Forgive Me Father

by Paul Gitsham

  ‘If he really did kill his wife to gain access to her company, does that sound like the sort of person who would kill child molesters?’ said Hutchinson, still looking sceptical. ‘He’s hardly standing atop the moral high ground.’

  ‘Maybe he feels guilty about what he did, and this is how he wants to atone for his sins?’ suggested Ruskin.

  ‘Moray has a point,’ said Sutton. ‘In prison, child molesters are housed separately for their own protection. Even hardened murderers see themselves as a class above them and attack them to reinforce the distinction. Perhaps Baines sees himself in a similar light?’

  ‘Well, that’s a motive of sorts. We’ll no doubt find it’s a lot more complicated when we actually interview him,’ said Warren. ‘What about the means and opportunity to kill the three priests?’

  ‘He has full access to the whole site, especially the vestry,’ said Pymm. ‘He could easily have got access to the keys. By all accounts, he spends pretty much every waking hour on site, even though he bought a very nice cottage with the profits from selling the company.’

  ‘Again, that’s pretty circumstantial. Besides which, his wife killed herself on Christmas day. The church and St Cecil’s could be the only support mechanism he has,’ suggested Hutchinson.

  ‘Maybe so, but alongside Rodney Shaw, Baines has complete access to the place, and knows that at least some tunnels weren’t marked on the architects’ plan. His fingerprints, shoeprints and DNA are probably everywhere, which is going to make forensics a challenge.’

  ‘Speaking of Rodney Shaw, where does he fit into the story?’ interjected Sutton.

  ‘The two of them must have known each other from the start. Maybe they both knew about the home’s secrets and decided to do something about it?’ suggested Pymm.

  ‘That might explain why Baines was so reluctant to report the missing money. If he knew that Shaw was stealing money to fund his gambling habit, the last thing he’d do is call the police in, for fear of what else we might uncover. Maybe he was worried that Shaw might crack and tell us what they were planning,’ said Ruskin.

  The room was silent as everyone present digested that thought.

  ‘I’m not sure I buy that,’ said Sutton. ‘How about if Baines tried to frame Shaw?’

  ‘Go on,’ said Warren.

  ‘Well, he had the opportunity. He’s effectively Shaw’s line manager, he directs him day to day. He could easily make certain that Shaw was where he needed him to be, leaving behind evidence where we could find it, like his work boots and wax jacket. He probably knows about Shaw’s marital issues, so he’d know that he’s living alone, without an alibi. He might even have known about Shaw’s little card games.’

  ‘He’s in charge of cashing up and handling the money, so he could have arranged for some to go missing and reappear in that biscuit tin,’ added Ruskin.

  ‘And Nolan’s fingerprints?’ asked Warren.

  ‘Easy enough. Just place the tin on top of the tools that Father Nolan needed to use; he picks it up and moves it to one side, job done,’ said Sutton.

  ‘What are his movements for the two nights of the murders?’ asked Warren.

  There was a pause.

  ‘Right, track them,’ ordered Warren. ‘We know he was called on his mobile phone the night of the fire. Was he on site? Was he at home? Does he have an alibi?’

  Richardson tapped notes into her iPad.

  ‘So what do we do? Do we bring him in for questioning?’ asked Sutton.

  Warren thought about it for a few moments.

  ‘Not just yet. Let’s see if we can find a smoking gun before we tip him off. Find out more about his whereabouts on the nights in question. He also does outreach work with the homeless, does he have any connection to Lucas Furber? We’ve assumed that Furber’s reaction to Baines when he turned up was to do with his dog collar; maybe it was more personal? Maybe he already knew Baines somehow?’

  The meeting over, they all rose. Warren had a lot to think over. He looked at the clock on the briefing room wall. Relatively speaking, it was still fairly early on a Friday night. He decided to check his emails, make sure that nobody needed anything else, and finish up. Susan was still feeling down from their disappointing news earlier that week and he felt guilty for neglecting her. It was all too easy to get sucked into a case and forget everything else going on in his life, and even though Susan had plenty of her own work to keep her busy, he hated the thought of her sitting at home alone in front of the TV.

