Confession at Maddleskirk Abbey (9 page)

‘But he admitted the crimes to get himself released on licence!’

‘With such a high-profile murder on his record, that is the only way he would have been granted parole. It is widely thought he admitted his guilt simply to get out of prison. He intends to establish his innocence but couldn’t do so whilst inside.’

‘Can I ask if you believe he’s innocent?’

‘I have no idea, Brian. I’ve not had chance to study the case in depth, or even read the newspaper reports. With the aid of the internet, we can find out more.’

‘So we must reopen his case?’

‘On what grounds, Brian? On the say-so of a man convicted of a very brutal double murder of two children? Our prisons are full of people who claim they are innocent. And another thing, his crimes did not occur in our area, so we don’t have ready access to the necessary files. The child murders were in the suburbs of Manchester. If there is to be a cold-case review, it could only be done or initiated by the local police, not us.’

‘But surely, in view of our current case, we can ask that force for help? To find out what really happened?’

‘We can ask, Brian. That means you’ve just talked yourself into a job. I would suggest you make an appointment to see the CID boss of Greater Manchester Police immediately if not sooner. Explain your reasons then go and visit him in his office – I’d say the entire case papers will be several feet thick. We don’t want an email copy of that lot! You need to speak in person to the officers involved if any are still around. It’s possible some are. Try to gauge their gut feeling about the case, ask if there’s any chance Attwood alias Jacobson was innocent. I’m sure my counterpart in Greater Manchester will be aware of his release on licence – his department will have been officially notified.’

‘I’ll get cracking right away. How is this going to affect the way we deal with the present murder?’

‘It’s not easy to say but we must be somewhat devious from this point onwards. I’m going to suggest we continue our murder enquiries as if we
don’t
know the victim’s identity. If we release his name, the press will get on to the story and I don’t want that kind of sensational revelation, not at this stage. So we keep quiet and continue as if we are trying to ascertain his name, address and personal details. Remember only you and I know the truth. Let’s keep it like that for the time being. We can keep our teams
and the monkstables busy trying to find out. It won’t be a waste of time because we need to know whether there have been any sightings of him, alone or with a companion. After all, we must know if anyone can throw light on his death. There is still a lot of groundwork to complete.’

‘That makes sense; someone must have seen him around here.’

‘Our teams can ask whether he’s been staying in lodgings or travelling in when necessary. He might have a car parked somewhere. Sooner or later in a rural area like this, it will attract attention.’

‘That should keep the local CID and monkstables busy.’

‘I’ll get them to ask at B&B establishments too. He must have lodged somewhere. We don’t need to release his name to achieve a result of this kind but we must try to establish a link with our target villain.’

‘So what’s the situation with Father John Attwood?’

‘He’s in great danger but I can tell you he is safe right now. Don’t ask how I know – just accept it. Also in his case, there’s nothing about his background in our murder room files, although there will be in the CID offices at police headquarters. I suggest we don’t release that knowledge at this stage. Let’s keep things simple – our line of inquiry is that he’s an elderly monk who has vanished and we are concerned for his safety, even if it’s on the fringes of a murder inquiry. We are worried about him, that’s the official line. In the eyes of the public, that could be due to nothing more than absent mindedness – but someone may have noticed him somewhere. His dog collar and grey suit is a giveaway – if he’s still wearing them.’

‘So is it possible to keep all this to ourselves? Is it wise?’

‘We must keep this to ourselves, at least for the time being, Brian. If news of his disappearance gets into the news media, it could aggravate the risk of others trying to find him. It could generate huge public interest in whether or not he’s guilty. We don’t want that – not yet anyway. No news is sometimes good
news. Now, what about that little monk with specs on? Father Will? He’s in the firing line for this crime as well, isn’t he? He must be in the frame as a suspect.’

‘A suspect? I never thought of him in that light!’

‘Well, he must be on our list of suspects or those who need to be proved innocent. Remember he occupied that confessional in place of Father John Attwood, didn’t he? And didn’t remove Father Attwood’s name.’

‘I thought he’d not altered the name sign simply because it never occurred to him.’

‘He would say that, wouldn’t he? And remember the stiletto was found there. We’ve got to look at things rather more closely now, Brian. We need to know whether he was manning that confessional when the stiletto was placed there, don’t we? And if he didn’t hide it there, who did?’

‘He was in there for an hour on Saturday, starting at six in the evening.’

‘Then his presence might be recorded on CCTV footage – except there is a back door into the confessional, the door used by the priests. So maybe he will not show up on that footage?’

‘The films are being scrutinized, aren’t they?’

