DCI Warren Jones

‘Take a ticket, and join the queue,’ grumbled Sutton. ‘That list grows longer every day.’

Pymm nodded. She already had her notepad out, scribbling down ideas.

‘Have a look at the PNC and see if anyone associated with the abbey has a file on the system. Whilst you’re at it, cross-reference with the probation service and see if anyone interesting has either been released recently or moved to the area. Be creative, contact the Social Media Intelligence Unit for assistance.’

With that, the meeting broke up. Warren watched his officers leave with a touch of envy. Most investigative work was a repetitive, long slog. He knew from experience that the twentieth person he interviewed would become muddled up with the thirtieth, unless he took scrupulous notes. Similarly, a day staring at grainy CCTV footage would leave him with a headache – a week of it and even his dreams would take place in a jerky, faded world.

But there was no denying the sense of purpose that it brought. The feeling that you were at the very heart of the investigation, an essential part of a team and that what you stumbled across might just be the vital clue that moved the case forward.

Warren supposed he should count himself lucky. So many of his peers, upon reaching the rank of inspector or above, retreated into their offices, their time filled with meetings, budget reports and people management. That came with the job, and it was an essential role in modern policing. But he’d seen the wistful looks on his fellow DCIs’ faces as he left the latest management away day, and headed back to his team, whilst they scurried to their next meeting.

This unusual position was a result of Middlesbury CID’s unique history. Tucked away in the very north of the county, about as far from Hertfordshire Constabulary’s headquarters in Welwyn Garden City as it was possible to be and not cross the county borders, Middlesbury CID had remained a local first-response unit dealing with issues as they arose in Middlesbury and the surrounding towns and villages. The unit had survived the consolidation when Hertfordshire and Bedfordshire moved all of their major crime units into a single building in Welwyn Garden City.

Maintaining Middlesbury’s independence had been the personal mission of Warren’s predecessor, DCI Gavin Sheehy. Unfortunately, the man’s uncompromising attitude had won him as many enemies as admirers, and when he was arrested for corruption, many saw that as vindication of the view that Middlesbury needed to be disbanded and absorbed into the main unit in Welwyn.

Whether DSI John Grayson had been appointed to save or bury Middlesbury CID was still unclear four years on. Tony Sutton maintained that the fate of Middlesbury CID was directly related to its usefulness in securing Grayson’s next promotion and corresponding final salary pension; Warren felt that whilst his theory wasn’t entirely without merit, it was a bit unfair to the man.

Of course, none of this was made clear to Warren as he was parachuted in to fill the vacancy left by Sheehy. Warren’s first weeks as a newly promoted DCI had seen him walk unprepared into a maelstrom of politics that he’d been forced to deal with as he headed up his first major murder investigation. Over the next few months, Warren had found himself chasing a serial rapist and murderer, and embroiled in a cold case that had soon become all too personal. That investigation had led to the resolution of many of the issues surrounding the death of Warren’s father when he was a teenager, but had led to new and unexpected betrayals.

When he had been interviewed for the role, Warren had made it clear that he wanted to use his time at Middlesbury to segue from an active Senior Investigating Officer to the more managerial role that a senior officer such as a DCI would typically fulfil. Grayson, it turned out, was more than happy to pass over anything investigative to Warren, assigning him as SIO to everything that came their way. Grayson, for his part, spent much of his time down at Welwyn.

On a good day, Warren was grateful that his Superintendent shielded him and his team from much of the administrative side of policing; on a bad day, Warren wished the man would do a bit less schmoozing, play a little less golf and actually get his hands dirty, instead of simply taking all the credit for the team’s hard work.

That aside, there was one aspect of the job that Grayson could keep to himself. Unfortunately, that wasn’t going to be possible today. With a sigh, Warren slipped on his best jacket, checked his hair in the mirror, and headed for the car park.

He hated press conferences.

Chapter 13

‘I’ve been going through all of the past reports on the system that mention the abbey,’ Rachel Pymm had a list in her hand covered in a multitude of different coloured fluorescent markers. For the briefest of moments, Warren had a flashback of Gary Hastings; despite the man’s expertise with a computer, he’d still liked nothing more than a ream of paper covered in coloured pen.

