Forgive Me Father

by Paul Gitsham

  ‘So could Father Daugherty have been depressed enough over the death of Father Nolan to have killed himself, or is his death another murder disguised as suicide?’ asked Richardson.

  ‘That’s the big question,’ conceded Warren. ‘Let’s hope the forensics can tell us either way.’

  Chapter 34

  The first results from the CSIs investigating Father Daugherty’s drowning came through mid-morning from the Crime Scene Manager Meera Gupta, Andy Harrison’s deputy. Gupta promised a formal report within the next day or so, but in the meantime Warren made scribbled notes in his notebook. As soon as the call ended, he summoned the rest of the team to an impromptu briefing.

  ‘Father Daugherty’s fingerprints have been found on the padlock on the gate between the bridge and the abbey grounds,’ he started.

  ‘Were there any other identifiable prints?’ asked Sutton.

  ‘Some partials, but nothing good enough to run through the database,’ said Warren. ‘In anticipation of your next question, I asked specifically about a match to Rodney Shaw. The official answer is that they aren’t nearly clear enough. Unofficially, they share enough common features with his prints for him not to be excluded at this stage.’

  ‘What about cause of death? Is it a suicide, or something more suspicious?’ asked Ruskin.

  ‘It’s early days,’ cautioned Warren, ‘so I’m keeping an open mind for now. The PM confirmed that his injuries were consistent with taking a dive from the bridge and landing headfirst on the rocks his body was found on. The CSIs went for a paddle and found traces of what appears to be his hair, and some blood embedded in the rock, so they’re supporting that interpretation for now.

  ‘They also found traces of fibres similar to material from the jacket he was wearing on the top of the bridge’s wall and traces of stone dust on the coat, suggesting he rubbed against the wall as he went over. There were also black cotton fibres that match the shirt he was wearing.’

  ‘I know that we have to rule out suicide before we declare it as murder,’ said Ruskin, ‘but if he did top himself, why would he put his coat on? Surely the last thing he’d be worried about is catching his death of cold?’

  ‘It’s a good thought, Moray,’ said Sutton, ‘but it could simply have been habit. It’s not uncommon for people who jump from tall buildings to remove their glasses first so that they don’t get broken.’

  ‘There is another question, of course,’ said Pymm. ‘If Father Daugherty was wearing his coat, how did he transfer black cotton fibres from his shirt to the wall?’

  ‘Which is exactly why I’ve persuaded DSI Grayson to categorise the death as suspicious; he’s agreed that in the light of what happened to Father Nolan it’s better to resource the investigation as a potential murder from the outset and down-grade if necessary later—’ Warren smiled grimly ‘—which means that if this was just a tragic suicide we need to prove that quickly, before we burn up too much money and end up having to justify ourselves to the bean counters.’

  A sympathetic murmur rippled around the table; nobody in the room envied Warren that conversation.

  ‘Forensics have also found some dried seeds embedded in his coat,’ continued Warren, dragging the briefing back on track, ‘and along long the brick work on the bridge there were green, wax-coated fibres from a Barbour-style jacket.’

  ‘Could that give us an indication of the route he was dragged?’ asked Richardson.

  ‘Quite possibly. They’ve been sent off for formal analysis, but CSM Gupta has also taken high resolution photographs that she’s going to have run through a botanical database. It won’t be good enough for court, we’ll need the expert testimony for that, but it’ll be a lot quicker and it might tell us where to look for more evidence.’

  ‘What about inconsistencies?’ asked Sutton. ‘Aside from the question over fibre transfer, if it was a murder then the killer has done a good job at making it look like a suicide so far.’

  ‘They’re still investigating. But so far they haven’t found the key to the padlock on his person, which raises the question about how he got on the bridge and why his fingerprints were on the padlock.’

  ‘He could have touched the padlock, realised he didn’t have a key and then walked around the long way,’ suggested Hutchinson.

