by Adam Croft
‘That’s about the long and short of it, yes.’
19
There were very few people that Hardwick would tolerate an unannounced visit from early on a Monday morning, and members of the local clergy were usually not included.
Hardwick said nothing as he opened the door, instead raising one eyebrow whilst he waited for his unannounced visitor to announce himself.
‘I’m terribly sorry to bother you,’ Reverend Michael Winton started, ‘but I really do need to talk to you.’
Hardwick sighed and stepped aside to let the vicar through into the hallway. Once they had settled in the living room (drinks offered but declined), the vicar shuffled nervously and looked around. His eyes rested on a mahogany trinket box, which sat on the bookcase in front of a selection of Jules Verne tomes.
‘That’s a beautiful item you have there. What is it?’
‘It’s a box, vicar,’ Hardwick replied bluntly.
‘I see. It looks South American to me. Is it?’
‘It is indeed. Patagonian. The Aysén region.’
‘Ah. Is that the Argentinian half or the Chilean?’
Hardwick stared at the reverend for a few moments before answering. ‘Chilean, naturally.’
‘Well, it’s beautiful. When were you over there?’
‘When I was younger, mostly.’ Hardwick was not one to talk about his past, but (even though non-religious) he found himself quite comfortable talking to the vicar. ‘My father was an environmental scientist; a leader in his field. We travelled around a lot.’
‘Mostly South America, was it?’
‘Not at all. I also spent a lot of time in Scandinavia, India, New Zealand and the Far East. Oh, and quite a few years in and around sub-Saharan Africa.’
‘A very well-travelled man, then!’
‘A man without a home, vicar,’ Hardwick said as he smiled.
‘Every man has a home, Kempston, which brings me to my point. I’m not sure how involved you are in the church, you see, but my role as priest isn’t just that of preaching the faith, but also that of a community leader. A friend, if you like. Quite often local parishioners will come to me and want to speak about issues in their lives. I suppose it’s a kind of confidence issue. In this day and age, the vicar’s about the only person you can trust. It’s quite encouraging, really, that in the modern age religion is still—’
‘Fascinating, vicar,’ Hardwick began, as he rose to his feet, ‘but time really is getting on.’
‘No, no,’ the reverend continued, ‘that’s not all. You see, I really have to get something off my chest... Oh, Lord please forgive me. I shouldn’t even be telling you this, you see –’
‘You’ve told me very little so far, vicar, believe me,’ Hardwick said.
‘Yes, well... you see, I was told one or two things which I think might just have a bearing on the murder of Oscar Whitehouse.’
Hardwick sat down again very quickly.
‘You have to understand me when I say the word of God is a powerful one, and that I cannot divulge any information that I’ve been told, but the weight of this is killing me, Mr Hardwick.’
‘The weight of what, vicar?’
‘What I’ve been told!’
‘Yes, I appreciate that. But without knowing what you’ve been told, there’s very little I can do about it.’
‘That’s just the problem. I could not possibly divulge anything that I’m made privy to in confidence. You see, there’s a distinct difference between the Roman Catholic idea of reconciliation and the Church of England’s approach to confession. Roman Catholics, amongst other remarkable things,’ the vicar said, with a slight hint of sarcasm, ‘believe that the confessional allows them to be absolved of their sins purely by admitting to them. Now, we on this side of the river know that’s barking mad, but it doesn’t make what’s said in confidence any less confidential. We believe in the trust of God, and that must be adhered to, lest we commit a crime far worse than the confessor.’
‘Worse than murder?’ Hardwick barked incredulously, momentarily stunning the vicar. Hardwick was not known for his bursts of anger, but even the most mild-mannered of men are prone to the odd outburst at times of extreme frustration. ‘You really don’t get it, do you? A man has died! A family has been left without its father; its husband; its son. You are the one person who has knowledge of something that might just be able to help find his killer and you put the sanctity of a mythical God before the law of this country? Are you mad, man?’
