Divine Poison

by AB Morgan

  ‘There was something peculiar in Ben’s behaviour immediately leading up to his death.’

  ‘Were you there?’

  ‘No, well yes, briefly, I saw him run past my car. But I was asked by the police to view the CCTV footage at the station and Ben was tearing at his clothes, pulling them off as he ran. I had a case recently involving anticholinergic syndrome, ACS, and his behaviour was strongly suggestive of the same. He was not prescribed any anti-cholinergic medicine you see, which is why I needed to call you directly. This could easily be missed and discounted as being the behaviour of a mentally ill man or a drunk. Poor Ben was seen as both.’

  Had I gone too far this time? There was a brief pause from the coroner’s officer.

  ‘Yes, I do see. I’m scribbling down the main points here. Can you spell anticho- whatever for me? I’ll pass this on to the pathologist, who I’m sure will appreciate the time you’ve taken to raise the matter. He’s exceedingly thorough, so please be assured that he will take this seriously. Let me have your contact details as well, in the event that we need to call you back.’

  Floundering around, lost for ideas or a sense of direction once that call had been made, I began to unravel. I sat at my desk, present but not functioning or productive, staring into space like Manuela had done an hour earlier.

  Eddie and Sue stepped in to rescue me from myself and took me to the cosy confines of Sue’s office, where they sat me down and closed the door. Hugging a mug, I listened as they gingerly probed into the state of my wellbeing before making a decision to send me home.

  ‘Monica, this report for the Coroner’s Office, are you quite certain that what you have written here is correct?’ Eddie wafted the printed pages of my report. ‘How did you conclude that Mrs Collins’s man friend was supportive and generous? We were under the impression that he’s still wanted for questioning in relation to a burglary, as well as a possible investigation under the Protection of Vulnerable Adults legislation for accusations of financial abuse.’

  ‘It turns out, Eddie, that those were vicious rumours and totally untrue. Liam Brookes paid for the holiday to France, he had a flat there. He hasn’t run off with Jan’s money because she lent her savings to her brother, who could easily have carried out the apparent break-in at her house. Liam reportedly visited Jan when she was in the Hôpital Corbet, the unit in France. He hasn’t been seen since and his friends have been unable to contact him on his mobile. I couldn’t write anything other than that in the report.’

  ‘That’s reasonable enough. At least you had the good sense to check out the facts. Are the police following this up as a missing person?’

  Why hadn’t I thought of that? It was a simple response to the situation. A Miss Per. Report the person as missing.

  ‘No, the police aren’t doing anything, but I could contact the French police and report him as a missing person, couldn’t I?’ I had been a first-class dunce, sending emails asking a young man to investigate a missing person, when all I had to do was to report it to French police authorities. That way we could have a factual confirmation of Nick Shafer’s death and not have to take the word of the UK police, who perhaps could not be trusted.

  ‘His friends should be doing that, or his family …’

  ‘Yes, I’ll suggest it.’ I wasn’t aware if Nick Shafer had any family. It was reasonable to assume that if he had, they too would be looking for him. Aitken, Brown and Partners were likely to be trying to trace him as well. Someone must know what actually happened to him.

  ‘Monica, I’m sending you home. Have a rest over the weekend and see how you feel on Monday. Focus on the medicine amnesty and don’t worry about anything here. There’ll be a request for another report from the coroner, I dare say, but it won’t arrive for a week or two. Take a break. I’ll refer you through to the Trust counselling services.’

  ‘No thanks, Eddie. I appreciate your intentions but I can’t stand that sitting, nodding, “tell me how you feel” shit. No psychobabble bollocks either. I’ll take the dog for a walk instead. Much more therapeutic.’ Eddie knew not to try to persuade me. Counselling and therapy. Really?

  Grateful for the chance to return home, I gathered up my belongings and checked my message book and emails before giving in. There was a response from Sam in France.

