Bill Franks: Jesuit

“Hello, Sir,” the voice began. “This is Sergeant Flint, of Penn Constabulary. We met recently over the Debbie Singleton murder.”

“Yes. Hello, George. Got something for me?” He smiled at George’s voice: a pleasant man and easy to talk to.

“Well, sir,”

“Please, George — Graham. No need for formality.” Sampler interjected.

“Yes. Okay, Graham.” He paused before continuing. “Hard to believe, but we have had another murder. In one of the hamlets this time.”

Sampler again interrupted. “Christ! Not another young girl?” he barked.

Flint went on: “No. Not a young girl, quite the opposite. It’s a man, a local schoolteacher by the name of Maddigan. Well respected, liked by his pupils, seemingly not an enemy in the world. The body was found today by a couple of school kids. Needless to say, they are both in shock.”

“What stage are you at, George?”

“I’ve done nothing as yet except to get my lads to take statements from a group of kids that were with the couple who found the teacher. I’ve sent the two to hospital for now and informed the parents. I doubt if I’ll be able to obtain their statements before tomorrow.”

“Do you think it’s murder, George?”

“Oh, yes. On first impressions, that is. The poor bloke appears to have been flagellated but I don’t know if that’s the cause of death.” George paused. “Could be a sex game gone wrong, I suppose. Wouldn’t be the first case, would it?”

Sampler’s brain was working. “I take it there’s nothing obvious then?”

“No, Sir — er, Graham. That’s what made me contact you first. It’s tenuous, but it is a kind of link with the other murder.”

“Just what I was thinking.” Sampler made up his mind. “Okay, George. Do nothing more. Make sure no one enters the scene and I’ll arrange forensics and pathology from here. I’m on my way.”

“Thanks. I’ll meet you here and take you to the scene. Goodbye.” The line was disconnected.

Graham called Clive Miller to his office and told him of the latest report. “What do you think, Clive?”

The Detective Sergeant pondered a moment. “As the Sergeant says, the link is a bit tenuous but, then, that would make three murders and each with no visible signs of what caused the death. If this one has poison in his blood stream, the link becomes a little more solid, eh?”

Graham nodded his agreement. “I can’t see why our child-killer would turn to an adult but, somehow, I would be prepared to lay money on it that the cause of death will turn out to be poison in the bloodstream.” He began to gather a slim sub-file from the drawer of his desk. This was a brief summary of the two murders at present under investigation, with salient points recorded. He then rang through to forensics followed by a call to the pathology department, giving them the Penn Constabulary address. The two men then left for the short journey to the picturesque village.

Graham let Clive take the wheel. It wasn’t that he minded driving but he wasn’t keen on motorway journeys, so it was prudent to let Clive take the stress. Under Clive’s expert though rather reckless driving, they made it to Penn in forty-five minutes, despite the congestion on the way out from London.

On arrival, they were met by ‘Big George,’ who extended a friendly hand to Graham before being introduced to Clive. The two large men eyed each other in some mutual admiration, their bulk being similar. The firm handshake was crisp and dry from both; almost, but not quite, becoming a competition of strength.

George offered to take the detectives to the scene in his car and this was readily agreed. Leaving instructions with the constable in charge to direct the forensic and pathology teams to the site, the trio moved off.

Twenty minutes later, they arrived at the beginning of a narrow, natural pathway into a copse, leading to the larger woodland. Leaving the car, the Scotland Yard men followed Flint as he weaved his way through bushes and between trees until they arrived at the death scene.

Even the two hardened detectives, accustomed to shock, were taken aback at the sight of the naked man, suspended between the saplings, his body covered in long, raking marks, front and back, the blood having congealed in death.

Graham walked carefully around the body, searching the ground and inspecting the victim with concentrated study. Apart from the flagellation marks, there was no visible sign of a killer blow. The open mouth, with a slightly protruding tongue, showed no signs of poison when, normally, there would be some residue around the lips and on the tongue. Graham knew, instinctively, that this was the work of the same killer.

The three officers chatted about the possibilities of finding the murderer until the forensic and pathology teams arrived, some twenty minutes later. None of the theories put forward resulted in anything positive. Their only hope at present was that the murderer would have left some clue that would be picked up by forensics. Whoever it was, he had been very careful.

A further puzzle was the unconcerned leaving of DNA in semen or saliva in the other murder; clearly the person felt completely safe in this. Either that, or he was very stupid — and that was not evident. The careful, but limited, inspection of the body had shown no obvious signs of sexual activity but, as Flint had earlier suggested, a sex game gone wrong could not be ruled out. There was nothing more for the detectives to do, so they wandered to Flint’s car to be taken back to the police station.

Over a cup of tea, Flint promised to keep in touch over the local enquiries and anything that may arise that might give some clue as to the killer’s identity. House to house enquiries had already been put into motion.

“I don’t feel that we’ll learn much from house to house,” said Graham. “But, of course, it has to be tried. There’s always the possibility that someone may have seen something.”

George finished off his tea and put the chipped mug onto his stained and worn old desk. “I agree but it is all we have at the moment. Don’t worry, I’ll be looking at every statement and, if there’s anything at all, I will spot it.”

Graham did not doubt that this genial man would not miss a thing. He had every confidence in him and told him so. “One other thing, George,” said Graham, pensively, “Have you noticed any strangers around over these past weeks? It may well be someone from elsewhere.”

Flint searched his mind, sliding back over the weeks, seeing pictures of faces, vehicles even. New faces? “Yes.” He began, slowly, “There has been one stranger in town.”

“A known villain?” interrupted Clive.

“No. Not a villain. Quite the opposite, in fact — a priest.”

“A priest?”

“Yes. And not one that you would notice to be in that profession.”

“Why do you say that?” Graham asked.

“It was the clothes he wore. Modern. Normal. Well, normal for a younger person. I saw him in jeans, trainers and a T-shirt. At least, the T-shirt had some religious motif on it.”

Graham pondered this a while. “Did he strike you as odd, in any way, George?”

George shifted to a more comfortable position in his chair. “Except that you don’t expect a priest to be dressed like that, no.”

“And did you check him out?”

“Oh, yes. I had a word with Father McGiven. It seems the man is a Jesuit and on some new mission.”

“New in what way?”

“To travel around the globe, dressing in clothes appropriate for the particular area and bringing comfort and advice to people, with special attention to the bereaved.” He shrugged his shoulders. “So the good Father informs me, anyway.”

Again, Graham pondered before he spoke. “Did he visit Debbie Singleton’s parents?”