All Saints- Murder on the Mersey Read online

  “Who found him, Izzie?”

  “The poor bloody priest, Father Michael Donovan. He entered the churchyard through the rear gate and was making his way along the path towards the church when he almost literally stumbled over the body. Apparently, he threw up too, over there.”

  Izzie pointed to a grave two places along from where the victim lay. At least the priest hadn't contaminated the crime scene.

  “I'm not surprised,” Ross grimaced. “And where is the good Father now, may I ask?”

  “Last seen in his church, praying as though his life depended upon it, sir”

  “Right then, let's go and have a word with Father Donovan.”

  * * *

  “Terrible, simply terrible, that poor, poor man,” Father Donovan wept openly, his head in his hands as he sat in one of the pews at the front of his church, five minutes later, speaking to Ross and Drake who sat either side of the visibly shaking priest.

  “It must have been an awful shock for you, Father,” said Ross, sympathetically.

  “It was indeed, Detective Inspector. I mean, there I was, enjoying this beautiful sunny morning, whistling to myself, All Things Bright and Beautiful of all things, and then, all of a sudden he was there, lying on that grave, virtually in pieces, I tell you, in pieces.”

  Izzie Drake placed a comforting hand on the priest's right arm in an effort to calm him.

  “Father, you need to calm down a little,” she said, quietly.

  “Just take your time and try to recall everything that happened as you walked along the path from the time you passed through the gate until the moment you found the victim.”

  “Please, Father, it's very important,” Ross added, grateful to his sergeant for using her feminine compassion to reach out to the shaking priest.

  Michael Donovan took a couple of deep breaths, closing his eyes as he attempted to compose himself and recall the terrible events of earlier that morning. Finally, opening his eyes, he spoke in a faltering voice.

  “Well, Inspector, it was just after eight o'clock. I'm sure of the time because I always leave the manse which is just behind the church, at eight precisely. I like to come to church when it's peaceful and quiet and pray for a while in solitude. I hold a morning mass at nine, you see, and, oh, it was just awful seeing your officers turning my parishioners away as they arrived for the service,” he rambled for a moment.

  “It's alright, Father. I know you're in shock, so just take your time. Now, it was just gone eight o'clock, you say?”

  The priest gathered himself together again and went on with his statement.

  “The sun was shining and it was already quite warm. I heard a blackbird singing and looked up and saw him perched on the wall that runs along the north side of the churchyard. I remember smiling to my self and began whistling the tune of All things bright and beautiful. I didn't stop to watch the bird as I wanted those few precious minutes of contemplative prayer to myself, you see.”

  Ross nodded but didn't interrupt.

  “The path winds its way around the church as you've probably seen, in a sort of S pattern, I suppose you'd call it and as I came round the corner of the church onto the straightish part of the path that leads to the main doors, I saw something ahead of me on one of the graves. At first I thought it might be the work of vandals, the Lord knows we get enough of that sort of thing round here, or maybe someone had dumped a load of old rubbish on the grave, in an act of blatant sacrilege. I slowed down as I got closer and it was then, when I was just a couple of yards away that I realised what I was seeing. I know it sounds stupid, but the first thing I did was wonder if I might be of some help to the man but when I got even closer I saw the terrible, monstrous things that had been done to him and I'm ashamed to say I…I…well, I'd just finished breakfast before I came out, you see, and I couldn't help myself. I staggered over to one of the adjacent graves and was awfully sick, I'm afraid. I've never in all my life seen anything like it, you see, and I pray to God I'll never see the likes again as long as I live.”

  “You've nothing to apologise for, Father,” said Ross. “Two experienced police officers have been sick out there as well. We're all human and none of us should ever have to see such things.”

  “But sadly, you do, don't you Inspector Ross?”

  Ross nodded, but still remained silent, allowing the priest to speak and hopefully recall any small details he may have noticed when he discovered the body.