  ‘Hi Monica,

  Happy to help. I phoned the police station here. They weren’t too keen to give me details but they did have a suspicious death of an Englishman in the flat at the address we had for Liam Brookes. It made the newspapers as well. There was a fire and the body of the man they found turned out to be the resident or owner. Therefore, it probably isn’t who you are seeking. Death was by carbon monoxide, probably from the fumes. Investigations indicated that the fire had been deliberately set, an accelerant used and the perpetrator had called the pompiers. No other residents were injured or killed, which was lucky. The police had no family to contact, but had traced the victim’s employers in England. Perhaps you could contact the police too for confirmation and to ask about Liam Brookes. Unless he is the man that set the fire. The police here still haven’t caught anyone.

  If I find anything else I’ll let you know.

  Hope that helps.

  All the best

  Sam Wilson.

  What a good chap you are, Sam, I thought as I replied with a quick gushing gratitude email, before closing the computer and leaving the office.

  Half-finger-man had destroyed any further evidence. Smart man.

  Strolling to my car I thought back to what DS Adams had said. He had the correct information on Liam Brookes’s death, which meant that he had been telling the truth. Death by carbon monoxide poisoning. I decided to phone Max to update him with the news of my mental implosion and about the update from Sam.

  ‘No, Mon, that’s not quite right. Charlie Adams said that a flue had been deliberately blocked causing carbon monoxide poisoning. He didn’t mention a fire. The French police would have told him that important fact, I’m sure. Maybe Emma was right. We should test him out.’

  23

  The facts indicated that Half-finger-man had been in France, had been at Jan’s house, my house and Emma’s house and yet we had no idea who he was. We didn’t know exactly what he wanted either. Getting closer to the underlying factors had only served to confuse and bewilder us.

  Jake and Max had been busy.

  Max phoned me with the latest update. ‘Jake called Aitken, Brown and Partners asking to speak to Thomas Aitken. He does exist. He declined to confirm much over the phone but is coming to the farm tomorrow to meet with us. The weirdest thing is, he was not surprised at our call. He told Jake that he had been expecting to hear from us sooner, so I think we should carefully manage our contact with Charlie Adams and arrange to meet him on Sunday.’ Max was determined to throw doubt on DS Charlie Adams. Indeed all four of us, Max, Jake, Emma, and I, were becoming jumpy and distrustful of others.

  ‘Max, I’m not clear why we would trust Thomas Aitken, who we’ve never met before, over a police detective sergeant who we do know.’

  ‘Think about it, Mon. The solicitors were the ones who made use of the journals, because they were fully aware that Jan had fabricated every word. They employed Nick Shafer and Jan. They have to have the answers and we can hand over the paperwork and the rest of the stuff from Nick Shafer’s desk. That way we can’t be putting ourselves or the children at risk anymore. We hand it all back, and they can find someone else to expose the bloody Catholic Church.’

  ‘What about the deaths?’

  ‘We have no proof. Only hypotheses.’

  I sighed. ‘Are you coming home early by any chance? I’m knackered and befuddled. I can’t see clearly, now my brain has gone.’

  ‘Oh, I know that song. “I can’t see clearly now my brain has gone, I can’t see all obstacles in my way…”,’ Max sang down the phone line as I chuckled at his life saving humour. ‘You nutcase. I think Deefer and I could do with a good long walk, so I’ll take h
im out and see you when you get in. Pub tonight?’

  ‘Great idea. Sod it, let’s have a beer or two and a good sleep. It’s a date. See you later.’

  A walk through the autumn leaves, breathing in the earthiness, was on the cards, followed by a shower and beer. That was a much better idea than any crappy counselling. Deefer and I stepped out into the lane and headed in the direction of the woods. Waterproofs and wellies were the order of the day. Poo bags and dog treats in one pocket and a bottle of water in the other, I was set for a few miles. As I turned left along the tranquil village high street, a car slowly drew alongside, making me check my stride. I assumed that it would be someone asking for directions.

  It was Charlie Adams.

  My pulse quickened and a cold hollow feeling accompanied a creeping sense of vulnerability.

  ‘This will save me a phone call,’ he said, as he lowered the window to talk to me through the passenger side. ‘When are we meeting at the weekend?’ Charlie’s hands were on the steering wheel and to my immense relief I could see all ten fingers and thumbs.

