Forgive Me Father

‘Deacon Baines tells me that Father Nolan was 76 years old,’ said Warren, ‘you said that he has been a resident here for eight years. That would make him 68 years old when he retired. My understanding is that priests normally retire at 75 or later, especially if they are physically fit and able to continue in their ministry. Was the depression the reason for his moving here?’

‘In part.’

Warren paused, but no more was forthcoming.

‘Thank you for your time, Bishop Fisher. I don’t suppose that you have a sample of Father Nolan’s handwriting?’

‘I am certain that we can find one.’ The elderly bishop hesitated before continuing. ‘Will it be necessary for somebody to identify the body?’

An image of the burnt corpse, with its rictus grin, appeared in Warren’s mind’s eye.

‘Unlikely. We should be able to confirm his identity from his dental records and a DNA match from his toothbrush.’

With nothing more to do until Forensics had completed their search, Warren and Sutton left the bishop’s office and headed outside, into the cool, winter air.

‘Let’s work on the assumption that the body is Father Nolan for the time being. Liaise with Deacon Baines and arrange for statements to be taken from Father Nolan’s acquaintances. Also, chase down his GP and see if we can find out if he was suicidal.’

‘For all the good it will do.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Warren, picking up on the edge in Sutton’s voice.

‘They’re all bloody Catholic priests. You heard what Bishop Fisher said in there. “The seal of confession is sacrosanct” – they’ll use that as an excuse to tell us what they want us to know and hide behind their vows for the rest.’

‘That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think? The seal only applies to what is said in the confessional, and I can’t imagine Father Nolan confessing to suicidal thoughts. Anything said outside of that relationship is open for discussion,’ countered Warren. ‘It’s no different to the privileged status given to clients and their solicitors.’

‘I disagree. Solicitors are duty-bound to report serious crimes to the authorities – Catholic priests think they are above the law.’

Warren eyed his friend with concern.

‘This really bothers you, doesn’t it?’

Sutton let out a puff of air.

‘I just don’t like the implication that the law applies differently to some people.’

Chapter 5

Warren wasn’t a big fan of autopsies. Ordinarily he would just wait for the results to be emailed or phoned to him, or rely on a summary from someone like Tony Sutton. Unfortunately, Sutton was busy and Moray Ruskin hadn’t seen a burn victim up close. With all his detective sergeants otherwise occupied, Warren took it upon himself to oversee this part of the probationary constable’s training. His own mentor, Bob Windermere, had done the same for Warren in the dim and distant past. On the way over he’d grilled the young officer about the interviews he’d conducted with the two teenage witnesses who’d reported the fire; from the sounds of it, Ruskin’s questioning had been thorough, but hadn’t uncovered anything new.

Professor Jordan greeted them at the door to the morgue, situated under the Lister Hospital in Stevenage, where the pathologist’s office was located. The two officers had already slipped protective clothing over their street clothes when Warren’s phone vibrated.

‘Good to see you again, Constable Ruskin. Shall we begin?’ said Jordan.

Warren motioned for them to carry on without him.

The text from Susan was brief and to the point.

Scan fine, everything looking good. Just waiting for blood test. Sxx

Warren responded with a simple ‘Wxx’, before going to re-join Ruskin, who by now was peering eagerly at the body, which lay on its left side in a similar position to how it had been found at the scene. A discreetly placed metal wastepaper bin stood to the left of the table, in case the sight and smell were too much. That didn’t look as if it would be a problem, at least not for Ruskin. Warren had been breathing through his mouth since entering the cooled room.

‘Tell me what you see, Constable,’ invited Jordan.

‘The skin on the upper torso is badly charred, probably third-degree burns. Skin that isn’t charred is swollen and split. The crown of the head is so badly burnt it’s unclear if the victim had hair or was bald.’

Ruskin did a complete circuit of the body, before bending over to look more closely.

‘The skin on the front of the thighs is very badly burnt, with little evidence of the clothes that he was wearing, whereas the clothing on the backs of the thighs is scorched but intact.’

‘Suggesting what?’ asked Jordan.

‘That the deceased was sitting down initially – if an accelerant was used it was probably poured over the top of his head, splashing down to cover his torso and upper thighs.’

