Forgive Me Father. Paul Gitsham
Taking the lead, Warren stepped carefully into the space. Despite his facemask, the lingering smoke was starting to make his eyes sting. As he descended, a familiar smell joined the odour of singed wood. Petrol? A few more steps and another aroma entered the mix. The smell of burnt meat. Behind him, he heard Tony Sutton breathing through his face mask.
‘I hate bloody fires,’ he grumbled.
The undercroft was huge, its farthest reaches fading to invisibility beyond the few square metres illuminated by the CSIs working the area closest to the stairwell.
‘Stay inside the marked area, we’re going to need to do a fingertip search of the rest of the room once we’ve removed the body,’ instructed CSM Harrison, who’d joined them.
The figure curled in the foetal position next to the toppled chair was dead. Of that there could be no doubt. Most of the corpse’s clothes had been burnt away, along with much of the skin on the torso and the legs; that which remained was charred and split. The hair on the victim’s head was all but gone.
The sight of the burnt flesh seemed unreal underneath the powerful lamps, yet it wasn’t that sight which Warren knew would dominate his dreams. Warren knew that fire caused the tendons and connective tissue in a body to shrink, but that knowledge failed to make the corpse’s rictus grin and protruding tongue any less haunting.
‘The flames were pretty much out by the time the firefighters broke in. A paramedic first responder confirmed the victim was deceased.’ Warren recognised the American accent of Professor Ryan Jordan, one of Hertfordshire’s registered Home Office pathologists.
‘What else can you tell us, Prof?’ asked Sutton, as he circled the body.
‘Not much until we get him back to the morgue and I do the post-mortem. I can’t tell if he died of burns, smoke inhalation or something else, although I’m told the kids that discovered the body heard screaming, so I suspect he was conscious at some point. Like I said, I’ll know more later.’
‘“He?” Definitely male then?’ asked Ruskin.
‘Almost certainly, although again I’ll be more confident after the PM. The muscles have contracted, which makes it difficult to estimate build; I’d be prepared to go out on a limb and say he’s not a child, but anything more will have to wait.’
Warren looked at the chair lying next to the man; a sturdy affair, the wood looked scorched but not burnt.
‘One of the seats from the chapel, you can see the kneeler fixed to the back,’ offered Harrison.
‘Why didn’t it catch fire?’ asked Ruskin.
‘The fire investigators will tell us for sure, but my nose suggests that the body was doused in petrol before being set alight. You can see that his clothes clearly caught, and then his skin, but the petrol probably vaporised and didn’t soak into the wood sufficiently for it to catch.’
Ruskin’s voice was thick when he spoke.
‘Who would do such a thing?’
Before Warren could answer the young officer’s rhetorical question, Harrison spoke up.
‘Don’t jump to conclusions, son.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Sutton.
‘We found a petrol canister and matches next to the body, alongside some whiskey and a pill container. The container was melted from the heat and only part of the label is visible. I reckon you’ll get the prescription details but not the patient’s name. They’ve been sent off for analysis. And I’ve not seen any sign that the deceased was restrained.’
‘What are you suggesting?’ asked Warren.
‘Well, the door from the chapel to the undercroft was locked; I’m no locksmith, but the large metal key we found next to the chair looks like it matches the only entrance to this place.’
It took a few moments for the importance of the discovery to sink in.
When Ruskin finally spoke, his voice was filled with horror.
‘You mean the victim did this to himself?’
Warren stifled a yawn. He’d arrived home very late the night before, the adrenaline of the night’s activities soon giving way to a bone-weary exhaustion. He could have handed over the 8 a.m. briefing to DI Sutton, but his second-in-command had been up just as late as his DCI. And what would be the point? Despite his tiredness, sleep had proven elusive. The nightmares that had plagued him since the events of the summer had returned, and he’d eventually given up and driven into work, trying his best not to disturb Susan.
At the back of the room, he spied Moray Ruskin busy regaling another detective constable with a no-holds-barred description of the body from the previous night. He at least looked refreshed – a fact that had more to do with him going straight home than the resilience of youth, Warren told himself.
‘Dunno where the kid gets his energy,’ muttered Sutton. ‘He’s already been for a run and a session in the gym this morning. He’s helping train Mags Richardson for her first half-marathon.’
‘It’s just because he had a good night’s sleep.’
‘Keep telling yourself that, sir.’
Warren chose not to respond, instead bringing the room to order. After briefly summarising the events of the previous night, he projected a photograph of the body onto the briefing room screen.
‘We have yet to identify the victim, however preliminary indications are that the fire was self-inflicted. But until that is confirmed we’ll be treating the death as unexplained.’
Detective Sergeant Mags Richardson beat DS David Hutchinson to the first question.
‘Have we eliminated the kids who called it in? Some folks get a kick out of these things.’
‘That’s underway. Forensics are analysing their clothing and belongings for traces of accelerant and have finger-printed them and taken impressions of their shoes. The locked door is supposedly the only entrance into the undercroft large enough for a person to fit through, although we will be checking the state of the bars on the windows.’ Warren smiled. ‘Moray, they might respond better to someone closer to their own age. Can you do a follow-up interview with them later today?’
Ruskin acknowledged the thinly veiled reference to his own cheeky comments the night before with a grin.
‘Have English Heritage been contacted?’ asked Hutchinson.
‘We managed to get hold of them late last night, Hutch, and they referred us to St Cecil’s Home for Retired Clergy, who are actually responsible for the maintenance and upkeep of the abbey,’ said Sutton, referring to his notebook. ‘The retirement home is actually situated within the abbey grounds, but at the far end from the chapel, and shielded by trees, so none of the residents were aware of what was happening until the fire engine turned up. A Deacon Gabriel Baines is in charge of the whole site, and he called the groundsman. The property was secured and I’ve arranged for a meeting with him first thing.’
‘I’ll take that,’ said Warren. ‘I want to get out there again.’
‘Any indications who the victim might be?’ asked DS Rachel Pymm.
‘All we have so far is that it’s an adult male,’ said Warren. ‘When we have a better description, we’ll contact missing persons and homeless shelters. I’m going to visit the abbey immediately after this briefing, and see if they can help. Any further questions?’
When