  ‘Hello, Charlie, that’s a coincidence, I’ve just spoken to Max and we thought Sunday would be best, if you can make it then? We’re a bit busy on Saturday, as Max has to work. Want to come over to our house about eleven o’clock? Unless you’re going to church.’ I tried to sound casual but it wasn’t easy since Max had sown a seed of doubt about Charlie, which I couldn’t ignore.

  ‘That’s perfect for me. I’ve had weekend leave cancelled anyway because of the railway incident, but I can spare an hour or so. Thanks for your help on that, by the way, and sorry it was so harrowing to watch. Such a sad end for a young man with a family.’

  He looked at me and must have read my expression well. ‘By the way … I hear Frank Hughes made some threats. Try not to worry, although he’ll probably get bail. I can’t say what he’s been charged with but it’s serious, and he’d be an idiot not to keep his nose clean. Any trouble, phone straight away. I’ve put a SIG marker on your house just in case.’

  ‘Thanks, that’s really good of you,’ was all I could muster as a reply.

  ‘A good walk will help, you know. I won’t keep you. See you both on Sunday. I mean you and Max, not you and the dog.’ He laughed and waved briefly as he drove away. Instinctively I said cheerio and waved back. He never used to be so light-hearted. When I first met Charlie Adams he was boring and monotone and I wondered what had changed.

  Every few minutes I glanced behind me as I walked the familiar footpaths, and once or twice I was startled as a bird took flight from the undergrowth. Finally exhausted by my constant state of alertness for assault, I sat on a fallen tree trunk in the middle of the woods, throwing a stick for Deefer. Patting my pocket, I took out my work phone, which I had taken with me out of habit, not intending to make use of it. I reassured myself that I had not lost it, and that I could summon help if it were needed.

  There was a missed call from “Fat Ray”.

  The phone was placed smartly back in my pocket. I didn’t want to talk to anybody, least of all Father Raymond. The evidence was mounting against him. Manuela Tierney had obviously accepted that Father Joseph had abused her son and I could still hear her bitter words as I recalled how vehemently she had launched her hatred in Father Raymond’s direction. Maybe she had discovered something that implicated Father Raymond in a cover-up of Father Joseph’s terrible deeds, but if that were not true then he must have been hurt by those accusations. Despite all that, or maybe because of it, I couldn’t face talking to him.

  ‘Not now. Maybe tomorrow,’ I thought aloud.

  Emma and Jake were expecting us at two o’clock in the afternoon of the next day, and as the girls were spending the weekend with Emma’s parents, we could safely have an uninterrupted meeting with Thomas Aitken at three. With these arrangements in place, Max and I seemed to be able to relax on the Friday evening. Putting our worries aside with the aid of alcohol, we even managed much needed sleep, waking later than usual. We didn’t hear next-door’s cockerel that morning, so we must have been tired.

  Max did go to work for a couple of hours on the Saturday morning, but was back at home in good time for us to make our way to Folly Farm after lunch. We took Deefer along for the ride and a change of scenery, without the indignity of being messed about with by Sophie and Thea. Although Sparkey was not impressed that Deefer was visiting again, and he sauntered away in disgust when we arrived.

  Once settled in the farm kitchen, we prepared for our visitor by agreeing how best to handle the meeting.

  ‘We let him speak first to see where we stand. Agreed?’ Emma said.

  ‘What if he has half a finger? I asked.

  ‘He won’t. It can’t be him. Thomas Aitken was the contact for Nick Shafer and for Jan. We are the ignorant ones here. I dread to think what we don’t know about.’ Those words from Jake were to prove painfully accurate.

  Mr Thomas Aitken parked his shiny Mercedes in the farmyard, where he was met by Jake and the collies, who were doing a fine job of alerting the whole farm to our visitor. This set the geese cackling, and as Mr Aitken walked through the door into the spacious kitchen, Jake and an orchestra of animal noises accompanied him. He seemed unflustered as he was introduced to the rest of us.

  ‘Please, call me Tam,’ he said. Not unexpectedly, a broad Scottish accent added flavour to those words, and I made an internal note to myself to avoid the usual embarrassing accent mimicking. Today was too important.

