Forgive Me Father

by Paul Gitsham

  The table lapsed into silence.

  ‘It could be literally anything,’ said Hutchinson. ‘The number could belong to a prostitute who only sees clients that time of evening.’

  ‘Rachel, pass what you have onto Welwyn,’ said Warren. ‘Hopefully, if the number is already known to them they’ll get back to us, if only to tell us to mind our own business.’

  ‘We could always try calling the number,’ said Ruskin. ‘We could even use Shaw’s own phone so they don’t hang up.’

  ‘What happens when they don’t recognise Shaw’s voice?’ asked Hutchinson, beating everyone else in the room to the question.

  ‘And if it is a part of someone else’s investigation, they aren’t going to be impressed if we come crashing in and wreck their operation,’ said Pymm.

  Ruskin’s face fell.

  ‘We’ll see what Welwyn have to say about the number, then have a think about our next step,’ said Warren encouragingly.

  ‘Anything else? What about the suicide notes?’

  ‘We got a sample of Shaw’s handwriting for comparison, to see if it matches the handwriting that attempted to fake Father Daugherty’s on his note,’ said Pymm. ‘Unfortunately, the attempts to emulate Father Daugherty’s handwriting also serve to disguise that of the true author. We’ll have to wait for a deeper analysis. We know that Shaw’s fingerprints are not on the document.’

  ‘What about the note from Father Nolan’s room?’

  ‘Again, nothing conclusive. The note written by the killer for Father Nolan to copy was in block capitals. The indentations were clear, but the analyst has said that they won’t be able to determine if it’s a match unless we can get Shaw to rewrite the exact wording under controlled conditions, and in block capitals.’

  Warren looked at the clock, ‘I doubt we’ll have time to arrange that before the current extension runs out.’

  The door to the briefing room opened and Tony Sutton entered.

  ‘I’ve got the forensics back from the search of Shaw’s flat.’

  Saturday 7th March

  Chapter 45

  It was now two weeks since the fire at the abbey and Warren felt as though the investigation was stalling.

  It wasn’t of course, there were dozens of different avenues being chased even as he drove in that morning. His own small team at Middlesbury was only the tip of a very large iceberg. Dozens more officers and specialists were beavering away day and night down at headquarters in Welwyn Garden City. Thousands of hours of CCTV footage were being analysed and dozens of phone records were being trawled through, in the hope of finding a pattern that could explain either the behaviour of Rodney Shaw or throw up new suspects for the whiteboard.

  The sun was still low in the sky this time of the morning and Warren pulled the sun visor down to shield his eyes.

  Specialist teams were still canvassing the town’s homeless population and those that interacted with them, in the hope that at the very least the whereabouts of Lucas Furber could be pinned down on the night of both murders. So far, he had largely disappeared. Warren was beginning to worry that he may not even be in Middlesbury anymore.

  The atmosphere in the office had taken a dip the previous evening after Sutton had delivered the preliminary results from the search of Shaw’s house, and his car.

  ‘No traces of the fibres from the towel used to smother Father Daugherty have been found on the clothes in Shaw’s laundry bin, or in his car.’

  It wasn’t a death blow to the case, by any stretch of the imagination. Alongside the mysterious Lucas Furber, Rodney Shaw was still their number one suspect. Unfortunately, the lack of evidence meant that there was no longer reasonable grounds to hold Shaw in custody and Warren had bailed him ten minutes before the custody clock ran out.

  Shaw had left the building without so much as a glance over his shoulder. A perfunctory objection to the bail conditions imposed by Warren had been summarily dismissed. Rodney Shaw would either be staying with his estranged wife or making other arrangements – his flat was still being searched, but Warren wasn’t hopeful that they’d find anything incriminating.

  ‘Good morning everyone. I’m sure you are all up to speed on yesterday’s events.’ Warren injected a note of positivity into his tone. He didn’t want the malaise that he was feeling to take hold within the rest of the team.

