Confession at Maddleskirk Abbey Read online

  ‘It could. A bayonet can’t be ruled out. And the killer would be very strong. And determined. He’s sliced the main blood vessels in the throat and neck, the carotids. The weapon has not been found so further searches will be undertaken.’

  ‘You’ll be arranging those?’ asked Nick.

  ‘Leave it to me. If the weapon is not found, the killer may still have it in his or her possession and it will bear traces of the victim’s blood even if an attempt’s been made to clean it. The fact the killer still has the weapon makes him or her very dangerous, and it might have been used for previous killings although many killers like to get rid of the murder weapon. Will you warn your monkstables to be constantly alert, especially when they are interviewing people?’

  ‘I will.’ Nick felt sure the man’s injuries could be described as a stabbing. ‘Just one other thing, Brian. This appears to be the work of a major criminal so do we still believe it’s a gangland killing?’

  ‘We might have to revise that thinking, Nick. It could be a copy-cat killing. We have an open mind at the moment.’

  ‘But we think the victim was dead before he hit the ground?’

  ‘Almost certainly. We have a SOCO team examining the ground at the top of that cliff; they might find blood up there. The stab wound would have been enough to kill him.’

  ‘So his “fall” was really a means of disposing of the body?’ suggested Nick, thinking of Father Will in that confessional.

  ‘Yes, it was. If it hadn’t been for Barnaby, his remains might never have been found.’

  Chapter 5

  ALONE IN THE Postgate Room, Nick found himself deeply troubled by the unexplained absence of Father John and could not prevent his thoughts returning to Father Will. Whatever had happened after he’d swapped duties with Father John was obviously preying on his conscience – so Nick decided to visit the confessional, not to confess any sins but to examine it. He would try to visualize it as it would have been on Saturday night. Could those penitents be traced? If so, could they have noticed anything out of the ordinary that evening?

  Could one of them have confessed to Father Will that he or she had stabbed a man? Or worse, had someone confessed to murder? A stabbing was not necessarily murder; it included wounding, even slightly. But was it feasible that Father Will could have heard a confession of murder? If he had, was the penitent one of those who had queued on Saturday night from six o’clock until seven? That was around the time Father John would be at Scarborough Beach Hospital awaiting the result of his blood analysis or cancer readings. It was an awful thought, but could Father John have killed the man before vanishing on a fictitious trip?

  The question was whether the victim was alive on Saturday, the day the confessions were heard? He had not been found dead until Monday morning – this morning – but his time of death had not been determined. Is that what was troubling Father Will? A penitent confessing to murder by stabbing? And then seeking absolution?

  Nick had heard that this was the most difficult of confessions a priest might ever hear. During their training for the priesthood, they were taught the necessary response and advice they should give but nonetheless all dreaded having to listen as someone actually confessed to murder, particularly one that remained unsolved. A killer confessing to murder once he or she had been convicted created less of a problem for a priest.

  As Nick headed for the south transept where the confessional was located he was considering ways of identifying the people who had been there on Saturday night. If a small gathering had assembled between 6 p.m. and 7 p.m., either to queue to go to confession or simply to sit quietly in prayer, then each would have been aware of the others. The chances were that most were local people known to one another, or to the staff or brethren of the abbey. Already, it seemed Nick’s task was feasible. If a stranger had been noticed among them, he or she was likely to be regarded as a suspect.

  The route from the Postgate Room into the abbey church led through long wide corridors of highly polished marble, many with drawings, photographs or paintings along their walls. They depicted the history and development of the abbey.

  This was a modern abbey built in the early 1960s although it had been constructed over the ruins of an earlier priory that now formed the crypt and undercroft beneath the present church. Although it was a Catholic abbey, it lacked much of the splendour and highly coloured décor of its contemporaries, especially those overseas, although it exuded a strong spiritual atmosphere that suggested silence and respect.

  In that silence, and with due respect, Nick made his way along the deserted corridors into the south transept, genuflecting before the high altar as sacred organ music filled the church.

