by Jack Gatland
He looked to the floor, as if remembering the moment.
‘There was something that struck me as weird that night though,’ Harrison whispered, as if scared that even mentioning this would incriminate him, ‘When I went to take the body away I saw these bruises on the neck. Like someone had strangled her with a cord. But Danny was convinced it was a drug overdose, even showing me the needle marks.’
The door opened and a suited man, round rimmed glasses framing his narrow face, stood there.
‘You can stop your questioning,’ he said. ‘My client is free to go.’
Harrison rose, his mannerisms morphing immediately into those of an arrogant, mocking man.
‘Toldja you had nothing,’ he said to Monroe, nodding to the solicitor in the doorway. ‘Toldja I’d be out.’
And punctuating his interview with a back kick that knocked the chair over, Harrison Fennel left the Interview Room, leaving DCI Monroe very much awake…
… And incredibly confused.
In Tottenham North, the Desk Sergeant looked up at the monitor screen as the doorbell buzzed. On it, a man dressed in a long black overcoat waved at the camera. Reluctantly, the Desk Sergeant buzzed the outsider in, checking the time. Two in the morning. Nobody good ever arrived at a police station at two in the morning.
Shaking the rain off his coat, the man walked up to the counter with a smile, and the Desk Sergeant noted for the first time that the man was a priest, the coat’s lapel now exposing his dog collar.
‘Bit late for house calls?’ he said, sitting up. The priest smiled.
‘Never too late for God, my son,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Although I’m here on serious business. You have a man in custody, Derek Salmon?’
‘What about him?’
The priest pulled a bible out of his coat. ‘He’s very ill,’ he explained. ‘They called me because his family is worried he’ll go to Hell without being shriven.’
‘Sorry Father, I’m an atheist. What does that mean exactly?’
‘Confession, my son. To be absolved of all sins in God’s eyes.’
‘And you need to do this at two in the morning?’
‘I do this when I’m asked,’ the priest explained. ‘He called his family tonight and begged them to organise it. It’s a simple act, but one that he obviously requires. And when you’re as ill as he is, the Last Rites don’t seem so very far away.’
The Desk Sergeant considered this for a moment and then nodded.
‘Okay, I’ll let you in and get someone to take you to his cell,’ he said, already buzzing the door to the inner area open. ‘Just wait in the corridor.’
The priest made the sign of the cross.
‘Thank you. And I hope you find God yourself one day.’
‘Yeah, good luck with that one, Father.’
And with that, Father Lawson smiled at the Desk Sergeant, gave a small, respectful nod and then entered Tottenham North Station, mentally and physically ready to give Derek Salmon his Last Rites.
Because you always needed them right before you died.
22
Revelations 2
It was early in the morning by the time the police reached Our Lady of the Sea Church in Deptford. Even though the order to arrest Father Lawson had been given hours earlier, it was deemed a minor arrest, more of a pick-up than a manhunt. And as such the graveyard shift, finding the church locked up for the night had simply waited until the next shift arrived before passing it to them.
Father Lawson still hadn’t returned, and the consensus was that he’d somehow learned that he was being looked for when he had been at Tottenham North. But then Tottenham North was having their own issues that morning, and everything was a little muddled. There was another priest who worked at Our Lady of the Sea, but nobody had found a way to contact him until six am, and it was a tired and cranky Father Callie who opened the door for the police to enter.
‘I told you, we don’t live in the bloody place,’ he snapped as the police; two police constables, a Detective Sergeant Anderson and three CSI officers entered. ‘You need to try his lodgings.’
‘We’ve already done that,’ DS Anderson explained. ‘We’re hoping that there’s something here that could help us find him. Or maybe he’s hiding in here?’
The police made their way through the church, checking underneath the pews and examining the sacristy, the small room to the side of the Altar where the priests kept their vestments, but there was nothing to be found. In fact, it was only after a good hour of searching that PC Masters, fresh out of Hendon and looking for a way to get herself noticed found herself once more wandering into the crypt under the church. They had looked it over earlier, but only a cursory glance with a torch; there were no hiding areas under there. But one part of the crypt had nagged at her, made her walk back down to examine it, her torch moving across the stone memorials towards the back of the crypt, and the Marlowe mausoleum.