  ‘Perhaps.’ It sounded unlikely to Warren. ‘Mags, see if there are any CCTV cameras outside the grounds that may have picked him up.’

  Warren flicked to the next page in his notebook.

  ‘There are also some questions over how he made it over the bridge wall. It’s about four-foot tall and the marks on his coat and fibres on the brickwork are consistent with him scrambling over, but Gupta would have also expected some scuffs on his shoes and/or rubber marks from his soles on the wall. It’s hardly conclusive, but worth noting.’

  ‘Speaking of soles, what about footprints?’ asked Hutchinson.

  ‘Two partial footprints that matched Father Daugherty’s were identified on the bridge. Unfortunately, the weather was not ideal, and they were just transfers from dirty shoes. There was also another partial that doesn’t match Father Daugherty’s. In answer to the obvious question, there isn’t enough detail to match the impressions to the unknown prints found by the fire exit in the house.’

  ‘What about Rodney Shaw?’ asked Pymm.

  ‘Again, not enough detail to match them to any of the shoes seized when we searched his house. Besides which, his work boots are still sitting on the shelf next to Andy Harrison’s workspace, so if it was him, he was wearing a different pair.’

  * * *

  The phone rang as Warren was headed out of the office to brief Grayson on the latest findings. The DSI was now fielding daily calls from Assistant Chief Constable Naseem, who was himself on the speed dial of a number of high-profile parties, including the current Bishop of Hertfordshire and Essex. One unexplained death at a priest’s retirement home was a tragedy; two was starting to look suspicious, and the force needed to control the flow of information and limit speculation until they were certain of what was happening.

  ‘Is it urgent, Professor? I’m on my way to a meeting.’ Warren had known the pathologist long enough to know that the man wouldn’t be offended by his abrupt tone.

  ‘Father Nolan didn’t drown in that river.’

  ‘The meeting can wait.’

  * * *

  ‘Diatoms. Microscopic, waterborne creatures with hard silica shells.’ Warren had called an urgent briefing for everyone available.

  Sutton nodded his head in understanding, as did Richardson and Pymm. Moray Ruskin looked blank.

  ‘Basically, the little critters are ubiquitous. Freshwater or seawater, even tap water, all contain them. There are at least fifteen-thousand known species and the type and abundance varies depending on the source of the water. When someone drowns, the diatoms migrate through the lining of the lungs and into the bloodstream, from where they are then deposited in organs around the body. It only takes a few seconds, as long as the heart is beating of course. Histologists can identify them easily when examining tissue samples under the microscope.’

  ‘Let me guess,’ said Sutton, ‘no diatoms?’

  ‘Close enough. The number of diatoms throughout his solid organs were far too low, and the diatoms that were present were the wrong species. Wherever Father Daugherty was drowned, it wasn’t in that river.’

  A murmur travelled around the room.

  David Hutchinson was the first to ask a question.

  ‘How confident are we that the conclusion is sound?’

  ‘The science is well respected, and peer-reviewed. Include all the discrepancies that the CSIs found at the bridge, and I think we’re definitely looking at murder.’

  Wednesday 4th March

  Chapter 35

  The decision had been made to go public with the belief that the deaths of Fathers Nolan and Daugherty were murder, not suicide. A press conference had been scheduled for midday, but Warren thought it important t
hat the residents and staff at the retirement home be briefed first thing, before the press were informed. The only space big enough for everyone was the dining hall.

  The huge room was dominated by a massive open fireplace. Red flocked velvet wall coverings spoke of the Langton family’s wealth back in the eighteenth century, and the tiled, wooden floor gleamed under the lights suspended twenty feet above the gathered crowd.

  Most of the original paintings had been removed to storage or local museums, and the subsequent spaces covered with appropriate paintings and iconography, including portraits of the most recent popes, a tasteful rendering of the virgin Mary with child, a painting said to be of St Cecil – the retirement home’s namesake – and a near life-size crucifix.

  The simple trestle tables that the priests typically dined at had been folded away after breakfast, to create more space, so that everyone could have a seat.

