by Paul Gitsham
* * *
‘Take however long you need,’ said Grayson.
Warren was in the visitors’ room off Granddad Jack’s ward. His DSI, despite his faults, was a very family-oriented man; he’d been very understanding when Nana Betty had passed away a few years previously, taking Warren’s especially close relationship with his grandparents into account and authorising additional compassionate leave. Nevertheless, Warren could hear the strain in the man’s voice.
No investigation, especially one as wide-ranging and complex as this one, relied entirely on one person. Warren knew that if he was suddenly indisposed, he could be replaced immediately. But it wasn’t an ideal situation, and he would rather not place the team in that position.
He rubbed the bridge of his nose and breathed deeply. His neck was stiff; whether it was from his awkward night’s sleep on the sofa or was linked to the tension headache that paracetamol wouldn’t dent, he was unsure. He felt as if he was being pulled in a dozen directions at once. Even though Tony Sutton had brought him up-to-date on the latest progress and assured him that everything was in hand, and Susan had insisted that she too was fine, Warren wanted to be there with them. Yet Granddad Jack was still asleep after his ordeal; Warren had no idea how he would be when he woke up and his heart told him he should be there, by his bedside until he was satisfied.
‘I’ll be speaking to the doctors and I’ll see how Granddad Jack is when he wakes up, then I’ll let you know when I’m coming back.’
‘Good. Let me know when you arrive, we need a quick chat.’
Despite his preoccupation, Warren heard the slight edge in the man’s voice.
‘Is there a problem, sir?’
The end of the line was silent. ‘We just need to speak,’ Grayson responded eventually.
‘About something in particular?’
Despite himself, Warren had to know. If there was a problem, he’d rather be forewarned.
This time the pause was longer. Eventually Grayson sighed.
‘I shouldn’t have said anything, you’ve got enough on your plate,’
‘Well, you may as well tell me now,’ said Warren.
‘Your interview with Bishop Fisher has ruffled a few feathers. I’ve been asked to discuss the matter with you.’
‘I see.’
‘It’s not a big deal, and you’re not in any trouble.’
‘I’ll let you know when I’m back,’ Warren said, before hanging up.
Could the day get any worse?
* * *
Granddad Jack was confused, but coherent when he finally woke up a little after10 a.m. Fortunately the restorative powers of a cup of tea helped ease the situation, and within twenty minutes, he was able to tell them what had happened.
‘Bloody leg went to sleep.’ Granddad Jack’s voice was hoarse, but steadily gaining strength. ‘I was dozing in front of the TV and I must have been sitting awkwardly. When I woke up, I needed the bathroom. I got up and the damn thing just gave way underneath me. I managed not to hit the coffee table when I went down, but I heard it go snap.’ He grimaced.
Warren shuddered. Granddad Jack’s legs were hidden under the sheets, but the huge bulge on that side spoke of the extensive framework that supported the pinned bone.
‘Luckily, I had that necklace thing on.’ For the first time since Warren and Jane had arrived, a smile ghosted across the old man’s face. ‘Feel free to tell me you told me so.’
The lump in Warren’s throat stopped him from saying anything.
* * *
By lunchtime, Granddad Jack was able to eat a small sandwich. Afterwards, he drifted off to sleep.
Warren and Jane spoke to the doctor in charge of his care.
‘He’s remarkably tough for a man of his years. I normally expect far more confusion at this stage, and he seems to be adjusting well to his pain relief. I’ve seen no sign of any infection. His chest is clear and his vitals are pretty good – I wish I had his blood pressure.’
‘Any idea of his longer-term progress?’ asked Warren.
‘Far too early to say. In the short term, we need to get that bone healing and as soon as possible get him mobile again. Muscle wasting happens at an alarming rate at this age, so we’ll want to minimise that.’
‘How long do you think he’ll be in here?’ asked Jane.
‘Again, it’s difficult to say. I suggest we take it day by day for now.’
With Granddad Jack apparently settled, Warren had a decision to make. Much to his surprise, it was Jane that pushed him to return to work.
‘You heard what the doctor said, he’s stable. There’s nothing you can do for now. Bernice and Dennis are coming over this afternoon, and they’ve stopped by Jack’s house to pick up a few things for him.’
‘But I can’t just leave him,’ Warren protested.
‘We’ve been watching the case on TV and Jack has been following it in the papers. We all know what you’re dealing with in Middlesbury. You’re needed down there; I can fit hospital visits around the school runs for a few days. I’ll keep you updated and I’m sure you can get back here quickly enough if you need to.’
‘I don’t know …’ started Warren.
‘Just bugger off and go back to work,’ came a weak voice from the bed. Granddad Jack’s eyes were closed, but he had a faint smile on his face. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’
Chapter 69
The drive back to Middlesbury was surprisingly stress-free, both the M6 and the A14 had been clear of heavy traffic, and so Warren made good time, arriving back at CID by late afternoon. He quickly texted Susan and Jane to let them know he had arrived safely; Jane replied that Jack was awake again and talking to Bernice and Dennis. Taking a deep breath, Warren headed for Grayson’s office.
