Confession at Maddleskirk Abbey Read online

  ‘You can keep asking me questions, Father John, but I cannot give you answers. I do not know what is going to happen or how long you will be there. But you are comfortable, there is food and shelter, and you have a bed. Please try to be patient. Consider me your guardian, not your captor. I am keeping you safe.’

  ‘I can do that, I don’t really want to know what’s going on. It’s a bit like living in the monastery. And it reminds me of my prison cell, not knowing what lies ahead.’

  ‘Then settle down and enjoy as much of it as you can while you can. Please don’t try to stage an escape, Father John, it wouldn’t be wise. I am always armed but if it’s any consolation, I think our realistic play-acting could soon be over.’

  Alone with his thoughts and now thinking wistfully about his pleasant room at the monastery, he wondered what his colleagues would be doing. He’d told Father Will he was coming to Scarborough Beach Hospital but as he had not booked in and not returned to the abbey, would there now be a search? By the monkstables? If so, where would they be looking – and would they search his room hoping for clues as to his whereabouts? If so, who would conduct the search? They’d need the abbot’s consent to enter his room, but not if the police had a search warrant! When receiving that call about his urgent visit to hospital, he’d not had time to write it in his diary, so no one would know about it. Except Father Will, of course. So what had Will done, apart from hear confessions? Had anyone checked at Scarborough Beach Hospital? And if they had searched his room for clues, would they have found his box of papers?

  Father John had been told very little about this operation, other than not to mention the truth to anyone. He hoped he could maintain the pretence. Father Will knew about that box but could Will be trusted? Who could you trust these days? He thought of his time in prison when no one, absolutely no one, could be trusted and that business with the drugs had made him hated by the inmates – and some warders! Those papers held his innermost thoughts about his conviction and might be his key to a successful appeal. Were they safe now he was not using his room?

  If they got into the hands of the Goddards and their Mafialike family, they would destroy them – that was a certainty. Was it possible to break into the monastery to steal those papers? Did Goddard know he had compiled such a file? But how could he know?

  And, of course, it was the Goddards who were the drugs tsars, using ways of secretly distributing heroin, cocaine and cannabis resin into most of the British prisons and other detention centres, and to a range of other outlets. They were using the building trade as their cover – hiding the stuff in hollowed-out bricks and timbers. Via the proverbial grapevine, he’d heard the Goddards, Michael and Geraldine, were now multi-millionaires through their drug dealing and were operating from a base near Scarborough under another guise and another name. But he did not know those names or identities.

  As he sat alone, brooding about his past, he wondered how Michael could have summoned the necessary mental state to kill those innocent children, whatever the reason. Was he under the influence of drugs at the time? What was his personal state of health, mental or otherwise, or his wealth, at the time of the murders? Father John knew that Michael Goddard had not been successful in his younger days; life had been a struggle both financially and emotionally. There were times when Father John, then known as John Jacobson and retired from the building trade, had lent him money, not expecting it to be repaid. He knew the Goddards had considered him their trusted friend – now he had paid the penalty.

  His thoughts turned more and more towards the Goddards; now they were ‘highly successful’ and wealthy drug dealers, did they see him as a threat? And the woman who was holding him in this flat – she had a look of Mrs Geraldine Goddard.

  She would have aged since those days, of course, but she’d gone out that fateful evening … with her sister. To celebrate their birthdays. So were they twins? Like the little girls? Did twins run in her family? But if she was related to the Goddards, could he trust her? Had he, in fact, fallen into a trap?

  Father John sat on the edge of his bed staring out of the viewless window onto a solid brick wall. Bricks, he thought. Did they contain heroin? Cocaine? Cannabis? Not those actual bricks but others just like them. It gradually seemed more and more likely that he might be the victim of a highly elaborate hoax. Or some kind of secret operation! So who could he trust?

