Forgive Me Father. Paul Gitsham
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.’
‘We’ll do what we can, but I’m not sure what you’re expecting to find, sir. It’s been a few days now, and not all the pathways were locked down immediately.’ Harrison’s tone was cautionary.
‘I know. Give it your best shot, Andy. Aside from the chapel and Father Nolan’s room, the shed’s the one place that we know the killer is likely to have been.’
‘Moray, fancy a trip to a homeless shelter?’ called Warren.
‘You’ve seen what I earn then?’
‘Funny man. We need to interview the locals at the Middlesbury Outreach Centre, to see what else we can find out about Lucas Furber.’
‘I’ll get my coat.’
Tony Sutton sidled up next to Warren. ‘Can I have a quick word, Boss? In private.’
‘Of course. Moray, I’ll be with you in a moment.’
‘What’s the problem, Tony?’ asked Warren when the door closed.
Sutton looked uncomfortable.
‘It’s about Moray.’
Warren was surprised.
‘Is there a problem? I thought he was doing really well. He’s on track to complete his probationary training well within the two years, and his paperwork is in a far better state than mine was when I was at his stage.’
‘He is. That’s the problem.’
‘You’ve lost me.’
Sutton sighed. ‘Sir, you’re a DCI. Why are you traipsing around bookies and homeless shelters with a DC?’
‘I’ve always been hands-on, Tony, and willing to get out of the office, you know that. It’s what I like about Middlesbury, most officers my rank spend half their time in meetings.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘Moray’s a probationer, he’s still learning the ropes. He’ll be a fine officer one day and I want him to get the support he needs. I learnt a lot from my own DCI, as I’m sure you did.’ Warren paused, as he remembered the history of their respective senior officers, but decided the point still stood. ‘Look, this is a fast-moving investigation, with a lot of different threads. If you think Moray would benefit from spending a bit more time working with Hutch or Mags, or even you, then I’ll take your advice, you’ve done a lot more mentoring than I have recently.’
Sutton sighed, he could see that Warren either wasn’t getting the hint, or quite possibly was ignoring the uncomfortable truth.
‘Chief …’ he started, before pausing and starting again, ‘Warren. Moray isn’t Gary.’
Warren felt as if he’d been slapped.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean that you can’t keep him wrapped in cotton wool.’
Warren was dumbfounded; Sutton ploughed on quickly.
‘What happened to Gary affected us all, I still miss him every day. I spent twenty minutes comforting Mags after we marked his birthday last month, and Hutch wasn’t much better. I can only imagine how you must feel, sitting next to him as it happened—’
‘That’s right, you can only imagine, and I’d rather you didn’t,’ snapped Warren.
‘It wasn’t your fault,’ insisted Sutton. ‘Professional Standards know that. I know that, as does everyone in that office, even Karen knows it.’
‘I think you’ve said enough, DI Sutton.’
Sutton ignored him.
‘You can’t undo what happened to Gary by being overprotective of Moray. He needs room to grow. He may be a probationary DC, but he was a very well-regarded uniform constable before he transferred over.’
‘I said that’s enough!’
‘He’s more than capable of asking a few questions in an outreach centre. And look at the bloody size of him, he can take on two normal people and not break a sweat.’
‘Gary Hastings had a black belt in Jiu-jitsu, and that was fuck all use in the end.’
The moment he said it, Warren wished he could take the words back.
‘I’ll see myself out,’ said Sutton, without waiting to be dismissed.
The thin partitioned wall rattled as the door slammed behind him.
Warren slumped into his chair, anger coursing through him.
How dare Sutton speak to him like that? Not since the two men had butted heads when Warren first transferred to Middlesbury, had the two men argued in such a way. Matters of friendship aside, Warren was still Sutton’s