  “There was blood everywhere, Inspector, so much blood. And then, I saw the other things, you know the, the…”

  “It's alright, Father, I know what you saw, but tell me, from the time you entered the churchyard until you found the victim, did you see or hear anything else, or any other people, perhaps?”

  “Not a soul, no. To be honest, if there had been anyone lurking around, I might not have seen them. I was so focussed on the sunny morning and the birdsong. But I'm still pretty certain there was nobody else around.”

  “Now, and perhaps most importantly, I know you probably only got a quick look at the victim, Father, but did you recognise him? Is he known to you at all, either as a parishioner or maybe just someone you've seen in the area at all?”

  “Yes, it was only a quick look, Inspector. Nobody could possibly have stood staring at that poor man, but I saw enough to know he wasn't anyone I know. I'm sorry. I can't help you there.”

  Father Donovan's face paled again at the thought of the sight he'd witnessed in his churchyard and he fell silent for a few seconds. Izzie Drake spoke in her quiet voice again.

  “I know this is pretty much a rhetorical question, Father, but we have to ask…er, you didn't touch anything at all before calling the police did you?”

  Donovan looked aghast at the mere thought of having done so as he replied.

  “Sergeant, I most certainly did not. What kind of man do you think I am? A person would have to be very sick in the head to want to mess around with what I saw out there. I simply tried to compose myself and then ran as fast as I could into the church where I rang 999 from my little office in there. Then I waited at the church gates for the police to arrive and to keep anyone from entering the grounds until your people got here.”

  “And a very good thing you did, Father,” said Ross. “It wouldn't have done for anyone else to come wandering in and be confronted with the sight of the poor man out there.”

  There being little else the priest could tell them, the two detectives left the church, with Father Donovan again on his knees praying before the altar, and moved back into the daylight, where by now the forensic experts of the Crime Scenes Unit had arrived and were busy searching and examining the crime scene and surrounding area.

  Ross spoke briefly with Constables Knight and Riley, the first officers to respond to the emergency call, who confirmed they'd arrived on the scene, assessed the situation and immediately called for C.I.D. assistance, and a second squad car of officers to help secure the area, realising the gravity of the situation they'd found. Ross commended both men and then returned to speak to William Nugent, who, together with his assistant, Lees, was packing up his instruments and accoutrements as the body and associated parts were being carefully loaded into a body bag ready for transportation to the morgue, having been fingerprinted where it lay in the hope of identifying the victim, and once at the morgue, he'd carry out a full post-mortem in an effort to determine exactly what had happened to the deceased.

  “Anything else to report, Doc?” Ross asked as he drew closer to the pathologist.

  “Nothing that I can tell you at present, Inspector. Ye'll get ma full report as soon as possible, like always. Let me get back to the mortuary with the poor man and I can get on with ma job.”

  There was that strange and for some, disconcerting comingling of accents again, part Glaswegian, part Liverpudlian, that always rather amused Ross.

  “A preliminary report will suffice for now, Doc, as soon as you can. This case is likely to generate some nasty headlines if th
e press gets hold of it, so I'd like to move as fast as I can to find the sick bastard who did this.”

  “Aye, well, I'll give you a call later today, if I can, and if you and your sergeant care to come along in the morning, I'll schedule the full post mortem examination for nine a.m. if that'll suit you, Inspector?”

  “Perfect, thank you Doc.” Ross replied, standing aside to let the Doctor and his assistant pass. Ross next spent five minutes talking to Miles Booker, the senior Crime Scenes Officer who was leading the examination of the area around the body. Booker would ensure his team combed every blade of overgrown grass, every sliver of granite chips, every nook or cranny where a minute piece of trace evidence might have been deposited. As he broke away from Booker, Detective Constable McLennan walked up to Ross. McLennan shared the same post-vomiting complexion as the uniformed constable and Father Donovan.

  “You alright, Derek?” asked Ross.

  “Yes, thank you sir,” McLennan replied. “It was just a bit more then my stomach could stand, seeing what the killer did to that poor man.”

