by Paul Gitsham
“I’m sorry about that, Officer.” Warren had been so engrossed that he hadn’t heard the Reverend Harding enter the room. Turning, Warren saw that the man still had the cordless phone in his hand. “One of my congregation is getting married on Saturday. A few last-minute nerves. I calmed her down though.” He smiled, before cradling the phone and offering a hand. As Warren shook the proffered hand, the priest noticed what Warren had been looking at. “Remnants of my past life.” He gestured at the bookcase. “I was an A level physics teacher for many years, before leaving and becoming a priest.”
He chuckled at Warren’s surprised look. “I get that reaction a lot.”
“Not that long ago, it seems; if I’m not mistaken one of those revision guides is for the latest GCSE syllabus. My wife is a science teacher,” Warren offered by way of an explanation.
“That’s right. I still love physics and do a little teaching and tutoring for some of the local kids. Extra tuition for struggling students is largely the preserve of those with wealthy parents, I’m afraid, especially these days, so I do what I can to help those who can’t afford it. I also mark A level exam scripts for one of the exam boards. The money it pays helps fund a village school in Malawi that my old comprehensive used to have links with.”
You really do meet all sorts in this job, thought Warren, not for the first time, as the vicar led him into the lounge.
Settling himself down on a leather couch, Warren waited whilst Mrs Harding served him from a teapot in a plain white china teacup. He looked around the room, marveling again at the ordinariness of it. Despite having accompanied his grandparents to his local priest’s house many times, Warren had always been surprised by how normal priests really were. He remembered the first time he’d gone to the local Catholic club on a Saturday afternoon for a pint and seen two elderly priests, both with their dog collars concealed by Coventry City scarves, sipping Guinness and shouting at the match on the pub’s big screen.
“Well, Detective, what can I help you with? You said on the phone that you wanted a chat about one of my parishioners.”
Warren placed his teacup carefully on the saucer. “Yes. Richard Cameron and his son Michael.”
The priest seemed unsurprised. “I suspected as much. The congregation is pretty small here and so when I read about that poor young woman in the newspaper, it didn’t take much to work out who you wanted to talk about.”
“So you are aware of Mr Cameron’s past?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so. I joined the parish about twelve months before those terrible events. When Richard came out of prison last year, he rejoined the congregation.”
“And how did you feel about that, Father? Sorry, Reverend.”
“It’s OK, you can call me Father if you prefer, I don’t mind.” He paused, clearly choosing his words carefully. “I would be a liar if I said I didn’t have a few misgivings. What he did left deep scars on this community. Although none of the young women were particularly regular church-goers this is a small village and it affected my congregation greatly. They’ve all left the parish now. Two left within twelve months of their ordeal, the third stayed and tried to make a life, but left a few months before Richard was released.
“Victims of rape are afforded anonymity under the law, of course, but that’s meaningless in a small community like this. Everybody knew who they were and what had happened. The two ladies that left both said they couldn’t move on whilst living in a village where everybody looked at them with sympathy. The third young lady stayed with her family and managed to put back the pieces of her life — but she couldn’t face the thought that she might bump into him one day.
“What that man did had repercussions far beyond the lives of his victims. Whole families were torn apart. The heart of the village was for ever changed.” Warren could see in the man’s eyes the pain and sorrow he was feeling. Evil had come to this tiny part of England and the aftermath had changed them all for ever.
“So how did you feel when Mr Cameron started attending your church again?”
The priest paused, blowing on his tea as if to cool it, although it had long since become comfortable to drink. “I would be lying if I said that I welcomed him with open arms at first. Nevertheless, Jesus preaches that we should forgive sins, especially if the sinner is truly remorseful.”
“And is he remorseful, do you think?” Warren watched him carefully. The priest nodded firmly. “Yes. I believe that his regret is genuine. He knows that what he did can never be undone and he has never asked me for absolution. I think he knows that I would not be able to give it.” The priest looked relieved.
“How did the village react?”
“Not well. For the first few months graffiti regularly appeared on his house walls and unmentionable material was posted through his letter box and smeared around his car door handles late at night. I don’t think that he or his son have set foot in either of the village pubs since his release and Michael does most of their shopping. They attend the much quieter nine a.m. Sunday service and sit at the back. Even so, numbers are a fraction what they used to be, with some switching to the later eleven a.m. and many simply stopping coming.”
“We have talked to Mr Cameron’s probation officer and he suggested that you spoke to him and counselled him.” The statement was an invitation.
“Ah, yes, Mr Pargeter. An interesting fellow, to be sure. You don’t meet his sort very often. More’s the pity.”
Warren chose his words carefully. “We’re trying to build up a picture of what Mr Cameron is like. I realise that anything that is said within the confessional booth is regarded as sacrosanct, but we would be interested in any insights that you may have into Mr Cameron’s character and what he is like.”
The priest waved a hand dismissively. “First of all, Detective, you need not concern yourself with notions of confidentiality. We do not as a rule offer the sacrament of penance as Catholics understand it. You are free to hear anything that Richard and I have discussed. In fact I have had several conversations with Mr Cameron. I regard my role as helping him rebuild his life, helping him to slay or at least resist the demons that plague him. Both for him and the greater good.”
