upon. The bridge has remained, as has the gate, however it’s now made of metal, padlocked and rarely used.

  ‘It’s quite possible that Father Daugherty’s wanderings may have taken him along the inside of the perimeter wall, perhaps even to the gate, but unless he had a key to the padlock, he’s unlikely to have been able to walk out on to the bridge. We’ve yet to find one on his body, but if he had it in his hand when he fell, it could be downstream. We’d need to dredge the river to find it.’

  ‘I’ll let you suggest that to DSI Grayson, Tony.’

  ‘Was the padlock locked?’ asked Ruskin when the chuckles had died down.

  ‘Yes, although he could easily have locked it after himself, without a key, by reaching through the gate and snapping it shut. Forensics are dusting for prints.’

  ‘Who would have access to the key?’ asked Pymm.

  ‘As usual, they were hanging up in the vestry. We’ll do another audit of the keys, although if he was murdered, the killer may have returned them since.’

  ‘If they didn’t use those keys, then we all know someone who probably has a copy of his own,’ said Richardson, darkly.

  ‘We’ll check out Rodney Shaw’s whereabouts as a priority,’ promised Warren. ‘In the meantime, Forensics are busy going over Father Daugherty’s room and looking for signs that he was taken to the bridge against his will. The bridge has stone walls about four feet tall, so he won’t have been able to fall over either accidentally, or even after a helpful shove. He either climbed that wall of his own free will, or somebody lifted him over.’

  Chapter 32

  ‘What have you got for us, Prof?’ asked Warren.

  Today was the day of the egg implantation procedure. Warren had planned on taking the day off, but Susan had insisted that as her appointment wasn’t until late afternoon, she would be going into school first thing to set cover lessons for the remainder of the week. Warren had no choice therefore but to go into work himself. As the hour of the procedure had drawn closer though, Warren had found himself increasingly distracted. In the end, he’d decided to travel down to Ryan Jordan’s laboratory
at the Lister Hospital in Stevenage, since he had to head in that direction for the clinic anyway.

  ‘Preliminary tests indicate drowning,’ said Jordan. ‘He had head injuries consistent with a fall from that height onto the rocks below, but his lungs were filled with water, with the changes in the fluid around his lungs indicating fresh water drowning. There are signs of damage to his brain tissue indicative of hypoxia; I’ll know more when the slides come back from histology.’

  ‘What about alcohol or drugs?’

  ‘Blood alcohol is only fractionally above zero – roughly what I’d expect if he had a glass of wine some hours before his death. I’m still waiting for toxicology, but there are no fragments of any pill casings in his stomach.’

  ‘He probably had a glass with his evening meal. I don’t suppose that could be used to give a time of death?’

  Jordan said nothing, just raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Sorry, teaching my grandmother to suck eggs.’

  ‘In answer to the question, no, not with any certainty. Judging from the state of the food in his stomach, death occurred a couple of hours at least after his last meal, but when it comes to the rate of digesting food and metabolising alcohol, everyone is different.

  ‘His core temperature was close to ambient when the CSIs first waded in to check he was dead and secure his body, but he’d been lying face down in cold running water. It’s impossible to be any more precise than suggesting he probably died more than an hour before he was found.’

  ‘So we’re talking death occurring sometime between a couple of hours after his evening meal and an hour before the CSIs stuck a thermometer up his backside?’

  ‘Probably.’

  * * *

  The appointment at the clinic was at 2 p.m. Warren had simply marked it in his online work calendar as ‘busy’. He met Susan in the car park.

  ‘It feels as though we’re having some sort of clandestine affair,’ joked Warren after pecking his wife on the cheek.

  ‘It’s not dingy enough,’ said Susan, ‘I like my affairs sordid.’

  ‘I’ll remember that in future.’

  It had been a year since the couple had started attending the clinic, and by now the staff on the reception desk were a familiar, friendly sight. Despite this, Warren still dreaded his visits. Ever since he’d found out that the cause of the couple’s problems were due to his low sperm count, rather than any issues with Susan’s fertility, he’d felt a failure. He felt as though he was judged every time he walked in there; that everyone from the nurses and doctors to the health care assistants and receptionists looked in his notes and sniggered.

  Absolute madness.

  He knew that and Susan, a biology teacher by profession, knew that. And she told him that every time he was foolish enough to bring it up.

  Over the last few weeks, as the couple had decided to embark upon the procedure, Warren had forced himself to stop complaining out loud. In the grand scheme of things, he had nothing to whinge about. For two weeks Susan had injected herself daily with powerful hormones, and trekked to the clinic every other day for ultrasound scans of her ovaries. Then she’d undergone the egg collection procedure, with nothing stronger than paracetamol to numb the discomfort. Yet she had never uttered a word of complaint. To his chagrin, Warren realised that he’d been so self-consumed with his own feelings of inadequacy, and by the rapidly unfolding case, that he hadn’t even asked if she was in any pain.

  He really had nothing to complain about; twenty minutes in a cubicle with some adult literature and a plastic cup had been his entire contribution to the process.

  ‘It’ll be fine,’ said Susan. ‘They phoned again at eleven to say the eggs are still dividing normally.’

