by AB Morgan
25
It was well before eleven the next morning when our doorbell sounded, heralding the arrival of DS Charlie Adams. Deefer rushed to greet him with his usual enthusiasm for any visitor. ‘Bloody hell, I didn’t realise he was so bouncy. He was asleep last time I was here.’ Charlie brushed raindrops from his shoulders as he entered the hallway.
‘So he was. I’d forgotten you hadn’t met Deefer at full throttle before. Ignore him and he’ll calm down if you’re lucky,’ Max advised Charlie as they shook hands. ‘Take your coat off and come on through to the dining room, I think Monica might be able to run to tea, coffee, and biscuits. I’m a bit bleary eyed this morning, so forgive me.’
‘A few beers last night?’ Charlie asked with a smile on his face in appreciation of Max’s hangover.
‘One or two. I saw your boss as it happens, I was surprised he wasn’t out detecting or inspecting somewhere, especially after the week you’ve had.’ I looked across at Max and grinned a welcome to Charlie. Max was doing a far better job of being natural and relaxed than I could ever hope to achieve, so I focussed on the task in hand. Safe subject: ‘Coffee or tea, Charlie?’
Charlie seemed distracted by Max’s announcement that Peter Lynch had been seen out drinking the night before. ‘Did you have a chance to speak to him then?’ he asked.
‘No, you must be joking, he was with his well-oiled important pals and associates, if you get my drift. I don’t really know him well enough to chat to.’ Neatly done, Max, I thought, as he tied that one up. It was dangerous ground, suggesting an acquaintance with a senior detective inspector, especially as we were expecting Charlie to make certain accusations against his senior officer.
I followed the action plan that Max and I had agreed. ‘What do you think to my latest investment? Max keeps spending money on bikes, so this is my revenge.’ I directed my gaze towards the Regency ship’s cabinet, next to the fireplace. ‘I can’t believe how fortunate we were not to have it stolen. Those burglars must have been youngsters. They took the old TV set but left something much more valuable.’
‘Lovely,’ Charlie said as he walked up to the cabinet and stroked it. ‘May I?’ I gave permission for Charlie to open the cabinet door. ‘It is the dose that makes the poison. Paracelsus, as it says on the front. Classy.’
‘I had to look that up on the Internet. My Latin isn’t up to your standard, I’m afraid.’
‘I saw you at the auction, when you bought this,’ Charlie said, still staring at the cabinet and touching the bottles one by one. ‘You were bidding against me at one time, but I had to back away before I spent my savings.’ What a relief. Charlie had openly confirmed being at the auction. Test number one passed with ease.
‘Do you go to auctions like that very often?’ Max asked.
‘If I got the chance, I’d go far more frequently,’ came the reply. Charlie switched his attention to me. ‘How are you doing since Thursday’s dreadful accident? You did really well not to throw up, by the way. Not many would have been so tough. We confirmed exactly who it was chasing Benito Tierney onto the tracks in the end. Although you probably already know by now.’
‘No, we haven’t heard anything other than the news reports. Who was it? Were they trying to stop Ben?’ Max nodded almost imperceptibly, confirming that I had judged my words well. I was hoping to avoid too much focus on this subject in case it led to references about the coroner or the pathology findings.
‘Yes, they were trying desperately to stop him before he got as far as the tracks, and very nearly lost their own lives in the process. It was Father Raymond from St Francis’ Church, and a man who goes by the name of Pip. You might know him. He has his own mental health issues to deal with and knew Ben by sight. They weren’t friends as such.’
‘Yes, Philip George. He attends …’ I hesitated briefly, ‘one of our clinics every so often.’ I passed Charlie his mug of coffee and put a plate of ginger nut and bourbon biscuits down on the table. Charlie reached for one as I looked again at Max for reassurance.
‘My favourite, ginger nutters,’ said Max who then unexpectedly stood up before announcing, ‘Shit! Sorry. Forgot to lock up the bike shed, can’t be too careful these days, not since that burglary, anyway. Back in a few minutes.’
I hesitated briefly then stumbled over my words as I tried to keep the flow of conversation going. What was Max up to?