He swallowed the lump in his throat. ‘Take me through what you’ve got, Rachel.’

The press conference had been relatively brief, with little in the way of details. Doubtless the tabloids would focus on the more sensational aspects of the death, but at the moment the team wanted to keep the fact that Father Nolan was likely to have been murdered to themselves.

‘The abbey and its surroundings are a bit of a crime magnet, so I decided to limit my search to the past five years. I can go back further if you want me to.’

‘No, I’ll defer to your judgement for the time being.’

‘Well most of the offences can be classed as low-level vandalism and anti-social behaviour.’

‘From the priests?’

‘Less than you’d expect,’ she said with a smile. ‘It’s mostly kids; reports of graffiti tagging, broken windows, large noisy gatherings etc. They had a spate of damaged headstones about two years ago, and someone tried to nick lead off the chapel roof. They scarpered empty-handed when Rodney Shaw turned up. There’s been no real pattern, other than a general increase after dark in the winter and a bit of a spike around October.’

‘Well, thanks for looking into that, Rachel.’

‘There is one report that might be worth looking at further.’

‘Hit me.’

‘On the ninth of January this year, Deacon Baines called the police after a man climbed over the wall and came into the grounds, shouting and being abusive.’

‘Abusive in what way?’

‘It’s hard to be sure exactly. He was drunk, possibly high, and likely had mental health issues. The officers involved weren’t able to talk him down and he was eventually arrested and stuck in the back of a police van. The report says that by the time he got to the nick he was ready to sleep it off.

‘The next morning, he was fit enough to be charged with being drunk and disorderly, but the abbey declined to press charges over the minor damage done to the wall. It was dealt with by caution.’

‘What do we know about him?’

‘Lucas Furber. 35 years old, of no fixed abode. A couple of historic convictions for drugs, but nothing recent.’ She passed across a headshot, taken in custody. Furber looked younger than his stated age, and poorly nourished. His skin was blotchy with acne, and his dark beard was straggly and matted, as greasy as his long hair. The bags under his bloodshot, blue eyes were like dark, purple bruises. The end of his nose was reddened. Drug use or a cold?

‘Hmm, it could be just what it seems,’ said Warren, ‘but I’d like to know what he was ranting about. Did he know Father Nolan or was it aimed at someone else at the abbey? Was it a general dislike of the church, or had he just read the latest Dan Brown novel? Or was it something else, or nothing at all? We should definitely try to eliminate him. See if you can track him down. In the meantime, Deacon Baines was the one who confronted him. Let’s see if he can tell us a bit more.’

* * *

Deacon Baines did remember the incident, when Warren called him.

‘Ah, yes, that poor young man, clearly a very disturbed individual. Such a shame we couldn’t help him more.’

‘Can you tell me what happened?’

‘Nothing too exciting, as I recall. It was late evening, shortly after we’d finished for the day. The last visitors had gone and the main gates had been locked. One of the sales assistants in the gift shop spotted somebody climbing over the wall as she walked back to her car – close to where those young people climbed over Friday night. We really need to get those spikes replaced, but there isn’t any money.’

‘And then what happened?’

‘She phoned Rodney Shaw, who called me as he went to confront the man.’

Shaw again; it could be a coincidence. Nevertheless, Warren scribbled the man’s name down on his pad.

‘The reports said he was abusive.’

‘Yes, he was being foul-mouthed and shouting at Rodney, who was trying to calm him down. When he saw me, he picked up a stick and started waving it about. That’s when we called the police.’

There had been nothing about violence towards Baines or Shaw in the police report.

‘It wasn’t really worth mentioning; neither of us were in any danger, we just wanted the young man to get the help he needed. He dropped the stick when the police arrived.’

‘Can you tell me what he was shouting about?’

Baines paused. ‘Nothing really. This and that, he was clearly disturbed.’

‘Can you be more specific?’

‘Not really, and I’d rather not repeat the man’s language.’

‘OK. Thanks for your assistance, Deacon Baines. You’re probably right, it was likely nothing.’

Warren hung up.