  ‘As you are aware, yesterday I had a meeting with a retired journalist with an interest in the history of Middlesbury Abbey. He told a pretty fantastic tale about historic murders disguised as suicide. Nevertheless, he seemed to know plenty of details that are supposedly not in the public domain. I’m hoping to speak to him again later today. He’s not a well man, and I suspect my time with him will be limited, so I’d like suggestions for questions to put to him.’

  ‘Who helped him research the documents that he used in writing the story?’ suggested Hutchinson.

  ‘What is his relationship with Rodney Shaw? Shaw denied any connection with him yesterday,’ said Sutton. ‘If he does know him, that’s another lie we’ve caught him in.’

  ‘For that matter, does he know Lucas Furber?’ suggested Pymm.

  Warren acknowledged the suggestions, scribbling them on his pad.

  ‘He said that there were other abusers of Matthias Scrope. Does he know how they died? If the killer is mimicking these historic deaths there might be more to come. Perhaps we can prevent them?’ said Richardson.

  ‘All good questions. In the meantime, we need to look at some of these ourselves. DSI Grayson will be looking into the best way to ensure the Church’s cooperation.’

  ‘You mean the least awkward way of ensuring their cooperation,’ muttered Tony Sutton.

  Warren ignored the interruption.

  ‘The rest of you continue looking into the private lives of Fathers Nolan and Daugherty, as we discussed yesterday. Let’s also elicit the help of the sexual exploitation unit, they may have some insight that can help us.’

  ‘If the killer is emulating the historic killings, then that might explain why they were disguised as suicides,’ said Sutton. ‘The question is whether the killer ever intended us to realise they were murders. Matthias Scrope’s older brother only ever confessed to hiding the murders as suicides on his death bed.’

  ‘But Simon Scrope also pinned the abuser’s confessions to the abbey gates so that everyone knew what they had done. The two notes found so far simply say “Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.” There are no details of their supposed sins,’ countered Hutchinson. ‘This whole thing could just be a coincidence or about something entirely different.’

  ‘Well, the similarities between the two deaths are enough that we can’t dismiss them out of hand. Let’s hope Vernon Coombs can help us out.’

  * * *

  Warren’s hopes of getting a quick answer to the questions raised by his meeting with Vernon Coombs were thwarted.

  ‘Your visit yesterday really did him in,’ said the carer who answered the phone. ‘He’s still asleep. Try again tomorrow.’

  Warren hung up, feeling guilty.

  His next call didn’t make him feel much better.

  ‘We’ve been through Rodney Shaw’s computer. It was easy enough, he just used a basic password, no fancy encryption or anything.’ Pete Robertson’s tone of voice indicated what he thought about the security afforded by such simple measures. He promised a more detailed report by email later in the day.

  ‘Anything suspicious?’

  ‘There wasn’t much to look at, to be honest. A folder of family photos, a bit of music and a folder full of paperwork. We’ve had a look at them and there’s nothing obviously amiss. I’ll send you a copy of his email inboxes for you to look at. He keeps his porn in a folder marked ‘Work stuff’, presumably to stop his daughter stumbling across it.’

  ‘Anything interesting in there?’

  ‘It’s not to my taste, but there’s nothing illegal or particularly kinky. Boobs and bums, mostly.’

  ‘What a
bout his browsing history? Particularly on the night Father Daugherty was murdered.’

  ‘Again, nothing illegal or suspicious. News, sports and some gardening and estate management forums. On the day Father Daugherty was killed, he spent some time logged onto a few gambling sites and his favourite porn site.’

  ‘What time?’ Warren pulled over a pen and paper. If Shaw was accessing those sites when Father Daugherty was likely to have been killed, then it could provide him with an alibi.

  ‘Gambling-wise, he spent the afternoon following the horse racing from about 1 p.m to about 5 p.m; that’s when he closed the browser window. I can’t be sure if he was actively using the site, or it was just open on his computer. He also accessed an online poker site just after 11 p.m. and that was open until half past one. Again, we can’t be sure if he was active during that time.’

  Even if Shaw had been using the sites, there was a window of six hours in the middle when he could have killed Father Daugherty.

  ‘What about the porn site?’

