Forgive Me Father

by Paul Gitsham

  ‘And we’re confident that it was a false allegation?’

  Again, Hutchinson replied, ‘Sergeant Ingram was pretty certain when he spoke to DCI Jones, and I spoke to the school’s safeguarding lead who said that she retracted everything and was upset at all of the trouble she’d caused.’

  ‘And for what it’s worth, Bishop Fisher seemed confident it was a false allegation,’ chipped in Warren.

  ‘Yeah, but not everyone was convinced he was innocent,’ said Richardson. ‘The allegations on Survivorsonline were from someone claiming to be a friend of hers. Not to mention the other users on the forum.’

  ‘Where are we in terms of a warrant for the server logs?’ asked Warren.

  Pymm shrugged. ‘The warrant has been drafted by the Social Media Intelligence Unit, but they’ve told us not to get our hopes up.’

  Sutton had been pulling at his lip thoughtfully.

  ‘I’ve had another thought about Bishop Fisher and his refusal to cooperate.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Warren, a slight edge in his voice. He didn’t want to shoot down Sutton in front of the rest of the team, but he wasn’t prepared to tolerate another debate about the rights and wrongs of priest-penitent confidentiality.

  ‘I can’t be the only person who has seen the parallels between Bishop Fisher and the abbot in charge of the abbey back at the time of the medieval murders?’

  A few shrugs around the table suggested that few had given it much thought.

  ‘Abbot Godwine was his name,’ supplied Pymm.

  ‘Well, what happened to him?’ continued Sutton. ‘Was he killed? Was he a suspicious death, or was he implicated in the abuse? There certainly seems to be a suggestion that he helped cover it up or at least dismissed the allegations.’

  ‘A good question,’ said Warren. He turned to Pymm, ‘Rachel, carry on looking for any references to the fate of Abbot Godwine. He could be our next target.’

  Pymm shook her head. ‘We haven’t found much reference yet to Abbot Godwine in the monks’ diaries, but we’re still less than halfway through the boxes you gave us; it’s really slow going. However, I do know that he wasn’t killed in the 1520s when these events took place. Amongst Vernon Coombs’ notes were some photocopies from a textbook about the dissolution of the monasteries. Abbot Godwine is mentioned several times as having tried to negotiate with Thomas Cromwell and his deputies over the terms of the abbey’s surrender, but he eventually gave up in 1539 and left, probably to return to Spain where the order originated.’ Pymm gave a grim smile. ‘It was probably just as well, given what happened to the abbots of Colchester, Reading and Glastonbury. Hanged, drawn and quartered for treason apparently.’

  ‘So Godwine wasn’t killed directly by Simon Scrope then,’ summarised Warren. ‘Of course, it doesn’t mean our killer won’t decide to murder Bishop Fisher anyway, so we can’t rule out his being a target. In the meantime, keep on looking for clues to any potential further victims, Rachel. I have a feeling that the key to this case may lie somewhere in that pile of paper.’

  Chapter 67

  Warren left work as early as possible. The previous day had been bruising for both him and Susan and he still felt guilty for not taking the rest of the day off. Neither of them had really spoken when he’d arrived home that night, and he knew that whether Susan wanted to or not, they needed to talk about their disappointment before they could move on.

  Their next implantation attempt was some weeks away, and so Warren decided a bottle of decent red from the Marks and Spencer service station, supplemented with a box of Susan’s favourite chocolates, might help matters along. Flowers also seemed like a good idea, but as always, staring at the tub of bouquets, he had no idea what to get.

  The first bunch was too bright and cheerful, almost celebratory. The one next to it looked suspiciously like something one bought if the date of your anniversary had slipped your mind. The bunch of red roses certainly communicated how much he loved his wife, but seemed a bit too much like date night and Warren was sure he’d heard somewhere that chrysanthemums were associated with funerals – which might match their mood, but would hardly help matters.

  He thought about asking the woman behind the till, but couldn’t bring himself to say what was on his mind: that he needed a bunch of flowers to tell his wife that no matter what, he would always love her and even though they felt as if they had suffered a bereavement, they would lick their wounds and move on, and that this one crushing defeat wouldn’t break them.