‘They are but there is more. Suppose we can prove that Father Will was in the confessional when the stiletto was left there. It is almost certain it was used to kill DI Radcliffe and then quickly concealed. We are investigating a murder, remember; everyone is a suspect until proved otherwise. So could Father Will have used that stiletto to kill the man in the woods sometime that afternoon, and then returned to hide the weapon in the confessional? Concealing it in the folds of his habit?’

‘You don’t seriously think he’s involved, do you, boss?’

‘I don’t think anything, Brian, I’m trying to find out. But I will say this – there are lots of reasons for having Father Will well and truly in the frame. I think we need to interview him about his movements with precise timings both before and after Radcliffe’s murder, if only with the excuse that we are trying
to eliminate him from suspicion. So I have lots to do and so do you.’

‘I’ll get back to the murder room now and ring Manchester.’

‘Right. Catch a train from York, do your stuff and you should be back here before midnight. Stay over if you have to. You know your brief – find out as much as you can about John Attwood alias Jacobson, and learn more about the crime he supposedly committed. While you’re getting organized, I’ll reconstitute my three o’clock conference in view of what we’ve just discussed but before the conference I will speak to the abbot. I’m not sure how much he knows about Father John Attwood and his past.’

‘Or Father Will?’

‘All right, I’ll ask the abbot about both. Come along, Brian, there’s no time to sit around. I’ve got to go and see an abbot and you’ve a train to catch. When you get to Manchester give our best Yorkshire wishes to those folks on the wrong side of the Pennines.’

And so they returned to their respective duties.

‘F
ATHER
J
OHN HAS
been a model of propriety since he joined us,’ Abbot Merryman told Napier. ‘For a senior citizen with his background, he has settled in remarkably well and has proved most useful when we require any running repairs – he can fix almost anything.’

‘I’m interested in his former life, Father Abbot. You are aware of our search for him?’

‘Yes, the prior keeps me informed. Any sightings or news?’

‘Nothing since he was dropped at Scarborough Beach Hospital at around six on Saturday evening. That’s been confirmed. Has he been in contact with you?’

‘Sorry, no. Not a word. I find that very odd, Mr Napier. Do you have any idea what’s going on? Why would he do such a thing? Why leave here without a word? Then there’s that murder in the wood. I do hope he is not involved in that.’

‘That has to be considered and I have to question whether he left voluntarily. There are elements to suggest he was tempted away or even tricked into leaving the monastery.’

‘So how can I help? We can contact the other British monasteries if that will do any good. He might have sought solace or shelter elsewhere.’

‘Anything you can do to trace him will be welcome, Father Abbot.’ Napier felt a twinge of guilt in deceiving the abbot in
this way but felt it necessary in the circumstances. ‘And I need to ask you some questions about him.’

‘Clearly you know about his former life?’

‘I would never claim to know all about it, Father, but our recent researches have uncovered some unwelcome facts.’

‘You’re referring to his time in prison for murdering two little girls?’

‘Yes, I thought you would be aware of that, but he claims innocence. He’s trying to clear his name.’

‘He is and I believe in his innocence, Mr Napier. We’ve had long one-to-one discussions about that awful period of his life and I have no reason to believe he was guilty of those crimes. Here, of course, he is not allowed to teach or work with children but I should add that few if any of our staff or brethren are aware of his past.’

‘He confirmed his guilt when he sought to be released on licence.’

‘It was a device to secure his freedom, Mr Napier. Don’t ask me about the sinfulness of such a manoeuvre, pleading guilty to something he did not do, but he has spent a lot of time in the company of Benedictine monks since he was imprisoned. He was not brought up as a Catholic or in any formal religion, but it was whilst in prison that he befriended one of our monks who regularly visited the jail to celebrate Mass, hear confessions and generally provide solace for the inmates. John attended classes run by our monks. They were not designed to bang on about religion but more to equip the inmates for life outside those four walls. Several monks took turns in hosting the classes, and all came from our Lancashire parishes. Gradually John warmed to our faith and sought to be baptised into the church. He was made very welcome although he was still in prison.

‘Then upon his release he joined this monastery and after training became a fully qualified priest/monk. He has told me everything about his past even though I did not make such demands upon him. We don’t impose conditions upon our
novices and there are times we must accept recruits at face value but in his case I was pleased to learn of his background. Without breaching the seal of confession, Mr Napier, I am convinced of his innocence. In his own words he told me he was “set up” for those crimes. I suspect he meant “framed”.’

‘Is he seeking revenge?’

‘No, his present calling does not embrace revenge, Mr Napier. All he wants is to clear his name. He is a peaceful man and a very good priest and monk.’