‘Good. What about the position of the body? Describe its position.’

‘Classic pugilistic or boxer’s pose, hands up as if defending his face from attack.’

‘Which implies what?’

Ruskin’ eyes crinkled, betraying the smile beneath his mask.

‘Nothing. The positioning is caused by the heat shortening the ligaments and tendons.’

‘Good.’

Lesson over for the time being, Jordan summarised his findings.

‘DC Ruskin is correct; the deceased was likely sat down on the chair when the accelerant – probably petrol – was poured over his head. That could have been self-inflicted or by persons unknown. The deceased remained seated for at least some time, whilst the fire took hold; the accelerant will have burnt off fairly quickly but remained long enough to ignite his clothing. In the final stages the clothing and accelerant had gone, but the deceased’s skin and tissues continued to burn until he was extinguished. At some point he toppled off the chair onto his left side.’

‘Was he alive?’

Jordan nodded. ‘I believe that the witnesses reported screams, which only lasted a few seconds. If accurate, then assuming that they came from the deceased, he was almost certainly alive for at least some time – presumably until the fire took hold. Pathologically, I’ve found traces of soot below the larynx which indicates that he was breathing in the smoke.’

‘Christ,’ muttered Warren. ‘Do you have a cause of death?’

‘Fire is the best I can do at this stage,’ said Jordan flatly.

Ruskin frowned.

‘It’s impossible to be more precise. I measured his carbon monoxide concentration at 42 per cent. That’s on the low end of fatal. Similarly, the intense temperature of the fire did serious damage to his internal organs and ultimately clotted his blood. Unfortunately, I can’t tell you if that killed him, or if he died of other causes before the damage reached a fatal level.’

‘What other causes?’ asked Ruskin.

‘He had moderate cardiovascular disease. It’s possible that the stress of the situation triggered a cardiac event. It’s difficult to tell what damage to the heart was pre-mortem and what was post-mortem – regardless I’d still regard that as being caused by the fire.

‘I’ve sent off for toxicology reports. There was a significant volume of alcohol in his stomach and there was an empty container of medication near to his body. Doxepin has sedative properties, enhanced by alcohol. It’s always possible that he succumbed to their combined toxicity before the fire killed him.’

Ruskin shook his head slowly. ‘All the other evidence suggests that it was suicide. But how is that possible? The burns on his thighs make it look as though he remained sitting for at least some time before falling off his chair. The witnesses I spoke to are clear that they heard screaming, so he must have been conscious at some point. I’ve seen the videos on YouTube of those monks setting themselves on fire. They shrieked and ran around.’

‘Could the alcohol and doxepin have numbed him?’ asked Warren.

‘Possible, and he could have passed out quickly from the initial pain,’ said Jordan. ‘The witnesses did claim that the screams only lasted for a few moments. Much of the burning is also third-degree, full-depth, which destroys the nerve endings. Falling out of the chair may have happened after he died, from the post-mortem muscle contraction caused by the fire.’

‘I assume that asking for a time of death is pointless, Ryan.’

‘I’m afraid so, Inspector. Time of death is a mug’s game at the best of times, but fire messes up everything. I can’t assess rigor mortis since his muscles are already contracted, and the damage to his skin makes it impossible to look for staining due to blood pooling. You’ll have to settle for witness reports.’

‘What about positive identification?’

‘My investigations so far are consistent with a man of Father Nolan’s age and build. I’ve sent off for dental records and taken a DNA sample if you need it.’

Warren looked closely at the man’s hands, the skin was charred and split.

‘I’m not even going to ask about fingerprints.’

Sunday 22nd February

Chapter 6

‘Bad news on the CCTV front, sir.’

Mags Richardson screwed the lid back on her ever-present bottle of water. It was first thing Sunday morning, and most of the team were already hard at work. Richardson was Warren’s first visitor that morning.

‘Broken?’ asked Warren.

‘Worse. Almost all the cameras inside the abbey grounds are fake, just a deterrent. There are cameras above the main entrance, so we have a record of paying visitors, but once you’re in the grounds, there’s pretty much nothing. According to Deacon Baines, they recently installed covert cameras in the gift shop and the café, but they are focused on the tills – they don’t pick up anything outside.’

