Forgive Me Father

by Paul Gitsham

  With a change in the law unlikely any time soon, Warren realised that knowing the answer in his own heart would have to be enough.

  Epilogue

  The bright sunlight tried its best to banish the chill in the air, but Warren could still see faint wisps of his breath as they climbed the small hill over-looking the abbey below. Over the past few days, the swelling of his ankles had subsided, and he felt only a few twinges. Beside him he heard the cackle of Rachel Pymm’s laughter as she said something to Moray Ruskin, whose arm she was holding for support on the soft grass.

  Slightly ahead of them, Mags Richardson and David Hutchinson were consulting a hand-drawn map.

  ‘From the description we have, it should be somewhere in this area,’ said Richardson.

  ‘It’s a shame there’s no way of knowing for sure,’ said Hutchinson.

  ‘In that case, let’s choose that spot,’ said Pymm, pointing at an ancient oak tree, from which the abbey and the town below were clearly visible. ‘Moray, go and give that tree a hug. If not even your arms can reach all the way around then we know it was probably growing here back in the sixteenth century.’

  ‘You’ll be getting yourself back to the car if you aren’t careful.’

  Pymm sniggered and gave him a squeeze.

  Warren looked around him. Most of the team were there; only Tony Sutton and John Grayson were absent. The latter was down in Welwyn Garden City, meeting yet again with senior brass. The former was hoping to be discharged from hospital soon, although it remained to be seen when – or if – he returned to work.

  Granddad Jack was in a similar limbo. Warren had spent a few days of his leave visiting him in the hospital. The old man continued to make a steady recovery, but he had yet to leave his bed for more than a couple of hours at a time. A place in a residential respite centre had been found for him, but the hospital was reluctant to discharge him just yet. Warren had lain awake for the past few days worrying about him, and the future.

  In more poignant news, Karen Hardwick had given birth two days before. Warren was hoping to go and see the child that Gary Hasting never got to meet. Warren still felt like a fraud every time he visited her, even though Hardwick had made it clear that she didn’t blame him for Gary’s death. He hoped that she’d return to the unit after her maternity leave finished, although he could hardly blame her if she decided not to.

  Nevertheless, the birth of their child had put Warren and Susan’s own plight in perspective. Over the past few days, the couple had spent a lot of time talking, breaking down the wall that had been starting to grow between them. Susan had even attended one of the counselling sessions that Warren had finally got around to booking. Gary Hastings had been denied the chance to be a father, and for some reason, Warren felt that to give up on his own chance, because of a bump in the road, would be an insult to his friend’s memory. Susan agreed with him and they had decided to press on with their own efforts to start a family.

  Warren opened the carrier bag he’d carried up from the road.

  ‘I’m not sure what words, if any are appropriate,’ he confessed.

  ‘Perhaps just a moment of silence?’ suggested Pymm.

  Warren nodded his agreement. Taking the mallet from the bag he elicited Mags Richardson’s help, whilst David Hutchinson unwrapped the flowers.

  When they’d finished, he stepped back and joined his friends and colleagues. The simple ceremony had been Rachel Pymm’s idea and everyone had agreed immediately. It gave a sense of completion after a case that had really gotten under everyone’s skin. Justice of a sort had come to those hurt in the past few decades, but they were only the most recent victims of a wickedness that had been going on for centuries. It was a small gesture, but it felt right to finally honour the memory of someone forgotten for so long.

  The wooden cross was small, but its brass plaque had enough space for its simple message.

  ‘RIP Matthias Scrope 1510 – 1522.’

  The End

  Acknowledgements

  This book is a work of fiction, but the story within is inspired by real-life. However, it is important to make it clear that whilst the ongoing ructions within the Catholic Church are all-too real, the details in this book are entirely made up.

  To the best of my knowledge, the Granadians are a fictional order and I have done my best to ensure that they bear no resemblance to any real-life Holy Orders, either current or historic. Similarly, there is no Diocese of Hertfordshire and Essex, and the priests, schools and other characters are entirely fictional. Any resemblance or similarity to real persons or institutions is purely a coincidence.

  Writing a book is always a team effort, and I have many to thank for their assistance. First of all, the team at HQ Digital and Harper Collins have been as wonderful as ever, in particular my editor Clio Cornish, Nia and the digital team, the talented graphic artists that produce my beautiful covers and the proof-readers and others that turn a Word document full of mistakes and errors into a fully-functioning book. A special shout-out also goes to Malk Williams, who so brilliantly brings Warren to life in the audiobooks. I really enjoy our chats, and I hope to work with you more in the future.

  As with all of my books, there is a lot of detail that, if left to my own devices, I could get horribly wrong! So big thanks to Charlotte for her pharmaceutical knowledge (if they ever read our Facebook Messenger conversations, I will have a lot of awkward questions to answer!). As always, my two favourite lawyers, Caroline and Dan have helped me with their expert knowledge of PACE and the limits of search warrants. Special thanks goes to Richard, my medical advisor. Thanks so much for your openness and honesty mate, I hope you are happy with what I’ve written.

