Holy Murder

by Rodney Hobson

  The three of them made their way back over the banking and down to the makeshift car park. Only now did it strike Amos how vulnerable this part of the county was, so flat and with so much of it below river level.

  Swift almost snatched the police car keys from Amos and got into the driving seat quickly. Amos casually pulled open the passenger door as Worthington released the lock.

  “Do you want me to drive,” Amos offered. “You seem preoccupied. Are you sure you’re up to it?”

  “Of course I can drive my own car,” Worthington snapped.

  Amos did not want to alienate him in case he withdrew his offer to let the officers search his house. However little they found of value affecting the investigation directly, it would at least give them an insight into this reclusive and mysterious man.

  As they left the historic site, Worthington surprised Amos by swinging right rather than left back along the way towards Boston that Amos and Swift had used.

  “Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing,” Worthington remarked dryly.

  The churchwarden cut across the A52 and drove along narrow back roads. Although they were all properly surfaced they were for the most part too narrow for even a couple of cars to pass by without slowing to a crawl. For about three miles the road was dead straight with a deep water-filled drain uncomfortably placed at Amos’s side.

  As it happened, they did not encounter another vehicle, despite Worthington extending the length of time taken by carefully ensuring that Swift was not left behind.

  Finally they came out onto the A16 and a few minutes later Worthington pulled onto his drive with Swift parking across the end of it.

  The house was immaculate except that an airer was parked in the middle of the kitchen bearing a complete set of clothing including jacket and trousers. Swift touched them. They were still damp.

  “You were keen to get the clothes you were wearing yesterday washed,” she remarked casually without so much as a glance at Worthington. The items could have been any day’s clothing but it was a reasonable assumption.

  “Cleanliness is next to godliness,” Worthington replied simply.

  “What was on them? Blood?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Worthington snapped. “Simeon Knowles wasn’t stabbed. Or was he?”

  “We won’t know the cause of death until the post mortem,” Amos interrupted sharply. Then to Swift, he said: “Let’s have a look round.”

  “I’ll come round with you,” Worthington interjected. “I don’t want anything planted.”

  “Suit yourself,” Amos replied with bad grace.

  He wandered round the living room, aimlessly opening drawers. Worthington watched him nonchalantly while Swift stood still, unsure what to do.

  Eventually Amos led the way into the hall, followed by Worthington with Swift carefully bringing up the rear so she could keep Worthington in sight.

  Amos pulled out a drawer in an occasional table where the telephone stood. He extracted an address book and flicked through it. Worthington had an annoying habit of listing some numbers by surname and some by first name, so that, for example, the page for L included an entry for Jim Lawrence and two for Lesley, one marked home and one labelled surgery. A few names also had addresses and some didn’t. It was a contrast to the otherwise apparently orderly and methodical life of the churchwarden.

  “You know Dr Austin?” Amos asked.

  “She was my doctor,” Worthington replied. “When I lived down in the fens,” he added quickly.

  Wasn’t this all the fens, Swift wondered, or were there different levels of fens? Did people in Sibsey look down on the sons of the soil?

  Amos, however, quickly persisted: “You list your doctor by her first name, do you?”

  Worthington shrugged his shoulders and made no reply.

  “I’d like to keep this book if I may,” Amos said suddenly. “I’ll let you have it back in a couple of days.”

  Worthington gave another silent shrug.

  “Let’s go,” Amos said to Swift, then he added to Worthington: “Thank you for your cooperation. We’ll be in touch.”

  Another shrug was again Worthington’s only response. He looked relieved to be getting rid of the intruders. Swift was torn between wanting to put a door between herself and this creep and giving the place a proper going over.

  As Worthington closed his front door behind them, Swift spoke with vituperation: “Why are we letting him get away with it? He’s obviously covering something up. We need to find out what he recovered from the Stump.”

  Amos was taken aback. Swift rarely gave a display of insubordination. Worthington had really got to her.

  “I don’t believe for one moment that we would have found anything in his house. Whatever he had – and it was presumably a very sharp blade – is probably in the river. Dislike of a suspect is no justification for searching his house.

  “Let’s get in the car and see who’s in his phone book.”

  Swift still had the car keys and Amos moved to the passenger side. With his back to the house he flicked through the address book, keeping it out of sight of the lounge window.

  As Swift walked round to the driver’s side, Amos said suddenly: “Do you think you could find your way back along the route we came on?”

  “I can remember a bit of it,” Swift said. “We came onto the A16 alongside the bowls club so we can find our way as far as that but I’m not sure I could do the full route.”

  “You won’t need to,” Amos assured her. “Just get us across the A16. I recognise the name of Hollyoaks farm in the address book. I noticed the sign as we drove past just a few minutes before we came out onto the A16. Let’s see if we can find it.”

  Swift did indeed manage to pick up the route in reverse, at least to the point where Amos shouted out excitedly: “There it is!”

  Chapter 16

  Swift pulled into the farmyard, which mercifully sported more clinker than cow pats, and they knocked on the farmhouse door. A middle aged woman, chubby and glowing with health, answered.