‘Have you heard anything more about Liam Brookes? I mean Nick Shafer?’ I asked this, not wanting to return to the subject of Ben’s tragic death. ‘Did the French police shed any light on the blocked flue? How sad, especially as Jan died thinking he was a scoundrel.’ Forcing myself not to ramble anymore, I stopped, waiting for Charlie to fill in some gaps with the truth.
‘The French had no luck at all. By the way, they did email with confirmation eventually, and I must have misunderstood what they said over the phone in the first place. Nicholas Shafer did die of carbon monoxide poisoning but it was because of a fire in the flat, not a blocked flue. An electrical fault, apparently.’
‘Oh, my God,’ I exclaimed, in my worst possible theatrical voice. ‘Was anyone else hurt?’
Charlie gave the same information that we had also received from Sam. No one else had been caught up in the fire. Things were looking promising for Charlie, and improved further with his next piece of information. ‘It looks like Nick could not have broken into Jan Collins’s house. He would have been dead at that time. So, we’re beginning to suspect Jan’s brother was fishing around for confirmation of how much money his sister had left to lend him to save his drowning business. But we don’t think he killed his sister.’
Blimey. None of us had considered that as a possibility.
‘That explains his interest in the rumours about Jan spending money on an apartment in France. I take it those rumours were not true either.’ My head was swimming with which facts I could agree with or not, and I had lost my wingman Max to the bloody garage. Why did Max have to leave me to cope with these questions on my own? Sodding motorbikes.
‘Jan’s death was a simple suicide, then? I thought so, as soon as I saw all the tablets on her kitchen table.’
Max strolled back into the kitchen, apologising again, with a false grin plastered over his face. ‘What about Father Joseph and the kidney beans, any luck with that one?’ asked Max brazenly, and seemingly without thinking.
‘I’m not sure how much I’m allowed to say. As Jan’s death was not suspicious after all, and Nick Shafer died in an accidental fire, I think I was ridiculously hasty in suggesting any cover-up, let alone asking for your help. The matter of Father Joseph’s death is still under police investigation and we have questioned Father Raymond several times.’
It was an enormous relief in that moment to conclude that DS Adams was an honest man. He had confessed to misreading the situation, leading me to feel reassured that we could trust him, but I decided to leave it to Max to ask about the abuses by Father Joseph and the possible murders of Jan and Nick.
Once that was achieved, we could walk away.
Sure enough, right on cue, Max leant forward towards Charlie. ‘We quite understand. We were sleep deprived that morning anyway, but I have been wondering about something, and you may be able to help, Charlie, before you have to go again. When Ben Tierney went to report at the police station, sober for a change, that a priest at St Francis’ church had sexually assaulted him as a child, why wasn’t it investigated?’
Bloody hell. That was an interesting opening move, but I could see Max’s thinking behind the novel approach.
‘Excuse me,’ I said as my phone rudely interrupted. Planning to switch it off, I picked it up, but before pressing the red button I saw Emma’s name. She would know not to ring at this crucial time. Something was up. ‘Hello.’
‘Mon, I’m so sorry, there has been a dreadful incident. Can you come right away? It’s Sophie.’
‘Oh God, I’m on my way.’ I didn’t stop long enough to ask Emma what had happened. I l
ooked at Max, who saw the anguish on my face and bundled me out of the door and into my car. Charlie offered to help but was ushered back to work. ‘It’s a family matter, but thanks for the offer, we’ll call if we need you,’ Max shouted as he closed the car door and we sped away down the lane towards Folly Farm.
‘Christ, Max, it’s little Sophie. Something is dreadfully wrong.’
‘Yep. It most certainly is. Sophie has discovered the Sylvanian hedgehog people with cocktail sticks in their heads and she’s very upset. She took a large pair of kitchen scissors to her mother’s favourite apron in revenge.’
‘What the fuck are you talking about?’
Max pulled over in a lay-by well before we had reached the farm entrance. It was lashing down with rain, and the sound on the roof of the car made a drumming noise which acted like an intense soundtrack to what Max said next.