‘The law of this country is based on the laws and teachings of God, Mr Hardwick,’ the vicar tried to explain calmly, his hands visibly shaking with poorly-hidden anger.
‘For crying out loud, vicar! There is no God!’
The reverend stood and said nothing. Only the slightest flicker of his eyes and the clenching of his fists and teeth betrayed his inner fury.
‘Good night, Hardwick,’ he managed, somehow remaining calm and composed as he walked to the door, opened it and closed it softly behind him.
20
The sun began to break through the clouds late on Monday afternoon as Hardwick and Flint left the Old Rectory and made their way slowly towards Westerlea House. Hardwick mulled over the vicar’s words on everybody having a natural home, as he admired the gently swaying wisteria and listened to the rising birdsong.
‘Must be quite odd for you, Kempston, living in what used to be the rectory.’
‘Not especially,’ Hardwick replied, smiling inwardly at the sight of the local village postman cycling past the duck pond.
‘How did that happen, anyway? Two rectories and all that. Surely you have one rectory per church?’
‘You do, yes. Did you not study the dissolution of the monasteries at school, Ellis?’
‘Yes, but I didn’t tend to listen much.’
‘Well, old habits die hard, eh, Ellis? My house used to be the rectory for the original church at Tollinghill. The church was destroyed during the dissolution but the rectory remained. When the newer Church of England church was built, they decided to build it on the site where it stands to this day. Thereby leaving me, and generations before me, with a very nice house indeed. Say what you like about Henry VIII, but I quite like the chap.’
‘That means your place must be almost five-hundred years old!’ Ellis replied. ‘Blimey. And it’s still three times the size of the “new” vicarage.’
‘Yes, well the Catholic Church had the backing of a few Medici Popes during the sixteenth century, who tended to keep the whole system rather flush with cash. Blood money, some might say. The Medici family practically invented banking, so it’s hardly surprising that they became rather wealthy. They were the first real gangsters, the Medici. You can draw the bloodline right through to some particular families living in Sicily to this day. Make of that what you will, Ellis. The Church of England, however, wasn’t quite so financially blessed in its formative years.’
They walked in silence for a few moments before Ellis decided to broach a subject that he’d been dying to bring up for a long time.
‘What do you have against the Church, exactly, Kempston?’
‘Me? Nothing in particular. Why do you ask?’
‘Just a few things I’ve noticed – reactions and things you’ve said. All that stuff about the mafia and blood money. Besides, you weren’t exactly pleasant to Michael Winton this morning from what I’ve heard.’
‘Please don’t mention that man’s name, Ellis.’
‘See what I mean? It’s hardly fair, Kempston.’
‘No, Ellis,’ Hardwick barked, stopping in his tracks. ‘What’s not fair is withholding evidence that could lead to the identification and capture of a killer.’ Ellis looked bemusedly at Hardwick, who continued. ‘The vicar came to see me earlier. The whole conversation was quite futile and hugely frustrating. He told me that he has been told something in confession, which has a bearing on the case in hand. Of course, he couldn’t bloody tell me anyway because of his duties to
the Church, so it was completely pointless him coming to see me in the first place. I really don’t know what he hoped to gain, but it’s made me very angry.’
‘So I can see,’ Ellis replied. ‘I thought confessionals were a Catholic thing, though?’
‘In a sense, they are. Church of England vicars accept confession, but it’s more of a confidential chat than anything structured. No immediate absolution of sin or any of that nonsense. Still, it’s a spanner in the works because the level of confidence still applies.’
‘Surely if a priest or vicar is party to information on an illegal activity, he could be prosecuted for perverting the course of justice!’
‘That all depends, Ellis. I did a bit of research this morning as I’m not exactly au fait with clerical matters. Church of England legislation says, “There can be no disclosure of what is confessed to a priest. This principle holds even after the death of the penitent. The priest may not refer to what has been learnt in confession, even to the penitent, unless explicitly permitted.” By the same token, it says, “If a penitent's behaviour gravely threatens his or her well-being or that of others, the priest, while advising action on the penitent's part, must still keep the confidence.”’
