Forgive Me Father

by Paul Gitsham

  ‘Don’t know what you mean.’ The man’s right leg was jigging up and down, the thread forgotten.

  ‘Come on Peanut, Lucas was a former junkie. Is it so hard to believe he couldn’t stay clean? What is it that makes you think he was killed deliberately?’ Warren paused, and looked the man square in the eyes. ‘What are you scared of?’

  Peanut suddenly stood up.

  ‘I’ve got to go. He was killed. Just look into it.’

  ‘Sit down, Peanut.’ Warren’s tone was quiet but firm. ‘We both want to know how and why Lucas died.’

  For a long moment the room was silent. Peanut stood stock still; even the twitching had stopped. Eventually he lowered himself back into his seat.

  ‘Why don’t I get you a coffee and let you get your thoughts together?’

  The man clearly needed something stronger than coffee, but Warren could hardly let him do that in here, and if he let the man out the back he’d probably never see him again. Not for the first time, Warren wished the smoking ban didn’t also apply to interview suites; he’d happily tolerate the smell and stinging eyes if it got him what he needed.

  When Warren returned, balancing a few packets of biscuits on top of two cups of coffee – he’d ignored Grayson’s instruction – Peanut seemed calmer. After practically inhaling a half-dozen custard creams so quickly that Warren wondered when he’d last eaten, he began again.

  ‘It all started back about a year or so ago. In the new year, I think. Lucas was a real news hound. He’d read all the papers in the library and if he found anything interesting he’d use the computers to look up more.’ Peanut paused. ‘You know people assume that because we’re homeless, we’re different? That we don’t have hobbies or interests. But you have to book time on the computers down the Phoenix centre, and there’s always a queue.

  ‘Everyone is on the web or using Facebook. At least half the people I know have smartphones. You don’t need an expensive contract if you keep your mobile data turned off and use free Wi-Fi. The library doesn’t turn off its routers at night, so if you stand close enough to the window you can still get a signal.’

  ‘What was it Lucas read?’

  ‘An old school friend – I don’t know if you’d call him a boyfriend – killed himself. Chucked himself in front of a train on the London Underground. They reckon he’d been sleeping rough down there. There wasn’t much in the paper, just a first name and a photograph apparently, but Lucas became obsessed with finding out more details.

  ‘I couldn’t figure out why he was so bothered. It was sad, obviously, but they hadn’t seen each other for what? Fifteen years? They hadn’t spoken since they left school.’

  Peanut took a cautious sip of his coffee, before wincing and replacing it. Warren wasn’t surprised; he wished the makers of the coffee dispenser in the waiting room would take into account the fact that powdered milk doesn’t cool scalding water as effectively as real milk. His fingers still stung from where he’d slopped it on them on his way back to the interview suite.

  ‘I knew that Lucas had been bullied at school. That it had gone beyond bullying. He went to a Catholic boarding school in the early Nineties. You know what it was like back then; if you were different you were a target.’

  Warren nodded his understanding. He’d gone to a Catholic comprehensive school a few years before Furber. He doubted the rampant homophobia – in part encouraged by the school’s own interpretation of doctrine – had improved much in the ten years between his own schooling and Furber’s. It was no wonder so few of his schoolmates had felt comfortable enough to come out until they went to university, or later.

  ‘Of course the irony was that whilst the priests and the staff were busy preaching how homosexuality was a sin, they were wilfully ignoring it when it took place in front of them. Or they were indulging in it themselves.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Yeah. Catholic priests buggering the choir boys. It’s become a cliché. How many jokes do you know about it?’

  Warren said nothing. At least two punchlines sprang to mind. They suddenly didn’t seem so funny.

  ‘They’re predators. Pure and simple. I don’t think it was because Lucas and his friend were gay – although I suppose it could have fed into their sick fantasies. They just saw an easy target. Lucas’ friend’s father had died back when he was in primary school. Lucas’ mother had passed away too.’