There were air fresheners hanging off it, as if in tribute, or as little decorations.
‘Sarge?’ she cried out. ‘Sarge!’
After a couple of moments, Anderson appeared.
‘We’ve looked down here,’ he said.
‘I know,’ PC Masters replied, pointing to where her torch shone. ‘But there’s something off about this.’ She was walking along the crypt now, with Anderson reluctantly following her.
‘Is it the man we’re looking for?’ he asked mockingly. ‘No, unless he’s hiding behind it.’
‘Well, what do you think it is?’ Masters almost snapped, before adding ‘Sarge?’
Anderson walked up to the stone, sniffing. The air was filled with a fresh mint smell, the four car air fresheners doing their job well, but there was something else.
Something sickly.
‘Get a crowbar,’ he ordered suddenly. ‘We need to open this.’
Masters left quickly and a few minutes later returned with a crowbar and the other officers, all curious to see what the DS had found. Using the crowbar, digging it into the side of the stone, Anderson and one of the forensic officers levered the stone away, allowing it to crash to the floor. Behind it was an old, mahogany coffin, and the sweet, sickly smell was even stronger, like roast meat that had been forgotten about for months at the back of a fridge.
Anderson looked at the forensics officer, who nodded.
‘There’s a body in there,’ he said. ‘And not one that’s been embalmed. You can smell it.’
‘How do we get it out?’ Anderson reached for one of the coffin handles with one hand, holding his tie over his nose with the other, but the forensics officer stopped him.
‘No way, man.’ He shook his head. ‘Let the big guys come in and sort it. This is above ground, yeah? If this has been in the coffin for months, then it’ll be like a pressure cooker. You pop the lid, and it’ll explode.’
Anderson looked down at his suit. He liked this suit.
‘Clear the crypt,’ he commanded. ‘And get someone in who can sort this.’ He turned to Masters, who looked like she was trying not to throw up.
‘You okay?’ he asked. She nodded, but her face showed that this was a lie.
Anderson couldn’t help himself. He took a long, deep breath, smiling as he looked at her.
‘Mmm, just like chicken nuggets,’ he said, laughing as PC Masters, grabbing a hand to her mouth ran from the crypt.
The forensic officer stared at him, shaking his head.
‘You’re such a prick, Ken,’ he said.
It was seven am before the full CSI team arrived, and they covered the crypt with tarpaulin before they carefully removed the coffin. By this point they had removed DS Anderson and the others out into the nave of the church, the forensic officers helping the CSI team while the PCs stopped the curious public entering.
Anderson had apologised to Masters by this point; he wasn’t a bad man, just a stupid, thoughtless one he’d explained. Masters had politely thanked him, but he knew that this was something that wouldn’t be forgo
tten, and he’d probably get shit for it down the line.
One of the forensic officers emerged from the crypt, pulling off their hood and mask. Rising from the pew he was currently sitting on, Anderson walked over.
‘Well?’ he asked. The officer nodded.
‘There’s a second body in there,’ he said. ‘Dumped in on top. We’ll have to check, but it looks like it’s been in there about six months or so. It’s a middle-aged man and he’s in what looks like clerical clothes.’
‘Looks like?’
The forensic officer nodded. ‘The clothes get exposed to all the chemicals that the corpse produces, and they decompose too. Luckily the stiff white collar they all wear is a little more recognisable.’
‘Do we know who he is?’ Anderson was already pulling out his phone. The forensics officer nodded.
‘Yeah, he had a wallet in his pocket,’ he said. ‘Father Barry Lawson.’
‘Can you give me anything else?’ Anderson asked. The officer thought for a minute.
‘We’re doing an on-site examination and it’s not great conditions,’ he replied. ‘But there is one thing. It looks like the body was circumcised.’
‘Do Catholics get circumcised?’