‘We do hear a lot of prisoners swearing to their innocence, Father Abbot, and we can’t investigate every such claim. To be honest, we need more than the word of a convict before an old case can be reopened. We need compelling evidence.’

‘I like to think John is different, Mr Napier. I can vouch for him being a very sincere and honest man. So are you able to help him clear his name?’

‘That doesn’t fall within my terms of reference, Father Abbot, but I’ll give him whatever advice I can when we find him. Those murders were not committed within our force area, so Father John will somehow have to persuade the current chief constable of Greater Manchester that there has been a miscarriage of justice within his jurisdiction. That’s never easy, convincing anyone that they’ve made a huge mistake! To set the ball rolling, he’ll need supporting evidence of such potency that it will persuade the authorities that he was wrongfully convicted. This needs more than just his word.’

‘That’s difficult for a man in the later years of life, and without much learning or knowledge of laws, legal procedures and so on. He’s a very ordinary man, Mr Napier.’

‘My task – our task – is to search and hopefully find him safe and sound, Father Abbot, but we must interview him about the recent murder. It’s not to prove his guilt but to prove his innocence. That’s my job – to determine the truth. Fortunately, you’ve all got your feet firmly on the ground!’

‘Thank you, Mr Napier, it’s good that we can work together.
So is there anything I can help with?’

‘Two things. If Father John doesn’t turn up soon, we’ll have to search his room to see whether it contains any clues to his whereabouts. Probably this afternoon.’

‘That’s not very nice, Mr Napier. We regard a monk’s room as a very private place.’

‘I agree entirely, but it’s necessary. We need something to guide us to wherever he might be. Letters, diaries, notes of some kind. Anything. And the second thing is, what do you know about Father Will Redman?’

‘Not a lot. He’s a clever man, with a good mathematical brain and knowledge of computers and how they function. Rather shy, I would suggest, and somewhat nervous in a crisis. I’m hoping that being a monkstable will give him more confidence when dealing with people.’

‘A brainy man, you’d say?’

‘Yes, he’s an Oxford graduate and worked in the Bodleian Library before becoming a monk. This abbey has rooms at Oxford University and so, to cut a long story short, he became a novice and is now a trusted member of our community.’

‘No hidden agenda then?’

‘Nothing like that. Open and honest, a good worker. He has two brothers and a sister who all work in London. He visits them regularly, and he returns their hospitality by letting them stay in our guest room. And, of course, he is one of our monk-constables.’

‘I’ve met him several times during his monkstable duties. However, Father Abbot, I need to eliminate him from our enquiries and that requires some hard questions. You should know that.’

‘You mean he’s a suspect?’ The Abbot sounded horrified.

‘He’s involved in our enquiries, Father Abbot. He swapped places with Father John at confessions on Saturday, then I found a stiletto in the confessional this morning. It could have been there since the murder. From that fact alone you can understand
why I need to interview him. And being close to Father John, he might know more than us about Father John’s disappearance and the presence of that dagger. And apart from Tim Farley, your driver, he was the last person to see Father John before he vanished.’

‘But Will would never do things like that – murder someone, hide the weapon …’

‘Someone has,’ said Napier firmly. ‘How many friends and families of killers have said that, I wonder? I am not accusing him of anything, Father Abbot. I’m just trying to establish the truth and clarify the situation.’

‘Does Will know about this?’

‘Not yet, that’s my next job. I think he’s still on duty in the cop shop as you call it.’

‘He enjoys that work, he’s in his element in a world of computers and I think he’s ideal for that responsibility. He’s helping to create a very modern and efficient private police service with first-class communications.’

‘I’m sure he’s doing a great job. Now one final thing, Father,’ continued Napier. ‘The murder victim. We have no identification at this stage, and the monkstables are still making enquiries around the campus and local countryside, searching for anyone who might have seen him. Asking at boarding houses, looking for abandoned cars and so on … they’re doing a good job, they’re a valuable asset to the inquiry. You should be pleased with them.’

‘I am, and thank you.’

And so Detective Chief Superintendent Napier left the abbot’s office and headed for the cop shop where Father Will was still working.

‘Mr Napier, how nice to see you,’ said Father Will. ‘How can I help?’

‘I need to talk to you for about twenty minutes or so. Is there somewhere we can go without being disturbed?’

‘There’s the abbey’s guest lounge, it’s usually empty about now. I’ll just call Prior Tuck to let him know the shop is not staffed.’ He locked the door and led the big man through the abbey church and out into a separate area that contained several small rooms. Will smiled and led him into the one marked ‘Lounge’.