‘How on earth did you remember all that?’
‘It’s a case of having to.’
‘It makes no sense, though. Surely if the vicar was made party to something connected with a murder then he’d have to tell the police!’
‘Yes, I’d imagine so. Michael Winton strikes me as the sort of person who’d do the right thing. But for all we know, what he was told could be something quite innocent in itself, but forms a vital clue in the investigation. Either way, it’s damned frustrating, Ellis. I do, however, have some good news.’
‘Go on…’ Ellis enquired.
‘In preparation for our visit to Andrew Whitehouse this afternoon, I did a little bit of research into Oscar and Eliza’s little philosophical prodigy. It seems he’s not quite as clean-cut as it may appear.’
‘Nobody’s ever clean-cut at university, Kempston.’
‘Quite, but even your average university student would stop short of hospitalising a taxi driver, Ellis.’
‘Christ. When was this?’
‘Eighteen months ago. It wasn’t difficult to find: it made the inside columns of a few red-tops owing to the celebrity status of his father, but never made front-page news. It seems the university swept it under the carpet somewhat, too.’
‘What happened?’ Ellis asked.
‘Judging purely on the newspaper reports, Andrew Whitehouse got into a heated argument with a taxi driver over the cost of a fare, and that somehow resulted in the driver having to have a metal plate fitted in his skull.’
‘Wow. That’s quite an argument.’
‘Indeed. Not only was the taxi driver lucky to make a quick recovery, but Andrew Whitehouse was fortunate enough to escape with a community order. The judge recognised that his behaviour was usually impeccable and that alcohol played a large part. Either way, it’s proof that his behaviour in certain situations can be volatile to the point of being dangerous.’
‘And he was drinking at the party! What’s to say he didn’t go upstairs and kill his father?’
‘One step at a time, Ellis,’ Hardwick said as pair finally reached the front gates to Westerlea House. ‘Let’s speak to him first and see what he has to say for himself.’
‘Mum’s out at her sister’s,’ Andrew Whitehouse said as he opened the front door. ‘She should be back later this evening.’
‘That’s quite all right. It’s you we wanted to speak to, actually,’ Ellis said.
Andrew Whitehouse said nothing, but stepped aside and let Hardwick and Flint enter the house, which was starting to become more than a little familiar to them. No matter how many times they came here, Ellis never failed to be awestruck by the fantastic hallway onto which the front door opened. A large open staircase spiralled ninety degrees from the right-hand wall, up and across the rear of the house, exposing the long landing and bedroom doors.
As the whole of the upstairs landing was open plan and covered three walls of the building, Ellis had previously registered the immense difficulty with which a potential murderer could have entered and left Oscar Whitehouse’s bedroom unseen – especially in the midst of a party – and the puzzle struck him again as he stood inside the house.
The ground floor of Westerlea House followed much the same floor plan, with the dining room to the left, living room to the right and a large kitchen and separate utility room to the rear of the house. Hardwick and Flint were ushered into the living room.
‘We just want to ask you a few questions, if we may,’ Hardwick began.
‘Routine stuff, I’m sure you understand,’ Flint added.
‘Yes, thank you, Ellis. Now, what sort of a relationship did you have with your father?’
Andrew Whitehouse was silent for a few moments. ‘Well there’s not much use in hiding it, because you’ll find out anyway. I didn’t. Not really. He was always away working and when he was here, he wasn’t exactly a fatherly figure. It’s no real secret that we didn’t exactly see eye to eye on many things.’
‘And what sort of relationship did he have with your mother?’
‘She tolerated him. We all tolerated him – some more than others. Neither of us saw much of him. He was always off flouncing about with his floozies and having a good time in his own little showbiz world.’
