by AB Morgan
As I scribbled down the office number on a scrap piece of paper my mobile rang.
‘Oh, speak of the devil,’ I answered the call with an apologetic glance. ‘Sorry …’ I muttered as I took the call. ‘Kelly, how can I help? Shit, really? Okay, I’ll call her … soon as. Thanks.’
As I ended the call, I looked up and was met by disapproving stares from the two priests, and several smirks from Vanessa and Karen. Yes, I had said ‘shit’, and I had mentioned the devil and capped it off with …
‘Oh God, sorry. Got to go.’ My version of Tourette’s was winning.
I trotted swiftly to my car, which often doubled as a mobile confidential office space, to call Emma as requested. She was having a bad day at work. Benito Tierney had turned up at Len-DAS that morning, which I thought was good news until Emma explained that he had been ‘as drunk as a skunk’ and was flinging accusations around, calling people ‘paedos’ and ‘nonces’ and alleging they raped him in his sleep.
‘He used some very fruity language, let me tell you,’ Emma announced.
Ben had made it as far as the waiting room. The doors inside were secured and could only be opened by use of a door release button under the reception desk.
The police, although called straight away, had been slow in their response, during which time much damage had been done to the fabric of the waiting room and to a number of people in a Wild West punch up. The result, Emma explained, was that Ben ‘had his face well and truly battered by a massive bloke who was waiting to be seen for therapy.’ Ben had then run off in the direction of the market, still splattered in blood, leaving the place in chaos.
Emma was her usual good-humoured self, and the morning’s mayhem hardly registered on the ‘crapometer’. A few years as a staff nurse on acute psychiatric wards has that effect.
‘All in a day’s work, Sherlock. Are you still coming over, later? Only I have a mystery I need help with solving.’
‘Excellent.’ I love a mystery, and I love going over to Emma’s farm. Max disappears with Jake to look at farm machinery and old cars, and I spend time with Emma and the kids, being naughty and reading them bedtime stories.
‘Oh yes. Most definitely. I’ll see if I can find Ben, do my checks on the meds amnesty stuff, then Max and I will be with you by seven at the latest, I should think. We’ll bring pizza, as it’s Max’s turn to cook!’
I found Ben without too much trouble. He was trying to gain access to his local pub by standing on the pavement remonstrating with the thin-lipped landlady of the Green Man, who was having none of it.
‘Ben Tierney. Go on. Fuck off. Come back when you’re sober.’
Ben had the greatest respect for the landlady at the Green Man, as it was the last remaining proper pub in the town able to tolerate him, for now. That was only because the regulars and the formidable landlady were from solid Irish stock and they respected his parents.
I tooted my car horn and Ben staggered across to huff a cloud of noxious alcohol and tobacco fumes in my direction through the small gap in the passenger side window. I parked up thinking that we could sit on a bench across the road from the pub. In actual fact, I sat on the bench, while Ben walked unsteadily up and down the pavement, ranting at the top of his voice. He was furious, bitter and enraged to the point where veins in his forehead were threatening to explode from his temples. It took a fair while for him to calm down enough to give me a slurred version of the events that had led to this superb drunken bender.
These explanations were, in the main, difficult to follow, but the upshot was that his parents had spoken about attending the Pathways Project and they had mentioned Father Joseph’s name. Ben confirmed that he began a colourful rage in response.
‘He fucked me up.’ As he said this, Ben turned to face the lamppost that was steadying him at the time. He began to head-butt it with such force that I had to leap up to stop him knocking himself unconscious. More blood was being sprayed from his recent wounds, and although not keen on being covered in it, I had no choice other than to try to restrain him by placing my hands on his elbows and pulling him back towards me. Small raindrop-sized particles of blood were flying in every direction.
As I tried to prevent Ben from knocking himself out, I realised through the screams that after all these years Ben’s abuser was still here in the town, a priest in the Roman Catholic Church. A holy man, above suspicion.
Father Joseph.