  He probably shouldn’t be eating a takeaway after his pub lunch earlier in the day, but he decided ‘to hell with it’. He’d surprise Susan with her favourite curry. Maybe even another box of chocolates.

  He sent her a quick text.

  Don’t worry about dinner; I’ll sort something for us on the way home.

  Wxx

  Seconds later, Mags Richardson called his name.

  ‘Sir, I just got this email. I think you need to see it.’

  She waved her tablet computer.

  Warren jogged over to her desk, her excitement contagious.

  ‘We’ve got a hit on the ANPR cameras on the A506 on the outskirts of Copperston, on the days that the killer visited the locksmith.’

  ‘Is it definitely our killer?’

  ‘The timing’s right. The car’s seen about twenty minutes before and twenty minutes after the taxi pick-ups and drop-offs, which fits easily with him parking up and phoning for a cab.’

  ‘Brilliant work. Do we have a name yet?’

  ‘We do. And you aren’t going to believe it.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Gabriel Baines.’

  Heading back to the briefing room, Warren took a moment to compose another text.

  Sorry. Change of plan. Don’t wait up.

  Wxx

  Saturday 21st March

  Chapter 82

  Dawn was still several hours away when Warren and Sutton met the forced entry team in the quiet cul-de-sac where Gabriel Baines’ house was located.

  ‘We’ll serve the search warrant at the retirement home after we’ve raided Baines’ house. There’s no point going in mob-handed and hauling everyone out of bed unnecessarily, they’re going to be pissed off as it is. There’s no chance of him getting past the officers standing guard and destroying evidence.’ Warren was on the phone to Grayson as he stood outside Baines’ home. In his pocket he had an arrest warrant, as well as a search warrant for Baines’ house and car. An additional set of warrants authorised searches of Baines’ office at the retirement home and other areas within the home that he might have access to, including Bishop Fisher’s chambers.

  The ink from the local magistrate was barely dry.

  The team had worked pretty much through the night. After Mags Richardson’s revelation that Gabriel Baines’ car had been logged by ANPR cameras as he picked up the copied keys from the locksmith in Copperston, Warren and DSI Grayson had visited the home of the duty magistrate to request a warrant shortly after midnight.

  The granting of warrants was never a rubber-stamping, but the two officers had really had to work for this one.

  ‘You want another warrant to search a retirement home for priests, including, if necessary, the office of Bishop Emeritus Nicholas Fisher? You also want a warrant to search the house, car and other linked property for this Deacon Baines?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  Together, Warren and Grayson had laid out the grounds for the request. The magistrate had listened, before finally scrawling her signature on the bottom of the sheets.

  It was the early hours of Saturday morning when the two men drove back to CID, the parting words of the court official echoing in their ears: ‘I hope for your sake you find what you’re looking for, because the shit’s really going to hit the fan otherwise.’

  She was probably right.

  ‘They’ve done a walk past and his car isn’t on the drive,’ relayed Warren.

  ‘It sounds like he’s done a runner, but don’t
take any chances. I’ll get a bulletin out on his car’s licence plate. Keep me posted,’ ordered Grayson.

  * * *

  ‘The curtains are closed, and there’s no sign of movement, or his car.’

  Like Warren, Tony Sutton was wearing a stab vest. The forced-entry team looked as though they were about to storm an embassy. The three-person CSI team, that were going in after entry had been secured, were busy checking the equipment in the back of their vans and sharing a Thermos of coffee. Even at this time of year, they weren’t going to put on their restrictive and sweaty paper suits and other protective gear until necessary.

  Although it appeared that Baines had disappeared, Sutton was taking no chances. There were basically three probable scenarios and the team had to be prepared for any of them.

  ‘Scenario one: Deacon Baines has done a runner and we’re going into an empty house. He’s shown a significant degree of ingenuity, so be aware of any potential booby traps. Electricity to the property will be switched off as we make entry, and the gas disconnected, although we can’t do anything about any residual in the pipes.