Grayson offered him a steaming mug of coffee, which Warren inhaled gratefully. Usually, when a bollocking was in order, Grayson dispensed with the hospitality. However, the day was an unusual one, and so Warren couldn’t read the signals. After inquiring about Granddad Jack’s health, he told Warren to take a seat.
‘First of all, I have been assured that the diocese of Herts and Essex is keen to cooperate in any way that they can, including the release of any necessary documents. Obviously, they are very concerned about the two murders. They are also worried about the potential links to previous abuse scandals. It’s something the church as a whole is wrestling with at the moment and they are remaining open-minded as to the motive for these killings.’
‘But?’
Grayson paused.
‘Your questioning of Bishop Emeritus Fisher yesterday was … robust.’
‘Has he complained?’
‘Not directly, but Bishop Fisher’s presence here did not go unnoticed.’
‘Then who complained?’
‘Assistant Chief Constable Naseem has been under significant pressure from above to ensure that this case runs smoothly. And by the book. Without any unnecessary drama.’ Grayson raised a hand slightly. ‘His words, not mine.’
‘Above’ in this case could only really mean one thing; the Home Office, perhaps even the Home Secretary herself.
‘If you review the recordings, you will see that the interview was conducted under PACE and that I was professional at all times,’ stated Warren.
‘I have watched the recordings, and I agree that you were doing your job correctly. There is no cause for complaint about your conduct in that interview. ACC Naseem agrees with that assessment.’
Shit, thought Warren. Naseem had directly reviewed the recordings?
‘We also both believe that your suggestion that Bishop Fisher was aware of the alleged offences through confession with the priests concerned, but chose not to reveal them, has merit.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ responded Warren, his tone a little more sarcastic than normal.
Grayson paused for a moment, before deciding to ignore Warren’s manner and continue.
‘However, we are concerned about what might have be
en said after the recording was terminated at Bishop Fisher’s request.’
‘Oh, for—’
‘Warren.’ The sharp edge to Grayson’s voice cut him off. ‘According to the CCTV outside the interview suite, you and Bishop Fisher didn’t leave the room for seven minutes after the interview recording was stopped. Bishop Fisher looked agitated when he left. The custody sergeant reported that raised voices were heard.’
‘You aren’t seriously suggesting that I behaved inappropriately towards Bishop Fisher after the recording ended, are you?’ Warren couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
‘Of course not, don’t be bloody silly. And neither is ACC Naseem.’
‘Then what are you getting at? You can read my notes; I wrote down exactly what was said after the meeting.’
Grayson stood up and walked back over to the coffee machine, topping up both of their mugs without asking. When he sat back down, his voice was quieter.
‘This case really is the proverbial hot potato and there is potential all around for fingers to be badly burned. Very badly burned.’
‘Are you suggesting that there is pressure to drop the case?’
Grayson appeared shocked.
‘Absolutely not.’ For the first time Warren caught a glimpse of steel. ‘We follow this case through to the end. If your suspicions are correct, then we’ll nail these bastards, and ACC Naseem feels exactly the same. And if that causes red faces – or worse – then frankly, so what?’
‘Then what are you saying?’
‘When you handle a hot potato, you need to use extra care. You have to make certain that you follow all the correct procedures to ensure that you don’t hurt yourself.’
The metaphor was becoming increasingly tortured, and Warren decided to step in.
‘I see what you are saying. Keep the tape recording running and make sure I have my facts straight.’
‘That’s all I … that’s all we ask.’
Grayson took another sip of his coffee. Warren waited, He could tell that there was more to come.
This time, Grayson’s voice was even quieter, as if he wanted to avoid being overheard.
‘This doesn’t go any further than this office.’
‘Of course.’
‘This case puts ACC Naseem in an especially difficult position. Had he known the direction it was likely to go in, he probably would have passed it over to somebody else. Unfortunately, he’s now stuck with it.’
Warren had a feeling where Grayson was going with it. He felt shocked.
‘Is it because he’s a Muslim?’
‘In a nutshell, yes. After that problem with the far-right over the summer, Naseem came under a lot of flak on social media and in the gutter press. I’m ashamed to say that there were even a few in our own ranks who questioned his suitability to oversee such a case.’
Warren remembered it well. Naseem’s religion had been used against him in some quarters, with criticisms ranging from insidious questions about how a practising Muslim could be impartial when overseeing an investigation involving Islamophobic organisations such as the British Allegiance Party, to outright accusations of an Islamist conspiracy to destroy those defending British identity.
‘Shit.’ Warren’s shock was fast turning to anger. ‘I’ve not been following the news. Is he in the firing line again?’
‘Not yet, but this needs to be handled sensitively. I’m sure you are aware of the child sex-rings recently uncovered in the North of England? All those charged are of Pakistani British Muslim origin. Just like ACC Naseem. The concern is that some are going to claim that Naseem will use this to deflect attention away from the Muslim community back onto white Christians.’
‘But that’s madness, he’d never do such a thing,’ stated Warren.
‘It doesn’t matter, we both know that sort of conspiracy feeds directly into the belief systems of these people. Facts are irrelevant. Warren, if this investigation isn’t seen to be squeaky clean, the fall-out from this case will go far beyond the Catholic Church and could very well be seized upon by those with scores to settle.’