  “Mrs Mason, I presume,” Amos said smoothly. “Please don’t be alarmed but we are police officers,” he added, reaching for his warrant card.

  Mrs Mason cut him short.

  “I take it this is about poor Simeon. We heard on the farmers’ grapevine. You’d better come in.”

  They were shown into a kitchen where Mrs Mason was busy baking.

  “It is about Simeon, I take it,” she repeated.

  Amos nodded. He decided not to mention that this address had been picked out at random from Fred Worthington’s book because it just happened to be within easy reach.

  “That man was a saint,” Mrs Mason said fervently. “If there’s anything we can do to help, you’ve only to ask.”

  “How did you come to know him?” Swift interjected impatiently. She was standing near the oven, while Amos had seated himself at the kitchen table.

  Mrs Mason paused from rolling pastry and leaned forward, looking nervously from one officer to the other. She put down the rolling pin, went to the door to look across the yard, then returned to the table.

  “Please promise me you won’t let my husband know I told you,” she said, then hesitated.

  Amos smiled and nodded, then squeezed her hand resting on the table when he realised that the woman was close to tears.

  “Steve – my husband – won’t have it mentioned, he was so ashamed, but I think Simeon should have the credit he deserves. We were desperate. Steve was getting suicidal. It was a bad year on the farm. We lost half the harvest because of the weather. Simeon bailed us out.

  “It took ages to pay him back but we worked hard, pulled together and we’re still here to tell the tale. We owe everything to Simeon. He was so patient, waiting for his money. He used to call round once a week just to make sure we were all right.”

  “Do you mind if I ask you how much he lent you?” Amos asked sympathetically, maintaining his gentle hold of the woman’s hand.


  “I don’t rightly know,” Mrs Mason said. “Steve takes care of the finance and the paperwork. Not that he’s done any training for it. You won’t ask him, will you?” she asked urgently, withdrawing her hand. “He’ll know I told you.”

  “No, no,” Amos replied soothingly. “No need. But did you approach Mr Knowles or did he approach you?”

  “It was Mr Worthington at St Botolph’s who introduced us. Mr Worthington said Simeon had helped several farmers in distress. He said it would all be done very discreetly and no-one else would ever know.

  “It was never mentioned at the farmers’ meetings but we do know that one farmer got into serious trouble. Poor soul, he killed himself. Even Simeon’s money and sweet nature couldn’t save him. There’s a high suicide rate among Lincolnshire farmers, you know. Simeon’s the only one who seems to care round here.”

  Chapter 17

  “Let’s go back to Boston police station,” Amos said dispiritedly as he and Swift climbed into the police car.

  “We’ll have a look through the witness statements to see if there’s any clue why someone would want to murder a man who was so universally loved. We’ll make sure everything is set up and we can assemble a team tomorrow. I think Sunday lunch will be eaten early tonight.”

  Amos was surprised to see Detective Sergeant Gerry Burnside waiting patiently at Boston police station as they entered the building.

  “Hello, Gerry,” the inspector called out. “I thought you were off duty today.”

  “Thought I’d just see that everything was in order in the incident room,” Burnside replied cheerfully, casting a glance at Swift as he did so. “Can’t have County HQ thinking we country hicks can’t hack it.”

  Burnside waved the two visitors down a corridor towards an open door, gallantly standing back to allow Swift through first, but she stood back, saying curtly: “You lead the way. You know where we’re going.”

  Burnside complied reluctantly.

  The room was immaculate. Amos had never seen an incident room so clean, so devoid of rubbish and with tables and chairs so carefully laid out. Two notice boards with pins had been set up plus a whiteboard with assorted coloured markers.

  On the tables, witness statements had been laid out with military precision, as if someone had used a ruler to line them up. The piles of files were labelled ‘Abseilers’, ‘Church officials’, ‘In church’, ‘Outside church’ and ‘Across river’.

  “I’m afraid the phones won’t be connected up until tomorrow morning,” Burnside admitted sheepishly.

  “Thanks, Gerry, you’ve done us proud,” Amos remarked. Burnside, however, was paying more attention to Swift than to Amos and kept edging as close to her as possible despite her attempts to put at least one desk between them.

  Finally Amos cottoned on to his deputy’s discomfort. Normally Swift was no nonsense in discouraging unwanted advances, from colleague or criminals alike.

  “I’m sure everything is in order, Gerry,” the inspector said. “Juliet and I will just go through the statements for a full picture. I’ll get the autopsy details tomorrow morning, though I don’t suppose there’s much doubt about the cause of death. Can you spare us a couple of detective constables from tomorrow onwards?

  “I don’t think there’s any point in tying up two sergeants and I’m used to working with Juliet. Besides, the Chief Constable is interested in this case so you’re better off out of it.”

  Burnside, however, looked rather disappointed and showed no inclination to go home to his wife and family.

  “I’ve been through all the statements of people in the church at the time,” he said.

  “Tell you what, Gerry, as you’re here,” Amos said, “why don’t you sit here and go through the statements of those across the river? There aren’t so many of those and you can let us know if they throw up anything different from the statements you’ve already read.”

