Paul Gitsham - DCI Warren Jones

The question was rhetorical, but Ruskin couldn’t resist suggesting that they ask the next bookie that they entered.

According to Google, there were several more bookmakers within walking distance for a reasonably fit older man, including more branches of chains that they had already visited. None of them recognised the photo of Father Nolan.

‘Should we ask if anyone recognises Rodney Shaw?’ asked Ruskin.

‘No, let’s keep it to ourselves for now. If word gets back to Shaw that we’ve been asking questions about him, it may spook him. Besides, I doubt we’ll get much out of them without a warrant and it’s still looking a bit circumstantial at the moment.’

‘It seems a bit strange that Father Nolan was so open about going to the bookmaker’s. Isn’t gambling a sin?’

‘According to what I’ve read on the internet, apparently not. As long as it is a true game of chance, and there’s no cheating, then gambling itself isn’t prohibited. Besides, if they took a blanket approach to banning gambling, church fetes would make a lot less money, and the manufacturers of raffle tickets would go out of business.’

Ruskin smiled politely, but Warren could see the young man was troubled.

‘I can’t believe the government doesn’t regulate the industry more. Surely the taxes aren’t worth the suffering it causes? I mean, fancy selling your grandkids’ Christmas presents.’

‘Like I said before, it’s a tax on the poor and desperate. Cheap business rates aren’t the only reason these places set up shop in the poorer parts of town, rather than the wealthier.’

PCs Harper and Ballard had been the officers that arrested Lucas Furber after he’d climbed into the abbey grounds.

‘Yeah, I remember it,’ PC Harper said when Warren called him mid-morning, after dropping Susan back home from their clinic appointment.

The harvesting of Susan’s eggs had been scheduled for 9 a.m. that morning, precisely thirty-seven hours after Susan had injected herself with the triggering hormones. Warren had also supplied a sample. The whole procedure had taken far less time than they anticipated, and before they knew it, the two of them found themselves sitting in the carpark feeling almost shell-shocked.

‘I still can’t believe it,’ said Susan. ‘Somewhere in that building is an incubator where our future child is forming.’

Of course, both of them knew that this was only the latest step in a sequence fraught with uncertainty and doubt. Much could go wrong over the next few days; there was no guarantee of success, even having got this far. The next morning’s phone call might tell them that none of the eggs retrieved that morning had been successfully fertilised.

But now wasn’t the time for such thoughts. Susan took another bite of the sticky pastry Warren had bought from the clinic’s canteen. It was hardly her usual breakfast, but she hadn’t eaten or drunk anything since the previous night and she was ravenous. Besides which, she deserved it. Warren just wished he could do more; could take a bigger role in what they were going through.

Warren forced his attention back to the matter at hand.

‘He was certainly the worse for wear,’ continued Harper. ‘Definitely drink, probably drugs, but he was also clearly mentally ill.’

‘And who was there when you turned up?’

Warren heard the rustling of paper in the background.

‘The complainant was Deacon Gabriel Baines; he was the one who called it in. Furber was there, obviously, and the groundsman, Mr Rodney Shaw. There was also a Miss Bethany Rice who’d originally seen Furber climbing over the wall.’

‘Can you remember what Furber was shouting about?’

There was a silence at the end of the line, before Harper replied.

‘I can’t remember the details exactly, it was mostly stream-of-consciousness. He clearly had something against the church. I remember he called them a bunch of hypocrites at one point.’

‘Any indication why he may have said that?’

‘No, most of what came out of his mouth was just incoherent shouting. I haven’t heard the F-word used so much since I went to see Billy Connelly live. Unfortunately, he lacked the Big Yin’s eloquence or wit. Mind you, I was too busy trying to decide if pulling my baton was necessary or would likely escalate things to pay that much attention. PC Ballard might remember, she’s usually better at engaging them in conversation than me.’ His voice became muffled again as he moved the telephone handset away from his mouth and handed it over.

‘Yes, sir, I remember him. Certainly drunk, probably high and definitely not in touch with reality.’

‘Can you remember what he said?’

‘Mostly a string of F words and C words. And something about them being hypocrites.’

‘Nothing else?’

‘No … oh hang on, he shouted something at Deacon Baines. Something about forgiveness of sins.’

‘You mean he was asking for forgiveness?’

‘No, I don’t think it was for him. I think it was aimed at Deacon Baines.’

* * *

‘The metal petrol can from the scene of the fire has been positively identified as one stored in the groundsman’s tool shed. He used it for the lawn mower,’ said Andy Harrison, his voice echoey over the briefing room’s speakerphone.

‘I’ve sent a sample off for petrol branding, to check that the fuel in the can was the same kind that was used to start the fire. We found three different sets of prints on the can. One set match the head groundsman, Rodney Shaw, who we already had in the system from his previous convictions, another set corresponds to the prints taken from the deceased’s personal belongings.’

‘Suggesting that Father Nolan handled the can at some point, fitting the narrative that he did pour petrol over himself,’ interrupted Warren.

‘Yes. The final set are currently unknown, but we are waiting exclusionary prints from the young lad who is apprenticed to Shaw. He mows the lawn as well, and presumably fills the mower with petrol when needed.’

‘If the scene was staged, that implies that the killer made Father Nolan hold the petrol can, I’m assuming that he didn’t help mow the lawn,’ said Sutton.

‘Father Nolan did work in the abbey gardens,’ interrupted Hutchinson. ‘He helped tend their vegetable patch. The tools are stored in the same shed as the lawnmower.’

‘In that case, he might just have moved the can out of the way of his tools and transferred his prints that way,’ suggested Warren.

‘That might also explain why his fingerprints are on the key to the tool shed padlock found at the scene,’ said Ruskin.

Warren tapped his teeth thoughtfully.

‘We’re pretty certain that it was murder staged as suicide. If the unknown prints match the apprentice groundsman, then he has an alibi. He’s seventeen and he was at home with his parents and siblings in front of the TV. That leaves only Rodney Shaw or an unknown killer who took care not to leave his or her own prints at the scene.’

‘If the killer wasn’t a regular user of the tool shed, he could have left trace evidence behind when collecting the petrol. The shed doesn’t have electricity, so the killer may have been stumbling around in the dark,’ said Harrison.

‘OK, take some prints and do a preliminary search of the premises. We’ll work up a list of everyone who legitimately used the shed and make sure we have prints and DNA. The tool shed is a short walk from the chapel, so look for footprints. Cross-reference anything you find with the findings from Father Nolan’s room. If we can work out the sequence of events that night, we’ll be a step closer to finding who did it.’