  ‘It’s a free webcam streaming site. Performers in their skimpies doing stuff in front of the screen. He opened the window at 6 p.m. and didn’t close it for about four hours.’

  ‘That coincides with Father Daugherty’s time of death.’

  ‘Well, don’t rule him out on those grounds. Again, the website is fully contained within its own browser window. I have no way of telling if he was actually interacting with the site, or if it was just open, perhaps even minimised.’

  ‘So he could have logged onto the website, then just left it playing in the background whilst he went and did something else?’

  ‘I’d almost guarantee it. He was on that site for four hours, that’s an incredible feat of stamina.’

  ‘A good point,’ conceded Warren.

  Robertson’s call hadn’t helped account for Shaw’s whereabouts at all that evening, and left Warren no clearer as to his involvement in the murder. On the one hand, it explained his reluctance to say what he was doing that night. They knew that he was ashamed of his gambling habit. Warren imagined he was probably even less willing to admit to something as personal as his use of pornography.

  On the other hand, maybe he was setting up an alibi? Even a casual viewer of TV would know that these days, the first thing the police do is seize a suspect’s computing devices. He could easily have logged onto his computer, then left it on when going to kill Father Daugherty, thus creating a false electronic account of his whereabouts.

  Warren thanked Robertson and hung up. If Shaw had manufactured an alibi, it pointed to an unexpected level of sophistication. They would need to take that into account when they dealt with him in future.

  Sunday 8th March

  Chapter 46

  Sunday morning was like any other morning of the week in Middlesbury CID when there was a major case underway. The unit was filled with additional officers from headquarters in Welwyn, and Warren spent some time chatting to them; a case this complex might drag on for months or years and he needed the newcomers and Middlesbury’s permanent officers to integrate fully as one team. Technically, Warren was on a rest day, but he wanted to speak with Vernon Coombs and keep abreast of any new developments. He’d promised Susan that he’d be back in time for lunch.

  Despite it being the weekend, most of his own core team were also present. At the moment, Warren was happy to authorise the overtime for anyone willing to put in the extra hours. Their experience with the case made them more valuable to Warren than a comparative newcomer from Welwyn, who might have only been assigned to the case a few days ago. Besides which, his officers could probably use the extra pay – he knew that Moray Ruskin and his partner were desperately scraping together a deposit for a flat, but he needed to keep an eye on the hours they were working. He didn’t want his officers becoming ill from overwork – it was a poor manager that worked their staff so hard in the short-term that they went off sick in the long-term.

  Warren called Goldfinch Hospice during his morning break. A different carer answered the phone. After explaining who he was and why he was calling, there was a short pause.

  ‘I’m very sorry, DCI Jones. Vernon passed away this morning. He fell asleep on Friday, shortly after you left and never woke up.’ She paused. ‘It was very peaceful and his family were with him at the end. It’s just a shame he had to die on his granddaughter’s birthday, without saying goodbye.’

  * * *

  ‘Bloody hell, Warren, it’s hardly your fault,’ said Sutton. The two men were sitting in Warren’s office. Sutton looked even greyer than he had earlier in the week and Warren had ordered him to go home after lunch and get some rest.

  Warren sighed. ‘I suppose not, it’s just I was the last person he spoke to, which seems really sad.’

  ‘By all accounts, he’d been circling the drain for some time. It was going to be sooner rather than later.’

  ‘Beautifully put, Tony.’

  ‘Sorry, you know what I mean.’ He paused. ‘At the risk of being even more insensitive, what do you think has happened to his manuscript and all of his notes?’

  ‘I suppose his family have them.’

  ‘You realise that if they don’t want to part with them, we might need to get a warrant to seize them?’

  ‘Bloody hell, Tony. Let’s at least ask nicely first.’

  Monday 9th March

  Chapter 47

  Monday morning’s briefing was halfway through the third week of the investigation into the deaths at the abbey.

  Warren broke the news of Vernon Coomb’s death to those who hadn’t heard.

