DCI Warren Jones

The question was rhetorical, but Ruskin couldn’t resist suggesting that they ask the next bookie that they entered.

According to Google, there were several more bookmakers within walking distance for a reasonably fit older man, including more branches of chains that they had already visited. None of them recognised the photo of Father Nolan.

‘Should we ask if anyone recognises Rodney Shaw?’ asked Ruskin.

‘No, let’s keep it to ourselves for now. If word gets back to Shaw that we’ve been asking questions about him, it may spook him. Besides, I doubt we’ll get much out of them without a warrant and it’s still looking a bit circumstantial at the moment.’

‘It seems a bit strange that Father Nolan was so open about going to the bookmaker’s. Isn’t gambling a sin?’

‘According to what I’ve read on the internet, apparently not. As long as it is a true game of chance, and there’s no cheating, then gambling itself isn’t prohibited. Besides, if they took a blanket approach to banning gambling, church fetes would make a lot less money, and the manufacturers of raffle tickets would go out of business.’

Ruskin smiled politely, but Warren could see the young man was troubled.

‘I can’t believe the government doesn’t regulate the industry more. Surely the taxes aren’t worth the suffering it causes? I mean, fancy selling your grandkids’ Christmas presents.’

‘Like I said before, it’s a tax on the poor and desperate. Cheap business rates aren’t the only reason these places set up shop in the poorer parts of town, rather than the wealthier.’

Wednesday 25th February

Chapter 15

PCs Harper and Ballard had been the officers that arrested Lucas Furber after he’d climbed into the abbey grounds.

‘Yeah, I remember it,’ PC Harper said when Warren called him mid-morning, after dropping Susan back home from their clinic appointment.

The harvesting of Susan’s eggs had been scheduled for 9 a.m. that morning, precisely thirty-seven hours after Susan had injected herself with the triggering hormones. Warren had also supplied a sample. The whole procedure had taken far less time than they anticipated, and before they knew it, the two of them found themselves sitting in the carpark feeling almost shell-shocked.

‘I still can’t believe it,’ said Susan. ‘Somewhere in that building is an incubator where our future child is forming.’

Of course, both of them knew that this was only the latest step in a sequence fraught with uncertainty and doubt. Much could go wrong over the next few days; there was no guarantee of success, even having got this far. The next morning’s phone call might tell them that none of the eggs retrieved that morning had been successfully fertilised.

But now wasn’t the time for such thoughts. Susan took another bite of the sticky pastry Warren had bought from the clinic’s canteen. It was hardly her usual breakfast, but she hadn’t eaten or drunk anything since the previous night and she was ravenous. Besides which, she deserved it. Warren just wished he could do more; could take a bigger role in what they were going through.

Warren forced his attention back to the matter at hand.

‘He was certainly the worse for wear,’ continued Harper. ‘Definitely drink, probably drugs, but he was also clearly mentally ill.’

‘And who was there when you turned up?’

Warren heard the rustling of paper in the background.

‘The complainant was Deacon Gabriel Baines; he was the one who called it in. Furber was there, obviously, and the groundsman, Mr Rodney Shaw. There was also a Miss Bethany Rice who’d originally seen Furber climbing over the wall.’

‘Can you remember what Furber was shouting about?’

There was a silence at the end of the line, before Harper replied.

‘I can’t remember the details exactly, it was mostly stream-of-consciousness. He clearly had something against the church. I remember he called them a bunch of hypocrites at one point.’

‘Any indication why he may have said that?’

‘No, most of what came out of his mouth was just incoherent shouting. I haven’t heard the F-word used so much since I went to see Billy Connelly live. Unfortunately, he lacked the Big Yin’s eloquence or wit. Mind you, I was too busy trying to decide if pulling my baton was necessary or would likely escalate things to pay that much attention. PC Ballard might remember, she’s usually better at engaging them in conversation than me.’ His voice became muffled again as he moved the telephone handset away from his mouth and handed it over.

‘Yes, sir, I remember him. Certainly drunk, probably high and definitely not in touch with reality.’

‘Can you remember what he said?’

‘Mostly a string of F words and C words. And something about them being hypocrites.’