  Peanut’s voice started to rise. ‘It makes you wonder what’s fucking wrong with these parents. “Oh, your other parent’s died? Well, why don’t I still send you away to boarding school, because I’m sure everything will be fine?” Wankers.’

  Warren said nothing. Phrased like that, he could see the man’s point. He couldn’t imagine the pain of being sent away when his own father had died. He’d needed his mother more than ever, and she’d needed him and his brother.

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘I don’t know many details. Lucas only really spoke about it when he was drunk or high, and I wasn’t in much of a state to remember everything either.’

  ‘Try your best.’

  ‘Apparently, there was one priest in particular. He didn’t arrive until Lucas and his friend were in upper school. The two of them were always in trouble of some sort. I reckon they both blamed God for taking their parents, so a Catholic school was never going to be a great fit. Anyhow, corporal punishment had been banned in state schools, but you could still hit kids in private schools back then. This priest was well-known for putting kids across his knee. Sometimes he did more than that.’

  Did this provide a motive for Furber’s anger towards priests? Was this enough for him to seek revenge?

  ‘Did either boy report the abuse?’

  ‘Of course not. Who would they report it to? Their parents had dumped them in there. The school was never going to listen to kids like Lucas and his friend. Nobody believed them.’

  Warren wondered if Furber or his friend had used the Survivorsonline forums. He made a note to see if Furber’s phone had any details of his internet browsing history.

  ‘Do you know the name of the school or the priest that committed the abuse?’

  Peanut shook his head.

  ‘What about the name of his old friend?’

  ‘No idea.’

  It wasn’t much to go on.

  ‘All I know is that when his friend died, Lucas became obsessed with trying to track down his older brother, to tell him what had happened. The paper said that the police had been unable to track down his friend’s next-of-kin, because they didn’t have a surname, so he figured he’d have to do it for them. Lucas was convinced that his friend killed himself because of the damage that was done to him.’

  Peanut’s voice dropped. ‘You never get over it.’

  Warren was unsure whether he was talking about his friend or himself. What was Peanut’s story, he wondered? He doubted it was much happier.

  ‘Why didn’t Lucas go to the police, and tell them who he thought it was? They could have found his next-of-kin easily, they have a whole unit dedicated to this sort of investigation.’

  ‘Why do you think?’ asked Peanut. It was a fair point, Warren conceded. Lucas and Peanut lived on the outskirts of mainstream society; their dealings with the police were unlikely to have been entirely positive.

  ‘Anyhow, I think he kind of enjoyed the challenge, you know?’ Peanut continued. The thing is, people think that just cause he’s homeless and a user, he must be stupid, right? But Lucas wasn’t. He was smart – fucked up, but smart. He could have done so much more …’ He drifted off, and Warren cleared his throat softly.

  ‘Being homeless is boring,’ said Peanut suddenly. ‘Once you’ve figured out how to get a meal and score any drugs you need, what else is there to do? It’s why we read so much. I reckon Lucas just craved the challenge.’ He tapped his forehead. ‘He wanted to use his brain. Trying to find his friend’s brother’s whereabouts gave him something to do.’

  ‘Did he find him
?’

  ‘I think so. He spent ages on Facebook in the library, and in the spring he started disappearing off. That’s when I thought he might be having an affair, but he kept on denying it. Then suddenly, straight after Easter, he announces that he’s moving to Middlesbury and that I can come with him or not. Obviously I did.’ Peanut’s voice dropped to a mumble. ‘He’s all I had.’

  ‘Did he say why he wanted to move?’

  ‘Just that he needed a change.’

  ‘Why Middlesbury?’

  ‘Dunno. I’d never even heard of the place. Lucas had a couple of mates who knew the local scene and they put us in touch with people who could help us out. You know, find what we needed.’

  ‘What happened when you came to Middlesbury?’

  ‘We got ourselves sorted and everything was OK for a bit.’

  The man went quiet.

  ‘Peanut,’ Warren started gently. ‘I’ve not heard anything suspicious yet. Why do you think Lucas was killed? And if he was, who do you think did it?’