  ‘His story, crazy as it sounds, is certainly worthy of serious consideration. So far, we have no evidence that Fathers Nolan or Daugherty were involved in child sexual abuse, and the sexual exploitation unit have nothing on them, but given the Catholic Church’s previous form on this, it is being actively pursued as a line of enquiry. In terms of motivation, it would certainly seem more plausible than something as seemingly trivial as Rodney Shaw’s gambling problems.’

  ‘So are we dismissing Rodney Shaw?’ asked Ruskin.

  ‘Not just yet. We’re still trying to work out what the hell he was doing the night that Father Nolan was killed.’

  ‘What about this Lucas Furber character?’ asked Grayson. ‘He must be at least as strong a suspect as Rodney Shaw.’

  ‘Nothing yet,’ Ruskin said, frustration in his voice. ‘The search teams are under instructions not to give away too much about why he’s of interest to the police, so they’re having a hard time getting people to admit they even knew him, let alone tell us his whereabouts. I guess they don’t want to get him into trouble.’

  ‘Well keep at it,’ encouraged Warren.

  ‘What about Vernon Coombs’ notes?’ asked Pymm.

  ‘I’m glad you asked that question, Rachel. I’ll be needing someone to trawl through them, to see how closely they match what he told me, and to see if there are any clues as to our killer’s future plans.’

  ‘Well, I love a bit of local history, so count me in,’ said Pymm, as Warren had suspected she would. ‘When can I expect them?’

  ‘I’m going to see his family this afternoon.’

  Hutchinson let out a low whistle.

  ‘That’s a bit quick, don’t you think? He’s barely been dead twenty-four hours.’

  ‘I don’t disagree, Hutch, but we need to move quickly on this. And the last thing we want is for those notes to be chucked in a bin when they empty his room.’

  Warren just hoped that the family chose to cooperate. The thought of intruding on them so soon left a sour taste in his mouth and he prayed that Sutton’s warning from the previous day didn’t come to pass. He really didn’t want to explain to a magistrate why he needed to serve a warrant against a grieving family who hadn’t done anything wrong.

  * * *

  ‘Please accept my deepest condolences,’ Warren started, as he sat down in the small, cramped lounge.

  His meeting with
Coombs had left him with far more questions than answers and the former journalist had hinted that there may be more deaths to come. So far the tale he had told, though fantastical, had also included allusions to details that shouldn’t have been in the public domain. At the very least, Warren needed to look at the manuscript that he had been working on and the research that he had uncovered. He just hoped the original sources had been translated. A single year of Latin, twenty-five years previously, had left Warren with little more than the ability to proclaim that the main protagonist in the course textbook they had used ‘was in the garden’.

  Coombs’ eldest daughter was an olive-skinned woman in her mid-thirties. She shared her father’s sharp features, although hers lacked the extra definition brought on by his dramatic weight loss. A photograph on the mantelpiece was almost certainly the famous ‘Lilly’; she’d inherited her mother’s dark hair, rather than her grandfather’s lighter colouring, but even at such a young age, the cheek bones were all Coombs.

  She nodded her thanks; doubtless she had heard dozens of variations on the words over the past twenty-four hours.

  ‘Dad had been ill for months of course, but he had been doing so well, we didn’t expect the end to be so sudden …’ Her voice tailed off. ‘I’m told that you were the last person to speak to him.’

  It wasn’t a question.

  Warren chose his words carefully. Her tone was flat, neutral and he couldn’t be sure of her thoughts on the matter. There was no question that Warren’s visit had been more exhausting for the man than he’d realised, even then. Would she blame him for hastening her father’s death? Warren wasn’t sure he could fault her if she did.

  ‘Yes, we spoke about his research.’

  ‘That bloody book.’ Her tone was more fond than the words suggested. ‘He was obsessed with that abbey. My earliest memories are of me attending some lecture or other.’ She smiled, ‘Don’t ask me why. I was about two years old and Dad was looking after me whilst Mum was in hospital expecting my brother. Apparently, he used to take me there when I was a babe in arms, and I’d sleep through. Nobody told him toddlers aren’t quite as compliant.’