‘Not usually, no,’ the officer looked back to the crypt as Anderson lowered the phone.
‘That’s got to be a mistake,’ he said.
‘Possible, maybe, I don’t know what to say,’ the officer shrugged. ‘We’ll have more later, when we give it a full examination.’
As the forensics officer walked back to the crypt, pulling the hood of his PPE suit back on, Anderson stared at the phone.
How the hell was he going to explain this?
Monroe slept little after his midnight visitation, and by eight the following morning he was already pacing as Doctor Marcos entered the Ready Room where he’d made his base.
‘I need to get out there,’ he complained. ‘There are too many things pissing me off right now.’
‘Like what?’ Doctor Marcos sat on a chair, resting her feet on the coffee table. ‘I heard you had a visitor.’
‘One of Macca’s boys,’ Monroe nodded. ‘Told me he worked for Danny Martin. But even though he explained a few things, I can’t help but feel that he left me with more questions than answers.’ He started counting off on his fingers.
‘First, he confirmed what Anjli and Billy found out last night, that Stephen and Barry Lawson were sharing the same identity themselves, although he didn’t seem to know as much as Sister Margaret did. And there’s a niggling, a worry in the back of my mind that says we’re missing something big, that there’s still a part of the puzzle involving Father Lawson that we haven’t considered.’
I might have something on that,’ Doctor Marcos replied.
‘You haven’t let me get to two,’ Monroe muttered.
‘This is more important than two.’ Noting that Stripe was still sleeping, Doctor Marcos led Monroe out into the corridor.
‘Had one of my friends contact me ten minutes ago,’ she said. ‘Seems they found Barry Lawson.’
‘They arrested him?’
‘No,’ Doctor Marcos shook her head. ‘They found his body. Six months old, they reckon, wedged into a coffin under the Deptford Church that he was the priest for.’
‘That matches with what we have,’ Monroe thought to himself. ‘We know from the fingerprints that Anjli and Billy spoke to Stephen Lawson.’
‘Yeah, but they’re got some discrepancies with the body, so I’m waiting for an update.’
‘Like what?’
‘Well, the body was apparently circumcised. Catholics rarely go in for that sort of thing.’
‘Maybe it was done in Africa?’
‘If it was, then we have a new problem,’ Doctor Marcos lowered her voice. ‘The mad old nun that Anjli spoke to yesterday said that Stephen was the one sorting the drugs in Africa for Danny Martin.’
‘You think that if it is circumcised, it's Stephen’s body?’
‘It’s a possibility. I mean, come on Alex, none of this bloody case has been by the book.’ Doctor Marcos folded her arms. ‘She said that Barry told Stephen and Danny that he was done with them, that there would be no more African drugs. Yet a year later, he’s back on track with Danny.’
‘Because we arrest Stephen for murder.’ Monroe nodded. ‘The fingerprints matched him to the scene.’
‘I’m forensics,’ Doctor Marcos shrugged. ‘I know I can fake fingerprints. All you need is—’
‘An inside man,’ Monroe spat in sudden fury. ‘Bloody Derek Salmon. He was the arresting officer. Stephen makes a very public show, and then Barry gets arrested for it. Derek swaps the prints on the gun for Barry’s, and ‘Stephen’ takes the fall, claiming he’s been set up.’
‘We already know that Barry and Stephen shared the role,’ Doctor Marcos added. ‘Stephen just carried on.’
‘And then six months ago Barry Lawson, the real Barry Lawson is released early.’ Monroe was scratching at his beard now as the lines of enquiry in his head started picking up speed. ‘He fakes a suicide, kills his brother and regains his identity.’
‘So then what?’ Doctor Marcos asked. ‘If it was you? If you gained your life back, only to see that your children, taken from you, had been murdered a couple of months before you got out?’
Monroe nodded. ‘I’d want to gain vengeance on anyone who hurt them,’ he said. ‘And I’d use whoever loved them to help me.’ He looked back to Doctor Marcos.