‘Above the tills? Do they suspect the staff of theft?’

‘He was reluctant to use that word, but he reckons there is a mismatch between the takings recorded at the various till points and the money deposited in the bank. The cameras are there to help them figure out if anyone is “making a mistake”. His words, not mine.’

‘How much?’ asked Warren.

‘Not much. He reckons it’s twenty quid after each daily take, as it’s a hundred and forty on each weekly bank run, but that soon adds up. Deacon Baines figured it was probably some sort of systematic error, since the figure was always exactly one hundred and forty pounds, and made all the till staff undergo fresh training. When that didn’t work, he installed the cameras. So far he hasn’t spotted anything obvious, like people slipping their hand in the till. He still thinks it’s likely to be a mistake. The money is kept in a locked safe, before delivery to the bank, so he thinks it’s at the point of sale.’

‘Have they reported the thefts?’

‘Like I said, he didn’t want to use that word.’

‘Twenty quid every day could be systematic error, I suppose,’ mused Warren. ‘Maybe they are inputting the wrong figure for the daily float? But it sounds like he’s being naïve. If there is a thief, either they’re in every day and stealing from the till, or the money is going missing between cashing up and going to the bank, which is surely a much shorter list of suspects.’

‘I think Baines is in denial. And if there is a thief, I suspect that they will want to deal with it themselves, rather than bring in the police.’

‘What does the missing total stand at now?’

‘Six hundred and eighty pounds.’

Warren let out a whistle, ‘That’s not insignificant. Why haven’t English Heritage called in the police?’

‘I get the impression that the loss is being deducted from the gift shop takings that go to the abbey, not the money deposited into English Heritage’s account from the entry charges.’

‘So they are keeping them in the dark?’

‘Sounds like it.’

‘Well, if they aren’t willing to report it to the police, then there isn’t a lot we can do about it. I’m not sure what the link is to our death, but keep me posted. How much footage have you secured from the wider neighbourhood?’

‘I’ve got teams knocking on doors. There’s a row of shops nearby that looks promising, and it’s a rough neighbourhood, so some of the houses have cameras outside; we’ll seize what we can. There are a number of junctions with ANPR cameras in the vicinity of the abbey and a petrol station.’

‘Stay on it,’ instructed Warren.

He leant back in his chair, and sucked on the tip of his pen, contemplating what Richardson had just told him.

The note in Father Nolan’s room had read, ‘Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.’

Stealing was a sin …

* * *

‘I appreciate that our Scenes of Crime teams can be unsettling, but we will try to keep the disruption to a minimum, Your Grace. Hopefully, it won’t take much longer. We’ll restrict our access to the side entrance, where possible.’

Two days after the fire and dental records had confirmed Father Nolan as the victim. The final cause of death would be determined by the coroner at inquest, but Warren was already under pressure to dismiss it as a suicide. The sooner Warren advised DSI Grayson that the death was non-suspicious, the sooner the priest’s body could be released and arrangements made for his funeral, and the sooner St Cecil’s retirement home could return to its usual, peaceful routine, and Middlesbury’s main tourist attraction could reopen.

Before that happened though, Warren was still treating Father Nolan’s room as a potential crime scene, and he had decided to visit the home in person again to reassure Bishop Fisher that they were progressing as quickly as possible.

Father Nolan’s room had been on the ground floor, furthest from the main entrance. The room next to him was occupied by Father Carlos, a frail, stooped, octogenarian with poor eyesight and poorer hearing. The room directly above was an empty guestroom. Not only did this mean that nobody was likely to have heard anything, it also meant that anyone coming or going via the fire exit at the end of the corridor was unlikely to have been spotted. Nor, for that matter, were the CSIs dusting for prints and looking for other evidence likely to be disturbed.

Father Nolan’s room had been simply furnished, but clean and tidy. He shared a bathroom with the other occupants in his wing of the house, but had his own small sink and mirrored medicine cabinet. A tall bookcase filled with a mixture of weighty academic tomes and fiction paperbacks, was one of the few furnishings that hadn’t been removed by the CSIs. A quick perusal revealed that the late priest’s recreational tastes ran toward classic science fiction, with well-thumbed copies of Arthur C. Clarke and Isaac Asimov vying for space with Kurt Vonnegut and Philip K. Dick.

