by Paul Gitsham
‘By some miracle he survived for almost a week. At that time of course, suicide was considered a sin, and so the boys’ father refused to speak to him. Matthias told Simon what had happened a few hours before he finally died, reportedly saying that all he wanted was for those involved to admit what they had done and seek forgiveness for their sins.
‘And did they?’ It was a hypothetical question.
‘What do you think, DCI Jones? Matthias was buried in an unmarked grave outside of the abbey grounds, supposedly because his suicide brought shame on the abbey community and his family. When his brother confronted his father over what had happened, his father reportedly said that he only had one child, and even blamed Matthias for the death of his mother in childbirth.’
Coombs took another swallow of water, and closed his eyes, his hand straying towards the button again. Again, he stopped himself.
‘Please, have a rest,’ said Warren.
Coombs shook his head slowly, before opening his eyes. When he spoke again, his voice was firm, but noticeably weaker.
‘Plenty of time to rest in the not too distant future. Where was I?’
‘Simon Scrope had just confronted their father after the death of his younger brother.’
‘Oh yes. Well it seems that Simon felt racked with guilt for not having spotted his younger brother’s distress earlier and so he decided to get revenge on all those who had been complicit in his abuse and to fulfil his dying wish to confess their sins.
‘The first person that he killed was his own father. It was poetic justice I suppose, he made it look like a suicide; and nobody suspected otherwise until Simon Scrope made his deathbed, confession, thirty years later. He claimed to have waited until his father was drunk one night and then made him confess to what had happened, before covering him in tar and setting him on fire. The confession was pinned to the abbey gate and reportedly read by a number of the more literate townspeople before it was taken down. Nobody suspected a thing, they assumed he was so wracked with guilt at the death of his son that he’d taken his own life. Nobody questioned who had actually written the note, even though the father was supposedly illiterate and could only write his name. Take a guess where he was burnt alive?’
‘The undercroft,’ whispered Warren.
Coombs nodded.
‘Next he started targeting the monks who had committed the abuse.’ Coombs started coughing, but again ignored Warren’s pleas that they take a break. After a few moments, his breathing returned to normal.
‘As I am sure you are aware, they were pretty creative in the medieval period when it came to torture. Scrope claims to have waited in the shadows until the monks were on their way back from vespers – evening prayers – before setting upon one of them. He was a pretty big lad by all accounts, used to hard, physical work, so it wasn’t too hard for him to subdue the much smaller monk.
‘Back in those days, the ducking stool was a real crowd pleaser. It was used primarily to humiliate those who had committed minor crimes, or punish scolding or gossiping housewives, but it was also used to elicit confessions and punish crimes such as witchcraft. Scrope says he had witnessed its use in town and he figured if it could make a person admit to being a witch, it could make them confess to what they had done to his brother.
‘He tied the man to a chair and repeatedly submerged his head until he eventually agreed to write a confession. He doesn’t say whether he drowned the man deliberately, or if it happened by accident, but after he died, he carried the body out to the bridge by the mill house and threw him over. These days we call it waterboarding and everyone thinks the Americans invented it in Iraq, but Medieval Europeans were centuries ahead of them.
‘After that, he again pinned the suicide note to the abbey gates where it was read by the townsfolk before being taken down and presumably destroyed. Again, everyone believed it was a suicide, probably brought on by guilt and triggered by the death of Francis Scrope.’
Warren sat back in his chair, stunned. It seemed to be too fanciful to be true. As if reading Warren’s thoughts, Coombs reached over and patted the lever arch folder on the coffee table, and then pointed shakily towards the closet.
‘It’s all in here, and there are photocopies of the original documents in the wardrobe, you can easily check them out for yourself.’
‘Where did the drowning take place?’ asked Warren. They still hadn’t located where Father Daugherty had been killed before he was dragged to the bridge. If the present-day murders were following the same pattern as the ancient killings, then it was possible that he had been drowned in the same place. The location could contain vital forensic evidence.