‘Sophie is fine. I had to find a way of getting you out of the house without arousing suspicion. Your acting is rubbish, so to make it realistic I called Emma.’
‘But why?’
‘Charlie Adams reached for the biscuits with his left hand and you missed it.’
‘Missed what?’
‘The little finger.’
‘But, Max, it wasn’t missing, he has all his fingers and thumbs, I saw them and you saw them today. He’s not Mr Half-Finger. You are a berk at times.’
‘Not as much of a berk as you think, madam. When your mate Charlie Adams reached for the ginger nut biscuits with his left hand, his little finger remained bent double. Holding something like a steering wheel, you wouldn’t notice. But from above or from the front with his left hand hanging down it looks just as if the top half of his finger is missing. That’s what Sam saw, and that’s what I saw just now.’
I didn’t know what to say.
‘Come on, let’s go to the farm and regroup. Sophie probably needs your wise words to help her understand why her parents have brutally assaulted her Sylvanian tree people.’ Max took my head in his big fat hands and kissed my forehead as if to make it better. It didn’t work.
26
I wasn’t planning on doing any more than checking in at St David’s Church Hall on Monday morning, pretending to carry out my duties in respect of the amnesty. If I wrote an article for the local paper and gave some feedback to DJ Danny Wakeman, I was positive that would keep the managers happy. Coping with anything more taxing was beyond me.
Resolving to keep my promise, I had also planned to contact Father Raymond.
He must hold secrets.
Dutifully, I phoned the office to update Kelly with my movements for the day, and she couldn’t wait to poke at me with her annoyance stick. ‘Whatever your plans were, you’ll have to change them.’ Curt words spoken with glee. ‘The Coroner’s Office want to speak to you urgently. I’ve made an appointment for you to go there this morning at nine-thirty. You should make it through the traffic in time.’
‘Thanks a bunch.’ Clearly Eddie had neglected to inform Kelly of my requirement for delicate handling. I could have cried, but I didn’t have time. Rushing back upstairs, apologising to the dog for no reason, I put on a smart work suit. ‘Bloody Kelly.’
Parking difficulties and pouring rain conspired to unravel my professional appearance. By the time I stumbled through the front door of the building which houses the Coroner’s Office, I was bedraggled and flustered. Any confidence boosted by a veneer of competent professionalism had been wiped out, leaving me feeling like a stupid child who had lacked the common sense to use an umbrella.
‘Good morning, how can I help?’ asked a plastic, orange-coloured receptionist, with perfect make up and solid hair tied in a bun on top of her head. Another plastic, orange woman stood at the far end of the same desk. They weren’t twins but I could only think that there is a factory somewhere that makes identical plastic receptionists for office blocks. The plastic women seem to be everywhere there’s a formal reception desk and they give me shivers, like clowns do. I followed orange-woman’s directions, taking a short diversion to the ladies’ toilets in order to rearrange myself.
The receptionist at the Coroner’s Office was human, thank God.
‘Good morning, I have an appointment to see Mr Williams the coroner, at nine-thirty.’ I had made it with one minute to spare.
‘Yes, that’s right. Thanks for coming in at such short notice. Take a seat for a moment please, Monica, he’ll be with you shortly.’ She took in my damp clothes and rain-soaked hair. ‘There’s a radiator near the window, which may help dry you off a little. Nasty weather, isn’t it?’
I didn’t dry off. I steamed, which can’t have gone unnoticed by the coroner himself who greeted me with a firm handshake and a warm smile.
‘You must be wondering why I have asked to see you.’
Stupidly, I hadn’t taken the time to figure out what could be so urgent. I had simply assumed that my report had been inadequate and that I was going to be given the benefit of proper guidance, and chastised for my poor-quality writing standards.
‘I can be assured of confidentiality. You are a registered nurse, so I’ll take that as read. Monica, we have two cases involving patients that you have been involved with directly. The first, Mrs Janet Collins, appears to have died at her own hand. Your report …’ Here we go. Here comes the painful criticism ‘ …. Is markedly different to the report filed by the investigating officer from the police.’ He flicked at the paperwork in front of him and I saw DS Adams’s name on the report, which brought me up short. I gasped behind my hand, and coughed to cover it up.