  Then there was a light knock on his door, a key was placed in the lock and it opened. Sue was there with a tray bearing a cup of tea and some chocolate biscuits and brought them in with a smile. She placed the mug and plate of biscuits on his dressing table as she said, ‘Deep in thought, were you? Or perhaps asleep? I had to knock twice.’

  ‘Deep in thought,’ he answered.

  ‘Can I ask what you were thinking?’

  ‘I was wondering if you are the sister of Geraldine Goddard. Jenny is her name? Her twin, in fact? Is that you?’

  ‘Whatever gave you that idea, Father John?’ She quickly left the room with no further comment.

  By chance, Prior Tuck was in the Postgate Room when the phone rang. It was Detective Chief Superintendent Napier. ‘Can you get all the monkstables together, please, Friar Tuck? In quarter of an hour? I need to talk to them. And include Nick Rhea.’

  ‘Yes, no problem. Can I ask why?’

  ‘I’ve a big job for them, a search area to check out.’

  ‘Understood.’

  And so it was that the monkstables gathered once more for a briefing; Nick was with them as Napier burst in and asked them to be seated.

  ‘Thanks for mustering so quickly,’ he praised them. ‘My own officers would have taken far longer to get organized. Now this is the situation. We’ve had reports of a sighting of a lone monk on Whinstone Ridge, near the old chapel of St Aiden. The call came from a hiker who rang the control room at police headquarters from a kiosk. He refused to give his name because he’s sneaking off work and away from his wife for a day out with his girlfriend. They spotted the monk up near the chapel, an old man as he was described, looking lost or bewildered. Oddly, he was wearing his habit with the hood raised, and seemed distressed. That was about twenty minutes ago. He wondered if the monk was from this abbey so the call was transferred to me because of our ongoing enquiries. However, the caller rang off before I could get more details such as the time he saw the monk or whether or not he was injured. From the tone of his conversation he seemed a down-to-earth person with a local accent and I have no reason to believe it is a hoax or a false alarm with good intent. Search and rescue teams are being called out; they’re always keen to have practical experience. An experienced team of police officers will also conduct a search and we shall join them. If we don’t find him, we’ll consider the use of police dogs or even a helicopter. The RAF Search and Rescue team might use theirs; if they do, they will refer to it as an exercise. It means you must all head up to that location immediately and get yourselves organized into a search party. Assemble at the ruined St Aiden’s Chapel, it’s on the map.’

  He paused to allow them a few moments to digest his words, then added,

  ‘A local police inspector – Inspector Carter – is on his way and he will be in overall charge. Make yourselves known to him. You have transport?’

  ‘We have our own personnel carrier,’ said Prior Tuck.

  ‘Right, on your way! I’ve spoken to the abbot and he agrees that you should join the search. I will be in touch with the inspector-in-charge by radio during the search. If it does prove to be Father John, let me know as soon as possible but bear in mind he has been missing since Saturday and might require hospital treatment. Also, if he has been dossing down in that old chapel, we need to know whether he was alone – there may be signs of multiple occupancy or the remains of food and so on.’

  ‘Can I ask one thing?’ asked Nick Rhea.

  ‘Shoot but be quick!’ said Napier.

  ‘Will the press be informed?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve spoken to the force p
ress officer and he is issuing an immediate news release via the Press Association so that all newspapers, radio and TV stations, local and national, are aware of this search. We’ve also issued a fairly recent photo of Father John taken last year when he was repairing an old dry stone wall in the grounds. In addition we need to search this immediate locality in case Father John has made his way back to the abbey. It all means he could be in danger and, as he’s been missing since Saturday, he could be ill, mentally or physically – so do your best.’

  And so Prior Tuck, map in hand, instructed his team to equip themselves with suitable clothing and footwear for a moorland search. They made a swift search of all likely places in the abbey and its surrounds with no result and then the prior led them out to the abbey transport department where a personnel carrier was waiting.

  Prior Tuck ordered, ‘Whinstone Ridge as fast as you can, Stan, and try to get as close as possible to St Aiden’s Chapel – some of the tracks up there aren’t very good for motor vehicles.’