‘It doesn’t say. Simon left it too late to start writing his confession; I’ve seen the original document and his handwriting deteriorates markedly towards the end, before finishing abruptly with his signature.’ Coombs smiled humourlessly. ‘I can sympathise with his poor timing.’
He coughed again, and Warren passed him his water. He sipped it gratefully, before starting to choke, water dribbling down his chin.
‘Shit.’ Warren had become so carried away with the man’s story he’d forgotten how ill he was. Reaching over he went to slap the man’s back, before hesitating. The man was stick thin, could he take a pounding? Remembering the carer’s admonishment, Warren pulled the red cord that dangled by the bed.
The assistants appeared within seconds. Yet again, Warren found himself standing helplessly to one side.
‘I think that’s enough for today,’ said one of the carers as they firmly pressed the button on the morphine pump. Warren agreed.
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ rasped Coombs, a trace of humour in his voice. ‘Call tomorrow.’
‘Call ahead,’ warned the carer.
Suitably chastened, Warren nodded and headed toward the door. Already Coombs’ face was softening, as the powerful sedative worked its magic.
‘DCI Jones?’ Warren stopped, Coombs’ voice had a dreamy quality to it, and his eyes were closed.
‘There was more than one monk involved in Matthias’ abuse.’
Chapter 43
‘Wow.’
Everyone around the briefing table, including DSI Grayson, agreed with Moray Ruskin’s assessment of the story Warren had brought back from Vernon Coombs.
‘If you read that in a novel, you’d say it was too far-fetched,’ said Sutton.
‘I agree,’ said Warren. ‘It’ll have to be checked out obviously, but the whole thing seems a bit elaborate for someone that ill to have made up. I imagine a man in his position has more pressing things to do with his remaining time than string us along on a wild goose chase. Not to mention the fact that he drew parallels with information that shouldn’t be in the public domain.’
‘He could know the killer,’ suggested Ruskin. ‘Maybe it’s some elaborate ruse to throw us off the scent?’
‘Perhaps, but I think the point about the effort required to make it all up still stands. And how does it throw us off the scent? There’s still a killer out there.’
‘Rather more concerning is the fact that he said there were other monks involved,’ said Grayson. ‘It sounds rather like he’s suggesting that there could be more killings. Did he give any indication as to how many there were?’
‘No, he said that the original confession ended very abruptly, I don’t know if he found any more evidence in the other diaries. He’s not a well man to say the least, and I didn’t want to press him too hard. I’ll ask him when I next see him. We should also try and get a copy of his manuscript and the original research, to see if we can glean any more clues to the killer’s method ourselves.’
‘And perhaps even an idea of what he may do next,’ said Sutton.
‘Of course this also suggests a potential motive,’ said Warren.
‘The Catholic Church covering up sexual abuse is hardly unheard of,’ stated Sutton.
‘I agree, it’s a route that we definitely need to follow up,’ said Grayson, ‘but le
t’s not blind ourselves to other possibilities.’
‘Nothing came up on our PNC check about convictions for abuse, so we are going to need to dig a bit deeper,’ said Warren. ‘Rachel, liaise with the sexual exploitation unit in Welwyn, see if you can find out anything relevant. I think I also need another chat with Bishop Fisher, but I don’t want to tip him off. If something is being covered up, it’s likely to involve higher-ranking clergy. He could well be in on it.’
‘I agree. See what else we find, before you go speaking to Fisher,’ said Grayson.
‘How might this link to Rodney Shaw or Lucas Furber?’ asked Richardson.
‘Well, an obvious parallel, if we buy into the premise that the killer is following the pattern of the historic crimes, is that Rodney Shaw is the modern day counterpart of Matthias’ father, the groundsman,’ said Sutton.
‘Then shouldn’t Shaw have been burnt to death himself?’ asked Ruskin.
‘Perhaps, Shaw is doing what he thinks his predecessor should have done at the time?’ countered Sutton.
‘Like some sort of cosmic justice? Sounds a bit nuts,’ opined Rachel Pymm.