‘You can’t say no to God!’ Ben yelled. ‘I couldn’t say no to God. He fucked me up. The one true Jesuit will take revenge and kill the Masons and save God. They are all sinners! They sit in church and know that the priest fucks little children.’
Completely out of the blue, Ben talked about Liam Brookes. He had heard on the radio that the police were searching for him because of Jan’s death and missing money.
‘He didn’t need any money. They paid him.’
‘Who paid him?’
‘The familieshhh …’
I didn’t understand what Ben was trying to explain. He was slurring and jumping around from topic to conspiracy theory and from swearword to expletive.
What I did glean was confirmation that Liam had tracked Ben down and had talked to him about his abuse. He wanted Ben to give details towards building a case against Father Joseph.
‘Had Liam been abused by him, too?’
‘No. By another. Another fucking buggering sodomiser priest! You stupid fucking cow!’
My questions were not helping. So, I shut up and let him rant a bit more before suggesting that he went to A&E to have his wounds checked out and have a once-over for possible concussion. Ben declined, in no uncertain effing terms, and he staggered towards the town centre, no doubt looking for more alcohol to deaden the pain. I now had a definitive explanation for his more recent increase in consumption.
Later that evening, I found irrefutable proof that what Ben had said was nearer the truth than I imagined.
As I turned to get back into my car, I spied a silver Audi parked some way behind me, with a man sitting in it, watching. This time I remembered to take the registration number. I was now pretty certain that Frank Hughes was stalking me, but I had no idea why. One more incidence of him following me and I would be looking to make a formal complaint of my own, to the police.
Having returned to my car, I was about to call 999 and then the office to let Kelly know that I was in one piece, when the boys in blue turned up. They had been diverted from Len-DAS to the Green Man. The pub landlady had given them a call and had been watching Ben and me on the CCTV camera installed on the corner of the building. There was nothing much to tell them, other than in which direction I had seen Ben stagger, and I could only surmise that he was going to spend time in the cells. That would be the safest outcome for him, or so I thought at the time.
Making a conscious decision to visit Sean and Manuela Tierney, I drove straight to their home. I didn’t go in. Through the enormous front window, I could see directly into their living room. Father Raymond was standing there with a comforting arm around Manuela, who was sobbing into his shoulder. Sean was in front of him shaking his hand and nodding as he did so. The scene was one of gratitude. They didn’t need me.
13
I didn’t have much time to worry about Frank Hughes or Ben for the rest of the day and was grateful for the diversion of a trip to Emma and Jake’s farm for the evening. We never stayed too long, as we all had busy lives and early starts, but it was good to catch up. If it had been a weekend, we would have taken Deefer with us, as Emma’s children loved to play with him, and he was so affectionate towards them. He was endlessly forgiving of their insistence at playing dressing-up games, putting him in their clothes and pretending he was another child. There were working collies at the farm, but they lived outside and didn’t have the same character and nature as Deefer, who created a unique sparkle in the hearts of the children.
As it was a weekday and a short trip was anticipated, we left Deefer at home watching
BBC One. Taking a pile of boxed pizzas with us, we arrived in good time at Folly Farm to be greeted excitedly by Sophie and Thea, aged eight and six respectively. They would normally have been much further ahead in their bedtime routine by that time of the evening, but Emma had let slip that we were due to visit. The children stubbornly refused to believe that Deefer had not come along with us. I, of course, felt guilty that we had caused such disappointment and caved in to making a promise to bring him to see them at the weekend. Then I settled onto the side of Sophie’s bed to read them a story of their choosing. Lying curled up at the foot of Thea’s bed was Sparkey, content and at home.
Before the rascals had been snuggled in for the night, Jake and Max had headed to a barn to discuss matters of machinery, and it was not long before the hum and rumble of engines could be heard from the house. They had known each other for years and had an easy friendship with many things in common. Jake, who was even taller than Max, was a quiet reliable farmer with a dry wit and ready smile, in contrast to Max who filled a room with his enthusiasm and opinion.