“And does he have these demons still?”
The priest gave a cautious nod. “I would say so. As I said before, he is truly remorseful for his past actions — I would even go as far as to say he deeply regrets the harm that he has caused to those poor young women, this village and his own family. Nevertheless, those desires run deep in a man. I don’t know if he will ever truly be free of them or if he will simply learn to live with them and not act upon them.”
“In your opinion, do you think that Mr Cameron is in control of those demons?”
The priest thought carefully before answering. “In my opinion…yes. I think so, although I must hasten to add that he has fooled those who thought they knew him before. After his first attack, he reportedly sought advice from another local vicar, but was careful enough to make it sound as though he was merely troubled by dreams and fantasies. This priest advised him not to worry, that fantasies are normal as long as they are not acted upon, and advised him to pray for forgiveness and strength. In retrospect, he should have suggested professional counselling and perhaps even contacted the police. He retired shortly afterward, unable to forgive himself for not making the connection between Richard’s admission and the rapes.” The priest’s face was a complex mixture of emotions.
“Does Cameron seem a changed man to you?”
The priest looked apologetic. “That I can’t say, I’m afraid. Although his wife was a regular church-goer and she usually brought their son, he rarely attended other than feast days. He tended to spend Sunday in The Fighting Cock, before driving back to the farm. How he didn’t kill anyone I’ll never know. He was well known for having a nasty temper when he was drunk and, although I’ve never been told directly, there was a clear implication that he may have taken this out on his wife and perhaps their son.”
“Speaking of their son, what do you know about him? He appears to be standing by his father, despite all that has happened.”
The priest’s demeanour brightened considerably. “Yes, Michael is a remarkable young man in that respect. When it emerged what his father had done, both he and his mother severed all contact with him. Angie divorced him and they both changed their names to Stockley, her maiden name. Richard didn’t contest the divorce and signed over the deeds of the farm without protest.
“Michael was in year eleven at the time, barely sixteen years old. The villagers, I’m pleased to say, were surprisingly supportive of the two of them, but, of course, schoolchildren can be cruel and it was decided that it would be best if Michael left Middlesbury and went to Cambridge for his sixth-form studies. I wrote a letter to Long Road Sixth Form College on his behalf and they were kind enough to take him on, even though the stress had resulted in far weaker GCSE results than he was capable of.”
“What happened then?”
“I only had intermittent contact with him for the next few years. Angie continued to come to church, but Michael — or Micky as he liked to be known then — moved away to university. It broke his mother’s heart, but she understood his reasons. He needed to get away from his father’s shadow.”
“So how did he come to be living with his father again after he left prison?”
“Just before what would have been his final year at university, his mother was diagnosed with lung cancer. The illness was mercifully short, but it affected Michael greatly and I believe he had some counselling. He finally got himself back on track and completed his studies a year later. He now owned the farm, of course, but it was very run-down and wasn’t worth very much, so, rather than sell it, he decided to move back here.
“I think it’s fair to say that he has never really fitted fully into village life. He still feels tainted by his father’s actions and the farm is a little distance away. However he has a good job and he eventually started coming to church again. That’s when we started to have our meetings.”
Warren motioned for him to go on, suddenly interested. “What were they about, if I may ask?”
The priest looked a little uncomfortable and started fussing with the teapot, clearly deciding how much to say.
“He was understandably a rather troubled young man. He blamed his father for the death of his mother and had clearly never really forgiven him for making him leave first his school, then later Stennfield. He admitted to me that although the villagers were accommodating enough, he always felt he would be the ‘rapist’s son’ first and Michael Stockley second. He even worried that his father might have passed down something in his genes. Ultimately, I realised that what he needed to do was to confront his fears and to visit his father in prison to clear the air, so to speak. The first time he went, I drove him there, although I didn’t go in.
“Pretty soon the visits became quite regular and Micky became more forgiving of him. He was still in his early twenties then and I think that the death of his mother had made him realise that Richard was his only real family.
“Although he has never said as much, I think that his decision to help his father, rather than abandon him, was a way for him to help remove the stain on his family’s honour.”
Warren nodded thoughtfully as he sat back; the priest had left him with a lot to think about. Nevertheless, one final question remained.
“In your opinion and in strictest confidence, do you think Richard Cameron is capable of having raped and murdered this young woman?”
The priest sat back in his chair slowly. This time he didn’t fiddle with a teacup or otherwise try to bide time; he just sat there thinking. Finally, “I don’t think so. First of all, he never killed his other victims. What he did was terrible, but he never crossed that final line. Furthermore, he is terrified of prison. Even though he was on the sex-offenders wing of the prison, he was regularly abused by other prisoners and even, he claims, the guards. He attempted suicide several times. I genuinely don’t think that he would chance prison again. I fear that he might even try to take his own life if he thought that he was in danger of returning.”