  “No need to apologise, Derek. We're all human, after all. None of us should have to see things like that. Sadly, it's our job when some bastard decides to make a mess of someone in that way. Now, do you have anything for me, anything we can use?”

  “Not really, sir. I've spoken at length to the two constables who were the first attenders. They're both adamant there was no one around in the churchyard when they arrived, and neither of them saw anyone acting furtively or suspicious out on the streets as they arrived in response to the emergency call from Father Donovan.”

  “Alright Derek, Sergeant Drake and I will be heading back to headquarters soon. I'll arrange for Sam to join you out here in a minute. Then I want the two of you to take charge of the scene, until the crime scene boys have done their thing, and then, make a quick sweep of the area, talk to some of the nearest residents in the hope someone may have seen or heard something. I'm going to organise a team of uniforms to carry out a house to house inquiry in a half-mile radius of the church, but something tells me we're going to come up empty handed. And, Derek?”

  “Sir?”

  “Get one of those constables at the gate to arrange to seal off the back gate too. We're lucky nobody's blundered through there so far.”

  “Right, sir. I'll get on it right away.”

  As they spoke, Miles Booker walked up to the detectives with a small cellophane evidence bag in his hand.

  “Got something for me, Miles? Ross asked.

  “Not sure,” said the Crime Scene Investigator. “One of my lads came up with this,” and he held the bag up, close enough for Ross and Drake to see a small silver coloured key inside.

  “A key,” said Drake.

  “Hey, ten out of ten, Sergeant,” Booker grinned.

  “But a key to what?” Drake persisted, “and how do we know it belonged to the victim?”

  “That's just it, you see,” said the C.S.I. “We don't, at least not yet. Maybe, once we have his fingerprints, we may get lucky and find they match the print we found on the key.” He smiled.

  “Ah, so you do have a print?” Ross asked.

  “Yes, and a pretty good one, looks like most of a thumb print, you know, from when someone held the key to insert it into a lock.”

  “Looks like the sort of key that fits a safety deposit box, or maybe an airport or railway left luggage locker,” said Drake.

  “Can I see it, please?” asked Derek McLennan. Booker passed the bag containing the key to the detective constable who scrutinised it carefully for a few seconds before passing it back to him.

  “Sir,” said McLennan, turning to Ross, “I think we'll find that it is a locker key but not for a left luggage locker at the airport or from a station.”

  “Alright Derek, let's have it. What's your theory?”

  “I think it's from the Halewood Plant, sir.”

  “The car factory? What makes you think that?”

  “Well sir, the cellophane makes it hard to see, but there are a series of four numbers on one side of the key. My brother-in-law works at Halewood, sir and he has a key just like that on his car key ring. The anglar shape is quite distinctive. I've seen it when he's let me use his car once or twice. The way the numbers are etched into the key looks just like this one.”

  “So, we may have a clue after all. Well done, young Derek,” said Ross.

  “Thanks, sir,” McLennan replied.

  “Yes, well, that's assuming the key belonged to the victim, isn't it?” said Miles Booker.

  “Very true, Miles,” Ross agreed. “Any way you can tell us more that might help?”

  “Sorry, Andy, not a thing. If the fingerprint matches your man over there, okay; if not, you're going to be hard pressed to discover if it belonged to him or not.”

  “We can show his photo to employees at Halewood, see if anyone recognises him,” said Izzie Drake.

  “Yes, well, bearing in mind what he's got stuffed in his mouth, I wish you luck with that one.”

  “I'm sure Doctor Nugent can make him look presentable enough for us to get a photo likeness we can show around,” Drake responded.

  “Of course, just me joking around, Sergeant.”

  “Could be easier than that, sir, Sarge,” McLennan interjected again.

  “How's that, then Derek?” asked Drake.

  “The numbers on the key,” he replied. If it is from Halewood, they'll refer to a specific numbered locker, and that locker will be allocated to an equally specific employee. Simple logic really.”