‘Nothing else?’

‘No … oh hang on, he shouted something at Deacon Baines. Something about forgiveness of sins.’

‘You mean he was asking for forgiveness?’

‘No, I don’t think it was for him. I think it was aimed at Deacon Baines.’

* * *

‘The metal petrol can from the scene of the fire has been positively identified as one stored in the groundsman’s tool shed. He used it for the lawn mower,’ said Andy Harrison, his voice echoey over the briefing room’s speakerphone.

‘I’ve sent a sample off for petrol branding, to check that the fuel in the can was the same kind that was used to start the fire. We found three different sets of prints on the can. One set match the head groundsman, Rodney Shaw, who we already had in the system from his previous convictions, another set corresponds to the prints taken from the deceased’s personal belongings.’

‘Suggesting that Father Nolan handled the can at some point, fitting the narrative that he did pour petrol over himself,’ interrupted Warren.

‘Yes. The final set are currently unknown, but we are waiting exclusionary prints from the young lad who is apprenticed to Shaw. He mows the lawn as well, and presumably fills the mower with petrol when needed.’

‘If the scene was staged, that implies that the killer made Father Nolan hold the petrol can, I’m assuming that he didn’t help mow the lawn,’ said Sutton.

‘Father Nolan did work in the abbey gardens,’ interrupted Hutchinson. ‘He helped tend their vegetable patch. The tools are stored in the same shed as the lawnmower.’

‘In that case, he might just have moved the can out of the way of his tools and transferred his prints that way,’ suggested Warren.

‘That might also explain why his fingerprints are on the key to the tool shed padlock found at the scene,’ said Ruskin.

Warren tapped his teeth thoughtfully.

‘We’re pretty certain that it was murder staged as suicide. If the unknown prints match the apprentice groundsman, then he has an alibi. He’s seventeen and he was at home with his parents and siblings in front of the TV. That leaves only Rodney Shaw or an unknown killer who took care not to leave his or her own prints at the scene.’

‘If the killer wasn’t a regular user of the tool shed, he could have left trace evidence behind when collecting the petrol. The shed doesn’t have electricity, so the killer may have been stumbling around in the dark,’ said Harrison.

‘OK, take some prints and do a preliminary search of the premises. We’ll work up a list of everyone who legitimately used the shed and make sure we have prints and DNA. The tool shed is a short walk from the chapel, so look for footprints. Cross-reference anything you find with the findings from Father Nolan’s room. If we can work out the sequence of events that night, we’ll be a step closer to finding who did it.’

‘We’ll do what we can, but I’m not sure what you’re expecting to find, sir. It’s been a few days now, and not all the pathways were locked down immediately.’ Harrison’s tone was cautionary.

‘I know. Give it your best shot, Andy. Aside from the chapel and Father Nolan’s room, the shed’s the one place that we know the killer is likely to have been.’

Chapter 16

‘Moray, fancy a trip to a homeless shelter?’ called Warren.

‘You’ve seen what I earn then?’

‘Funny man. We need to interview the locals at the Middlesbury Outreach Centre, to see what else we can find out about Lucas Furber.’

‘I’ll get my coat.’

Tony Sutton sidled up next to Warren. ‘Can I have a quick word, Boss? In private.’

‘Of course. Moray, I’ll be with you in a moment.’

‘What’s the problem, Tony?’ asked Warren when the door closed.

Sutton looked uncomfortable.

‘It’s about Moray.’

Warren was surprised.

‘Is there a problem? I thought he was doing really well. He’s on track to complete his probationary training well within the two years, and his paperwork is in a far better state than mine was when I was at his stage.’

‘He is. That’s the problem.’

‘You’ve lost me.’

Sutton sighed. ‘Sir, you’re a DCI. Why are you traipsing around bookies and homeless shelters with a DC?’

‘I’ve always been hands-on, Tony, and willing to get out of the office, you know that. It’s what I like about Middlesbury, most officers my rank spend half their time in meetings.’

‘That’s not what I meant.’