  The confessional, duly soundproofed, was built into a corner of that transept. Alone in this quiet place, he moved into a pew that provided a view of the complete transept and knelt down to make it appear he was in private prayer. He tried to imagine this area busy with people, as indeed it had been on Saturday night. They had been sitting or kneeling here, possibly with a murderer amongst them.

  As he looked around, Nick noticed the name-board above the door of the confessional; it continued to bear the name of Father John Attwood as the confessor. Although he was a recent addition to the monks of this abbey, he was not a monkstable. Nick’s eyes ranged around this place through which he had regularly passed without having had any reason to pause and reflect. Now he noticed various interesting gadgets on the walls and suspended from the ceiling. A fire alarm, a loud speaker linked to the lectern on the high altar, a system for lowering the lights for replacement bulbs and repairs – and several security cameras. They were now essential in churches due to thefts of valuables ranging from silver candlesticks to furnishings via statues and offertory boxes. They were also installed on the exterior, to deter thieves, especially those who stole lead from the roofs.

  Would those cameras have been activated on Saturday night? If so, would they have captured the images of those people awaiting their turn for confession? There was absolutely no way cameras or listening devices would be installed inside the confessionals. He wondered whose job it was to monitor the footage?

  If the cameras had been operating would the images be sufficiently clear for a viewer to identify faces? But whatever their capabilities, the cameras offered hope. But was such an enquiry within Nick’s area of responsibility or should he suggest it to Prior Tuck or a monkstable? Or to Napier’s team?

  As he continued to kneel, he decided he must not initiate these enquiries. It would be an abuse of trust in this hallowed place; he was fully aware of the sanctity of the confessional. On the other hand as a former police officer and now security adviser to the abbey, he could not ignore the fact that valuable images may be present in the security system. They may be highly important in establishing creditable witnesses to recent events – and could unmask a killer.

  The answer was to inform Detective Chief Superintendent Napier. This piece of information must be considered part of the murder investigation. It was not a task for the monkstables even though it might help to trace Father John. Nick left his pew, genuflected and made his way out of the south door and down the steps onto the road that would take him to St Alban’s Lecture Theatre. Three minutes later he was entering the murder room, which was now noisy and busy as more detectives had arrived and were being briefed by DI Lindsey.

  During a lull, he noticed Nick and called, ‘Anything I can do, Nick?’

  ‘I’d like a word with Mr Napier if that’s possible.’

  ‘Just knock on his door, the green one. That’s what he tells us to do.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  He did so and a voice called, ‘Don’t hang about out there, come in, I won’t bite,’ and so he walked in. Napier had managed to squeeze his desk and a computer into a tiny ante room that was full of stored easels, blackboards and other lecturing necessities.

  ‘So what brings you here, Nick? Sit down if you can find a seat.’

  He found
a stool and began. ‘You might think what I’m going to say now is off limits, Mr Napier, but maybe you’re not familiar with churches, religion, monks and so forth?’

  ‘I’m not a God botherer, Nick, but doing my job among the great English public has taught me a little about the Catholic faith. Even so, I’m still puzzled that folks come to your church and voluntarily confess to all manner of things to a priest. I wish my job was so simple! I need to know something about everything otherwise I’d get no detecting done! So don’t hold back, tell me what’s troubling you.’

  ‘It centres upon the sacrament of confession,’ he began.

  ‘I was taught about that on my CID training course, Nick. I know that if chummy confesses something to a Catholic priest, the priest can never reveal it to anyone, never. But that is not English law, Nick. Our laws recognize that the priest is governed by his Church and in practice we and our legal friends would not demand that a priest broke the seal of confession. But in law, the priest cannot claim that legal privilege as a right – but it is a privilege that’s widely accepted. It is, and always will be, a difficult area within our laws of evidence. How’s that? See, I remembered my lectures from training school days.’

  ‘I’m impressed!’

  ‘So what’s all this got to do with what you want to tell me?’