Once we were on our own, Emma wasted no time in explaining her dilemma.
‘Our lodger has completely disappeared,’ she informed me.
‘The man who rents the Lodge House?’
‘Yes, not a sign of him. His mobile phone is dead and although his rent has been paid by direct debit, he’s been gone for weeks. The trouble is, Mon, he’s very private and I’ve no details for friends, relatives, or anyone really. I’m not sure why I should be so concerned, but he always gives me the dates when he’s going away, and when he is due back, and he’s worryingly overdue.’
‘Tell me what you do know; we’ll start from there.’
‘Right you are, Sherlock. His name is Nick Shafer, and he’s rented from us for a couple of years now. He’s single, self-employed as a freelance journalist and he works from here and a base abroad in the south of France; he splits himself between the two. He’s about early forties I would say: well-built but not fat, taller than you by a good few inches, green eyes, thick dark hair worn longish touching his shoulders, but not unruly or scruffy. He was usually neat and clean, never saw him in a suit, he was well spoken and good mannered. As I said, a private man and an ideal tenant. He was going out almost every day, I assume on the trail of a story or researching his latest article. I’m not exactly sure. I didn’t like to pry.’
‘I think we should pry now,’ I said emphatically. ‘Get the keys and let’s go and see what we can find.’
‘Good. That’s exactly what I’d hoped you’d say.’
Emma didn’t need persuading further. We told Jake’s mother, Grandma Frost, where we were going so that she could listen out for the children. She still lived in the rambling family farmhouse where Jake had grown up, and she, like her son, was unassuming and gentle, and managed her independence within the home without having to stamp any authority on Emma and Jake. Somehow, they seemed to naturally maintain a sense of family harmony.
As we passed by the new barn, Emma and I told the men where we were heading and I relied on Jake to absorb this information, as Max was too absorbed in a defective classic car engine to be distracted by women speaking to him. He nodded in recognition of words being spoken, but I knew the vague look meant that no facts were being taken in.
The Lodge House was a small but attractive red brick lodge at the entrance to the farm, well away from the farmhouse. It was bordered to the right by a picket fence and there were parking spaces to the left-hand side of the house, on which stood a motorbike beneath a cover of grey, black, and white waterproof material. There was no garden to speak of but there were a number of pots and planters around the porch entrance to make it attractive.
‘He goes everywhere on that motorbike, rain or shine.’
‘Why did he leave it this time then?’
‘Oh, he usually does if he’s going abroad. Saves the cost at the station. He gets a taxi which allows him more luggage, I suppose.’
‘Well done, Watson, of course, silly me.’
Emma took the keys to open the heavy wooden front door, which led into a small hallway filled with shoes, boots, coats, and biker gear. It was easy to get a sense of the size of Nick Shafer by his bike leathers, which were carefully hung on a solid wooden hanger. I judged him to be about the same size as Max. We made our way into the lounge, which was partially filled by a large desk and office area, leaving only a comfy chair with footstool and a telly in one corner, for relaxation. There was a small wood-burning stove, unused for some time judging by the ashes inside. A basket of logs was strategically placed to the left of the fireplace.
We had worked together for so many years that Emma and I rarely had to give each other verbal instructions, and thus we moved in unison through to the kitchen, taking in the personal details of Nick Shafer’s presence in each room. There was little in the way of food in the fridge, which made sense. Everywhere was left reasonably tidy and clean, including the bathroom and bedroom. Clothes were hung on the back of a bedroom chair, awaiting the return of their owner. It wasn’t a Spartan existence on show, but it was purely functional. Male.
We returned to the centre of operations, the office in the lounge, and most importantly, the desk, which, judging by the oblong shape in the dust on its surface, was missing a laptop computer. We gave a cursory glance over an enormous pin board on the wall facing the desk, but there were no helpful photos or obvious emails or reservation details for France that we could see. Emma settled herself in the well-worn, leather swivel chair, poised for a closer look at the pin board and a rummage through the desk drawers. I took up position on the footstool, taking with me a wire tray full of correspondence and a wooden box of interesting dimensions potentially containing vital documentation.