‘You make some interesting implications in your report. You identify Mrs Collins’s male friend as rather more benevolent than the police have done. Why is that?’ Mr Williams asked.
When I explained the dilemma he seemed to appreciate the fact that I had taken the trouble of talking to Jan’s friends and that I had contacted the Corbet Unit in France to try to trace Liam Brookes. Mr Williams was an intelligent man. ‘If the rumours were untrue, as you say in your report, then where, Monica, is Liam Brookes now, and why did he not support his lady-friend when she returned to the UK, if he was the kind-hearted soul you make him out to be?’
Good grief.
I didn’t know what to do at first, but then I had a miraculous moment of inspiration. ‘Oh, I thought the police would have put that in their report. He’s dead, too. I found out through the French authorities. He died in a fire at his flat in Perpignan, before Jan’s death. She would have been in hospital there at the time. I’m sorry that information is not in my report, but I only found out on Friday after my report had been submitted.’ I stopped abruptly. I had only given my report in to Eddie on Friday morning, so how did the coroner have it so soon? ‘How did you get it so soon?’ The words were out of my mouth before I could stop myself.
‘We coroners have a fair amount of clout. I’ll be straight with you. It was your call to my officer that prompted the request. You asked for a particular substance to be accounted for in the death of your other patient Benito Tierney and I want to know why. Another report from you on this matter would be appreciated. I need one regarding Benito Tierney’s contact with mental health services, but I want a specific explanation about your request. Why haven’t you raised this with the police? Why come direct to our office?’
I stared at Mr Williams, again not knowing what to do. I had been cornered by a coroner and was about to disclose information that could get me killed on one hand, or which could imply police corruption and a murderer within their organisation on the other. ‘Are you a Catholic?’
‘What?’ Mr Williams was clearly taken aback at my question.
‘Sorry but I have to know if you are either a Catholic or a Freemason or both.’
‘No, I am neither, and I don’t see why those questions have any bearing on my request,’ he said, sounding offended.
‘Thank God for that,’ I replied, sinking, trembling into the office chair that was now damp from my sodden clothes. If
he reacted in that way, then he couldn’t possibly be either. Stupidly and out of sheer habit I checked his hands and counted his fingers. Looking up, I saw Mr Williams glaring at me angrily.
‘Well? What is going on?’
‘I can’t report my concerns to the police because I think one of their officers might be responsible for the deaths, but I can’t prove it.’ Feeling faint, I tried to steady myself in the chair.
‘Goodness me, young lady, no wonder you look so dreadfully pale. Mrs Jennings, could you come in here for a moment,’ he shouted to the receptionist. ‘Hot, sweet tea, Mrs Jennings, if you would. Then get me Milo Granger as a matter of urgency.’
‘IPCC?’
‘Yes please, Mrs Jennings, and if you can get hold of Carol for me too, I would appreciate it.’ Such a polite man. ‘Don’t worry. You have done exactly the right thing. Drink your tea, have a biscuit, steady yourself and we will work this through.’ Not for one single second did I doubt what Mr Williams said. My fear began to dissipate along with the rising steam from my tea and my damp suit.
He talked as if to keep me occupied for a while, giving reassurances. ‘I’m not a Mason, although I know quite a few. You see, I couldn’t possibly have any question about my impartiality as a coroner. It’s not really my thing anyway, boys’ clubs. I enjoy my wife’s company too much to exclude her from my spare time activities. We play a little golf, very badly I’m ashamed to say, and we do both like to watch a good game of rugby.’
Ordinarily those remarks would have sealed the deal. In other circumstances, I would have considered the man to be ‘a goodie’ and thus to be honest and trustworthy enough to be on our team. However, I had almost credited Charlie Adams with the same qualities. My judgement about allegiances was not to be relied upon.
‘Who have you contacted?’ I asked with a high-pitched squeak to my voice, giving away my anxiety. Crapometer readings had hovered at maximum for several days, and they were not getting any lower sitting before the coroner. The pressure inside my head made solving complex puzzles decidedly more testing, and I could barely identify the component parts of that day’s problem.