  “Yes, of course, well done Derek,” said Ross.

  Andy Ross had learned to come to rely on young Derek McLennan in the three years he'd served with him. The young man had developed from a hesitant, awkward young D.C. into a clever, confident and reliable member of Ross's team, with a quick mind and an even temperament when working under pressure, not a bad thing when faced with some of the cases the team was called upon to handle. Ross recalled the first major case the young detective had worked on with him, when the skeleton of a long time dead pop guitarist had surfaced in the mud of an old dried up dock in the city, sparking one of Ross's strangest and perhaps most tragic cases to date, which resulted in the ultimate suicide of a woman who'd spent over thirty years of her life officially listed as 'missing'. That case had been the foundation on which Derek McLennan had gradually forged his career and now, Ross knew he could rely on the man's intuitive skills as well as his quick, intelligent mind.

  Ross and Drake left soon afterwards, and made their way to the city mortuary, where they knew William Nugent would by now be carrying out an initial examination of the victim's remains. Ross had questions that needed answers and for the moment the only man who could help him was the rather obese but professionally superb pathologist.

  Chapter 3

  Speke Hill Orphanage, Woolton

  Charles Hopkirk, Senior Child-Care Officer in charge of the latter-day orphanage rose from his leather chair and stepped out from behind his desk to greet the newcomer to his office. Five feet nine, already turned grey, and with a slight stoop as he stood, Hopkirk looked every bit as worn down as his slightly crumpled dark blue suit with its shiny elbows, and his black shoes with attendant scuff marks, betrayed the lack of a Mrs. Hopkirk. No one would believe a good wife would allow her husband to leave home each day looking quite so dishevelled. Doing his best to look the opposite of his actual appearance and putting on an air of assumed authority, he held his hand out as he spoke and shook hands with his visitor.

  “Father Byrne, welcome to Speke Hill. We're delighted to have you here as our new chaplain to the pupils.”

  “It's a pleasure, Mr. Hopkirk, I assure you, and you must call me Gerald, please, unless we're in formal circumstances, of course.”

  “Well in that case, you must call me Charles. I insist. And, it seems rather appropriate to have you here as part of our community, don't you agree?”

  “It does?”

 
“Oh come now, you must know we'd soon find out you were once one of our boys here at Speke Hill, and to have you return as the Parish Priest at St. Luke's and our chaplain here is wonderful, a great example to hold up before the children.”

  “I wouldn't go so far as to say that, Charles. It's a tradition that the priest at St. Luke's takes the role of chaplain here at Speke Hill, and yes, I may have been an orphan myself, raised here, as you say, but I wouldn't want to be held up as an example of something I'm not. Not everyone at Speke Hill aspires to grow up to be a Roman Catholic Priest.”

  “You're too modest, Father, er, sorry, Gerald, I'm sure, but let's not dwell on it. I imagine you'd like a quick tour? Many things have changed since the days when the Catholic Church ran the place. Now that Liverpool Council, together with the Local Education Authority have control over Speke Hill, there've been many improvements and changes to the place, as you'll see.”

  “And some things never change, eh, Charles?”

  “I'm sorry?”

  “The entrance gates and the driveway, with those rowan trees and elms lining the gravel drive. It still gives the false impression of arriving at some old Victoria country mansion. It was just the same when I was a boy here”

  “Oh, I see,” said Hopkirk, who'd wondered for a moment just where Father Byrne was heading with his previous remark.

  “Yes, I suppose like the original incumbents of Speke Hill, those in authority long ago decided to maintain the sweeping curve of the driveway and the grandly ornate gates at the entrance. It does after all give the place a touch of the grandiose, don't you think? Nice for those who live here, Father, I think. Not just some grey concrete monstrosity in the middle of an inner city sink estate. At least the boys and girls who live here and are schooled here can feel proud of the place, which does of course, have an excellent academic record and a long list of former pupils at the school who have gone on to achieve good things in life. Rather like yourself, Father Byrne.”