Forgive Me Father

by Paul Gitsham

  ‘Can you preserve the samples in case we decide to pursue this at a later date?’ asked Warren.

  ‘Yes, I can freeze the eggs in liquid nitrogen.’

  ‘Do it.’

  Chapter 56

  Warren’s final job before taking off for the weekend was to stop off at the press office. It was sad, but the death of a homeless drug addict was never going to fill a press conference like the murder of an elderly priest. Without explicitly linking Lucas Furber to the ongoing investigation into the murders – which Warren was reluctant to do at this stage – the best they could hope for was for a half page in the Middlesbury Reporter, with an appeal for information. The prominence of the article and accompanying photo depended entirely on the other stories deemed newsworthy that day. Warren prayed that Middlesbury’s long-standing Member of Parliament didn’t finally decide that today was the day to announce his intentions for the upcoming general election.

  Therefore, it was well after lunch before Warren was finally able to drive home, shower, change and meet Susan. Consequently, it was late afternoon before they made it to Coventry.

  Granddad Jack’s front garden was as immaculate as always, although he had bowed to the inevitable and allowed Warren and Dennis, Susan’s father, to transfer plants to more easily maintained raised pots; 90-year-old knees don’t cope with weeding as well as they once did.

  The windowsills and front gate had been freshly painted by Susan the previous summer and the vibrant red was one of the few splashes of colour in the street.

  ‘Oh look, number twenty-six is up for sale. That must be why he’s finally tidied the front garden,’ commented Susan as they climbed out of the car.

  ‘Probably just as well, I can’t imagine that rusty old Ford Escort added much to the house price. Come to think of it, getting rid of it probably raised the value of every other property in the area,’ said Warren as he locked the car and took his overnight bag from Susan.

  The front door was opened by Jane, his second cousin. Warren had his own keys of course, but it didn’t feel right just walking in.

  Warren’s apology for not getting there sooner was met by the usual stiff smile that he’d grown to expect. Jane was a stay-at-home mother, who lived barely two miles from Granddad Jack, but still seemed unable to understand that it was harder for Warren and Susan, who lived a hundred miles away and worked full-time, to visit than it was for her.

  ‘We started without you.’

  ‘Of course, that’s fine,’ said Warren as he hung his coat up. ‘Where are the kids?’

  ‘They’ve gone home. It’ll be bath time soon and we don’t want to disrupt their routine.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a shame,’ said Warren, meaning it. He hadn’t seen his niece and nephew since Christmas, although even then Jane and her husband’s infamous ‘routine’ had curtailed their visit to just a couple of hours on Boxing Day. It was a marked contrast to the somewhat more free-wheeling parenting style of Susan’s sister Felicity and her husband Jeff whose gaggle of kids typically ran riot wherever they went.

  Warren hoped for a happy middle ground if – when – he and Susan finally had children. On impulse, he reached over and gave Susan’s hand a squeeze. The plan for the weekend was to forget about Monday’s pregnancy test and simply enjoy themselves. Not a chance. The two had barely said a word to each other during the two-hour journey, and if Susan’s state of mind was anything like Warren’s, not even the pressures of work could distract them for long.

  The first round of pleasantries over, Warren disengaged himself from Jane’s perfunctory hug and he and Susan headed into the small lounge.

  ‘How’s the birthday boy?’ asked Susan.

  ‘All the better for seeing you,’ replied Granddad Jack, as he struggled to his feet to embrace his granddaughter-in-law. Behind her, Warren couldn’t help but compare the old man in front of them with the person who’d still managed to hold court in the Lime Tree social club during his surprise ninetieth birthday party the year before.

  An inch or two shorter from an increasing stoop, his shoulder blades were sharp under a loose hanging jumper that had fit him perfectly twelve months ago. How much more weight had he lost?

  That being said, the beaming smile and shining eyes were a promising sign. The death three years ago of Nana Betty had left him depressed for a spell and Warren couldn’t help assessing his mood every time he called or visited. Touch wood, he seemed to be his old self.