  I wasn’t sure what type of man to expect, or what he would look like, but was agreeably surprised by his straightforward manner and easy approach. A tall sturdy man with a strong jaw, like a retired rugby forward, Tam didn’t spend unnecessary time on platitudes or pleasantries. He got down to the business in hand without mincing his words.

  ‘Thanks for contacting me. You took your time, so I can only assume that you have had some difficulty in deciding whether Aitken, Brown and Partners are legitimate, and that we have a bona fide connection with Mrs Janet Collins and Mr Nicholas Shafer, both now sadly deceased. I’ll lay out my stall, shall I? Then you can follow suit. Shall we see how many boxes I can tick for you?’

  There were no arguments.

  ‘Nick Shafer: Journalist.’ Firm nods were produced from around the table, which Tam was clearly expecting to see. He glanced briefly at us after stating each fact, checking our awareness. ‘Okay. Good. He lodged here of course, under that name, and you also have identified him as Liam Brookes, his cover identity. Janet Collins: well-known theological historian and writer who had worked in the Civil Service.’ We nodded again as Tam confirmed Jan’s part in writing the journals that had been in my possession until stolen.

  ‘You have one journal remaining in your possession, I believe.’ Without a conscious thought I checked for the little fingers on both of Tam’s hands. Entire. Present.

  ‘You also have correspondence and papers that were in Nick’s cottage.’ We nodded in unison. ‘You could have saved yourselves a lot of trouble if you had contacted our offices sooner.’

  ‘How?’ Max asked. I was holding my breath as we waited for the answer.

  ‘Your burglaries were carried out by a colleague of Jan’s. I’ve never met him in person, only Jan knew his identity. He’s been central to the work being carried out by Nick and Jan for months, if not years. He and Jan knew each other through their academic studies, but for protection his identity has always remained a secret. We refer to him as the Guardian. He was asked to retrieve what he could of the paperwork, but you had done such a wonderful job of hiding everything, that we couldn’t lay our hands on the important stuff.’

  ‘Oh, that explains why the dog wasn’t hurt.’ I paused awhile, allowing the facts to be absorbed.

  ‘Mrs Davis, Monica, you were not meant to have been the purchaser that day at the auction. We hoped our target would show their hand, but we were far too late. He’d already killed Jan and Nick and, rather sadly, we didn’t have that fact confirmed unt
il after the auction.’

  ‘He?’ Jake took up asking a series of questions. ‘Who is he? And as you’re confirming that he killed Nick and Jan, can you say if it’s possible he also killed Father Joseph Kavanagh and Benito Tierney?’

  Tam opened up the leather document folder that he had with him. He took a deep breath, expanding his chest to full capacity, and let out a long releasing sigh. ‘How long have you got?’

  Once Tam had finished his explanation, we sat in silence. The kettle was placed on the range and biscuits were opened but left untouched.

  ‘We weren’t too far off with our hypotheses, then,’ Emma concluded. ‘But can I ask, if there has been this amount of work done to expose systematic child abuse and cover-ups by the Catholic Church, then why don’t you report the evidence to the authorities?’

  ‘It has been, several times. Way back in the 1980s several extensive damning documents were handed to the Home Office evidencing organisational abuse. Not solely the Catholic Church, by the way, this involves most denominations. The then Home Secretary, Leon Brittan, remember him? His office mislaid them; they disappeared. Why? Because the information contained within implicated top politicians, business organisations, high profile individuals, and the churches.’

  I was puzzled. ‘Does this mean that Ben was right even about the Freemasons? I looked that up and they don’t sit within the Catholic Church. The Masonic connection doesn’t make any sense.’

  Tam laid both his palms flat on the kitchen table. ‘Yes, it does. Think money, Monica, not sexual abuse. Financial abuse. The Vatican Bank holds vast sums of money. They have dealings with other banks worldwide and national debts. Where do you think the Nazis kept their fine artworks and antiques, gold, and insurance pay-outs from Holocaust victims? It can’t all come from the humble congregations or charity fundraisers. The Vatican have already paid out millions in hush money in cases of alleged abuse by Catholic priests.’