Forgive Me Father. Paul Gitsham
in it. I tried to get him to do it for the full five years, but he just said he needed to get back on track. Thing is, I’d still see him coming out of the shop across the way, so what was the point? As soon as the ban expired he was straight back in here. Prefers the atmosphere, apparently.’
‘Did Father Nolan try and offer any, I don’t know, pastoral care to customers?’ asked Warren.
‘No, he pretty much kept himself to himself. To be honest, I doubt it would be received very well. I don’t think he ever really spoke to anyone.’ He paused. ‘Actually no, tell a lie, a few weeks ago, he was in here a bit later than usual, and he recognised one of the regular after work crowd. The guy seemed a bit surprised to see him here. A bit embarrassed, actually.’
‘Do you know the man’s name?’
The young man’s face screwed up, ‘No, sorry, I can’t remember. I haven’t seen him since. I think he was a bit ashamed to be seen in here. A pity really, he was one of our regulars. Not a great judge of form, if you get my drift.’
‘Can you be more precise about when you saw him?’
‘After the new year, maybe a month ago?’
‘Can you describe him?’
The man glanced upwards, as if the answers were written on the ceiling.
‘Middle-aged, grey hair, white. Skinny build, I guess. Sorry.’
‘What about his clothing?’
‘Jeans, T-shirt. Sometimes he wore a fleece. Green, I think. Sorry, I’d know him if I saw him, but like I said, he hasn’t been in since.’
‘Well, thank you for your time, Martin. If you remember anything else, please call me on this number.’ This time Warren handed over his card.
As they headed out, Martin suddenly called out, ‘I’ve just remembered, he had a name badge on with the logo from the abbey. That must have been where he knew the priest from.’
‘Can you remember what the name badge said?’ Warren held his breath. If Martin couldn’t recall the name, he’d ask him to come down the station and look at some headshots.
The young teller suddenly clicked his fingers. ‘Got it, I remember now because you don’t see that name very often. I guess it was because of that old comedy, you know, Only Horses …’
‘Only Fools and Horses?’ asked Warren.
‘Yeah, Rodney was his name.’
* * *
‘What are the odds that two different people called Rodney are at the heart of the same investigation?’ asked Warren.
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