‘Moray’s a probationer, he’s still learning the ropes. He’ll be a fine officer one day and I want him to get the support he needs. I learnt a lot from my own DCI, as I’m sure you did.’ Warren paused, as he remembered the history of their respective senior officers, but decided the point still stood. ‘Look, this is a fast-moving investigation, with a lot of different threads. If you think Moray would benefit from spending a bit more time working with Hutch or Mags, or even you, then I’ll take your advice, you’ve done a lot more mentoring than I have recently.’

Sutton sighed, he could see that Warren either wasn’t getting the hint, or quite possibly was ignoring the uncomfortable truth.

‘Chief …’ he started, before pausing and starting again, ‘Warren. Moray isn’t Gary.’

Warren felt as if he’d been slapped.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean that you can’t keep him wrapped in cotton wool.’

Warren was dumbfounded; Sutton ploughed on quickly.

‘What happened to Gary affected us all, I still miss him every day. I spent twenty minutes comforting Mags after we marked his birthday last month, and Hutch wasn’t much better. I can only imagine how you must feel, sitting next to him as it happened—’

‘That’s right, you can only imagine, and I’d rather you didn’t,’ snapped Warren.

‘It wasn’t your fault,’ insisted Sutton. ‘Professional Standards know that. I know that, as does everyone in that office, even Karen knows it.’

‘I think you’ve said enough, DI Sutton.’

Sutton ignored him.

‘You can’t undo what happened to Gary by being overprotective of Moray. He needs room to grow. He may be a probationary DC, but he was a very well-regarded uniform constable before he transferred over.’

‘I said that’s enough!’

‘He’s more than capable of asking a few questions in an outreach centre. And look at the bloody size of him, he can take on two normal people and not break a sweat.’

‘Gary Hastings had a black belt in Jiu-jitsu, and that was fuck all use in the end.’

The moment he said it, Warren wished he could take the words back.

‘I’ll see myself out,’ said Sutton, without waiting to be dismissed.

The thin partitioned wall rattled as the door slammed behind him.

Warren slumped into his chair, anger coursing through him.

How dare Sutton speak to him like that? Not since the two men had butted heads when Warren first transferred to Middlesbury, had the two men argued in such a way. Matters of friendship aside, Warren was still Sutton’s superior officer. He knew that if he’d spoken to Bob Windermere like that back when he was an inspector, he’d not only have ended up with a written warning on his file, he’d have found himself giving crime-prevention presentations to little old ladies at the local community centre.

He stared through the window into the office beyond.

After Gary’s death, they’d rearranged the layout. It was a small gesture, but nobody would have been comfortable taking his old desk, next to his girlfriend Karen Hardwick, on medical leave since his death and now entering the last few weeks of her pregnancy. On the other hand, leaving his desk empty would have been just as bad, not to mention impractical.

And so one evening, when the number of people in the office was at a minimum, Tony Sutton and Warren had rearranged everything. John Grayson, upon hearing the sound of scraping furniture had emerged from his own office. He’d said nothing, just put down his cup of coffee, rolled up his sleeves and given them a hand.

Gary’s death had hit them all hard. In Warren’s opinion, the small, close-knit nature of the team at Middlesbury was one of its biggest strengths, but it also meant that the loss of a team member was perhaps more closely felt than it might be otherwise.

That was the view of the counsellor Warren had been assigned following Gary’s death. The nightmares had decreased in frequency in recent months, but he’d had another the night before – the third since the fire at the abbey. Should he report them? The counselling had been helpful, no question, but did he really have the time? He was already taking personal time out to accompany Susan to the hospital. There was a strict no phones and do not disturb rule at the counsellor’s office. Could he afford to be uncontactable during such a critical and fast-moving period of the case?

He thought back to his last session. He’d been warned not to ignore other signs of PTSD. Was that why he was being overprotective towards Moray Ruskin? It wasn’t hard to see the parallels between Gary and Ruskin, his direct replacement. Was he letting his guilt towards what had happened to Gary Hastings colour his interactions with Ruskin?

It was hardly fair; so far, the man had impressed Warren and everybody else with his competence. He still had plenty to learn, as his sometimes naïve questions indicated, but did he require the level of direct supervision that he’d been receiving? Particularly, did he need the second most senior officer in the building breathing down his neck? Worse, was it compromising the effectiveness of the team? He and Ruskin could have visited all those bookmakers in half the time if they’d split up; that sort of routine enquiry was far more suited to a constable – detective or otherwise – than the Senior Investigating Officer.