  Burnside took up the invitation readily and sat down where Amos had indicated with the relevant small pile in front of him. Swift looked distinctly disgruntled but as soon as Burnside was seated Amos sat next to him behind the largest pile marked ‘In church’ and moved the ‘Outside church’ dossier over to his other side, disrupting the unnaturally orderly layout of documents. He nodded to Swift to check this pile, thus putting his body between the two sergeants.

  The three read in silence. Burnside and Swift finished at roughly the same time and Amos swapped their piles over. The two sergeants had completed their second allotments by the time Amos had finished his larger set.

  “Let’s compare notes,” Amos said. “Quite a number of people were near to or actually spoke to Simeon Knowles as he waited to go back up the tower. With the melee and pushing and shoving, many of them were close enough to tamper with the harness unnoticed.

  “Of those we can account for, Dr Austin had the best opportunity as she was close to Knowles for much, though not by any means all, of the time they were in the body of the church. She also went up the tower with Knowles and was with him at the top.

  “The two abseiling officials ditto. Fred Worthington had opportunity at ground level. The chief bell-ringer just possibly, although he denied getting really close to Knowles and too many eyes were upon him in the short time he was down below.

  “We have half a dozen members of the public who gave statements. Four were visitors from outside the area with no apparent connection to Knowles. The other two were a local farmer and his wife who say they just came along to give support. They were seen talking animatedly to Knowles while Austin and Worthington were arguing with the chief bell-ringer, so we have to count them in as possibles.

  “Of the people who were seen, but are not accounted for, are a family of American tourists who seemed very interested in tracing their ancestry, and a woman aged about 30 with a small child who were probably also tourists - we don’t know where from as no-one seems to have spoken to them. Does that sum things up fairly? Have I missed out any reasonable suspects?”

  The two sergeants indicated their agreement.

  “You’ve both read the statements of the people outside the church, such as we were able to corner,” Amos resumed. “Do either of you see anything in any way significant or that adds to the sum of our knowledge?”

  This was greeted with the shaking of heads.

  Amos looked at his watch. It was still not 4pm but there was a drive back to Lincoln for himself and Swift, not to mention Sunday lunch to be taken before 7pm.

  To get Burnside well away from Swift, Amos wrote down a number on a piece of paper and handed it to the Boston sergeant.

  “Do me a favour, would you please, Gerry,” he said, “and ring my wife. Tell her Sunday lunch at 6pm. Don’t ask,” he added quickly as Burnside opened his mouth to query this odd timing. “Sunday lunch is Sunday lunch.”

  Chapter 18

  Burnside wandered down the corridor none the wiser but he returned almost immediately.

  “American tourist to see you,” Burnside announced peremptorily as he ambled back into the incident room. “Don’t forget to tell him this is the real Boston. Some of them think it’s in Massachusetts.”

  As Amos rose to his feet, Burnside added: “He’s brought his holiday snaps with him. Have fun.”

  Amos was halfway down the corridor to the front desk when he heard Swift say acidly: “How’s your wife today, sergeant? Still living?”

  The American introduced himself as Bobby Franklin. His accent was mercifully mid-Atlantic rather than a drawl.

  “I’ve just read in the morning newspaper about the dreadful incident in Boston church. Are you the officer in charge?”

  Amos nodded. He hadn’t had chance to check if the story had made it into the nationals. Apparently it had done.

  “I was in the church yesterday morning. My ancestors were from Lincolnshire and I’ve always wanted to visit but I’ve never got out of London on my business trips. My wife’s descended from one of your poets. It’s all there in the c
hurch.”

  “I believe you have some photographs,” Amos butted in, anxious to avoid two full family histories.

  “Yes, sorry,” Franklin said apologetically. “I finished a roll of film and had the snaps developed at the express photo shop in Boston town centre in the afternoon. When I saw the news this morning I thought I’d better bring them in, in case they are of any help.”

  “That’s very considerate of you, Mr Franklin,” Amos said gratefully. “Please come through to the incident room.”

  As they walked down the corridor, Amos asked: “Did the police take a statement from you yesterday?”

  “No, we’d left before it all happened. My kids were furious they missed out on all the excitement. But I think I saw the guy who died before he went up the Stump. He’s on one of my pics.”

  Amos laid the photographs out on a spare table. He and Swift studied them carefully. Most were general photographs of the exterior and interior of St Botolph’s. Franklin had naturally posed his family for some shots but other unconnected people inevitably found their way into the fringes of several frames.

  “Here,” Amos exclaimed. “The woman with the boy.”

  The exterior photograph showed them in the background entering the South door.

  “Or is the boy with this other woman?” Swift suggested, pointing to an interior shot. “They could be together and there’s no sign of the woman in the first pic. Both women are about the same age and right for the mother of a six-year-old. And what about the two middle-aged men,” Swift went on, referring to another interior scene. “I don’t remember seeing them when we arrived and I had a good look at all the faces of people still hanging around inside the church. They must have been very close to where Knowles was sitting while the brouhaha was on.”

  A man and a woman, both aged about the mid-40s and smiling broadly, seemed to be speaking to Knowles in another photograph. Knowles had his arms stretched out towards them as if he wanted to embrace them.