The priest leant forward, his eyes imploring. “Please remember that, Detective. No matter what he has done in the past, don’t leave him feeling under threat of prison as you conduct your investigation. He is a very fragile individual. If you find that he has committed this awful crime, then throw away the key — until then please treat him with care.”
* * *
Warren sat in his car, thinking over what he’d just heard. Something wasn’t right. On the face of it, Cameron seemed an unlikely suspect. He had two very strong character references and an alibi. Furthermore, he had seemed genuinely scared about prison.
But on the flip side, the MO fitted perfectly and it was a hell of a coincidence that Cameron should be released and free in the same area as these attacks that used his old method. And, of course, if it was Cameron, then it was probably a stranger killing and Warren still thought of those as the exception rather than the rule.
So where did that leave them? The two next likeliest suspects both had some history of offending and both could be seen as having a motive. Again, Warren felt himself drawn back to the statistic that most murders were committed by people known to the victim.
* * *
Back at the station, time seemed to have slowed down to a crawl. Now that the exciting, obvious leads had dried up, it was down to basics and good old-fashioned detective work. After a brainstorming meeting with the team, Warren divided the detectives into smaller groups and assigned each of them specific tasks.
Sally Evans’ father, Bill Evans, was not yet out of the frame and so DC Willis and DS Johnson continued trying to track down his clandestine lover and verify his alibi. A small team from Traffic continued to study CCTV footage from around Far and Away. Now that a witness had confirmed that Blackheath’s distinctive car was outside the couple’s flat at the time of the murder, corroborating his story, he was no longer of interest to the team. However, Evans had disappeared during rush hour and the local surveillance and traffic cameras had picked up literally hundreds of different vehicles during the short window during which she was believed to have disappeared. With no direct coverage of the alleyway that Evans had been waiting in, the team was undertaking the tedious task of trying to piece together each vehicle’s journey from the many different cameras in the surrounding area, working out which of them would be realistically capable of kidnapping Evans from outside the rear entrance to her workplace.
Following Warren’s belief that stranger killings were the exception, rather than the rule, most of the rest of the team were busy turning Sally Evans’ life upside down. Friends, family, co-workers, ex-boyfriends, former neighbours, other students from her university days, all of them were scrutinised, sometimes even contacted.
In the meantime, Richard Cameron’s world was also probed. Everything the police and CPS had on the man from his original convictions, as well as more recent information gathered by the probation service, was scrutinised. The team looked for a link, no matter how small, between Cameron and Sally Evans.
By early evening, Warren could feel the enthusiasm in the office starting to wane as the team hit more and more dead ends. A phone call to Welwyn confirmed that it would be the next day before a report detailing the first results from the numerous outstanding forensic investigations was available. Warren tried to put a positive spin on it, by telling the investigators that what they were doing at that moment was preparing the ground so that they could act upon the next day’s evidence, but even to his ears it sounded like a meaningless platitude.
As he drove home that night, Warren felt low and dejected. Sally Evans had been killed almost a week ago and the investigation was already starting to lose momentum. The case needed an injection of something game-changing; it needed some sort of breakthrough, but at the moment Warren couldn’t see where that was going to come from. He grimac
ed in distaste, knowing what Det Supt Grayson would suggest: A press conference.
Chapter 20
As Warren settled down in front of the TV with a glass of beer and brooded, on the other side of town Carolyn Patterson decided to take advantage of the relatively mild weather and walk the mile home from her weekly boxercise class. It was the last session before Christmas and Carolyn was feeling a little guilty. With the festive season approaching, she’d vowed not to put on any weight, in preparation for her younger sister’s forthcoming wedding. She knew of course that on the big day all eyes would be on the bride; nevertheless the beautiful bridesmaid’s dress hanging in her wardrobe was still a little too tight and she had no intention of appearing bloated in the wedding photos. She was maid of honour, newly single and determined that she was going to make an entrance that every single man in the room would remember.
She’d been doing really well, up until tonight, when the pre-Christmas atmosphere had meant that her normal, post-exercise glass of wine with the girls from class had somehow become three. This had then been followed by a slice of the fantastic chocolate cake on offer behind the sports centre’s bar. She pouted at the memory. It was hardly fair, she thought, offering such eye-catching treats to people who’d just spent an hour exercising — it was like shooting fish in a barrel.
Not only did they make a huge amount of money from charging three pounds a slice, they also ensured a return visit to their facilities by guilt-ridden dieters desperate to atone for their moment of weakness. With that in mind, she decided that her New Year’s resolution would be to bring a banana and a bottle of water with her to class and to steer clear of the centre’s bar. At least until after the wedding.
Pulling her collar up to shield her face from the slight breeze and setting her iPod to shuffle, she set off towards her flat at a determined march. A fifteen-minute walk home, even at a brisk pace, wasn’t nearly enough to compensate for three glasses of sweet white wine and a slab of double-chocolate cake, oozing with chocolate icing, but it was a start, she decided. Tomorrow was her day off and she was planning on doing some Christmas shopping; if she walked into town instead of catching the bus and went for a swim at lunchtime, then maybe tonight wouldn’t be a complete disaster.