  Nick explained his concerns about Father Will, relating the words he had used and trying to replicate his physical appearance of shock. ‘It was his reference to stabbing, Mr Napier. When I mentioned the body in the woods, he asked if the victim had been stabbed, then immediately withdrew his comments. It made me wonder if he knew something about it. It was one of the other monks who wondered if Will had heard a worrying sort of confession. Priests must be affected by what they hear. …’

  ‘Aye, lad, they must but if we try to extract that information, they will not reveal it. It’s happened before with other crimes, Nick, and there’s nothing we can do. I know. I’ve tried. Were you going to suggest something?’

  He explained about the security cameras in the south transept, and how that particular session of confession had occurred between 6 p.m. and 7 p.m. on Saturday, with Father Will standing in at short notice when Father Attwood had been called away to hospital.

  ‘There could be something there for us. Do you think my teams might turn up something useful from the cameras?’

  ‘I thought if we searched the images that show people queuing for confession on Saturday evening, we might find our killer among them. I know it’s a shot in the dark and I have no firm evidence of what the priest heard from the killer, but if we can identify him, it would be a good beginning.’

  ‘Him? Why do you think it’s a man?’

  ‘I just thought—’

  ‘Never pre-judge, Nick. Killers can be male or female. If we search that security film, we’ll be looking for a man or a woman. Although our victim was stabbed, deeply stabbed – would a woman have the strength to do that? And extract the dagger afterwards? Sometimes knives cannot be hauled out of stab wounds due to the suction.’

  ‘I thought his neck had been cut—’

  ‘Cut, yes, and stabbed down to the vertebrae. I’ve seen it on the computer screen direct from the slab in the morgue. A deep thrust, Nick. Entry at the back of the neck. With a very sharp and short tapering blade. Like a stiletto. Stilettos are still around, Nick, even if they are out of fashion. So if – and I stress if – your monk heard someone confess to a stabbing, whatever the weapon used, it is of interest to us.’

  ‘There’s no way of knowing whether he heard a confession to murder, Mr Napier.’

  ‘There isn’t but this is a very interesting development, Nick, and something I might have overlooked, so thank you. Neither you nor I want to lose favour with the brethren in this place so leave this to me. I’ll keep you out of it. I’ll obtain that security film as part of our overall inquiry and when it comes to searching, I’ll get one of the monkstables to identify those who were queuing for confession. I suspect most will be regulars, local people known to the priests, but it will be a good start. I accept there may have been strangers among them. I hope we can trace them and have words. Who knows, we might also obtain a confession to a stabbing! How does that sound?’

  ‘You’ve put my mind at rest, thanks.’

  ‘This could be the breakthrough we need. I appreciate your efforts, Nick. Now show me that confessional box? If it’s going to be an integral part of our enquiries, I need to have a look at it.’

  During the short walk, Nick asked Napier, ‘Have we an identity for our victim?’

  ‘Nothing, no. We’re having his fingerprints checked as I speak; we got some good images from the body. DNA samples have been taken as well but DNA analysis takes longer. If he hasn’t any convictions, his fingerprints won’t be much help. Failing that, we’ve now got details of who made his shoes, jeans and T-shirt, so we might be able to trace them to a local retailer who can remember him buying them. If he used a credit card, we can trace him. In other words, there’s a long way to go, always slow and time-consuming. But we usually get there. And a motive? At this stage I haven’t a clue except we might have got ourselves into something big so we must put a name to him. Now, have your monkstables discovered anything I should know about?’

  ‘Only the stabbing question. They’ve not had reports of anyone missing from their places of work or their usual haunts – apart from Father John – and we’ve no leads on identification of the victim, no sightings in this area. Ah, here we are, this is the entrance to the south transept.’

  Nick led him up the steps and into the transept. A monk was in the organ loft practising and the entire abbey church was filled with his sacred music, the composer of which was unknown to Nick but he thought it was the music of one of the Gregorian chants.

