Paul Gitsham - DCI Warren Jones

‘She phoned Rodney Shaw, who called me as he went to confront the man.’

Shaw again; it could be a coincidence. Nevertheless, Warren scribbled the man’s name down on his pad.

‘The reports said he was abusive.’

‘Yes, he was being foul-mouthed and shouting at Rodney, who was trying to calm him down. When he saw me, he picked up a stick and started waving it about. That’s when we called the police.’

There had been nothing about violence towards Baines or Shaw in the police report.

‘It wasn’t really worth mentioning; neither of us were in any danger, we just wanted the young man to get the help he needed. He dropped the stick when the police arrived.’

‘Can you tell me what he was shouting about?’

Baines paused. ‘Nothing really. This and that, he was clearly disturbed.’

‘Can you be more specific?’

‘Not really, and I’d rather not repeat the man’s language.’

‘OK. Thanks for your assistance, Deacon Baines. You’re probably right, it was likely nothing.’

Warren hung up.

Baines clearly didn’t want to discuss the incident. Until this point, the man had been open and helpful. Why was he suddenly so vague? It also sounded as though the intruder had become more agitated when Baines had arrived upon the scene. Was that significant, or was the man just feeling an increased threat now that there were two men confronting him?

Warren drummed his fingers on the table, before getting up and heading into the main office.

‘Rachel, any luck tracking down Lucas Furber?’

‘The custody report said that Furber was going to the Middlesbury Outreach Centre when he was released. They might be able to tell us where he is.’

‘We’ll send someone down there, but before they go, can you track down the arresting officers? It’s a long shot, but they may remember what he was shouting about. I’d also like to speak to the person who witnessed him clambering over the wall. Find out who she is and arrange for her to come in.’

‘Will do.’

Warren continued his circuit of the office.

‘Hutch, what have you found out about our victim?’

‘Apparently, Father Nolan was a man of simple tastes,’ stated Hutchinson. ‘He walked into town a couple of times a week to The Cock and Lion, where he liked a pint and caught the footie on Sky. He was also known to have the odd flutter on the horses.’

‘Could he have had a gambling problem?’

‘There’s nothing in his bank accounts to suggest that he had any issues, but he could have been using cash. We don’t know where he placed his bets, so we’ll need to wear out some shoe leather,’ said Sutton. Warren remembered his conversation with Mags Richardson about the missing cash from the gift shop takings. Could there be a link?

Warren pictured his bulging in-tray. The arresting officers for Lucas Furber had clocked off, so he wasn’t expecting a call before the next day.

‘Leave it with me.’ He moved onto the next desk.

‘Moray? Fancy some fresh air?’

Walk a few minutes from Middlesbury Abbey and the fairly affluent neighbourhood overlooking the historic ruins soon turns into a far less salubrious area. Father Nolan’s favoured pub, The Cock and Lion, occupied the corner of Hanover Street and Tudor Avenue.

Ruskin described it as a typical ‘old man’s pub’; warm beer, cheap food and football on the TV. The sort of place where you could make a pint of bitter and a newspaper last all afternoon and nobody minded. Warren tried not to feel slighted; he rather liked the look of the place.

The landlady, a friendly woman in her mid-thirties with a West Country accent, didn’t need to think twice before confirming that Father Nolan had been a regular. She shook her head. ‘So sad. Suicide, they said in the paper.’

News that they were now investigating a murder had not yet been released to the public; Warren wanted a couple more days before the killer was tipped off that their attempts to cover up the killing had failed.

She shuddered. ‘And what a way to go.’

‘How well did you know Father Nolan?’

‘Not very well, he was pretty quiet.’ She tipped her chin towards a corner table, strategically placed to give the best view of the large TV opposite. ‘He’d usually sit there and either watch the footie or read the newspaper. He’d say hello and make polite conversation, but wasn’t exactly a chatterbox. To be honest, I wouldn’t know what to say. I mean what do you talk about with a priest? I failed GCSE RE and have barely been inside a church since my first Holy Communion.’

‘Did he speak to anyone else?’ asked Warren.

‘Not really. Most of the regulars knew him, and he’d express an opinion on whatever match they were watching, but he mostly sat on his own. Once or twice he came down here with other priests, but not often.’

‘I don’t suppose you noticed any change in his mood, recently?’ asked Ruskin.

‘You mean, like if he was suicidal?’

‘It probably wouldn’t be that obvious,’ cautioned Warren.

She thought for a moment before apologizing. ‘I just didn’t know him well enough.’

‘What did he usually drink?’ said Ruskin.

‘He’d usually have a go of whatever guest beer we had in, otherwise whatever bitter we have on tap.’

‘And was he a big drinker?’

She laughed. ‘I wish. Two pints was about his limit, and a packet of cheese and onion crisps if he was feeling peckish.’

‘Would any of your regulars be likely to have noticed anything?’

She thought for a moment. ‘Hard to say. I can ask around if you like.’

‘We’d appreciate that,’ said Ruskin.

‘Why don’t you come back for a drink in a couple of days and I’ll let you know what I’ve heard?’

Warren hid a smile, as Ruskin politely deflected the offer and passed over a card with his number.

‘Blimey Moray, and you weren’t even in uniform,’ teased Warren as they stepped back out onto the street.

The burly Scot shrugged. ‘Not exactly my type. And I’m spoken for, remember.’

‘Let her down gently.’

* * *

If, as Hutchinson had suggested, Father Nolan liked to place the odd bet before his pint, he didn’t have far to walk.

There was something especially sad about a bookmaker’s on a weekday afternoon, decided Warren, as they left the third shop in a street barely two hundred metres long. The woman behind the reinforced glass partition hadn’t recognised Father Nolan’s photograph. Neither had any of the punters, although most of them – scruffy men of varying ages – had barely been able to tear their eyes away from the galloping horses on the banks of wall-mounted TVs, or shift their attention from the ubiquitous fixed-odds betting terminals gobbling money at a rate far faster than the player could possibly earn it.

‘They’re like a bloody cancer,’ muttered Ruskin, as they walked the twenty paces to the next establishment. According to Google Maps, there were another four within half a mile of their current location.

‘You won’t get any argument from me,’ agreed Warren. ‘They’re just a tax on the poor and desperate.’ He waved his hand vaguely towards the surrounding streets. ‘Most of the folks around here haven’t got a pot to piss in, yet these big companies can set up shops opposite each other and there’s still enough business to go around. Tells you everything you need to know about their ethics and in whose favour the odds are stacked.’

‘What is a bloke of working age doing in a bookie in the middle of the day on a Tuesday anyway?’ asked Ruskin.

‘I think it’s fair to say that if you are in that position, life isn’t going to plan.’