  As always, Hertford Writers’ Circle have been generous with their feedback, particularly on that difficult opening section. The Crime Writers’ Association continue to provide friendship and advice, and I’m very proud to be part of such an organisation.

  The book that you see before you differs dramatically from the book that I first typed ‘The End’ on, so many months ago. So many thanks again to my Beta-readers, Dad and my beloved Cheryl, who again provide inspiration and critical feedback in equal measure.

  Finally, I want to say thank you to you, the reader. Feedback and reviews are always appreciated, but just knowing that so many strangers have given up their time to read my work makes it all worthwhile.

  So until next time,

  All the best,

  Paul.

  Turn the page for a sneak peek at At First Glance, the next in the DCI Warren Jones series …

  Prologue

  The car sits still, the engine idling. When the vehicle rolled off the production plant in Bavaria, more than ten years earlier, its makers had prided themselves on their precision engineering; its finely tuned engine producing barely a whisper.

  Extra-wide stainless-steel exhaust tips had put an end to that, giving the diesel engine a throaty grumble that belied the fact that the car was the least powerful model in its range. The new M3 badge, added by the driver after he’d bought the crash-damaged car for a song in an online auction, reinforced the lie. There was no point wearing a fake Rolex to impress the foot soldiers if your choice of motor gave you away.

  He pressed the throttle and the engine gave a louder growl, amplified as it bounced off the concrete walls and metal doors of the lock-up garages, adding its own discordant note to the bass beat pumped out by the top-of-the-line speakers he’d had installed.

  He told everyone that he kept the engine running so he could make a quick getaway if the police showed up. In reality, he did it because he could. A few months ago, some old bird came out to have a go. She knew why he was there, as did her idiot son – he could see the terror in his eyes as he hung back, his balls too small to back up his Mum – but she didn’t say anything about his business.

  “If you’re going to sit here all night switch the engine off and turn down the radio. It’s keeping the kiddies awake and polluting the at
mosphere.”

  She had guts, he’d give her that. But he couldn’t let that sort of disrespect go unchallenged. This was his territory. His turf.

  He’d been tempted to flash the gun he kept under the seat. An ancient revolver he’d bought fully loaded down the pub, with half a dozen spare bullets, he only had two rounds left after he’d spent an afternoon out in the sticks trying to knock bottles off an old oil drum. Ten shots later, the drum had two new holes, and the bottles were untouched. He’d returned to the pub that night to buy some more ammunition and found out why the weapon had been so cheap. He’d been angry, but not angry enough to demand his money back for a gun that used obsolete bullets; getting into an argument with a gun dealer when all you had to back you up was an almost empty piece that you could barely aim was the very definition of stupid.

  In the end, he’d told her to mind her own, and carried on revving the engine. She looked as though she was going to make something of it, but her son pulled her away.

  He’d won the battle, but he spent the rest of the evening with one eye on the rear-view mirror, ready to floor it if the silly bitch called the police.

  That had been months ago. She hadn’t called the police then and she hadn’t called them since. To be honest, he’d be surprised if she was still around; he was no doctor, but the yellow sagging skin, the hollow eyes, and the sloppily tied headscarf that accentuated her lack of hair, rather than concealed it, told him all he needed to know.

  He revved the engine again; this was his territory. He called the shots around here.

  He looked at the dashboard clock. Where were they? Sunset was after nine this time of year, but they should have been here by now.

  He wasn’t worried; even if they had been lifted and the police turned up, the gear was safe. He kept it in a hollowed-out compartment accessible only by a secret panel hidden in the glovebox. The bloke who’d installed it reckoned it would easily fool the local plods in Middlesbury. On the downside, if the car was ever in a head-on collision, the front passenger was screwed; wraps of heroin and bundles of twenties were no substitute for an airbag. He’d thought it best not to mention that to his girlfriend.

  He saw a flash of movement in the rear-view mirror. An individual in a hoodie, head down, face concealed by the peak of a baseball cap, shuffled into sight.

  Finally. Where had they been? Their customers would be crawling up the wall by now. Not that he gave a shit about some junkie’s cravings, but he wasn’t the only game in town and even heroin addicts had minimum service expectations.

  He released the door lock as the figure drew alongside the car.

  This was his territory.

  He ran it.

  Nobody was going to mess with him on his own turf.

  Were they?

  The blood covering the interior of the BMW 3 series was already partly clotted by the time DCI Warren Jones arrived at the scene. Early June and it had been dark for less than two hours by 11 p.m. The hastily erected arc lamps threw confusing shadows against the white screens that shielded the scene, interspersed with the blue, strobing effect of the half-dozen police cars sealing the immediate area around the lock-up garages where the car had been found.

  “Any idea who the victim is yet?”

  Detective Sergeant David Hutchinson flicked the page over in his notepad, his paper suit rustling.

  “The car is registered to a Kyle Hicks, known to his associates as ‘Kicks’. He’s on the computer for a range of drugs offences. I sent a photo back to Rachel Pymm and she says it matches his mugshot.”