  Eventually, he settled on some daffodils. Keep it simple – in the end it’s the thought that counts, he decided.

  Arriving home, he saw that Susan’s car was in the driveway. The living room light was on and the curtains were still open. He stood on the doorstep, composing his features, readying himself for whatever awaited him. The previous day, Susan had been stoic. Almost matter-of-fact, citing probabilities of first-time success, talking about how transplanting frozen embryos was almost as successful as implanting freshly fertilised eggs and how they’d known they were in it for the long-haul. She’d flatly refused to take the day off.

  ‘We’ve been trying for a baby for years. This is simply another failed pregnancy test, just like all the others. I can’t take a day off every month.’

  Warren hadn’t believed her, but he knew that pushing the matter at that time wouldn’t help, and that Susan would process her emotions at her own pace. He just worried that the building emotions could only be kept in check for so long and that he wouldn’t be there when the dam finally burst.

  Opening the door, he stepped across the threshold.

  One look at Susan’s face told him everything he needed to know; the dam had burst.

  * * *

  Ten o’clock and the dam, if not sealed, was at least only leaking now. Susan lay with her head on Warren’s chest. The TV was off, quiet music played in the background. In front of them the remains of a pizza delivery were going cold and the box of chocolates was nearly empty. The bottle of wine sat unopened in the kitchen, its chemical catalyst having proven unnecessary.

  Susan had finally stopped apologising for being so emotional and accepted Warren’s assurances that what she – what they – were feeling was normal. Then the apologies had started about her not taking care of herself properly; about rushing back to work too soon. Again, Warren had worked hard to soothe them away. It didn’t escape his notice that he was saying the exact same things that Susan had said to him every time his latest clinic results had come back.

  By the time they’d finished their pizza, the two of them were far more relaxed; the disappointment and sadness weren’t gone – and Warren suspected that the feelings would make themselves felt again at the least expected times – but the two had resolved to continue with their battle.

  ‘Tell me about your day,’ said Susan.

  ‘Nothing much to tell, really,’ lied Warren.

  ‘Now who’s keeping things bottled up inside?’ admonished Susan.

  Warren sighed. She was right. The case was starting to gnaw away at him.

  Warren thought back to Sunday’s church visit and the conflict he still felt. Despite his growing ambivalence towards his faith, he hadn’t been prepared for the crushing disappointment he’d felt as Bishop Fisher had sat opposite him and refused to help him right previous wrongs and even prevent future killings. And what if Bishop Fisher was involved in the murders? If he had somehow decided that the sanctity of the confessional was more important than the commandment not to kill? How could the church as a whole elevate the sacrament of confession to a point where keeping silent about what was said was more important than preventing harm to the most vulnerable in society?

  That some members of the church were capable of such wickedness was hardly a revelation; the church had been beset by scandals for decades – centuries even, if Vernon Coombs’ research was to be believed – but it still hurt, Warren realised.

  As a child he had been taught that a priest’s love was endless
and that they could be trusted implicitly. He had fond memories of Father McGavin, the stoop-shouldered man who’d seemed impossibly old to a 7-year-old Warren, as he’d knelt in front of him confessing his sins, before later receiving his first Holy Communion from him. Father McGavin had been a natural with children. Able to still the most unruly child with a steely glare from the pulpit, in person he was warm and humorous. Who knew that a priest could tell jokes?

  Granddad Jack still had the picture of Warren posing in his white shirt and red tie, next to Father McGavin and Archbishop Eddington, as he was confirmed in his final year of primary school. His sombre expression reflected the weight of expectation on his 11-year-old shoulders as he became a full member of the Catholic Church.

  Things had moved on – Warren had moved on – but still he felt betrayed; the powerful feelings he had experienced in church had only intensified since his interview with Fisher.

  Susan listened quietly as Warren stumbled through his explanation, articulating feelings that he hadn’t even been aware that he had before now.