  The room was filled with a low-level buzz of conversation as the residents and staff filed in. Beside Warren, Deacon Gabriel Baines discreetly ticked attendees off on a sheet; anybody absent would be an immediate suspect – or worse, the killer’s potential next victim. Warren estimated that he had personally met about one third of the people in the room during the recent investigations. Rodney Shaw was the last to enter.

  ‘Everyone is accounted for,’ Baines told Warren quietly; even Fathers Kendrick and Ramsden had been brought down in their wheelchairs, along with their carers, including the three sisters. Aside from the brief flash of grey cloth, glimpsed when Sister Clara informed them that Father Cormac Nolan was missing from his room, it was the first time Warren had clapped eyes on the resident nuns.

  Nobody in the assembled crowd was a fool, and it was clear from snatches of overheard conversation that everyone assumed that they would only have been gathered, with the SIO of the two deaths, if the fatalities had been ruled suspicious.

  Bishop Fisher stood up and cleared his throat. Immediately the room fell silent. After a short prayer for the souls of their two deceased friends, and a request for the Lord to give strength and support to Warren and his team, Fisher passed the floor to Warren.

  The news might not have been unexpected, nevertheless it was clearly a shock and upsetting to all of those present. There was also a degree of anger.

  ‘DCI Jones, I believe I speak for many of us here when I say that I find it disturbing that we have been left in the dark about these killings, and our safety put at risk.’ The speaker was a relatively young priest, Father Angus Boyce, who helped provide care for some of the priests.

  ‘I think it is clear from the degree of ongoing police activity that you knew – or at least had suspicions – that the death of Cormac Nolan was more than a suicide. Yet you did nothing to warn us. Perhaps if Gerry Daugherty had thought that there was a killer on the loose, he may have taken precautions and still be with us?’

  The speaker had a point, and from the nodding of heads and general murmuring of assent, it was a widely shared view. The best that Warren could claim was that for operational reasons he was unable to go into specific details about an active investigation and appeal for their patience and continuing assistance.

  From the continued mutterings, it was clear that no one, including Father Boyce, was satisfied with that answer. For his part, Warren had a suspicion that there was a serious case review likely in the coming months, and that every decision made by his team would be scrutinised.

  ‘Are we in any danger?’ asked somebody else. Again, Warren recognised the speaker; Father Owen Merricks was a red-cheeked Welshman whose broad shoulders and upright posture belied his 78 years.

  Before Warren could respond, one of the health care assistants, a tall, man in his mid-thirties, with a broad Black Country accent, also spoke out. ‘Shouldn’t we have armed guards, until this maniac is caught?’

  ‘Perhaps we should evacuate the home, until this all blows over?’ suggested his co-worker, a petite, Asian woman.

  ‘Where would we go?’ asked Father Merricks.

  ‘At present we have no evidence to suggest that there is a specific threat to your safety, and there is no need to close the home or move any residents out.’ Warren had to raise his voice to cut through the rising chatter. ‘We will be posting police officers at the entrances to the home to ensure that no unauthorised persons enter the house. In the meantime, we urge you to remain vigilant; to report anything suspicious to one of our officers or Deacon Baines or Bishop Fisher, and to take care when outside the home, especially after dark.’

  Nobody seemed particularly satisfied with his answer, least of all the two health care assistants. Warren wondered if either of them would appear for work the next day, given that neither of them stayed in the house overnight.

  ‘Do you have any suspects?’ asked Father Boyce, when the muttering died down.

  ‘We are pursuing a number of lines of enquiry,’ hedged Warren. Despite studiously avoiding looking at Rodney Shaw, he could feel the groundsman’s eyes burning defiantly into him.

  ‘What about a motive?’ This time the speaker was one of the nuns that shared a room and helped look after the priests’ needs. Her grey habit covered her hair and made judging her age difficult, but Warren placed her age at about 40 years old. He couldn’t recall which of the three sisters she was.