Baines clearly didn’t want to discuss the incident. Until this point, the man had been open and helpful. Why was he suddenly so vague? It also sounded as though the intruder had become more agitated when Baines had arrived upon the scene. Was that significant, or was the man just feeling an increased threat now that there were two men confronting him?

Warren drummed his fingers on the table, before getting up and heading into the main office.

‘Rachel, any luck tracking down Lucas Furber?’

‘The custody report said that Furber was going to the Middlesbury Outreach Centre when he was released. They might be able to tell us where he is.’

‘We’ll send someone down there, but before they go, can you track down the arresting officers? It’s a long shot, but they may remember what he was shouting about. I’d also like to speak to the person who witnessed him clambering over the wall. Find out who she is and arrange for her to come in.’

‘Will do.’

Warren continued his circuit of the office.

‘Hutch, what have you found out about our victim?’

‘Apparently, Father Nolan was a man of simple tastes,’ stated Hutchinson. ‘He walked into town a couple of times a week to The Cock and Lion, where he liked a pint and caught the footie on Sky. He was also known to have the odd flutter on the horses.’

‘Could he have had a gambling problem?’

‘There’s nothing in his bank accounts to suggest that he had any issues, but he could have been using cash. We don’t know where he placed his bets, so we’ll need to wear out some shoe leather,’ said Sutton. Warren remembered his conversation with Mags Richardson about the missing cash from the gift shop takings. Could there be a link?

Warren pictured his bulging in-tray. The arresting officers for Lucas Furber had clocked off, so he wasn’t expecting a call before the next day.

‘Leave it with me.’ He moved onto the next desk.

‘Moray? Fancy some fresh air?’

Chapter 14

Walk a few minutes from Middlesbury Abbey and the fairly affluent neighbourhood overlooking the historic ruins soon turns into a far less salubrious area. Father Nolan’s favoured pub, The Cock and Lion, occupied the corner of Hanover Street and Tudor Avenue.

Ruskin described it as a typical ‘old man’s pub’; warm beer, cheap food and football on the TV. The sort of place where you could make a pint of bitter and a newspaper last all afternoon and nobody minded. Warren tried not to feel slighted; he rather liked the look of the place.

The landlady, a friendly woman in her mid-thirties with a West Country accent, didn’t need to think twice before confirming that Father Nolan had been a regular. She shook her head. ‘So sad. Suicide, they said in the paper.’

News that they were now investigating a murder had not yet been released to the public; Warren wanted a couple more days before the killer was tipped off that their attempts to cover up the killing had failed.

She shuddered. ‘And what a way to go.’

‘How well did you know Father Nolan?’

‘Not very well, he was pretty quiet.’ She tipped her chin towards a corner table, strategically placed to give the best view of the large TV opposite. ‘He’d usually sit there and either watch the footie or read the newspaper. He’d say hello and make polite conversation, but wasn’t exactly a chatterbox. To be honest, I wouldn’t know what to say. I mean what do you talk about with a priest? I failed GCSE RE and have barely been inside a church since my first Holy Communion.’

‘Did he speak to anyone else?’ asked Warren.

‘Not really. Most of the regulars knew him, and he’d express an opinion on whatever match they were watching, but he mostly sat on his own. Once or twice he came down here with other priests, but not often.’

‘I don’t suppose you noticed any change in his mood, recently?’ asked Ruskin.

‘You mean, like if he was suicidal?’

‘It probably wouldn’t be that obvious,’ cautioned Warren.

She thought for a moment before apologizing. ‘I just didn’t know him well enough.’

‘What did he usually drink?’ said Ruskin.

‘He’d usually have a go of whatever guest beer we had in, otherwise whatever bitter we have on tap.’

‘And was he a big drinker?’

She laughed. ‘I wish. Two pints was about his limit, and a packet of cheese and onion crisps if he was feeling peckish.’

‘Would any of your regulars be likely to have noticed anything?’

She thought for a moment. ‘Hard to say. I can ask around if you like.’

‘We’d appreciate that,’ said Ruskin.

‘Why don’t you come back for a drink in a couple of days and I’ll let you know what I’ve heard?’

Warren hid a smile, as Ruskin politely deflected the offer and passed over a card with his number.