When Warren emerged from his office, the rest of the team were busy. He spied Ruskin sitting next to Rachel Pymm, discussing something on her screen.

‘Moray?’

The bearded Scotsman looked up.

‘Something’s come up. Are you OK to go visit the Middlesbury Outreach Centre on your own?’

‘Sure, no problem.’

The eagerness with which the young detective jumped to his feet confirmed everything that Sutton had said. Warren looked over and caught the man’s eye. He gave a small nod. After a pause, Sutton nodded back.

Enough said.

Chapter 17

Moray Ruskin pulled himself out of the tiny Fiat 500, the car lifting slightly as he removed his eighteen-stone bulk. Alex had bought the car before meeting Ruskin and it was definitely not suited for someone of his size. Unfortunately, Ruskin’s own car was having its service and MOT, so he was stuck with his partner’s for the next couple of days.

The Middlesbury Outreach Centre, known also as the Phoenix Centre, had been in its current location for over thirty years, according to the plaque outside. Sandwiched like an ugly duckling between newly completed luxury apartment blocks and prime office space, Ruskin wondered how much money they’d turned down from developers for the land it stood on. He and Alex had looked at buying a so-called ‘affordable’ one-bedroom flat in the new complex and decided to hold off until one of them won the lottery.

Ruskin’s parents never failed to mention how cheap houses were back in Scotland whenever he rang home. However, despite the pair meeting at Dundee University, Alex had always planned to move back to England to take advantage of the increased job opportunities near London. As living in the capital was a complete non-starter financially, they’d compromised on Middlesbury, barely thirty minutes by fast train from central London, and where Ruskin had – in the words of his parents – turned his back on his university education and joined the police. His parents still didn’t believe that these days the police was a largely graduate profession.

The inside of the outreach centre was painted a soothing blue, the walls covered in pin boards advertising services ranging from substance abuse counselling to HIV testing, free adult education classes, and support groups for victims of abusive relationships.

The reception desk was behind reinforced glass, a bank of monitors showing alternating views from cameras situated inside and outside. A sternly worded sign warned that verbal or physical abuse of staff, volunteers or other users would not be tolerated, with the police called if necessary. The caution was repeated in a half-dozen languages. The ubiquitous red and white No Smoking signs had been supplemented with similar prohibitions on alcohol, drugs and weapons.

Despite all this, the door to the reception desk had been propped open with a wastepaper basket and the place had a relaxed, pleasant vibe to it. Music came from a nearby open door, along with the clack of pool balls.

‘Hello officer, how can I help you?’

The young woman behind the reception desk wore a dark-blue headscarf and a badge identifying her as ‘Nadia – counsellor’.

‘That obvious, eh?’

‘Practice. We haven’t reported anything, and there’s only one of you, so I’m guessing you aren’t here to arrest anyone?’

‘No, just a chat about one of your clients, if you don’t mind.’

‘We’re quite strict about what we say without a warrant,’ she warned. ‘We need to be otherwise our clients won’t trust us.’ She paused. ‘I’m due a break. Let’s go somewhere a bit more discreet.’

The staffroom was locked with a mechanical keypad, so Ruskin had to hold both plastic cups of coffee as Nadia let them in.

‘Who can I help you with?’

‘Lucas Furber.’

She frowned slightly. ‘We don’t always know our clients’ full names. Do you have a photo?’

Ruskin passed over a copy.

‘Oh yes, I know him.’

‘He was arrested by Middlesbury Police for being drunk and disorderly back in January. The arresting officers were concerned that there may be mental health issues.’

‘Well, before we go any further, you should know that I’m not prepared to discuss Lucas’ mental or physical health without a court order.’

‘That’s fair enough, I just want to talk to him. Do you know where I can find him?’

‘To be honest, I haven’t seen him for a while.’

‘It’s really important that I speak to him. Can you think of any places that he might be?’