  ‘Nice,’ whispered Napier. ‘Music like that always pleases me.’

  ‘This is the confessional.’ Nick showed him the door in the wall on the north side; it was a solid oak door with small opaque glass panels near the top to permit entry of a modicum of light. Beside it was an identical panel which was not a door and on the wall nearby was a name-board still showing ‘Father John Attwood’.

  ‘So where are the cameras?’

  Nick pointed to sites on the ceiling and around the walls, adding that some of the equipment consisted of loud speakers linked to the lectern and even the organ loft.

  ‘So who looks after the cameras, Nick? Any idea?’

  ‘Sorry, no. The prior will tell you.’

  ‘I don’t want to involve you in this, Nick. We might be talking delicate and confidential stuff here. So how does this confessional function?’

  Nick explained how the penitents awaited their turns in the pews of the south transept and when the previous person emerged from the confessional box, the next entered via the door that faced the pews. He explained that the interior comprised of two soundproofed cubicles, one used by the priest who entered via a door to the rear, out of sight from the transept, with the other being used by the penitent.

  ‘So he sits there out of sight but in verbal contact as folks confess all their sins to him, is that how it works?’

  ‘Basically that’s it.’

  ‘It’s a rum do if you ask me and I bet he gets some wonderful stories. Do you get thieves confessing to shoplifting, rioters admitting criminal damage and sex offenders explaining why they do such things?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I guess the whole world of nastiness is confessed in there, Mr Napier.’

  ‘Even murders?’

  ‘Even murders,’ Nick agreed.

  ‘Can you show me the interior of that cubicle? I’ve never examined one of these before today. Never had the need.’

  As there was no one in the abbey church except the monk now playing the ‘Miserere mei’, Nick led Napier to the door and opened it. As he did so, a small electric light illuminated the interior of the confessional, about the size of a public telephone kiosk. By holding the door o
pen, they could see the kneeler in front of the far wall and the small grille above it, at head level for someone on their knees.

  ‘A tight squeeze for a chap like me,’ said Napier, grinning. ‘How often is it cleaned?’

  ‘Once a week I guess,’ was all Nick could answer. ‘To be honest, I’ve no idea. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I was thinking it’s a good place to hide stolen goods … you know, she nicks stuff from the school shop, hides it while she makes her confession, then leaves it to collect later. See, there’s something under the kneeler, shining in the light.’

  ‘Most folks would never think of looking in here for stolen property,’ Nick began.

  ‘I’m not most folks, Nick.’ He stepped in to lift up the kneeler. There was a lot of dust beneath it but that didn’t interest him as he stooped for a closer look. He placed the portable kneeler outside and then bent closer to examine an object that Nick could not see.

  ‘You’ll never guess what I’ve found here, Nick.’

  ‘Sweet papers? Drinks bottles? Umbrella?’

  ‘No, something much more interesting. A stiletto dagger.’

  Chapter 6

  ‘DON’T TOUCH IT!’ snapped Napier.

  Nick was at a loss for words. He wondered where the stiletto had come from, how long it had been there and who had left it; all inane questions but all desperately important. But the most important – was it the murder weapon? – could only be answered by scientific examination. Had the man in the woods been killed with that stiletto and if so how had it come to be hidden beneath the kneeler in a confessional?

  For several long silent moments Napier stood as still as a rock with his chin in one hand as he stared the stiletto, sometimes stooping down for a closer look at tiny objects he’d spotted among the dust, but not touching anything.

  ‘This could be what we’re looking for. This entire area must be cordoned off. The confessional is out of bounds from this moment, except to Scenes of Crime officers. It’s a crime scene now. Guarding it is a task for your monkstables in uniform. I’ll set things in motion right away. We need to wrap this place in yellow tape, lock the south door and prevent access until I say otherwise. We need to go through the dust and debris in the confessional, check every inch of it for possible fingerprints and DNA deposits, then examine the CCTV film especially where people are queuing to tell their priest how naughty they’ve been and how many murders they’ve committed.’