‘Blimey Moray, and you weren’t even in uniform,’ teased Warren as they stepped back out onto the street.

The burly Scot shrugged. ‘Not exactly my type. And I’m spoken for, remember.’

‘Let her down gently.’

* * *

If, as Hutchinson had suggested, Father Nolan liked to place the odd bet before his pint, he didn’t have far to walk.

There was something especially sad about a bookmaker’s on a weekday afternoon, decided Warren, as they left the third shop in a street barely two hundred metres long. The woman behind the reinforced glass partition hadn’t recognised Father Nolan’s photograph. Neither had any of the punters, although most of them – scruffy men of varying ages – had barely been able to tear their eyes away from the galloping horses on the banks of wall-mounted TVs, or shift their attention from the ubiquitous fixed-odds betting terminals gobbling money at a rate far faster than the player could possibly earn it.

‘They’re like a bloody cancer,’ muttered Ruskin, as they walked the twenty paces to the next establishment. According to Google Maps, there were another four within half a mile of their current location.

‘You won’t get any argument from me,’ agreed Warren. ‘They’re just a tax on the poor and desperate.’ He waved his hand vaguely towards the surrounding streets. ‘Most of the folks around here haven’t got a pot to piss in, yet these big companies can set up shops opposite each other and there’s still enough business to go around. Tells you everything you need to know about their ethics and in whose favour the odds are stacked.’

‘What is a bloke of working age doing in a bookie in the middle of the day on a Tuesday anyway?’ asked Ruskin.

‘I think it’s fair to say that if you are in that position, life isn’t going to plan.’

The two officers finally found what they were looking for in the fourth bookie they visited. So far, almost all of the main chains had been represented in a single stretch of road, with the remainder all within easy walking distance.

The inside of the shop was just a variation on the others they’d already been to. The wall to the left was covered in flat-screen TVs, some showing live horse racing, others a constantly updating series of betting odds and news flashes. The wall opposite was papered with pages from the Racing Post, with desk space below for gamblers to complete the pre-printed betting slips using one of the stubby blue biros. Unlike banks, the shop didn’t feel the need to secure the pens to the desk with a chain, simply supplying containers filled with them. Probably a reflection of the profits made by a typical bookie compared to major high-street banks, Warren thought, his cynicism towards the betting industry having risen steadily over the past half hour.

For those unwilling to miss valuable gambling time by hand-delivering their slip to the assistants safely locked away in their reinforced glass cubicles, bets could be placed directly onto a computer terminal. And if studying form and actually awaiting the outcome for a race was too much, then each of the four fixed odds betting terminals would happily swallow money at a rate of £300 per minute. It was clear to see why they placed a chair in front of the machines.

The person behind the till, a man in his early twenties with a name badge saying ‘Martin’, nodded as soon as they passed the glossy photograph to him.

‘Oh yes, I recognise him. He was a regular.’

‘How regular?’ asked Warren.

‘Probably about twice a week. I work here most afternoons, after lectures finish. He used to come in late afternoon, then head off for a pint.’

‘Was he a big gambler?’

The man paused. ‘Look, do you have a warrant or something? I’m not sure I can just give out information about customers without their permission. You know, data protection and all that. My manager is on his lunch break, perhaps you can call back later?’

‘Father Nolan’s dead,’ said Warren, his eyes flicking towards the copy of the Middlesbury Reporter sitting on the desk next to the cashier; a different, but still recognisable, picture of Father Nolan took up half of the front page.

The man followed his gaze, then looked back at the photograph.

‘Oh … shit, that was him? Guess it doesn’t matter, then.’

‘What sort of a punter was he?’ repeated Ruskin.

The teller glanced over his shoulder, as if expecting his manager to suddenly materialise, then lowered his voice.

‘Just a bit of a flutter. He’d spend a while reading the Post and then put a couple of quid either way on the favourite. He’d stay here for three or four races, if that.’

‘So no more than, ten, fifteen quid?’

‘Probably about that.’

‘Did he pay by cash or card?’

‘Cash.’

‘Was he lucky?’

‘No more or less than anyone, I’d say.’