‘Right. I have an address in France,’ Emma announced with some satisfaction. ‘Rue de la something or other, Per-pig-nan, wherever that is.’
‘Great. Your French is as good as mine by the sounds of it. I think that’s pronounced Perpeenyon.’ We smiled at each other.
I had picked up a few of the letters from the correspondence tray and been stunned momentarily by coincidence. The letter in my hand was from the exact same solicitors that I was planning to contact about the auction purchase of my cabinet and journals. Aitken, Brown and Partners of Martington, Lancashire.
I read the details of the letter, which seemed to indicate that Nick Shafer was employed by a person or group of persons referred to as ‘our clients’ who would only deal with affairs of his contract through the senior partner, Thomas Aitken. A benefactor was referred to. It was somewhat unclear at first reading.
Emma, meanwhile, was trawling through notebooks and making the odd comment or two when she came across an interesting fact.
‘He has a membership card belonging to … Oh shit. Mon, look at this.’
The tone of her voice demanded an immediate reaction, which had me bouncing up from the stool and appearing at her side in seconds. We both looked at a photo ID card, the plastic type affixed to a lanyard. This one was for a volunteer support worker by the name of Liam Brookes, and there, sure enough, was a photograph of Liam Brookes staring back at me.
‘What was he doing with Liam Brookes’s ID card?’ I asked out loud, rhetorically.
‘That’s Nick Shafer,’ announced Emma without any hesitation, ‘only with glasses on.’
‘What? You are kidding! The man has been in the news and in the papers and you have only this second realised that Liam Brookes is your lodger Nick Shafer. Is your name Lois Lane? The sole difference between the two is a pair of glasses.’ I was flabbergasted.
‘I don’t spend much time reading newspapers or watching the telly, actually,’ replied an affronted Emma. ‘I don’t know what bloody Liam Brookes looks like. I never met him.’
We both stopped short of an argument and laughed instead.
‘Superman and Clark Kent … who’d have thought?’ I murmured as I phoned the police station and asked for D
S Adams, not thinking for a moment that he would be on duty, but he was.
‘Charles, it’s Monica Morris. I think I may have some interesting information regarding Liam Brookes.’ I explained what had that very moment been discovered and I was smiling at Emma, thinking what a couple of excellent detectives we would make, when the grin was wiped smartly from my face.
‘Thanks all the same for the information but we are no longer looking for this gentleman. The case is firmly closed as no crime has been committed that we can identify. Instructions from the DI himself.’
‘Really? But he has a false identity and he’s still missing.’
‘Sorry, Monica, as I said, there has been no obvious crime committed and DI Lynch has given clear instructions to give our thanks to anyone who comes forward with information, but there will be no investigation until there is evidence to the contrary. There’s no crime in having two identities.’
‘Oh. Okay. Thanks for listening, anyway.’ There was nothing else to say to the man. His monotonous response had been clear enough, leaving me deflated and puzzled. There was no need to repeat DS Adams’s words to Emma as she had picked up from my side of the conversation that the police were disinterested. Far from being disappointed, Emma became quite animated, ‘Right, that settles it. We’ll have to investigate for ourselves, Holmes. What do you say?’
At that she produced her flashy new Nokia mobile phone and took a few photos of Nick Shafer’s pin board, the layout of the desk, the ID card, and the framed photos that hung on the walls. Her eagerness was a joy to watch and I delved back enthusiastically into the paperwork and letters in the wire tray, chortling at the ludicrousness of the situation as I sat back down on the stool.
Emma hit upon a more sensible plan.
‘Shall we split this up between us? We could be here all night. You take what you’ve got. I’ll go through the notebooks at home tonight and pop back here tomorrow. In the meantime, we’ll leave Nick a note to explain why we’ve been through his belongings, just in case he rocks up tonight.’