Hardwick and Flint could sense the anger and resentment boiling up in Andrew Whitehouse, even with very little coercion, and it soon became apparent as to how his temper could quite easily get the better of him.
‘Can you describe your movements on Friday night for us? Just so we know we’ve got everything,’ Ellis asked.
‘What, all of them? It was a long evening. If you mean did I go into his bedroom, then no. The only upstairs room I went into was my bedroom. Or what’s left of it, anyway, after he decided to get rid of all my stuff when I went to university.’
‘Mr Whitehouse, did you ever want to kill your father?’ Hardwick asked from left field.
‘Yes. Many times,’ Andrew answered quickly. ‘But I didn’t do it.’
‘I apologise. I have to ask.’
‘No, I quite understand.’
‘Tell me, how well do you know your parents’ gardener, Christos Karagounis?’
‘Christos? Not all that well, but then again I’ve been away at university,’ Andrew replied.
‘Yes, but before that you were living here with your parents. You must have seen him regularly.’
‘Not really. I don’t see why I should have had much to do with him. He looked after my parents’ garden. That’s about it. Although –’
‘Yes?’ Hardwick asked.
‘Well, it was a bit odd, really,’ Andrew said, shuffling his weight to his other foot. ‘I think Christos had some sort of hold over my parents.’
‘A hold?’ Hardwick asked, his interest piqued.
‘Look, I’ve no idea what it was, but it’s a little bit strange, don’t you think? You might like to ask Christos why he was so happy to work for only a few hours a week in my parents’ garden, and yet he still managed to live in a terraced house in Shafford, completely rent free.’
‘Well, perhaps he was working for other people as well,’ Ellis offered.
‘He wasn’t. He spent all of his spare time at his house. Barely anyone else in the village had ever heard of him, except those who knew him as my parents’ gardener. You’d think someone else would have known him if was offering a local service.’
Hardwick said nothing, knowing that this outburst of information would not be the last to leave Andrew Whitehouse’s lips.
‘I found the mortgage records in my dad’s office one day. I knew something was wrong, and to be honest it started to scare me a bit. The house that Christos Karagounis lived in was owned by my dad, and rented by Christos, rent-free. Tell me, why would you buy your gardene
r a house?’
‘Well,’ Hardwick said, ‘I don’t wish to cast aspersions, but your father did have quite a considerable amount of money. Perhaps it was some sort of thank-you for his work.’
‘I’m not sure,’ Andrew replied. ‘If you ask me, Christos Karagounis had some sort of hold over my father. I think he knew more than he should have done.’
As the pair left Westerlea House, Ellis began to tug at Hardwick’s sleeve. ‘Kempston, why didn’t you mention the assault and arrest? We could have put him right on the back foot with that!’
‘One thing at a time, Ellis. You really must learn to keep your powder dry. If we go bowling in with everything all at once, we’ll have nothing left to use later. Besides, his knowing that we know is going to do us absolutely no favours at all. We’re far better off keeping it to ourselves for now. Let him put himself in the hot water; if he’s the murderer, he’ll need no help from us.’
21
Detective Inspector Rob Warner had never really got used to the sight of dead bodies. He would never let on to any of his colleagues about that, though. Besides, it was the inconvenience that really got up his nose.
He sighed and shook his head as he carefully surveyed the scene around this particular prostrate corpse, the blood pooling and congealing around its head. The forensics team were hard at work taking swabs and picking up hairs, while another white-suited sort took an assortment of photographs and placed down numbered markers. It didn’t seem to Warner as though much in the way of scientific input was needed: the large brass candlestick holder, which lay on the floor next to the body, had an impressive amount of blood and brain matter stuck to it.
‘Do you reckon they did it with the candlestick holder, guv?’ the young DC, Sam Kerrigan, innocently enquired.
‘Y’know, I hadn’t thought of that, DC Kerrigan,’ Warner responded, sarcastically. DC Kerrigan shuffled proudly, his hands shoved in his pockets as the corners of his mouth rose.