‘When was the last time you saw him?’

‘Probably about a week ago. I had wondered why I hadn’t seen him for a while. I never thought … shit. Burnt himself to death, they said. Poor bastard.’

‘Did you notice anything different about him? A change of mood, perhaps?’

‘Nothing, but he never really said much. He was polite, and he’d enquire after my health, but it was just chit-chat you know? I can’t say I knew him.’

‘Was he friendly with any of the other regulars?’

Martin snorted. ‘It’s not really that sort of place.’ He discreetly pointed towards a man of about twenty, wearing a baseball cap, a rolled-up cigarette behind his ear, loading money into a gambling machine. He lowered his voice even more. ‘Take that guy. Has two kids and still lives at home with his mum. You can tell when he’s had his dole money because he goes and gets his rings back from the pawnbrokers. He won’t be wearing them by the end of the week. I only know about him because his brother’s the same and I overhear them talking sometimes. You try not to judge, but the guy’s a complete failure and he knows it.’ The young bookmaker sighed. ‘To be honest, this place is pretty depressing. I’m only here because the money’s better than stacking shelves and I’m doing an accountancy degree. I can’t wait to leave.

‘Customers like Father Nolan, who just come in for a flutter and know when to stop are pretty rare. “When the fun stops, stop”, the adverts say.’ His laughter was mirthless, as he angled his chin towards another customer. ‘The fun stopped for most of these guys years ago.’

Dressed the same as the youth at the gambling machine, the man could easily have been forty years older. His face was a mass of deep creases, and his half-open mouth, with its tongue stuck out in concentration, had less teeth than his right hand had fingers. At his feet, the thin plastic of a white carrier bag did nothing to hide the two unopened cans of extra-strength lager, or the two others crushed in the bottom.

‘Take that bloke over there. He self-excluded from here for six months last year; broke down in tears as I helped him fill in the form. Reckons he sold his grandkids’ Christmas presents. It took three attempts to get him to bring in a passport photo; he knew he should do it, but his heart wasn’t in it. I tried to get him to do it for the full five years, but he just said he needed to get back on track. Thing is, I’d still see him coming out of the shop across the way, so what was the point? As soon as the ban expired he was straight back in here. Prefers the atmosphere, apparently.’

‘Did Father Nolan try and offer any, I don’t know, pastoral care to customers?’ asked Warren.

‘No, he pretty much kept himself to himself. To be honest, I doubt it would be received very well. I don’t think he ever really spoke to anyone.’ He paused. ‘Actually no, tell a lie, a few weeks ago, he was in here a bit later than usual, and he recognised one of the regular after work crowd. The guy seemed a bit surprised to see him here. A bit embarrassed, actually.’

‘Do you know the man’s name?’

The young man’s face screwed up, ‘No, sorry, I can’t remember. I haven’t seen him since. I think he was a bit ashamed to be seen in here. A pity really, he was one of our regulars. Not a great judge of form, if you get my drift.’

‘Can you be more precise about when you saw him?’

‘After the new year, maybe a month ago?’

‘Can you describe him?’

The man glanced upwards, as if the answers were written on the ceiling.

‘Middle-aged, grey hair, white. Skinny build, I guess. Sorry.’

‘What about his clothing?’

‘Jeans, T-shirt. Sometimes he wore a fleece. Green, I think. Sorry, I’d know him if I saw him, but like I said, he hasn’t been in since.’

‘Well, thank you for your time, Martin. If you remember anything else, please call me on this number.’ This time Warren handed over his card.

As they headed out, Martin suddenly called out, ‘I’ve just remembered, he had a name badge on with the logo from the abbey. That must have been where he knew the priest from.’

‘Can you remember what the name badge said?’ Warren held his breath. If Martin couldn’t recall the name, he’d ask him to come down the station and look at some headshots.

The young teller suddenly clicked his fingers. ‘Got it, I remember now because you don’t see that name very often. I guess it was because of that old comedy, you know, Only Horses …’

‘Only Fools and Horses?’ asked Warren.

‘Yeah, Rodney was his name.’

* * *

‘What are the odds that two different people called Rodney are at the heart of the same investigation?’ asked Warren.