None the Wiser, page 14
Turpin gritted his teeth as his seatbelt pressed into his chest, then swore when he peered through the windscreen.
‘Shit.’
The media had beaten them to it this time, and a young uniformed officer who looked as if she’d only recently left training college was doing her best to keep a cordon between the throng and the crime scene.
Jan applied the handbrake and hurried towards the cottage, Turpin close behind.
A commotion near the front door caused a flurry of activity amongst the journalists that stood next to the tape marking the boundary to the crime scene, and a shout reached her as she realised a pair of paramedics were wheeling a stretcher out of the house towards a waiting ambulance.
‘He’s alive,’ she said.
Turpin pushed past her, headed towards the female officer and helped her to push the onlookers out of the way, removing his jacket and holding it above the victim’s face to shield him from the flurry of flashlights from both press photographers’ cameras and neighbours using smartphones.
As she caught up with him, Jan heard him curse under his breath. A microphone was thrust under his nose, and she raised her hand to ward off any further comment, glaring at the culprit.
Four uniformed officers joined them and, between them, they raised blankets to shield the stretcher from further intrusion as it was loaded into the back of the ambulance.
Finally, the paramedics jumped into the vehicle and it tore away, blue lights flashing.
Turpin gestured towards the cottage and then shrugged his jacket over his shoulders. ‘Shall we?’
She fell into step beside him, dropping the tape into place while she ignored the shouted questions and grumbles from the crowd. Her focus turned to the uniformed sergeant who took a clipboard from PC Willis on the doorstep and thrust it towards her.
‘The crime scene investigators got here fifteen minutes ago,’ he said. ‘From what I gather, there’s no sign of a break-in and it appears that his attacker was lying in wait.’
‘You were able to talk with the victim?’ said Jan.
He nodded. ‘One of the neighbours heard a scuffle and called in. We happened to be passing on a routine patrol, so we were here within ten minutes of the shout.’ He jerked his chin in the direction the ambulance had taken. ‘His name’s Robert Argyle. Parish priest for Malden Cross and two of the neighbouring hamlets.’
‘What are his injuries?’ said Turpin, craning his neck to see around Willis.
‘Significant bruising to his neck – his voice is damaged from it – but he told us his attacker had tried to strangle him with a rope. He’s missing part of his ear as well.’
Turpin’s hand moved to his throat as the police constable continued.
‘He somehow landed a punch, and that’s when his assailant took off. Argyle managed to dial triple nine but of course we were already on our way by then.’
‘Any sign of the attacker?’ said Jan.
‘The kitchen door had been left open, but we haven’t managed to find any fingerprints. We’ve done a preliminary search of the back garden – now that the CSIs are here, we’ll do it again with the aid of their floodlights. There are three patrols out around the village checking exit roads and I’ve this moment finished organising house-to-house enquiries.’ His top lip curled as his gaze lifted to the cordon beyond the gate. ‘If half of them spent as much attention to anything going on outside as they are filming what’s going on here, we might find something of use.’
Jan shared his sentiment about the neighbours, but any response was cut short by a shout from the side of the cottage.
‘Sarge?’
She recognised Peter Cosley from the station as he emerged from the side of the house, beckoning them closer to the taped perimeter.
‘What have you got?’
Turpin beat her by a footstep, and she joined him, slightly out of breath from the adrenalin that spiked her heart rate.
‘What is it, Cosley?’ she said.
In reply, the bespectacled police sergeant held up a small plastic object that he’d bagged and sealed.
Jan peered closer, and frowned.
‘A guitar plectrum?’
‘Found it on the path leading from the back door. There’s a gate that leads to a track going down to the stream.’
‘Footprints?’ said Turpin.
‘A few. We’re in the process of taking casts. Seems to be a popular route for dog walkers, given the number of paw prints.’
‘Can I take a closer look?’
The constable handed the plectrum to Jan, who turned it in her hands. After a moment, she lifted her gaze to Turpin and grinned.
‘It’s got a lion on the back, see?’
‘The same as Toby said Dean Harper uses?’
‘Where exactly was this found?’ said Jan.
‘Next to the gate post for the victim’s house, where the footpath starts.’
‘All right. Thanks,’ said Turpin.
They watched as the uniformed officer retreated to the back of the house to join his colleagues once more.
‘Do we know if our priest played guitar?’
‘Not yet,’ said Jan.
‘In that case, get onto the control room. I want Dean Harper in custody by the time we get back to the station.’
Chapter Thirty-One
Mark waited while Jan recited the formal caution after he’d switched on the machine beside him, and used the time to study the twenty-eight-year-old man opposite.
He ignored the duty solicitor – the man was there to do a job, that was all, despite the expensive-looking suit and swept-back dyed blond hair.
No, he was interested in watching Dean Harper absorb the reality that he was in police custody, and wondered why on earth someone with his obvious intelligence would kill two men and attempt to murder a third.
‘According to your band’s website, you were brought up in Somerset, educated near Bristol, and moved to Oxfordshire in 2016,’ said Jan. ‘You began your singing career as a choirboy. Tell us about your time in the parish north of Bristol.’