  ‘Can I get you two a drink?’ called Dennis from the kitchen. Susan’s father had clearly been busy. Since finally retiring full-time, he’d thrown himself into his favourite hobby, cooking. Now, no visit was complete without a filled Tupperware box or two. The kitchen table where Warren had spent so much of his adolescence, was covered in food, all freshly baked. His stomach growled loudly.

  In recent months, Dennis had even encroached into his wife Bernice’s traditional territory, baking, and Christmas had required a degree of diplomacy as two, beautifully iced cakes had been presented to the assembled guests. With that in mind, Warren decided it would be safer not to enquire who was responsible for the impressive birthday cake. The rest of the fare on offer was clearly down to Dennis.

  ‘Just a Coke for me,’ said Warren. It was still late afternoon and although he and Susan planned on staying overnight, he wouldn’t feel relaxed enough to have a drink until late evening when he knew that it was unlikely that he’d be forced to drive back to Middlesbury.

  ‘Any news?’ asked Dennis quietly, when he could be sure that Bernice was out of earshot.

  Susan’s mother had made it abundantly clear that she disapproved of the couple’s decision to ignore the Catholic Church’s official position on assisted reproduction and embark on IVF. In recent months she had relented somewhat, unwilling to jeopardise her relationship with her daughter, and any future grandchildren, but it was still a subject best left untouched in her presence.

  ‘We’ll find out either way Monday,’ said Warren.

  Dennis clasped his shoulder; it was about as expressive as he ever got.

  ‘I saw you on the news,’ said Jane as Warren re-entered the living room.

  ‘Terrible business,’ said Bernice. ‘Those poor men. They spend a lifetime selflessly serving the good Lord and their community and they can’t even live out their retirement in peace. What sort of society do we live in where that sort of thing can happen?’

  ‘Any indication why they were targeted?’ asked Jane.

  ‘We’re pursuing a number of lines of inquiry,’ hedged Warren.

  ‘I bet it was one of those satanic cults that you read about,’ said Bernice primly.

  Susan rolled her eyes.

  ‘I reckon they were paedophiles getting their just desserts,’ said Jane. ‘You know what they’re like. You’re always hearing about them. Priests touching altar servers and all that.’

  ‘What a terrible thing to say,’ said Bernice. ‘Those men dedicated their life to doing good and as soon as they can’t defend themselves people start saying such horrible things about them.’

  ‘Well, whatever the reason, I’m sure Warren and his team will figure it out,’ said Susan, her tone suggesting the conversation was over.

  * * *

  ‘Sorry to interrupt the party, sir, but I thought you’d want to know right away what I’ve found out about Olivia Mason, the girl who accused Father Daugherty of inappropriate behaviour. I’m on a rest day tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s fine, go ahead, Hutch.’ Warren closed the kitchen door. Even with his hearing aids, Granddad Jack needed the TV turned up so loud that the living room door alone wasn’t enough to block the sound.

  ‘I tracked down the school’s safeguarding lead from the time that the complaint was made, a Mrs McCulloch. She still works there. She confirmed that the NFA was appropriate. Apparently the girl already had a history of trying to avoid punishment by making false accusations and had been caught in a lie a couple of times previously. Fortunately, the incident
with Father Daugherty was the last time she tried it. She was said to have been very upset when she realised the effect it had on him.’

  ‘Do we know what she’s doing these days? Is she still living in the area?’

  ‘Apparently the family were originally from Australia; her mother was a university lecturer. Olivia arrived at the school halfway through year eight, and they moved back after Olivia finished her exams at the end of year eleven. Some of the behaviour was probably due to the disruption. Apparently, Olivia was angry and upset about being uprooted from her friends and school in Australia, and found it hard to settle and make friends after arriving during the middle of a school year.’

  ‘Can we be sure that she isn’t back in the UK?’