‘The whole thing is nuts,’ agreed Sutton.
‘Well, let’s keep an open mind, for the time being,’ cautioned Warren.
‘Of course, there’s another question we should be asking,’ said Grayson. ‘Who else knows the story of the abbey? If Coombs is to be believed, he’s the first to write about it for five hundred years. So I’d like to know who has been helping him in the archives.’
Chapter 44
‘The forensic document analysis of the note found in Father Daugherty’s room has come back and it makes for interesting reading.’ CSI Gupta stifled a yawn.
‘Go on, Meera,’ Warren urged as he positioned his desk phone more comfortably in the crook of his neck.
‘Unlike with Father Nolan, there is no indication of impairment.’
‘That fits with what we know from the autopsy. Father Daugherty wasn’t drunk, or under the influence of drugs. Did you find a source of the same paper in his room?’
‘Yes, this one was easier. It had been torn out of a Moleskine notebook, full of his own writings. The pad was covered in his fingerprints. The paper fibres match, and the ink corresponds to a black fountain pen, also covered in his fingerprints. What doesn’t match is the handwriting.’
‘Come again?’
‘According to the report, the person who wrote the note has had a stab at mimicking Father Daugherty’s handwriting, but it’s full of tiny errors and lacks fluidity. The writer also made at least four attempts, presumably practise runs, before tearing them out. The notepad is missing five pages in total, with no evidence that Father Daugherty had previously removed pages from the notepad.’
‘So Father Daugherty didn’t write that note?’
‘The examiner is pretty confident. As an aside, I’ve looked at the positioning of fingerprints on the sheet left on the dresser and they aren’t necessarily where you would expect them to be for someone writing on that page. If I had to speculate, I’d say that Father Daugherty’s fingers were pressed onto the page to make us think he’d handled it.’
‘I don’t suppose you have some magic trick that can tell us if that happened pre or post-mortem?’
‘I’m afraid not. If he’d been dead a couple of days when the impressions were made, we might have found chemical evidence of putrefaction or there may have been some skin slippage, but it’s unlikely in this case. That being said, the notebook and the suicide note had a couple of small spots of dried water, and the very edge of the writing touches one of the spots. Looking at the way that the ink has spread, I’d suggest that the paper became wet before it was written on, rather than after.’
‘So the note was again written at the scene and taken back to the room, rather than written before hand?’
‘That I can’t say, sir. The spots of water could have occurred within his room.’
Warren thanked her and hung up. His gut was telling him that they weren’t going to get everything they needed to keep Shaw for much longer.
* * *
The custody clock was ticking loudly. The team had two hours to either charge Shaw, release him, or extend his custody. Shaw’s solicitor reminded him of this as soon as they sat back down again.
At this moment, Warren would be happy with enough evidence to extend his custody, but before he did so, he needed the answer to one specific question.
‘What can you tell me about Vernon Coombs?’
Shaw shrugged.
‘No idea who you’re talking about.’
Warren pushed a photograph of the retired reporter taken from the Middlesbury Reporter’s article about his retirement. He figured that Coombs had probably stopped coming to the house when he got too ill, and the treatment started to take its toll on his appearance.
‘Oh, yeah, the historian guy. I think he was writing a book or something.’
‘What was your relationship with Mr Coombs?’
‘I didn’t have one. I saw him around the house sometimes coming out of the basement where they keep the archives. I haven’t seen him for months. I think I heard he was sick.’
Warren made note.
‘Let’s go back to the night of Father Nolan’s killing. You lied about going home after work. Instead, you drove in the opposite direction to your flat, before parking your car in the vicinity of Guest Road. This is within easy walking distance of the abbey grounds.
‘When you pulled up, you phoned this pay-as-you-go mobile phone number. A number that you phone every couple of weeks. Why don’t you tell me who this phone belongs to?’
‘No comment.’
‘This doesn’t look very good for you at the moment, Rodney,’ said Sutton.