  ‘You know these men only represent a tiny, perverted minority, don’t you?’ she said finally.

  ‘Yeah, I know. I’d even be willing to accept that they are less prevalent than in society as a whole. What really upsets me is that the church’s very structure seems set up to protect these men.’ He snorted. ‘And now I sound like Tony.’

  Susan craned her neck to look at him more closely.

  ‘What’s happened with Tony?’

  Warren sighed again and told her of Sutton’s belligerent attitude towards Bishop Fisher and, it would seem, the church itself. Sutton clearly shared many of the feelings that Warren did regarding confession, but there was more to it. He almost felt as though his friend was judging him for his beliefs, even though Sutton himself was a regular attendee at his local Anglican church.

  ‘You need to speak to him,’ said Susan. ‘You have to clear the air. You’ve said yourself that he is expressing views that could be regarded as unprofessional if the wrong person overheard them.’

  ‘I know, I just need to figure out how best to go about it,’ said Warren.

  ‘He’s your friend. Do it privately. God knows he isn’t afraid to speak his mind to you, when he wants to. Perhaps you need to do the same, you can’t let this issue damage your friendship.’

  Warren forced a smile and kissed his wife on the forehead.

  ‘You’re right as usual. I’ll try and grab lunch with him, so we can have it out away from the office.’

  ‘Were you ever in any doubt? Now do as you’re told.’

  Warren kissed her again, this time full on the lips. The clock on the mantelpiece showed just past 11 p.m. A lie-in mid-week was impossible, but he resolved not to get up and leave before Susan awoke the next morning.

  Warren’s phone had slipped down the side of the sofa, as they’d lain there talking; its vibration was muffled and barely audible.

  Warren felt a stab of frustration at the interruption, followed by a nagging alarm. How many calls had he missed?

  The number on the screen was an unknown mobile number, and it had tried to call twice before; it was clearly important, whatever it was. He stabbed the answer button, mouthing an apology to Susan.

  A minute later he hung up.

  ‘That was Jane. Granddad Jack’s in hospital.’

  Wednesday 18th March

  Chapter 68

  ‘There are three cab firms in Copperston,’ said Pymm. ‘The local council has been having a real crackdown on rogue operators, so they claim that none of their drivers are picking up passengers who hail them on the street.’

  Tony Sutton snorted his disbelief at the taxi firm’s assertion. He was due to take the morning briefing in Warren’s absence and wanted to pass on her findings to the rest of the team.

  ‘Well, that’s what they claim,’ continued Pymm. ‘Anyway, it means that they do have records, and guess what?’

  ‘The suspense is killing me.’

  ‘Two different cab firms logged a pick-up from Stonehill Mews on the edge of the town and a drop off on Woodvale Road, about two hundred metres from the locksmith. Alpha Cabs did it on Friday the sixteenth of January and Premier Cars did it on Thursday the twenty-second. On both days, there were then pickups from Old Kiln Street – which is around the corner from Woodvale Road about half an hour after the original journey, both times dropping off within two hundred metres of Stonehill Mews. The cab firms were switched for the return journey, so Premier Cars did it on the sixteenth of January and Alpha Cabs on the twenty-second.’

  ‘Impressive, but how do you know it was the same passenger?’

  Pymm smiled and lowered her voice.

  ‘Keep it to yourself, but I cheated. Customers are asked to leave a contact number. I just scrolled down the lists from the two firms and spotted the unregistered mobile number that Moray got from the locksmith.’

  ‘Your secret’s safe with me,’ said Sutton.

  * * *

  Warren had managed less than three hours of fitful sleep on his cousin Jane’s sofa. On the plus side, less sleep meant fewer opportunities to dream, which at the moment was a blessing.

  ‘Warren, we have to face facts. He’s 91 years old. Should he still be living on his own?’