  ‘She remained an Australian citizen, and according to UK Border control, neither she nor her immediate family have been back here in the past four years. We know that she had friends that she met whilst she was here, the original poster on Survivorsonline claimed that she knew her personally, so she could have incited someone from afar. But it seems unlikely, and there is certainly nothing suspicious in her public social media posts.’

  ‘Well, as alibis go, I think that’s pretty strong. Thanks Hutch. Enjoy the rest of your weekend, you’ve earned it.’

  As had many of the team; Warren realised that he’d forgotten to check the overtime logs to make sure nobody was working too many hours. He resolved to do that as soon as he got back.

  In the meantime, there was one more name off the suspect column.

  Chapter 57

  It was late evening, and Warren had decided to have a beer. The likelihood that he’d be called on to drive back to Middlesbury was now quite slim. Dennis and Bernice were getting ready to depart; Dennis had produced two large Tupperware boxes that he’d crammed with leftover food, so that was lunch sorted for the next week.

  Warren was just peeling back the tab on a can of lager when his phone rang. He stopped in his tracks.

  The caller ID showed the main CID switchboard. He placed the can down on the sideboard and answered.

  ‘Sir, I have Professor Jordan on the line. He says it’s urgent.’

  ‘Put him through.’

  There was a pause as the line went dead, before the background noise changed.

  ‘Sorry to call at this late hour.’

  ‘Not at all, Ryan, I appreciate it.’

  ‘I’ve got the toxicology results back from Lucas Furber.’

  ‘Tell me what you’ve found.’

  ‘First off, I was right. It was an opiate overdose that killed him.’

  ‘Good.’ Warren waited, Jordan wouldn’t have been so insistent in speaking to him if he was just confirming what they already suspected. An email or a voicemail would have been sufficient.

  ‘I sent a sample of the drug residue of for testing. It came back as heroin. But not just that, it also had hospital-grade morphine mixed in.’

  ‘Which presumably increased the drug’s potency?’

  ‘You’d think so. But actually it’s not that clear cut. Plus, morphine isn’t very soluble in water. It’s one of the reasons that diamorphine – heroin – is sometimes used in hospitals.’

  ‘But he still died of an overdose?’

  ‘Yes. In fact, it was a massive overdose. Probably exacerbated, in part, by a blood alcohol concentration of 212 milligrams per millilitre. From what I can tell, Furber had been clean of heroin for several months. In that time his tolerance for the drug would have decreased markedly; I imagine he could still withstand a bigger dose than either you or I, but if he used the same amount of drug as he used previously, it would probably have killed him. It’s what happens to all those celebrities that OD after being clean for a long period of time. The amount he took was already much higher than necessary to kill him, there was no need to doctor the drug.’

  ‘What do you mean doctor the drug? Are you saying that drug he took wasn’t street heroin? I thought they mixed all sorts of crap into it?’

  ‘They do, but usually it’s low-cost filler to increase their profit margins. Hospital grade morphine is expensive, compared to the stuff they usually use. According to the person I spoke to at the drugs unit, it’s extremely unlikely that they would have wasted high quality morphine in street heroin. He can’t recall ever seeing it.’

  Warren took a few moments to digest what Ryan had said.

  ‘So the heroin that Furber decided to take – despite months of being apparently clean – was cut with a drug that would have likely reduced its potency, and is too expensive to make financial sense for a street dealer to use?’

  ‘As far as I can tell, that’s about the size of it.’

  ‘That doesn’t make any sense, unless he was killed by someone who knew little or nothing about the drugs they were supplying to him.’

  ‘That sort of speculation is beyond my remit, obviously, but it seems the most logical explanation. Unless you’re involved in that sub-culture or know habitual drug users, that information isn’t as easy to come by as you might think. You can’t exactly find it on Wikipedia and the specialist internet forums where users share tips like these are blocked by a lot of internet service providers. To be fair, ask a hundred people on the street if mixing high quality hospital morphine with crappy street heroin would increase or decrease the potency and I reckon most would guess that it would increase it.’