Dean folded his arms across his chest and jutted out his chin. ‘Like what?’
‘Like, how did you end up there for a start?’
‘Bad luck.’ He sighed and dropped his hands into his lap. ‘My mum wanted me to be a choirboy. She was really into her religion, y’know? I think she saw it as a way of keeping me out of trouble. We weren’t the sort of family who could afford a lot, so I guess that was her way of getting around it.’
‘Is that how you got into your music?’
‘Yes. I realised I enjoyed the performance part of it, more than anything else. Practising could be boring, especially if some of the younger boys kept forgetting their places, but I loved being on a stage, I guess.’
‘When did it start to go wrong?’ said Mark.
‘What do you mean?’
‘We’ve spoken to the administrative officer for the choir from when you were there. He said that you left when you were fourteen. Why?’
‘I got bored I guess.’
‘Guess again. Someone like you? You said it yourself – you loved the attention you got when you were singing in front of a congregation. So, why quit?’
He watched as the singer’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said finally, his voice hoarse.
Mark leaned forward and rested his arms on the table. ‘Oh, I think you do.’
‘Do you recognise this?’ Jan shoved a plastic bag containing the lion-emblazoned plectrum towards Dean, whose eyes opened wide.
‘Where did you get that?’
‘Answer the question, please.’
‘It’s mine. I mean – it looks like one of mine.’
‘Which music shop do you buy them from?’
‘I-I don’t. A mate of mine owns an online store, and I get them custom-made.’
‘Care to tell us what it was doing in the grass near Father Robert Argyle’s house?’
‘Who?’
‘Robert Argyle, parish priest for Malden Cross.’
‘I’ve never heard of him.’ His eyes flashed between Jan and Mark. ‘I have no idea – I’m telling you the truth!’
‘Tell us about Father Philip Baxter,’ said Mark. ‘What did he do to you, Dean? Why did you murder him?’
‘I never murdered nobody. What’s going on?’
‘Father Seamus Carter was murdered the night you played a gig at the White Horse.’ Mark flipped open the manila folder at his elbow and shoved a series of photographs across the table.
Both Dean and his duty solicitor recoiled.
‘Not a pretty sight, is it?’ said Mark. ‘Care to tell me what you did with his tongue?’
‘W-what?’ The singer paled, and for a split second Mark thought he was going to be sick.
‘His tongue was cut out while he was still alive, Dean. It was taken. Where did you put it?’
‘Jesus Christ, I didn’t kill him!’
‘What about Philip Baxter? Why did you cut out his eyes? Where are you keeping those, Dean?’
‘I’ve never heard of the man.’
‘Where were you on the night of the fifteenth?’ said Jan.
‘Away.’
‘Where?’
Dean shuffled in his seat. ‘I met up with some girl I’d seen hanging around a few of our gigs, all right? We bumped into each other at a pub in Oxford. There was a punk band playing. Afterwards, she invited me back to hers.’
‘We’ll need a name and an address.’
‘It was her sister’s place. She was only visiting.’
Jan glared at him and shoved a pen and paper across the table. ‘Name and address. Now.’
Mark contemplated the younger man while he scrawled across the page with a shaking hand, and narrowed his eyes. ‘You’re keeping something from us, Dean. If you didn’t murder two priests and attack a third, then we need your help – and we need it now. You were a choirboy in that parish. Robert Argyle was a priest there, too. Did something happen? Is that why you’re hiding something?
In response, Dean shook his head.
‘Dean, please. Jan’s going to check out your alibi for that night, but there are two priests lying in a morgue, and one in a hospital, lucky to be alive. You know something, and you need to tell us.’
The singer placed his hands on the table, and then raised his face to the ceiling and closed his eyes.
Moments later, a single tear spilled over his cheek.
‘We were told never to speak of it,’ he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Mark held his breath, thankful that Jan remained silent, and waited for him to continue.
‘There was a boy, maybe six months older than me,’ said Dean. He dropped his chin, and then raised his gaze to meet Mark’s, his cheeks flushing. ‘It was when I was twelve. That’s when I discovered that the priest that taught us choir practice liked his boys.’
Mark held up his hand. ‘Were you abused?’
Dean shook his head. ‘No. I don’t know why. Maybe the dirty old man realised I’d put up a fight, or talk. So, he picked the one who was too scared to say boo to a goose, let alone stand up to a priest and report him.’
‘Who?’
‘Jeremy Wallace.’ Dean snorted. ‘He was only a small lad. For his age, I mean. Do you know what I mean if I said he looked delicate?’
Mark nodded, and gestured for him to continue.
‘Well, I guess our choir master took a fancy to him.’
‘How long did this go on for?’
‘Too long. I don’t know. He told me about a week before it happened.’
‘What happened?’ said Jan.
‘He killed himself. Couldn’t take it anymore. Too embarrassed and scared to talk to his dad. He had no-one. We all turned up one Sunday morning for Mass as usual and he was swinging from a noose in one of the oak trees at the side of the church car park. I’d never seen a dead body before.’ Tears streamed down his face, dripping from his jawline as he forced a bitter smile. ‘He’d even used one of the dirty bastard’s stoles to hang himself, like it was a final defiant gesture.’