  ‘Scenario two: Deacon Baines is still in the property, potentially in the process of destroying evidence. For that reason, we will be making a forced entry, without notice, so we can secure the property before he destroys anything else.

  ‘Scenario three: Baines is still in the property and he decides to make a run for it. The property is detached and has a rear exit to the garden, but the garden itself has no rear access, only gated side access. As we effect entry through the front, two teams will also enter the rear via the side gates.

  ‘Otherwise, let’s hope it’s scenario four: Baines is tucked up in bed with his teddy bear and his car is having its MOT.’

  * * *

  The precautions taken by the forced-entry team proved unnecessary in the end, with entry to Baines’ property textbook smooth. The uPVC double-glazed front door yielded to the miniature battering ram on the first attempt, and within seconds, the shouts of ‘Police’, were replaced with calls of ‘living room clear’ and ‘kitchen clear’, followed moments later by similar shouts from upstairs.

  The house was empty, with no sign of Baines.

  Entering the cottage, Warren wondered how much change from the one point two million pounds in profit Baines had made selling his wife’s family company remained, after he’d bought such a beautiful house in the most expensive part of town. For a single man with no children or close family, the property seemed excessively large.

  ‘I thought widowed deacons were supposed to remain celibate,’ remarked Sutton, as he eyed up the king-size bed in the master bedroom.

  ‘Perhaps it was the one from his old house?’ said Warren. He was tired, and despite having supposedly cleared the air with Sutton the day before, he was not in the mood for his sniping.

  ‘You mean the one his wife died in? How romantic.’

  Warren’s reply was cut off by a call from downstairs.

  ‘Sirs, in the kitchen. You need to see this.’

  Warren and Sutton moved as quickly as they dared without slipping; the plastic booties had rubber soles – embossed with ‘police’ to make their footprints distinct – but the stairs were polished, wood laminate.

  The white-suited CSI wore gloves as he held up the piece of paper.

  Handwritten.

  Seven words.

  ‘Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.’

  Chapter 83

  ‘According to neighbours, Gabriel Baines’ car arrived back at his house yesterday evening, at about 7 p.m. From what residents at the retirement home remember, this would fit in with the time he left.’

  It was 8 a.m. and Warren was briefing the incoming day shift. DSI John Grayson was sitting in on the meeting. Unusually, his tie was loose and his jowels shadowed by the previous day’s stubble. Even more unusually, his phone was face down on the desk and he was studiously ignoring it. Warren could hardly blame him. The search warrant for the retirement home had been executed at 7 a.m. and Bishop Fisher was not impressed. Doubtless, his displeasure would be expressed directly to the chief constable, who would no doubt want to pass it on to Grayson.

  ‘Baines’ cottage is on a secluded street. His property and the others adjacent to it have very tall fences and hedges. Consequently, whilst the rear of his car can be clearly seen by his neighbours, nobody has actually clapped eyes on him.

  ‘The neighbour across the road works in a night club, and arrived home shortly before 3 a.m. The car wasn’t in the driveway at that time.

  ‘Anything on ANPR?’ asked Ruskin. As usual, the young constable was fresh and eager.

  ‘Mags has got traffic processing it as a priority.’

  ‘So what are we going with?’ asked Grayson.

  ‘Well, the first possibility we have to consider, is that Baines has been taken by the killer. We’ve sent the suicide note to document analysis as a priority job.’ Warren studiously ignored Grayson’s scowl. The costs for this case were mounting exponentially. The high-profile nature of the case meant that within reason, they had a blank cheque – but Warren knew that Grayson would still be asked to justify their expenditure at some point in the future.

  ‘If that’s so, where is he?’ asked Grayson.

  ‘We don’t know, but the three priests’ deaths largely re-enacted deaths from Coombs’ abbey history. Rachel and her team have been going through all of Coombs’ photocopies to look for any other suspicious deaths from that period, however it’s taking time, even with all the extra bodies helping out. She’s found the deathbed confession made by Simon Scrope, but it doesn’t tell us any more than what Coombs had already told us. He was apparently very ill when it was made and although he alludes to killing more people, he doesn’t say how.’