  Peanut chewed his bottom lip. His left foot had started tapping the floor again.

  ‘Lucas started acting weird after we got to Middlesbury. He kept on making phone calls and disappearing. Sometimes he seemed upset or angry when he came back. Like I said, I thought he was having an affair or something.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘One night, probably about a month after we’d moved, I overheard him talking on the phone. It sounded like he was arranging to meet up with someone. The next day he was all hyper. I tried to get him to smoke a bit of weed or something, you know to calm down, but he wouldn’t have any. Then he left, said he’d be back “whenever”.

  ‘He didn’t get back until late, and when he did he was really drunk and angry. It was weird because he’d had a haircut and he was wearing new clothes. He wanted some gear, but I hid it. I was worried that the state he was in he’d do it wrong and end up overdosing. He’s done that before.’

  ‘Do you know what he was so upset about?’

  ‘I couldn’t get much sense out of him, but he kept on repeating “the bastard’s already dead”.’

  ‘Do you know who he was talking about?’

  ‘No. I tried to ask him the next day what it was all about, but he wouldn’t tell me. In the end I stopped asking about it, because it just ended in a row.’

  ‘Who do you think he went to meet?’

  Peanut let out a huff of breath.

  ‘I don’t know. I knew most of his mates in Middlesbury because we met them when we first arrived.’ He paused. ‘The only one I can think of is his friend’s brother.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘It’s the only thing that fits. Everything started to go shitty after his friend’s death and when he started to try and find his brother. Then he suddenly ups sticks and moves to Middlesbury. Next thing I know, he’s angry all the time.’

  ‘Did you ask him about it?’

  ‘No. I don’t know why. It didn’t feel healthy, you know? Let the past be the past. I’m not sure what good raking up ancient history would do. Maybe I was just jealous. This guy was probably Lucas’ first lover, I guess I was a bit uncomfortable about him hooking up with his brother. I don’t know …’ His voice trailed off.

  ‘So when was the last time you’d say that you were really close?’

  ‘Dunno. Last June? That’s when he started talking about getting clean. It was weird though. I think the course was being run by the church. I heard he’d been seen hanging around with some priest. I thought Lucas would stay well away from that shit.’

  ‘Do you know anything about this priest? Could you describe him?’

  Peanut shook his head. ‘No, I never met him.’

  ‘But you think it was successful?’

  ‘Yeah, as far as I could tell. He sort of disappeared back in the summer. I heard he’d got a place to stay at Purbury. They’re really clear about no drugs. I asked around, but he was staying clear of everyone. It’s what they recommend, to stop you getting tempted. I guess it was good for him. Once an addict, always an addict.’

  Despite his words, Warren could hear the pain of betrayal in the man’s voice.

  Warren chose his words next carefully.

  ‘Assuming that Lucas really did take an overdose, where might he get his drugs?’

  ‘Can’t say.’

  ‘Come on, Peanut. I’m not interested in busting some little dealer. I just want to know if Lucas bought himself the heroin, or if somebody gave it to him.’

  Peanut chewed his lip.

  ‘There’s a bloke down by the arches. He’ll get it for you. Sometimes he’ll give a discount if you do him a favour.’

  ‘Does he have a name?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. He’s not seen Lucas since the summer.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘I asked him before I came here. He’d not read the paper, he didn’t know Lucas was dead, so he wasn’t worried about being done for selling the gear that killed him.’

  Despite Peanut’s insistence, Warren couldn’t take him at face value. The dealer could have been lying, worried that he was on the hook for manslaughter. Even if he was telling the truth, and Furber hadn’t bought it from him, somebody had given that drug to him. If Peanut was right and Furber had been murdered, then Warren needed to know who had bought that drug. This dealer wasn’t the only one in Middlesbury, but his team had little to do with that side of policing. He’d have to speak to the drugs unit about it.

  Warren made one more attempt to persuade Peanut to tell him who the dealer was or at least give him the names of people who might have known Furber, but he was met with stony silence and crossed arms. Warren decided to change the subject before Peanut decided the interview was over.