  The driver understood. ‘I know the old chapel.’ He smiled. ‘Hang on to your hats, we’re off!’

  Chapter 18

  ‘HAVE YOU SEEN this?’ Geraldine shouted to her husband, who was working in his study.

  ‘Seen what?’

  ‘There’s a big search underway on the moors – police, rescue services and others – all looking for an old monk who’s missing. It’s on the news.’

  Michael left his work for a moment, going through to the small lounge where the local TV news was being broadcast. He stood and watched as the camera highlighted a search party with dogs making their way across the moors. Others, men and women, with protective clothing bearing the name ‘Moorland Search and Rescue’ were doing likewise in the distance, and there were police officers searching in the background.

  ‘Why do you think I’m interested in this?’ he asked.

  ‘Two reasons. First, you’re always telling me you’re keen to take advantage of opportunities for advertising with our helicopter. It’s got to earn its keep, you keep telling me. So why don’t we offer to help with that search? Free of charge. If we don’t get in there first, some other enterprising businessman will beat us to it. If this search continues, Michael, you might get Linneymoor Ceramics on television. Think of all that free advertising! That must be worthwhile even if it’s only on the regional news but some of these big searches can get national coverage. It’s in our patch of Yorkshire too! And secondly it would establish us as decent people who are willing to help the community. It’s important for us to gain some kudos and get accepted by the locals. You’ve always said you want respect from ordinary people.’

  ‘Yes I do but do you honestly think it’s a good idea, getting involved in matters of this kind? High-profile events? With those coppers all around and an audience that might contain rivals who’ll try to take me out? You never know what might happen if we stick our heads too far above the battlements!’

  ‘Michael, have I ever given you bad advice? Our legitimate business needs to appear legitimate! Openly legitimate, especially in the public eye. I’ve always been at your side, guiding you in our private and business life, making sure you do the best for both of us. This is another of those opportunities we can’t afford to miss. All businesses big and small want to publicise themselves. And what about those air ambulances? You see them all over the place, rescuing people or taking injured people to hospital. They’re supported by charity, like the lifeboats – people are prepared to dig deep into their pockets at the sight of a helicopter doing charitable work. That kind of image is now within our reach, Michael.’

  ‘I don’t want to look like a dim-witted bighead showing off his wealth! That can happen, you know. People can be very jealous, and we don’t want that. You never know what it might lead to: bad things, too much exposure … risky exposure. We’re fairly new here, remember, we want to settle in and become an accepted part of the community. We don’t want people to freeze us out of their lives just because of boasting we’ve got money and success. Acceptance is important to me.’

  ‘Exactly, and that’s why I think this would be a good idea. You’d be seen to be helping the community in a very humane exercise. We – the business, I mean – can only benefit from this and you’d be doing a real service to the community. Trust me, Michael.’

  ‘You’ve got a point, I’ll grant you that. So who is the chap they’re looking for?’

  ‘That’s the real reason we should help. He’s an elderly monk from Maddleskirk Abbey, he’s not been seen since Saturday. He’s Father John Attwood.’

  ‘Attwood? Are you sure? Why would a helicopter be needed to look for him?’

  ‘He’s wandering and vulnerable. I thought you’d want to rescue him!’

  ‘You don’t really mean rescue, do you? Catch might be the better word. Yes, I would like to get my hands on him – so where was he seen? It seems your confession and stiletto trick flushed him out … wonderful, wonderful … just what we need. This might be the perfect opportunity to catch him, to deal with him once and for all. We’ll never get another chance like this. OK, I’m convinced. What next? Remember I have a consignment to deliver later today.’

  ‘That can wait. There’s an old ruined chapel on those hills, St Aiden’s Chapel, and according to the news they think he might have been sleeping rough there. Then it seems he got lost. He’s not been seen since Saturday until today when he was spotted by a hiker near the old chapel. They think he’s lost and wandering – you can easily get lost on those moors, Michael, they’re wild and inhospitable with very little shelter, very dangerous for an old man. You need to show sympathy for him.’