  ‘So how would our killer even have known about those deaths?’ asked Sutton.

  ‘Obviously we can’t be sure that he does. However, Coombs, and possibly Baines, photocopied a load of contemporaneous diaries from the monks living at the abbey at the time. Coombs made notes cross-referencing those diary entries that appear to correlate with the events described in the confession, although the diaries describe the deaths as suicides rather than murders of course.’

  ‘So if Scrope did kill more than he originally confessed to, those deaths may be described in the diaries?’ said Grayson.

  ‘Yeah. It’s hard going though. Howard Langton, who first tried to write a history of the abbey, paid to have the monks’ diaries translated from the original sixteenth-century English and medieval Latin into more modern English but it was still the eighteenth century and largely handwritten.’

  ‘Christ, it’s like a cross between Time Team and Who Do You Think You Are,’ said Sutton. ‘If ACC Naseem ever finishes that memoir he’s rumoured to be working on, this has got to be worth at least a chapter.’

  After the laughter had died down, Grayson asked the obvious question.

  ‘If Deacon Baines wrote that note, what does he need forgiveness for?’

  * * *

  It was mid-morning, and both Warren and Sutton had been on the go since the early morning raid on Baines’ home. Warren had snatched a couple of hours sleep between getting the warrants signed and executing them, and Sutton hadn’t done much better, but neither man felt able to go home until they had some indication of what might have happened to Gabriel Baines. Was he the person responsible for killing Fathers Nolan and Daugherty, or was he the killer’s next victim?

  If he had written the suicide note, was it a precursor to him killing himself, and bringing his role in the string of murders to an end, or were they going to find his body, posed in a manner similar to those ancient killings?

  ‘Is that note asking for forgiveness for the killings, or is it asking for forgiveness for other sins?’ asked Sutton.

  ‘Such as killing his wife?’ suggested Warren.

  ‘Perhaps. Although if that’s the case, it doesn’t answer the question about whether he made the
confession of his own free will, or he was coerced into doing so,’ said Sutton.

  ‘Something that’s bugged me all along is why the confession is incomplete,’ said Warren, ‘“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned”. That’s just the opening line. Where’s the rest of the confession?’

  ‘Well, judging by the repeated attempts and the sloppy handwriting, Father Nolan was so pissed he could barely hold a pen. Maybe that was as much as he could manage?’ mused Sutton.

  ‘True.’

  ‘And in the case of Father Daugherty, it seems that he didn’t commit the sin in the first place. Perhaps he flat-out refused to write the confession, and that’s why the killer had to write it himself?’

  The men’s conversation was interrupted by the click from the boiling kettle.

  Warren shovelled a heaped spoonful of coffee into both mugs. Even if they’d had a jar, decaf was not an option.

  At this time of day, the queue in the franchised coffee shop that had replaced the old canteen was longer than either man could be bothered to face, so they had opted to use the communal coffee facilities.

  This made little difference to Warren, who typically refused to use the franchise as his own protest against the creeping privatisation of public services. He also objected to the price; almost three pounds for a coffee. Even allowing for the inordinate amount of time it took the ‘baristas’ to prepare each cup, Warren just couldn’t see how that cost could be justified when fifty pence a cup should easily cover the cost of instant coffee, tea bags and milk, with a little left over for some supermarket own-brand custard or bourbon creams. That assumed of course that everyone paid what they owed.

  ‘There is another possibility, maybe Baines was a kiddy-fiddler himself?’ said Sutton.

  ‘Perhaps, but from what we know about him, he’s never worked in a school or with young people, and obviously as a deacon he wouldn’t be hearing confession. We’ll keep on looking, maybe he helped coach a football team or took kids camping,’ replied Warren. ‘We should also look and see if he has, or had, access to nieces and nephews, or friends’ kids.’