On top of the bookcase, a number of framed pictures were neatly arranged. A faded black and white wedding photo was probably of the late priest’s parents. Next to that, a less faded image contained the same couple; recognisable but significantly older, flanking a younger man dressed as a priest. Father Nolan’s ordination, Warren assumed. A few other photographs, these newer and in colour, depicted Father Nolan surrounded by different groups of people. In one, he was blowing candles from a cake decorated with a ‘25’ pattern. Judging by his age in the photograph, Warren guessed that it was the twenty-fifth anniversary of his ordination.

The single bed had been neatly made, the pillows plumped up and it had clearly been unslept in when the priest’s disappearance had been discovered. However, a dent at the foot of the bed suggested that somebody may have sat there, facing the room’s single wooden chair, and so the bed had been stripped and the bedding taken away for forensic analysis. A wooden chair had also been removed, after being dusted for fingerprints.

According to Deacon Baines, the rooms were cleaned once a week by one of the sisters that helped at the home and so he was assisting the forensic team in obtaining exclusionary prints. Sister Clara who had reported that Father Nolan was missing had already been questioned by Tony Sutton, but had been unable to give any more details.

The small wooden table underneath the window had been dusted, and two glass tumblers, that appeared to have been recently rinsed out, had been sealed in plastic evidence bags and removed for processing.

Professor Jordan had suggested that the victim had taken prescription drugs and drunk whiskey before the fire. If the pills were dissolved in the drink, that potentially shone a whole different light on things. For completeness, the sink trap was in the process of being dismantled to see if anything had been discarded down there.

Hopefully the findings would come back soon, and Warren could sign the death off as a tragic suicide and everyone could move on.

Chapter 7

‘I’ve completed those PNC checks.’ Pymm drained her glass tea cup. Sutton looked at the dregs with dismay.

‘Are those twigs in there? Comic Relief raises millions so that people in Africa don’t have to drink water that looks like that. Would you like me to email Lenny Henry for you?’

‘Piss off, it’s chamomile and rosehip. Caffeine-free, organic and 50 per cent off this week. It’s a hell of a lot better for you than that over-priced coffee that you and the rest of the team guzzle all day.’

‘Palpitations are a small price to pay for the performance boost,’ sniffed Sutton. ‘Anyway, enough of the backchat, Sergeant, let’s see what you’ve got.’

‘I’ve run the names of the residents, Inspector, and as you’d expect, nothing’s come up. I’ve also done the volunteers and staff. Most of them are in the clear too. Nothing more exciting than a couple of driving offences and one old caution from thirty years back for being drunk and disorderly.’

‘You said “most”.’

‘Well spotted. Rodney Shaw, the groundsman. He was sentenced to twenty-eight months back in 1984 for possession of class A drugs, multiple counts of burglary and wounding with intent.’

Sutton let out a whistle.

‘When did he start working there?’

‘1996. He did casual work in the abbey grounds at first, before becoming groundsman shortly before the home opened in 2004.’

‘Anything since?’

‘Nothing, not so much as a speeding ticket.’

‘Would his employers have known about his convictions?’

‘Not necessarily, they would have been classed as “spent” under the Rehabilitation of Offenders Act, so they couldn’t ask about it at interview.’

Sutton scratched his chin. ‘A history of violence from decades ago, hidden from his employers – a connection or a coincidence?’

‘If he hadn’t voluntarily disclosed it to his employers and it looked as though it was likely to come out, he could have been worried that he was going to lose his job. Could Father Nolan have got wind of it and tried to blackmail Shaw?’ The look on Pymm’s face showed her own scepticism.

‘Why? What would he have achieved? And how could he have found out? Blackmail’s not exactly priestly behaviour, is it?’

The pair lapsed into silence, before Sutton straightened.

‘Well, good work anyway, Rachel. See if you can find out any more details about his original conviction. I’ll take it to the boss and see what he thinks. It’s our only lead so far.’

* * *

Rodney Shaw officially became a ‘person of interest’ an hour later when DS Hutchinson returned to the office.