  ‘You said you saw him back in December, and he was in a bad way?’

  ‘Yeah. He was at the Phoenix centre, I think he was having counselling there.’

  ‘What was his state of mind?’

  ‘Not good. He was really drunk. He started being dead mouthy and was abusive to the staff. They kicked him out when he started laying into Reverend Billy. Which isn’t on, ‘cause everyone loves Billy.’

  ‘What was he saying?’

  ‘Stuff about priests all being the same and how he’d burn in hell, which is bollocks, ‘cause Billy isn’t even a Catholic.’

  ‘Do you know what happened after he got kicked out?’

  ‘I went after him. I’d not seen him for weeks and I wanted to check he was OK.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  Peanut looked back down at his tracksuit bottoms.

  ‘He wasn’t really making any sense. He kept on saying that they were all the same and that they’d get what they deserved, and that they wouldn’t be able to shut him up this time.’

  ‘Who was he talking about?’

  ‘He didn’t say, but he’d just been shouting at Reverend Billy, so who do you think?’

  Chapter 71

  It was 11 p.m. and Warren was exhausted. Several nights in a row of almost no sleep had left him groggy and light-headed. Remembering Grayson’s admonishment, he’d hoped to leave work earlier than usual; he still felt that he and Susan hadn’t properly dealt with their own disappointment and he was planning on phoning Jane again, perhaps even speaking to Granddad Jack. However, by the time he’d finished up and finally got around to calling Jane, it was past 7 p.m. and Granddad Jack had gone to sleep again.

  He and Susan had just finished watching Newsnight and his eyes were growing heavy as he lay slumped on the sofa. Nestled against his chest, Susan had already started to nod off. He’d better make a move, he decided, before they both fell asleep and woke up with stiff necks in the early hours.

  His phone vibrated. Warren held his breath. A single buzz was probably just a social media notification, although he could have sworn he’d activated ‘do not disturb mode’ for such trivialities after 9 p.m.

  A second vibration.

 
; On the third he swiped ‘answer call’.

  ‘Sorry, sir, we thought you’d want to know. Father Frank Madden has gone missing from St Cecil’s.’

  * * *

  Warren arrived at the abbey within ten minutes of the call. This time of night there’d been no traffic and he knew where the speed cameras were.

  Tony Sutton greeted him at the rear entrance.

  ‘They discovered his room was empty around 10 p.m. Gabriel Baines has been doing a sort of informal headcount each night before he goes home. Father Madden was last seen at about seven after finishing dinner. He prefers to go to his room and read before he goes to sleep.

  ‘Baines knocked on his door at ten, because the light was on. When no one answered, he pushed the door open and saw Madden’s bed was still made. He asked around if anyone had seen him. Nobody had. He found this on the dressing table. Unfortunately, he picked it up, so his fingerprints are already on it.’

  Warren didn’t need to see the photograph on Sutton’s phone to know what the note said.

  ‘Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.’

  ‘What about the officers standing outside the main doors?’

  ‘Nothing. They swear blind that nobody has been in or out of the building whilst they stood there.’

  ‘Could he have climbed out a window?’

  ‘Doubtful, he’s the wrong side of 70 and has a dodgy hip.’

  The main hall was ablaze with light. Bishop Fisher stood next to Gabriel Baines, wearing a dressing gown. Baines was in a thick jacket holding a torch, his hair damp from the rain.

  ‘Rodney Shaw is on his way. He’ll help organise a search of the grounds,’ said Fisher.

  Warren wasn’t sure how wise that was; the last thing he wanted was Rodney Shaw trampling around, hiding clues and creating a plausible reason for any trace evidence that may point towards him.

  ‘That won’t be necessary. We have specialist teams for this sort of thing,’ said Sutton, beating Warren to the punch.

  ‘Bishop Fisher, may I have a private word?’ asked Warren.

  The elderly clergyman followed Warren into his office.

  ‘Is there anything that I need to know about Father Madden? Anything that wouldn’t be public knowledge?’