‘Macca Byrne was meeting with Lawson after this,’ he said. ‘The priest told us that last night. What were they talking about? I think there’s more going on here than we thought. We need to call Declan and the others—’
‘No,’ Doctor Marcos continued. ‘That might not be a good idea right now.’
‘Why?’ Monroe asked, suddenly concerned at this change of attitude.
‘Because Lawson’s body wasn’t the only thing I was told about today,’ Doctor Marcos said. ‘Derek Salmon died last night, and before he passed, he raised an official complaint about Declan.’
‘Salmon’s dead?’ This genuinely surprised Monroe. ‘They can’t pin that on Declan! The man was dying!’
‘They can when they found traces of Declan’s DNA under Derek’s fingernail,’ Doctor Marcos finished. ‘And Declan never recorded their conversation.’
‘Christ!’ Monroe slammed his fist against the wall in frustration. ‘Bloody fool! We need to call him.’
He paused.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Then they’ll say we’re colluding with him.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Doctor Marcos smiled. ‘I’ve got it in hand. Anyway, I have some autopsy news, too.’
’Cause of death?’ Monroe remembered Harrison’s testimony the previous night. ‘Was it strangulation?’
‘No, although there were marks on the neck. Surprisingly, it was a drug overdose,’ she confirmed.
‘Why surprisingly?’ Monroe nodded a hello to DI White as he walked past, the Birmingham detective looking suspiciously at the two officers whispering in a corridor.
‘Because the autopsy showed that Gabrielle Chapman had a sizeable brain injury,’ Doctor Marcos said. ‘Old wound. Maybe from when her adopted parents died. She wouldn’t have been responsive. She sure as hell wouldn’t have been partying around.’
‘Well, that explains why we never heard of her between the fire and Angela’s arrival,’ Monroe considered. ‘But if she couldn’t take care of herself, who looked after her?’
Turning back to the Ready Room, he stopped completely still.
‘He picks me up in the middle of the night and drives me to a Mission House in Alum Rock, where like, nuns lived, yeah? In there was a body. It was Angie, but like a fake one. She was dead. An overdose, I think.’
‘The Bloody nuns,’ he whispered, remembering Harrison’s words once more. ‘We need to go to Alum Rock.’
‘What about the boy?’ Doctor Marcos asked. ‘I’m in the morgue. You can’t lea
ve him in there.’
‘I’ll take him with us.’ Monroe looked up to see DI White returning from wherever he’d been to. ‘You busy, lad?’
‘Lad?’ DI White paused with a smile. ‘Not been called that for a while. What do you need, sir?’
Monroe smiled.
‘I need a chauffeur to a Nunnery,’ he said.
23
Meetings
Billy rarely started his day with breakfast meetings, but the text he’d received on the way to work that morning had intrigued him enough to consider it.
8C 8.30am returning a favour RH
Billy knew very well what the cryptic message meant, and he knew who was returning the favour here, but that it was sent so cryptically, as if deliberately ensuring that the sender couldn’t be recognised concerned him. But, it wasn’t far from Temple Inn, so he diverted his morning commute and headed instead towards Bank.
Turning into Change Alley, opposite the historic Royal Exchange, he stopped at a black door, one of many doors along the alley, pressing the buzzer. The door clicked open; the door unlocked from someone deep inside the building, and Billy quickly entered.
The Eight Club was an exclusive members' club in the city's heart, and was situated under the building that Billy had entered, walking down the five wrought iron staircases to the reception. He wasn’t a member of the club, but he’d been to enough events here to know where he was going. Arriving at the reception desk at the bottom of the staircase he gave his name to the receptionist and was waved through into an underground bar area, where sofas and tables shared the space with expensive looking pool tables.
Rufus Harrington was playing pool at the end table. He wore jeans, and a short-sleeved black shirt, his tan brogues expensive. He still wore his brown hair shaved at the sides and slicked back, the amount of gel in it making it look like a Lego hair piece and he had a large cygnet ring on his left middle finger, one with a masonic emblem that he was currently resting the pool cue on as he took his shot.