‘Take a seat.’

‘Thanks, Father Will.’ Napier settled down at the table. ‘Now, I’m sure you’re wondering why I need to talk to you, but this is important. It’s concerning the murder of the man in Ashwell Priory woods. I must stress you are not under suspicion but I need to eliminate you from our enquiries.’

‘You can’t think I did it? Surely …’ The monk’s voice developed a distinct tremor.

‘I don’t think anything, Father Will. My task is to find out. Now I’m interested in you because you swapped places with Father John at confession time. As you are surely aware, we’re still looking for him.’

‘Yes, I know, it is most strange. Where can he be?’

‘We need to find out, so please tell me everything about that exchange of duties, with as much detail as possible.’

‘Well, it was nothing out of the ordinary; all of us swap duties from time to time. He came to see me on Saturday afternoon, just before five, and asked if I would take confession at six in his place. I said it was no problem and I’d be pleased to help – that was from six until seven.’

‘Did he tell you why?’

‘Yes, he said he’d had a phone call from Scarborough Beach Hospital asking him to go there as soon as possible because the consultant had found something in a recent sample that required a face-to-face discussion. He has prostate cancer but is coping with it. The caller asked Father John to visit the hospital at six that evening when the specialist would speak to him.’

‘Was he told anything about that finding?’

‘Only that it was associated with his prostate cancer
diagnosis some months earlier.’

‘Did a man or a woman call him?’

‘A woman, she said she worked on reception but didn’t give a name.’

‘Did he check the call? Ring back? Query it in any way?’

‘No, he didn’t argue. He has been receiving treatment for prostate cancer so the call wasn’t unusual. The woman said she couldn’t discuss it over the phone. If he had any queries, he should discuss them with his consultant.’

‘Did she suggest he may have to be an in-patient, perhaps just overnight?’

‘No, he asked but she said no. He would be free to come home immediately after the consultation.’

‘And then?’

‘Well, I agreed to take his turn at six o’clock confessions and he booked one of the official cars to take him to the hospital, leaving here at five o’clock.’

‘A single journey?’

‘There was talk of the driver waiting for him but John said he didn’t want him hanging around for an indefinite period. He said he would find his own way home – taxi, perhaps, or a bus.’

‘Did he say anything to you before he left?’

‘No, he was in a rush. I bade him farewell and good wishes, and off he went. He said he’d update me when he got back.’

‘And then what happened?’

‘I went to the confessional box at about ten to six and settled down. It’s a regular weekly session, usually well attended. That evening there was a steady stream of penitents until seven o’clock. You know I can’t reveal anything they told me, Mr Napier. The seal of confession is absolute.’

‘I’ve learned a lot about that since I came here. So did anything unusual happen during your spell of duty?’

‘No, nothing.’ Napier caught the nervous glance in Father Will’s eyes.

‘Nobody confessed to a murder then?’ Napier produced a thin smile.

‘I am not allowed to break the seal of confession. I can’t answer such a question.’

‘I’m not asking you to reveal the identity of such a person, if indeed it did happen. I’m just asking whether such a thing occurred.’

‘I cannot break the seal of confession, Mr Napier. I want to help your enquiries in any way possible, but that is one thing I cannot and must not do.’

‘Did you know that someone left a stiletto dagger in the confessional? Hidden under the kneeler?’

‘I know nothing about that, Mr Napier, please God I do not.’

‘Early forensic tests indicate it is the weapon that killed the man in the wood. There are traces of his blood on the blade near the hilt, missed when somebody tried to clean it … but we don’t know where this weapon has come from or who left it there. It will be subjected to further forensic examinations but there were no fingerprints.’

‘I’m sorry I can’t help, really I can’t …’

‘So no one confessed to using this weapon, did they? Before they left it in your confessional?’

‘I had no idea it was there, Mr Napier, no idea at all. Most definitely not. I did not put it there and I have no idea who did. Truly I haven’t.’

‘I noticed you didn’t change Father John’s name-board before the confessions. Was that deliberate? Or did you want the penitents to think they were speaking to Father John?’

‘I never gave it a thought, Mr Napier, not once. I didn’t see the name-board because I entered through the back door.’

‘So then what happened once time was up?’

‘I left the confessional and went to my room to prepare for Vespers.’

‘So you didn’t check the confessional to see whether anyone had left anything?’

‘No, the cleaners do that.’

‘How often?’

‘I don’t know, probably once a week. There’s always confessions on a Saturday evening at six for an hour, so I guess the cleaners tidy things up on Friday at the latest.’