‘Look, we don’t care what you were doing after work,’ said Warren. ‘It’s none of our business if you’ve been knocking boots with someone other than your wife. We don’t even care if you are paying for it. If you’ve had a little lapse and were getting back into drugs, that doesn’t bother us either. Give us something so we can eliminate you from our enquiries, then you can go home and have a decent night’s sleep in your own bed.
‘What were you doing in the hours between leaving work and receiving that phone call?’
Shaw’s eyelid fluttered. He looked towards his solicitor, sitting Sphinx-like beside him. He licked his lips.
‘No comment.’
Warren gave an elaborate shrug.
‘You can’t say we didn’t give you a chance.’ He and Sutton stood up. ‘Interview suspended. Stick around, eh?’
* * *
Ninety minutes remained on the custody clock. Significantly less when you factored in the time necessary to persuade a magistrate to sign an extension on a warrant.
‘What have you got?’ asked Warren. He didn’t want to sound desperate, but they needed something – anything – to hold Shaw further
‘They’re still fingerprinting the twenty-pound notes found in the shortbread tin, but they’re a real mess, and they aren’t hopeful. The CCTV from the number 562 bus doesn’t show any passengers matching Shaw’s description within the time period we’re interested in. We’re still waiting for CCTV from the bus routes close to Shaw’s flat for the night of Father Daugherty’s murder,’ said Richardson. ‘Sorry, I couldn’t get it analysed any quicker. We’re still tracking down the owners of cars near the abbey that night. The window of opportunity is much wider than on the night of the fire.’
It was an understatement. Theoretically, Shaw could have gone to the abbey at any time over the weekend and simply waited for a chance to ambush Father Daugherty. Every hour that the timeframe was widened resulted in dozens, if not hundreds more vehicles that they needed to trace and several more buses that needed their CCTV footage analysed, not to mention increasing the number of hours of video surveillance from static cameras in the vicinity of the abbey and along Shaw’s likely route to the abbey.
‘What about
cyclists?’
‘Nothing yet. Middlesbury’s a pretty cycling friendly town, so there’s a lot to look at,’ said Richardson.
‘Fair enough. Anything back from the forensics on his bicycle tyres?’
‘Early days, but inconclusive so far,’ said Pymm. ‘Even if they do find evidence that the bicycle was in the abbey grounds, surely it’s circumstantial at best? He worked there, he might have cycled there if the weather was nice.’
‘It’s a long shot,’ agreed Warren. ‘See if witnesses can tell us if he cycled to work or not. Hutch, what have you got?’
‘Sorry, boss. we’ve tracked down all of the drivers of the cars in the vicinity that we were interested in on the night of the fire. None of them admit to even knowing Rodney Shaw and all had plausible reasons for their journey that evening. I traced the cab driver that we saw heading away from the abbey. He didn’t recognise Shaw’s picture, but he admits that he sees a lot of fares.’
‘Thanks. Rachel?’
‘Nothing immediately helpful, sir, but it’s certainly suspicious. I’ve got the records back from the unregistered mobile. Shaw didn’t call it over the weekend that Father Daugherty was killed.’ A series of groans rippled around the table.
‘What’s suspicious then?’ asked Warren.
‘The phone is turned off most of the time, except between approximately 4 and 6 p.m. most days. In that time, the phone is present only at that location. There are about two dozen numbers, most unregistered, that call the phone typically every couple weeks. Like Shaw, the calls rarely last more than a few seconds.’
‘That is suspicious. Anyone got any thoughts?’
‘Drugs?’ said Ruskin immediately. ‘They could be arranging a pick up.’
‘Possible,’ said Warren. ‘Although Shaw seemed fairly confident that he was clean – he offered to be tested.’
‘He could just be dealing,’ said Ruskin.
‘Maybe that’s what he was arguing with Father Nolan about, rather than the gambling?’ suggested Hutchinson.
‘Again possible,’ conceded Warren. ‘But how would Father Nolan know about it? We have evidence that they had an awkward meeting in the bookie, but how would Father Nolan get wind of the drugs?’