  ‘Sympathy? After what he did to us!’

  ‘You’d be seen as a very caring person, Michael, and I’m sure there are places safe enough for a helicopter to land. Others have been used in rescues and searches up there. There are acres of open space surrounded by coniferous forests.’

  ‘But ours is not a search-and-rescue machine, Geraldine. We’ve no heat-seeking equipment and no space for a stretcher. …’

  ‘Now you’re making excuses! It’s a helicopter and it can fly low while searching. It can hover, it provides a good view from up aloft and I’m a good pilot – we’d just be looking for him! Helping the search. You and me. There’s seating for two more passengers – ideal for a rescue attempt and perfect for us to pick him up and rush him off the hospital. By then, we’ll have got him! And remember this, Michael, I want him to suffer for what he did to my little girls. It’s my time for revenge, my turn to put matters right. We’ve a radio and could say we’re taking him to York Hospital but once away from there, we could dump him in the sea or somewhere … we’d say he opened the door and fell out. He’d never be found if we weighted his body … or we could tell the police we left him on the York helipad with a member of staff and don’t know where he is now It’s the chance I’ve been waiting for, Michael. We can’t let this pass without doing something so shall I ring the police and make an offer? We must act quickly.’

  ‘I hope you know what you’re doing! You realize I don’t want to get too close to the police; they may know more about us than we believe. We can’t get too involved in such rescues. If we do it once, we’ll be expected to do it again.’

  ‘We’ll be lost among other searchers but the fact you volunteered will mark you as an honourable sort of chap, part of a public-spirited team.’ She smiled knowingly. ‘It’s always worked before; you’ve always established your credentials to work your way into acceptance by the community … people are not concerned how you make your money, Michael, just that you’ve got a lot and you’re not afraid to spread it around for the benefit of others! It’s a perfect way of concealing our true mission in life.’

  He waited a long time before answering, then said, ‘All right. Let’s do it, it’s always worked before. We can make it work again.’

  And so Geraldine made the call.

  Out on the moors, Inspector Carter’s
mobile phone buzzed. ‘Carter,’ he responded.

  ‘Sergeant Tanfield, control room, sir,’ responded a voice. ‘We’ve a businesswoman on the line, she’s offering a helicopter and pilot to help in the search for that monk.’

  ‘What’s the catch?’ asked the inspector.

  ‘Catch? None so far as I’m aware.’

  ‘Who is she?’

  Sergeant Tanfield told him, ‘She’s a director of Linneymoor Ceramics, name of Rachel Morton. Her husband Joe is her business partner. They’re located in the Old Brickworks at Linneymoor – the ‘copter’s got “Linneymoor Ceramics” in big letters on both sides. Cream-coloured body with terracotta lettering.’

  ‘She’s after a bit of free advertising then? Well, so long as she understands we can’t pay for its use, that the pilot and aircraft must be comprehensively insured and that all the air navigational rules are obeyed. And we need to liaise with Gold Command.’

  ‘Leave that to me. She has promised that all the necessary conditions will be met. She will be the pilot and will bring documents to be checked.’

  ‘Sounds OK. Do we know anything else about them?’

  ‘Nothing, sir. They’re new to the district but they’ve not come to the notice of the police. I did the usual CRO check.’

  ‘Nothing more than that? No other checks?’ asked the inspector.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘All right, it’ll certainly be a big help but she must be told that the pilot must take orders from the officer-in-charge of the search with approval from Gold Command. If she agrees, I see no reason to refuse the offer. It could search a huge grid in the fraction of the time we’d do it on foot so it will need an observer on board. The pilot must be told we’ve had no further sightings of the monk. Tell her the control point will be the ruined St Aidan’s Chapel near Whinstone Ridge on the North York Moors. It’s on the map and with bags of space for a landing site.’