  Warren agreed with his assessment.

  ‘So next question, where could the killer have got the morphine?’

  ‘The immediate answer these days is the internet; so-called dark websites that don’t get picked up by the regular search engines.’

  Warren was familiar with the idea of the deep or dark web – the 90 per cent of the internet that was hidden from the sight of the casual user and even ‘surface’ search engines such as Google or Bing. He’d been to a number of workshops on the increasing use of this part of the web by criminals. Not everything on the dark web was illegal of course. Many legitimate businesses kept the non-public part of their internet presence hidden out of site, whilst citizens of oppressive regimes used the anonymity that often came with such sites to live their online lives free from persecution.

  The example that immediately sprang to mind was Survivorsonline. Warren wasn’t sure if simply instructing search engines to skip over the site and not index it counted as the dark web, but it implied that the killer, who very likely used the victims’ forum, was at least familiar with the concept.

  Warren said as much to Ryan.

  ‘That’s well outside my area of expertise, Warren. Of course, there’s a simpler way of obtaining hospital-grade morphine. A hospital.’

  Sunday 15th March

  Chapter 58

  First thing Sunday morning, Warren and Susan drove Granddad Jack to church for the Lent mass. Neither of the Jones had been to church since their excruciating annual visit to midnight mass. The priest had again thanked Mr Potter for making the accompanying carol service so memorable and again speculation in the car on the way home had centred around how the hapless organist managed to butcher the same carols every single year, without any evidence of improvement.

  Warren had been so pre-occupied with the case that he’d almost forgotten that Sunday also marked Mother’s Day. A reminder from Susan the previous evening gave him enough time to buy a bunch of his mother’s favourite flowers to place on her grave. He’d also bought some of Nana Betty’s favourite blooms, to spruce up her plot.

  The bidding prayers opened with a general request for the Lord’s help and protection for those who did God’s work, and a more specific appeal for His assistance in finding those responsible for the murders in Middlesbury. Warren doubted that the prayers were inspired by his presence – he imagined similar petitions were being made up and down the country – nevertheless, Warren’s face had been on television and there were enough members of the congregation who knew him, for him to keep his eyes down-turned, avoiding any curious gazes. He imagined he could feel the
curious stares burning into the back of his head and he resolved not to linger any longer than was necessary when the service ended.

  The service passed in a blur, the readings and gospel forgotten as soon as he heard them. The familiar routines of the Catholic litany, usually a source of familiarity and comfort for even an occasional church-goer like Warren, seemed hollow and insincere. The message boards on Survivorsonline contained allegations about dozens of priests, but surely they were only the tip of the iceberg? And whilst it appeared that Father Daugherty had been the unfortunate victim of a malicious allegation, that was certainly the exception rather than the rule. Warren had been to too many seminars and briefings about abuse to be under any illusion that the majority of victims were telling anything but the truth.

  He found himself staring at the priest’s back as the elderly celebrant prepared the altar for the Eucharist. How many apparently normal priests were secret paedophiles? How many led clandestine second lives, exploiting the shame and embarrassment of their helpless victims and the wilful ignorance of their fellow church members to commit such despicable acts?

  Surely it was only a small percentage? According to some reports, the proportion of abusers in the church broadly reflected the proportion of abusers in the general population; but such data was hard to verify.

  But that wasn’t really the point.

  Warren had been brought up like all Catholic children, to regard priests as God’s representatives on Earth. After all, if you couldn’t trust a priest, who could you trust?

  As an adult, he’d learnt that even priests are fallible. The things he’d witnessed in the line of duty had left him cynical when it came to human nature. He’d long grown out of such childhood naivety. And yet here in his childhood church, surrounded by people he had known all his life, enveloped in familiar comforting rituals, he felt transported back to that childhood.

  The betrayal made him feel sick, and it made him angry.