  Warren leant through the open drivers-side window; the smell of blood mingled nauseatingly with the man’s post-mortem bowel movement. The Christmas tree shaped air freshener hanging from the rear-view mirror didn’t stand a chance.

  “Looks like a single swipe, right through the carotids. It must have been a very sharp blade.”

  The man’s head was arched back, his glassy eyes wide with terror, his mouth agape in a silent scream. The man’s right hand was still pressed ineffectually against his ruined throat, but the crimson stains on his left hand and sleeve suggested that he’d tried to stem the bleeding with both hands. The sheer volume of blood coating the windscreen, dashboard and steering wheel attested to the futility of the gesture.

  Warren stood up straight, he’d seen Crime Scene Manager Andy Harrison approaching.

  “Any indication of how long ago it happened?”

  “Coagulation of the blood was well underway by the time the first responders arrived, so I’d say it happened at least fifteen minutes before then.”

  “That’s consistent with the time given by the person who found the body. He called 999 at 21:55 hours,” confirmed Hutchinson.

  “Any witnesses?”

  “None so far. Most of the rubber-neckers turned up to see what all the fuss was about.”

  “What’s the status of the cordon?”

  “An inner exclusion zone around the lock-ups, roadblocks on all surrounding streets, with Stop and Search in force. The Brownnose Brothers are supervising, but the streets are a maze,” Hutchinson scowled. “If the killer didn’t hang about he’s probably long gone.”

  “Can’t be helped, Hutch. Get Mags Richardson to start collecting CCTV; I want to know who was in the area. Get Jorge and Shaun to organise a house-to-house, let’s see if we can loosen some tongues,” Warren refrained from calling the two new sergeants, Martinez and Grimshaw, by their less than flattering moniker, however apt it may be. He was the boss, after all.

  “If the victim’s a dealer and this is his patch, then the locals may know something. Get Rachel to set up an incident desk and start entering everything into HOLMES.”

  “If it’s drugs, we’d probably better let Serious and Organised Crime know sooner, rather than later, you know what SOC are like” said Hutchinson.

  Warren sighed, “You’re right. Is DSI Grayson back on duty?”

  Hutchinson smirked slightly, “I believe he was seen going back into the office dressed for the theatre and looking pretty pissed off.”

  “Then I shall let the Superintendent inform our colleagues in Welwyn. Who knows, we might even get a couple of hours to do some detective work before SOC come and steal all the limelight.”

  * * *

  Lenny Seacole was a well-built, shaven headed man of indeterminate age. He’d already spoken to the first officers on scene after he’d reported the murder, but Warren wanted to speak to him personally, now that the adrenaline had worn off and before his memory started to cloud. However, Warren was beginning to wonder just how much of an adrenaline jolt the discovery had given the man. He’d been entirely unfazed by the CSI’s request to surrender his shoes for analysis; he’d declined the offer of a cup of tea.

  “I come down here most nights. It’s a straight walk to the park.”

  Seacole held a rather sorry looking tennis ball. Dressed in black jeans and a plain black T-shirt, the blue plastic bags tucked into his trouser belt, and the forensic booties covering his massive feet, provided the only splash of colour. Despite the rapidly cooling night air, his lack of jacket didn’t seem to bother him, with no trace of goose bumps on his tattooed forearms.

  “Was the car parked up when you went to the park?”

  “No. He doesn’t usually turn up until a bit later.”

  “So he’s a regular?”

  “Most nights,” Seacole smiled humourlessly, “he’s like an ice cream van, although he does as much business in winter as he does in summer.”

  “What time did you set out?”

  “Five past the end of EastEnders.”

  That placed an early limit on the time of death of after 8:30 if Warren’s memory of evening TV schedules served him correctly.

  “How long were you in the park for?”

  “A bit more than an hour – he needs a lot of exercise.”

  Warren didn’t doubt it. Even for a Rottweiler, Sinbad was a big dog. He suspected that the lifespan of the tennis balls wa
s measured in days rather than weeks.

  “And do you usually walk back this way?”

  “Like I said, it’s a straight walk.”

  “And the dealers didn’t bother you?”

  Seacole looked meaningfully over at Sinbad.

  “I see your point.”

  “When did you realise something was wrong?”

  “It was Sinbad that spotted it. He started pulling at the lead, which he doesn’t usually. He dragged me over and that was when I spotted the state of the windscreen. I figured that he must have been shot in the head or something to spray that much blood about. Anyway, I had a looksee and saw he’d been slashed. It was obvious he was dead, so I called you guys and backed away.”

  * * *

  An hour had passed since Warren had arrived on scene, and everything was running to plan. Teams of uniform officers coordinated by Detective Sergeants Jorge Martinez and Shaun Grimshaw had already interviewed most of the onlookers and started canvassing the houses in the streets surrounding the lock-ups, but it was dark, and nobody had so far admitted to seeing anything.

  Andy Harrison’s team of CSIs had started working their way outwards from the car, looking for the murder weapon and other evidence. The duty coroner was due in the next hour to do a preliminary examination of the body before it and the car were removed. And best of all, nobody from SOC had turned up to ruin the party.