She pulled her lip. ‘The last time I saw him was before Christmas. He said he’d got a room in Purbury Hostel. I’ve no idea if he is still there, they are quite strict about behaviour and have zero tolerance for drugs and alcohol.’

‘And you think that might have been a problem for him?’

‘I wouldn’t be surprised,’ she sighed. ‘Like I said, the last time he visited it was at the end of December, and he was clearly full of the Christmas spirit if you get my drift. We don’t allow drinking or drug-taking on site, but we’re realists, especially that time of year, we know that they may have been drinking or using before they arrive here. We usually have a quiet word and if that fails tell them to go home and sleep it off. As long as they aren’t violent or abusive, all is forgiven next time they turn up. It normally works; one of our regulars gets sent home about once a month. He always comes back the next day to apologise. Usually with a bunch of flowers he’s pinched from somebody’s front garden.’

‘But Lucas didn’t come back?’

‘No. To be honest, it wasn’t a big deal at first. He was apparently a bit noisy and kept on trying to start a sing-song, which was annoying everyone. Reverend Billy was upstairs and he came down to have a word and Lucas called him a … well, I’m not going to use that word. It all got a bit heated and in the end we threatened to call the police if he didn’t leave. He hasn’t been here since.’

‘I assume Reverend Billy is a priest?’

‘Baptist minister, actually. I’m told that’s a bit different.’

‘Would I be able to speak to him?’

‘I don’t see why not, I think he’s doing a literacy class.’ She glanced at the clock. ‘Wait here, he’ll probably be down in a few minutes.’

* * *

Reverend Billy was a short man in his fifties with a firm handshake and a ready smile. His sweater, a bright red and green affair, was almost literally eye-watering and clashed horribly with his purple shirt. He wore a white dog collar.

‘I lost a bet with a parishioner, and I have to wear this jumper for a whole week, unless I’m in church.’

Ruskin liked him already.

‘It was a shame about Lucas. He was a troubled young man, but there was a lot of promise beneath all that anger.’

‘Do you know why he was so angry?’

‘Sadly, no. He didn’t speak to me very often. I got the feeling that this—’ he pointed to his collar ‘—made him uncomfortable.’

‘Do you get that a lot?’

‘Hardly ever to be honest. Most of our clients are happy to speak to me, particularly when I make it clear that I’ve no intention of talking about religion to them unless they want me to.’

‘So what happened the day that Lucas was kicked out?’

Reverend Billy winced.

‘That’s not really what happened. Lucas had clearly been drinking before he turned up mid-afternoon. The weather was quite poor, so a few of our regulars were in here sheltering from the rain, watching the TV, reading the paper or using the computers. Lucas was very hyper and he put the radio on really loud and started dancing to it.

‘One of the lads asked him to turn it down as he was trying to watch the news. Lucas turned the volume up. The song was Band Aid’s “Do they know it’s Christmas?”, so he started singing along and then grabbed one of the women on the computers and tried to make her dance with him.

‘By the time I got downstairs, he was standing in the middle of the floor shouting that it was “’effing Christmas” and we should all be celebrating. Another ten seconds and I reckon he was going to get lamped by someone.’

‘So you asked him to leave?’

‘Not immediately, no. I tried to settle him down a bit, but he called me a C U Next Tuesday. You know, I hear a lot of bad language here – I’ve got a bit of a potty mouth myself at times – but nobody has ever called me that before. That’s when I asked him to leave. I told him he could come back the next day if he sobered up and behaved himself.’

‘How did he take that?’

‘He started shouting that “we’re all the same” and that we’d all “burn in hell”. I lied and told him I had called the police, and that was when he finally left, after kicking a couple of chairs over.’

‘Any idea what he meant by that?’

‘I’ve really no idea. I like to think it was the drink and the drugs talking, but you know what they say, “in vino veritas”, so who knows what he was going on about?’

‘Any idea where he went after that?’

‘No idea. If you do find him, detective, can you let him know that there are no hard feelings and that he’s welcome back here?’

Ruskin assured the man that he would, before heading back to the car.

Somebody had keyed a scratch along almost the full length of the left wing. He looked around at the empty street. The arcs of the CCTV cameras above the door didn’t cover the car. He sighed. Alex would not be happy.