  ‘Again, we are following a number of different leads, Sister …’

  ‘Clara,’ she supplied.

  Warren addressed the room again.

  ‘If any of you have any ideas about why Fathers Nolan and Daugherty might have been targeted, please, let me or one of my team know your thoughts, in confidence if you prefer.’

  * * *

  After addressing the residents of St Cecil’s, Warren headed straight for the press conference at Welwyn. This time, the press conference was beyond full. Most of the chairs had been removed, to squeeze more people in. The story had now grown beyond local and national interest, with several reporters from international agencies also in attendance.

  Grayson, as usual, was revelling in the attention. As a DSI, he would typically be expected to dress in plain clothes, but unlike many of his peers, Grayson usually wore his uniform around the office. For press conferences, he also wore his jacket; freshly dry-cleaned, his medals gleaming. His white shirt, on closer inspection, was made of tailored Egyptian cotton, rather than the multipack supermarket shirts that most uniformed officers wore each day, and even though he was sat behind a table emblazoned with the force’s logo, his shoes would have passed the strictest of inspections at police training college.

  Next to him, even in his smartest suit – the one usually reserved for weddings and funerals – and wearing the dark-blue silk tie that Granddad Jack had bought him for Christmas, Warren felt underdressed. His hair, whilst not untidy, had lost its freshly-cut sharpness; by contrast, Grayson’s hair could have sliced cheese. More than a week of sleepless nights and stress had left Warren with bags under his eyes; Warren strongly suspected that Grayson was wearing make-up. Tony Sutton reckoned it was so he looked good in close-up on high-definition TVs. Even the man’s aftershave smelt good.

  The press conference was carefully choreographed. First came the revelation that both deaths were being investigated as suspected homicides. Next came more specifics about each death; as always, the precise details were chosen carefully, with as much care taken in deciding what not to release as to what was actually disclosed. Appeals for more information, for which a dedicated hotline had been set up, alongside the usual force numbers and the anonymous Crimestoppers help line, typically resulted in a flurry of calls from timewasters and fantasists. A few carefully chosen questions about details not yet released could usually weed those out.

  The questions from the press were as predictable as Grayson’s answers.

  ‘Are the two murders linked – are we looking at a serial killer?’

  ‘At the moment, we are keeping an open mind.’

  ‘Are the general public in any danger?’


  ‘We currently have no information to suggest that the public should be worried, but we would urge people to remain vigilant and report any suspicions to the police.’

  ‘Will you be posting officers to protect the priests in the retirement home?’

  ‘I’m afraid I cannot disclose operational matters.’

  ‘Do the police have any idea why these particular priests were targeted?’

  ‘We are pursuing a number of lines of inquiry.’

  ‘Should priests be concerned about their safety?’

  ‘Again, we have no specific intelligence to suggest that priests are in any particular danger, but we will be issuing guidance to churches about increasing their vigilance.’

  ‘What about other faith groups? Could the killer be targeting religious leaders generally?’

  ‘We have no indications that that is the case, but again we would urge worshippers to take extra care.’

  Finally, the questions started to dry up and a number of reporters started to slip out the back. The clock at the rear of the room ticked over to 1 p.m. and Grayson called an end to the briefing.

  As they filed out of the room, Grayson murmured out of the corner of his mouth.

  ‘Conspiracy theorists. Start your engines …’

  Chapter 36

  ‘I’ve got an identification for those seeds found embedded in Father Daugherty’s coat.’ Deputy CSM Meera Gupta called Warren on his mobile as he headed back to Middlesbury. Grayson had opted to remain in Welwyn for meetings, which suited Warren fine. Grayson was an impatient traveller, and where possible he would engage the quickest police driver available to get him from A to B. If that wasn’t possible, he drove himself, at high speed, often holding an animated conversation on his hands-free kit; quite how he had avoided the accumulation of multiple points on his license was a mystery to Warren.

  Either way, Warren preferred not to travel with the man.