  As usual Susan had seen right through him. Warren worked with liars every day, but next to his wife he felt a mere amateur when it came to spotting somebody concealing the truth. Her reputation for making guilty pupils give up their secrets was well known amongst pupils and staff, and the science department had the lowest detention rate in the school. The threat of ‘being sent to Mrs Jones’ held a significant level of currency amongst the students. It was a talent she had inherited from her mother.

  ‘And we’ll be fine,’ replied Warren. ‘The procedure will go swimmingly.’

  If Susan spotted the doubt in his voice, she chose not to say anything. She also generously ignored Warren’s awful attempt at a pun.

  * * *

  Warren had been right. Everything had gone swimmingly, and by early evening, he and Susan were driving home. Despite Susan’s protestations, Warren had insisted that they leave her car at the clinic and both go home in his. He’d pick her car up the following day.

  The cost for parking overnight had been eye-watering, but he’d fibbed and said that they’d already been at the clinic long enough to pay the ‘up to twenty-four hours’ charge anyway, so he may as well pick it up on the way to work. If the human lie-detector sitting next to him had seen through his deception, she didn’t say anything.

  When they got home, Susan was insistent that she wasn’t an invalid. Warren ignored her, lifting her school bag out of the car for her and demanding that she sit on the sofa with her feet up.

  ‘Why is your bag full of marking? I thought you just went in this morning to set cover for the rest of the week?’ called Warren as he placed her bag in the dining room.

  ‘I’m waiting for an egg to implant, not recovering from open-heart surgery,’ she replied from the living room. ‘It’ll be quite nice to reduce the backlog without having to deal with naughty kids or the senior leadership team banging on my classroom door every half-an-hour.’

  ‘Yeah, those pupils really get in the way of you doing your job.’ It was a running joke between them. Warren said similar things about the criminals he dealt with; nothing derailed a well-planned day like an unexpected murder, he’d found.

  Warren poured the tea, then loaded up a saucer with some of the nice Marks and Spencer biscuits he’d secreted behind the never-used bread maker. He’d booked the remainder of the day off, and was looking forward to spoiling his wife for a change.

  Pushing the door to the living room open with his foot, he stopped in his tracks. Susan lay across the sofa, eyes closed. A soft snore escaped her open mouth.

  * * *

  The tea was long cold by the time Susan woke up from her nap, later that evening. Warren had studiously avoided the temptation to check his work email. He knew that if anything desperately important happened, he’d be phoned.

  The phone call happened at seven that evening as Warren was boiling pasta.

  Tony Sutton.

  For a long moment, Warren stared at the phone, willing it to stop ringing.

  ‘It could be important,’ called Susan from the living room, her sharp ears having picked up the phone’s vibration on the kitchen counter.

  With a sigh, Warren swiped the phone, answering just before it was due to switch to voicemail.

  ‘Are you going back into work?’ asked Susan, when he finally returned to the living room.

  ‘No. It’s nothing Tony can’t handle. I’ve blocked the evening out in my schedule. Tonight I’m all yours.’

  Tuesday 3rd March

  Chapter 33

  Warren arrived at work over an hour before the 8 a.m. briefing. He’d been as good as his word the night before, leaving his phone on vibrate only and not checking his emails, spending the evening with Susan in front of a film, before going to bed early. By unspoken assent, neither had mentioned the elephant in the room, but he doubted that she could describe the plot of the film any more than he could.

  It was still dark when he finally gave in to a nagging conscience and got up. What little sleep he had managed had been punctuated with unpleasant and uncomfortable dreams that he couldn’t remember, but which left him feeling depressed and demoralised. After a short cab journey back to the clinic to pick up Susan’s car and pay its ransom he eventually found himself sitting in his office, slurping
his second coffee of the day, still feeling out-of-sorts.

  By the time he’d finally dealt with the bulk of his inbox, it was time for the meeting, his renewed focus on the case pushing the clouds to one side.

  Moray Ruskin started the briefing by describing the previous afternoon’s visit to Father Daugherty’s favoured local, The Duke of Wellington.

  ‘He was well known in there, according to the landlord. He wasn’t a big drinker, but he had a big personality. The locals also used to call him Father Scouse. He always had a couple of new jokes to share, and he usually watched the football, especially if Everton were playing. He’d take his dog collar off if his team were playing badly, in case anyone overheard his language and reported him to the pope. The landlord said everyone was very shocked to hear what had happened.’

  ‘Did he go there with any other residents or staff from the retirement home?’ asked Sutton.

  ‘Not very often. A couple of the locals reckoned they might have seen someone else with him wearing a dog collar once or twice, but it certainly wasn’t a common occurrence. I showed them photos of Rodney Shaw and Father Nolan, but nobody recognised either of them.’

  ‘Did he have any regular drinking partners?’ asked Hutchinson.

  ‘Again, not really. Pretty much everyone knew him, and most had shared a few jokes with him, but there was nobody that the landlord would describe as a close friend, or who he always made a bee-line for’

  ‘What about changes in mood?’ asked Sutton.

  ‘A couple of the locals said that he didn’t come in at the beginning of the week and when he did come in on Thursday evening to watch the Europa League game, he was quite subdued, even when Everton won 3-1. The landlord expressed his condolences over Father Nolan’s death when he saw him, and said that Father Daugherty was clearly quite upset over it. He had expected to see him Sunday, because Everton was playing Arsenal in the Premiership, but obviously that didn’t happen.’