  Jane looked just as exhausted as Warren. The two of them were sitting at her kitchen table, drinking coffee. Around them, her two children squabbled and fought over nothing. They were too young to understand what was going on, but the unexpected appearance of their dimly remembered uncle in the middle of the night, and the tense atmosphere in the house, had unsettled them. Jane’s husband, Hugo, had arranged to go into work late so that he could organise the nursery run, and allow Jane a lie-in, but she had been up at her usual time, unable to sleep any later.

  ‘What did the doctor say?’ asked Warren.

  ‘He said that it all depends on how well Jack recovers after the operation. The break was a clean one, easily pinned, and Jack wasn’t lying on the floor too long before he managed to trigger his alarm – at least he was wearing it.’ Jack had taken a lot of persuading to wear the radio-operated alert around his neck – Warren was glad they had persevered.

  ‘The doctor says that at the very least, if … when … Jack gets out of the hospital he’ll probably need residential respite care for a few weeks or months until they are satisfied that he can live on his own again. Even then, he’s likely to need regular home visits, and they’re unsure how well the leg will support his weight.’ She paused. ‘Warren, Hugo has been offered a new job. In Nottingham. And we’ve already put an offer in on a house there.’

  It took a moment for what she had said to sink in.

  Nottingham was over fifty miles away. Close enough to drive there and back in a day, but too far away for Jane to visit daily, even if Hugo did the school and nursery run.

  What about Bernice and Dennis? Susan’s parents loved Jack dearly, regularly popping around, taking him shopping and to church, and down the local for a pint. But they were spending increasing amounts of time playing grandparents to Susan’s sister’s ever-increasing brood, a commitment that would only increase if Susan and Warren finally made them grandparents for the fifth time.

  But Granddad Jack in a home?

  Warren could barely imagine it. Yet wasn’t it inevitable? He’d always known that this time would come. Granddad Jack was a fit and healthy man, with the heart and lungs of someone twenty years his junior, but Warren knew that at that age the clock was ticking ever louder and the rest of his body was succumbing to the inevitable march of time. He’d just found it easier to ignore it. How many times had he changed the conversation when it strayed too close to uncomfortable decisions?

  ‘Home visits …’ Warren couldn’t bear the thought. They all knew what that meant. Overworked, underpaid strangers racing from appointment to appointment, with barely enough time to say hello to Granddad Jack before they helped him with his most intimate needs … No. He coul
dn’t do that to him. Granddad Jack and Nana Betty had been Warren’s de facto parents, helping his mother bring him up after his father’s death, providing him with a quiet place to do his homework and later a bed whenever he needed to get out of the house to avoid the increasing arguments between his mother and his older brother, James.

  Jane must have seen the look on his face. She reached over and took her cousin’s hand.

  ‘Let’s not put the cart before the horse. We’ve got a few weeks to think about this and decide what’s best, and we’ll see what Jack’s thoughts are on the matter. He may have his own ideas.’

  Warren nodded numbly. He looked over at the clock.

  ‘What time can we visit?’

  ‘The doctor said that no news is good news. If we haven’t received a call sooner, we can go in any time after nine. It’s his first day on the ward, he’ll want familiar faces.’

  Warren looked at the clock again, working out in his head how long it would take to get to University Hospital, or whatever they called Walsgrave these days, vowing to be at the nursing station at 9 a.m. precisely. Granddad Jack had already been prepped for surgery by the time he’d arrived the previous night, and he had only Jane’s assessment of how he was before he was put under. Groggy from the pain relief and confused had been her opinion.

  Warren had been able to sit with him for a few minutes after he came out of surgery, as he slept off the anaesthetic. The surgeon had pronounced himself satisfied with the operation, but Granddad Jack had looked so small in the hospital bed, his face bruised and cut where he’d hit the floor as he’d fallen, that Warren had been shocked.

  Jack’s right wrist had been bandaged, swollen from where he’d tried to catch himself, but it was the broken left femur that had been the big worry. As much as Warren tried to fool himself when it came to Granddad Jack’s health, he knew that such an injury was very bad news in one so old. The forced inactivity alone could lead to complications such as pneumonia. Despite the apparent success of the operation, Warren knew that it was far from a done deal that Granddad Jack would be coming home.