‘Father Nolan was generally popular,’ started Hutchinson. ‘Nobody had a bad word to say about him. At least not directly.’

‘Go on,’ Warren blew across his mug of coffee. He’d forgotten to buy milk and was slurping the coffee black; the caffeine hit was good, but Warren had already burnt his tongue that morning.

‘Apparently, Father Nolan had a loud disagreement with Rodney Shaw a couple of weeks ago.’

‘About what?’

‘Well, that’s where we have a problem. It seems the disagreement is common knowledge amongst the staff and residents. A couple of the sisters also mentioned it, but nobody is sure what it was about, or even who overheard them. To be honest, it has the feel of a bit of gossip; I guess small communities are all the same, even those based on holy orders. So much for “thou shalt not bear false witness.”’

‘It depends if it’s false, I suppose,’ said Sutton.

Warren puffed his lips out.

‘It’s still pretty tenuous. It seems a bit far-fetched that Father Nolan would suddenly discover Shaw’s murky past, then threaten to expose him. For what reason? Blackmail? If it was murder it wasn’t a spur of the moment thing so this threat, if it existed, hung over him for at least as long as it took to plan it. Why would Father Nolan hold onto that knowledge?’

‘And if it was blackmail, what did he want in return?’ asked Sutton, playing Devil’s Advocate against his own theory.

‘What does any blackmailer want?’ asked Hutchinson.

‘Most obvious is monetary or material gain,’ answered Sutton.

Warren shook his head slowly. ‘Shaw is two steps up from a gardener. Before then, he was a homeless drug addict, stealing to maintain his habit. He’s hardly going to be rolling in money.’

‘He could be dealing again,’ suggested Hutchinson. ‘Besides, how much money does a Catholic priest need or want? You’ve seen Father Nolan’s room, he was a man of frugal tastes. His food and board is paid for. He has no family to speak of and so far we’ve found no evidence of expensive mistresses.’

‘What about vices? He wouldn’t be the first priest who developed a taste for Communion wine outside of church,’ said Sutton.

‘The autopsy was inconclusive in terms of liver damage, although the fire makes the results unreliable,’ said Warren. ‘Do a bit more discreet poking around, Hutch. Find out if he had any expensive habits.’

‘Will do.’

‘Why else do people blackmail?’ asked Warren.

‘Control? Is there something that Shaw could do for Nolan that he couldn’t do himself?’ said Hutchinson.

‘Again, what does a retired Catholic priest need or want?’ asked Warren.

‘I can’t imagine Father Nolan standing around on street corners buying drugs,’ said Sutton, ‘although you never can tell.’

‘Hopefully the toxicology screen will answer that question,’ said Warren, ‘but if it’s not booze, drugs, money or favours, then that leaves secrets. Keep your mouth shut about my transgressions, or I’ll expose yours.”

‘And what might Nolan’s transgressions be?’ asked Sutton. ‘With all of these ongoing inquiries into abuse and cover-ups in the Catholic Church, you have to wonder …’

The silence stretched as they contemplated the uncomfortable implications of Sutton’s statement.

‘This is all speculation,’ said Warren finally. ‘We need a lot more before we even treat the death as suspicious let alone make Shaw a suspect. Hutch, see what you can find out about Father Nolan’s finances and carry on looking into his background. Keep an eye out for any hints or allegations of inappropriate behaviour. Meanwhile, I think a discreet chat with Bishop Fisher may be in order.’

‘Good luck with that,’ muttered Sutton.

Chapter 8

It was past nine when Warren finally got home. A call to Bishop Fisher had revealed that Shaw’s past problems with drugs were not only well-known to him, but were in fact a source of pride; Shaw was held up as an inspiring example of how someone could successfully overcome challenges within their lives through prayer. He and Deacon Baines worked together to take that message around schools, youth clubs and homeless shelters.

Tony Sutton had pointed out that if Rodney Shaw had started using drugs again, then the shame of letting everyone down might have been enough for him to commit murder, but even he hadn’t sounded convinced.

But something still didn’t feel quite right. In his mind’s eye, Warren could picture the crime scene, the harsh lights bringing the horrifying tableau into sharp relief. What was he missing? What clue was there in front of him that he just couldn’t see?