Warren was shocked by the hypocrisy of the situation and said as much.
‘You do realise that I’m a Catholic, don’t you?’ Now was not the time to mention his brewing crisis of faith. ‘And that the exact same allegations could be levelled against me if we don’t prove anything?’
‘Warren …’
‘You can’t tell me that nobody has considered that possibility? How long will it be until somebody decides that it might be good PR to remove me from the case?’
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘We can’t win either way on this one – try and prove that Bishop Fisher is harbouring paedophile priests and people will claim that Naseem is trying to deflect attention away from abusers in the Muslim community onto white Christian men. But on the other hand, if we can’t prove our case, victims’ groups are going to claim that the loyal Catholic has managed to protect his beloved church.’
‘Warren!’ snapped Grayson. ‘Take a deep breath and calm down.’
Warren slumped back into his chair, his arms folded.
‘You’re acting like a teenager.’ Grayson took a deep breath of his own. When he spoke again, his tone was softer. ‘You’re stressed and you’re tired. Have you even eaten properly today?’
Warren said nothing.
‘I thought not. Go and have a proper lunch, phone your wife and get yourself home at a decent hour tonight.’
Warren nodded numbly. Grayson was probably right. He headed for the door.
Grayson called after him, as he exited the office.
‘And no more bloody coffee. You can pass that onto Tony Sutton as well.’
Chapter 70
The man calling himself Peanut could have been any age between twenty and forty; it was impossible to tell. Obviously Peanut wasn’t his real name, but he’d threatened to walk out when Warren asked him what he was really called. How much of the man’s agitation was fear and how much was due to whatever chemical cocktail he was coming down from, was unclear.
The call had come in to the main switchboard moments after Warren had left Grayson’s office, from an unregistered mobile phone. Not only had he refused to give a name, he’d insisted that he had to speak to Warren personally. Warren had arranged to meet him when he was free, later that afternoon.
The number he called from wasn’t the same as the number that had reported Lucas Furber’s body, but Peanut claimed he hadn’t been the one to call in Furber’s death. After listening to the two recordings back-to-back repeatedly, the team had been unable to decide if the callers’ voices matched or not. Forensic voice analysis would tell them either way, if Warren decided the expense was necessary.
The CCTV Richardson had obtained from Sainsbury’s clearly identified Furber as he bought the reduced quiche that constituted his last meal. Unfortunately, it also showed him arriving and leaving alone. Intermittent sightings of him on other surveillance cameras on his way to and from the store, also failed to identify anyone else with him. The man in front of Warren was the only person they knew of that had actually known the victim in any meaningful sense.
‘I saw him in December. He was in a bad way.’
‘Drugs?’ asked Warren. After his recent admonishment from Grayson, he’d taken extra care to ensure that the PACE recorder was running.
‘No, well, not really. Booze mostly. A bit of weed or a few pills maybe.’
‘Not heroin?’
‘No, he’d been off the gear for ages. It’s why we stopped seeing each other.’
‘How so?’
‘I’m a bad influence.’ The man smiled, revealing yellow teeth; but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. If anything he looked as though he might cry.
‘You were close?’
‘Yeah.’ The word communicated so much that Warren decided to move on.
‘Tell me about Lucas.’
The man’s face softened slightly.
&nbs
p; ‘He was a good man. He … cared, you know?’ The man sniffed. ‘I was a mess when I first ended up on the street. I’d decided I needed to get away from things and so I moved to Stevenage. God knows why. I had no idea what to do, or where to go. I needed money and within a week I was doing stuff for blokes that they couldn’t get their wives to do for them.
‘Lucas got me out of that. He showed me where to get food, how to get help.’ He paused. ‘We were good together.’
‘How long ago was this?’
‘About two years. Lucas had been on the street for a year or so longer.’
‘When did you and Lucas stop seeing each other?’
‘Last summer. We’d been growing apart for ages, ever since we’d moved to Middlesbury in the spring. I thought maybe he was seeing someone else. I dunno, he always denied it. Then he said he wanted to get clean. He’d got a place on a program. One of those ones run by the church.’
‘And you didn’t join him.’
Peanut said nothing for the next few seconds, suddenly becoming interested in a piece of fluff on his tracksuit bottoms, ‘I wasn’t ready,’ he said eventually.
‘Do you know if he was successful?’
‘Yeah. That’s why I called you.’
‘Go on.’
‘I saw his picture on the front of the Reporter in the Phoenix centre. They said he’d taken a drug overdose. But it didn’t sound right.’
‘What are you saying, Peanut?’
‘I think he might have been murdered. I want you to find out who did it.’
Warren looked at the man carefully. Peanut looked away. The piece of fluff had been replaced by a loose thread that was steadily growing.
Lucas Furber had been a heroin addict for several years by all accounts. Peanut was obviously also a user; he had to know how common it was for recovering addicts to lapse into their old habits. He also said that he hadn’t seen Lucas regularly since the summer. If he was to be believed, he had no way to know if Furber had been clean these last few months or not.
‘What aren’t you telling me, Peanut?’
