Bill Franks: Jesuit

“Yes, WPC, and thank you,” said Graham, offering a weak smile, before opening the folder. As the officer left, he looked at the brief notes, which were largely couched in technical terms. However, pictures of the two sets of strands, set side by side, were shown on the last page, with a third picture showing one sample placed on top of the other. He didn’t need to read the result to know that they matched perfectly. The one on the left was taken from the hair strand found in the first murder while the one on the right was taken from the foreign hairs on Debbie’s body.

Graham leaned far back in his comfortable, padded chair, hands held behind his head as he studied the ceiling for inspiration. He had an unaccountably nervous feeling in his stomach. In both killings, no anger had been shown, nor was any force used. The girls were left fully clothed, even though sex had taken place with Debbie, but otherwise untouched. There seemed nowhere to start; nothing to get to grips with. He knew that more murders would be committed before the killer made the fatal error that nearly all do. The thought worried and sickened him.

Rising and going to the metal cabinet in a corner of the office, Graham rifled through the files until he found the Johnson and the Singleton documents. Taking them to his desk, he inserted the new documentation in, placing them in proper, neat order. He then began to sift through the information feeling there must be something; some small matter that he had overlooked. The clever bastard must have been too clever for his own good — mustn’t he? The thoughts were more in hope than certainty.

He decided to study the locations in which the murders had taken place. Could there be a link there? The first discovery was in Watford, in a meadowed area on the outskirts of the main town. What did it have in common with Penn? Both have a proud, historic past, but then so do many other towns and villages in Britain. Both have attractive surrounding countryside, again as do many others. Then, there are the churches. The splendid Holy Rood in Watford and St. Mary’s in Penn. What? What? The clue is there, but what is it? thought Graham. He racked his brains, reading and re-reading the files, desperately seeking a way into the cases.

An hour of deep concentration passed before Graham gave up. He rose from his seat and went to the door, peering at the team outside through the glass surround that framed his office.

Spotting Clive Miller leaning against a wall sipping a cup of hot coffee, he beckoned to him. Clive eased himself from the wall and hauled his big frame over. He was unmarried, even at the age of thirty-two, but had no shortage of female companions. They seemed to find his rather pugilistic features attractive and it also helped that he was a regular team member of the Met’s rugby union squad. He was a tough, dependable assistant to Sampler and at six feet, four inches in height, was handy to have around in dangerous situations.

“Yes, guv?” he enquired as he entered the office and was told to take a seat. He sat facing his chief across the desk, fully relaxed.

“Clive. As you know, I am involved in two murder cases at the moment. Cases that I have suspected to be linked.”

“Yes. Any progress?”

“Not much,” said Sampler, frowning. “The only satisfaction so far is that the latest DNA and pathology reports support my theory.”

Miller smiled. “Well. That’s good isn’t it? What you wanted?”

Graham’s frown deepened. “It’s good to be proved right, but that is all there is to it. I have racked my brain and read the files over and again but I’m blowed if I can find a tenable link, apart from the obvious.”

“Oh.”

Graham patted the two folders on his desk. “These are the files, Clive. I want you to have a go. See if you can see something I’m missing. This bastard will kill again, you can be sure of that,” he said with resignation.

Again, Sampler would be proved right, but not in the way expected.

The church of St. Mary’s, Penn, was full to bursting for the funeral of the tragic Debbie Singleton. Flowers decked the coffin and covered the church exterior, all bearing sweet, poetic messages of condolence. The girl had been popular and the crime had shocked the village. The tears shed could have created a small river, such was the emotion engendered by the words of the parish priest, Father McGiven. Men, women and children wept as one.

The priest spoke words of compassion and forgiveness for the killer as well as extolling the virtues of the dead child. It was God’s responsibility alone to punish the sinner, which, at the day of reckoning, he would do. Any anger felt by the community must be curtailed. And there was anger — much of it. Prayer was the answer now.

On reaching the end of the deeply sad internment, the crowds dispersed to their homes, heavy at heart. The parents, however, remained at the graveside, unwilling to leave their beloved daughter. Thomas Singleton had arrived the day before from his home in Brentford, Essex, and booked into the local public house for the night. He had had the good grace to come alone, leaving Gwyneth, the former best friend of Elizabeth, at home with their year-old child.

Father McGiven allowed a good ten minutes before walking to the bereaved couple and placing an arm around each in a gesture of comfort. “Come Mr. And Mrs. Singleton. It’s time to leave Debbie to God now,” he said softly, guiding them away from the open grave. “I know you will not feel like visitors just at this time but I would like you to receive a priest. A Jesuit. He is a much travelled and experienced man and he feels he can help you through this tragedy. I must say, he emits an astounding, what shall I say? Karma. He is a most holy man, as you will find if you meet him.”

The couple walked along in a semi-numbed state, only half listening to the priest. However, Mrs. Singleton agreed to allow the Jesuit into her home and an appointment was made for three that afternoon. Thomas was to travel back to Brentford immediately following the funeral.

Brother Saviour guided his motor home along the macadam road, and parked it outside the address he had been given by the parish priest, number 11, Griston Avenue, a cul-de-sac of pleasant houses, built in the seventeenth century and now faced with modern brick, the old having showns signs of distress.

Leaving the vehicle, he ambled up the path to the house, admiring the profusion of pretty flowers covering the small garden area at each side and taking in the wonderful mixture of scents.

He knocked firmly on the door, choosing to ignore the doorbell situated at head height in the centre. On the second knock, he heard sounds of approaching footsteps from within the house. The door opened to reveal a healthy looking young woman, around thirty-four years of age, plain featured, with small, blue eyes set in dark circles. The face, at this time, was unusually lined, undoubtedly due to the strain of the recent weeks. The woman’s hair was of a light brown shade and was brushed neatly back from her forehead and down to her shoulders. She wore make-up, now fading since its application for the morning funeral.

“Hello?” she said, not recognising her visitor and cocking an eyebrow in a questioning way. “What do you want?”

“I’m Brother Ignatious Saviour, Mrs. Singleton,” he said. “You agreed to see me, I believe.” Ignatious smiled disarmingly and he saw the woman melt to his charm. He was fully aware of the effect he had on men and women. They looked on him in awe; saw him as something of a God — and he enjoyed the misplaced adulation.

“Oh, yes, Father, — er- Brother. Please come in.” She had not expected to see a priest, especially a Jesuit, to be dressed in modern clothing. She sought no identification; no stranger would know of the arrangement and, besides, this man exuded the power of a distinctly holy man. He was irresistible.