Dean pushed the chair back and crossed to the other side of the room, turning his back on them. The sound of his sobbing filled the enclosed space as he hugged his arms around himself.
Mark put his hand on Jan’s arm to stop her following, and when she spun on her chair to face him, he shook his head.
‘Let him have a moment.’
After a few minutes, Dean squared his shoulders, turned and attempted to compose himself as he returned to the table and slumped in his chair.
Mark plucked two paper tissues from a box beside him and handed them over.
‘Thanks.’
‘Why did you wait for nearly two years until leaving the choir?’
‘I was scared, wasn’t I? As it was, I only managed to leave when I got a paper round – I persuaded my mum that would keep me out of trouble, and she could see I was better off earning some money of my own, so she let me quit.’
‘Do you know if Jeremy told anyone else about the abuse?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘It wasn’t discussed amongst the other choirboys? You didn’t overhear the other priests talking to anyone about it?’
‘That was the point,’ said Dean, wiping angrily at his eyes. ‘No-one let on that they heard or saw anything.’
Chapter Thirty-Two
Mark swore loudly at the sight of two vans emblazoned with local television news logos parked at the kerb outside the police headquarters the following morning, and then changed down a gear and zipped his mountain bike behind a patrol car before the barrier began to close.
Braking next to the entrance into the police station, he removed his helmet and glanced back at the assembled throng.
A male reporter was speaking to the camera, but then turned to another man next to him.
Mark realised it was Gerald Aitchison.
‘What are you up to?’ he murmured.
He placed the bike in a rack off to one side, then pushed through the door and hurried towards the men’s changing rooms. Fifteen minutes later, cycling kit exchanged for his suit and his backpack slung over his shoulder, he hurried into the incident room.
Jan rose from her desk as he approached.
‘Did you see Aitchison?’
‘Yes. What’s he up to?’
‘Causing problems, according to the DI. Apparently, he’s gone on live television complaining we’re not doing enough to catch the killer.’ She lowered her voice. ‘He’s only gone and bloody told them Seamus had his tongue cut out.’
‘What?’ He glanced over his shoulder to Kennedy’s office, and noted the door was closed. ‘Who’s in with him?’
‘Andrew Tolley, head of the media relations team. You can imagine the mood he’s in.’
‘I don’t blame him – how on earth did Aitchison find out about that?’
‘No idea.’
‘Me neither.’ Mark moved to the window and peered out between the slats of the blinds, noting that the councillor had been joined by an entourage of middle-aged men and women who stood by his side.
Aitchison gestured to them with a sweep of his hand, and then turned back to the waiting cameras, and Mark realised he had probably rounded up some of his more fervent constituents to add substance to his protests.
At that moment, one of the women brushed past his elbow and jabbed her finger at one of the reporters before Aitchison placed a hand on her arm and made a point of gently steering her towards an older man who hugged her.
Mark turned away from the window with a snort of derision at the obvious manoeuvre to ensure Aitchison appeared sympathetic yet suitably outraged for the cameras.
‘Do you know who any of those people are down there with him?’ he asked Jan.
She joined him, running her gaze over the onlookers. ‘That woman standing behind him—’
‘The one that’s being hugged?’
‘Yes. I recognise her from the locals that were milling about the crime scene at Upper Benham on Sunday morning. I don’t think you spotted her because you were looking at Gillian’s car. I overheard someone say she works in the village shop. The bloke with her must be her husband.’
‘So, it was her assistant I spoke to about the extra keys for the church – Jim Aster.’
‘That’s the one.’
‘What about the others down there?’
She tapped the window. ‘The man to Aitchison’s left is Michael Westing. He calls himself a campaign manager. Aitchison brought him in on a consultancy basis when he announced he’d be running in the next by-election. I don’t know who any of the others are. Rent-a-mob, by the looks of some of them.’
‘They’ve been interviewed?’
‘Uniform took statements after Seamus’s murder, yes. The woman, Kath Hamdan, said Seamus had been into the shop on the Friday – she thought he looked concerned about something when he came in apparently, but had laughed it off as nothing serious when she’d asked. Uniform wondered if it was connected, but she then backed down and said she could’ve been mistaken.’
‘And yet she thought to raise it in the first place.’ Mark glanced over his shoulder and rubbed his jaw. ‘Maybe we should have another word with her, especially since that assistant of hers – Jim – said there wasn’t a record of any other keys being cut for the church. Maybe he was mistaken.’
‘I’ll get her phone number from HOLMES2. What about her husband?’
‘What does he do? Do we know?’
‘Mechanic for one of the local agriculture machinery firms. He made no mention of speaking with Seamus – just attends the church when his wife insists, apparently.’
‘All right. Looks like the party’s over down there.’ He reached out and grabbed his jacket.
‘Where are you going?’ said Jan, raising her eyebrows.
‘To have a chat with our esteemed local councillor.’
Chapter Thirty-Three
