Hail Mary, full of grace.
Our Lord is with you.
Blessed are you among women,
and blessed is the fruit of your womb,
Jesus.
Holy Mary, Mother of God,
pray for us sinners,
now and at the hour of our death.
Amen.
Traditional Catholic prayer.
‘Come in, Peter,’ Father Damien Rowland greeted his friend, standing back to allow him to enter the presbytery. ‘Thank you for coming over.’
‘It’s no bother,’ Peter assured him. ‘The kids are with their mum this morning. She’s on a late shift, so I haven’t got them until after lunch. And you were so mysterious on the phone that I’m agog to hear what this is all about.’
‘Come through to the study and I’ll explain.’ Father Damien opened a door on their right and ushered Peter into a bright room with windows on two sides, bookcases lining the remaining walls, and a round table in the centre.
Peter had spent many hours sitting at that table during the months of his instruction before being admitted into membership of the church the previous Easter. Now, he saw an unfamiliar figure occupying his usual seat opposite the door. The clerical collar and black shirt suggested that this interloper too was a priest, but these garments were offset by a jaunty striped blazer, which seemed incongruous – irreverent almost. He got to his feet as the door opened and leaned across the table holding out his hand towards Peter.
‘Let me introduce my good friend from our seminary days,’ Father Damien said, gesturing towards the stranger. ‘This is Gerry Casey. He’s parish priest of St Monica’s in Evesham. Gerry – meet Peter Johns. As I was telling you, he used to be a detective inspector with Thames Valley Police and he’s got lots of experience investigating murders. Why don’t you both sit down and get to know one another, while I fix us all some coffee?’
He went out, leaving the door open. The other priest resumed has seat and Peter sat down opposite him.
‘I gather you’re quite a new Catholic?’ Father Gerrard said, after a short pause. ‘Damien was telling me that you were confirmed at the Easter Vigil this year.’
‘That’s right.’ Peter tried, and failed, to think of anything more to say. Smalltalk was not one of his strengths.
‘And you used to be a police officer?’
‘Yes. That’s right,’ Peter said again.
‘Do you miss the work, now you’re retired?’
‘No. I’ve got plenty of other things to fill my time. My grandchildren, for a start,’ Peter became more expansive now that he had discovered a topic upon which he felt confident to make conversation. ‘My son and daughter-in-law moved back here from Jamaica a couple of years ago and they’re none too flush with cash; so I look after their two kids, which means they can both go out to work full-time. And then there’s the house, and I’ve got a teenage step-daughter too; so I don’t have time to miss the old job – not like some police officers, I could mention!’ he added with a wry smile, thinking of Jonah, the ex-colleague who lived with them and who had yet to come to terms with a new life of leisure. ‘If you’re hoping to get bit of private detective work done, you’d do better talking to a friend of mine who’s just retired this year and is still suffering withdrawal symptoms!’
‘Well, as it happens …,’ Father Gerard began, smiling across the table at Peter.
‘You’re serious?’ Peter asked, suddenly comprehending the purpose of Father Damien’s summons. ‘You’ve got a case that you want me to investigate?’
‘That’s right,’ the priest admitted quietly. ‘One of my parishioners has been accused of-’
‘You really ought to take it to the police,’ Peter interrupted. ‘Whatever accusations have been made, if it’s something criminal it ought to be investigated officially.’
‘That’s already been done.’ Father Gerard sighed, leaning his elbows on the table and clasping his hands together in front of him. He leaned his chin on his hands, thinking for a moment or two, before continuing, ‘but they came up with the wrong answer.’
‘How can you be so sure?’ Peter was torn between curiosity as to what this was all about and a feeling that such scepticism about the conclusions of a police investigation should not be encouraged.
‘I know the people involved.’
‘Sometimes people act out of character,’ Peter suggested cautiously. ‘If I had a pound for every time someone has said to me, “I can’t believe he did it – it’s so unlike him!” …’
‘No, but it’s more than just that,’ Father Gerard insisted. ‘It’s … well it’s difficult to explain, except to another priest. But you surely can agree that the police do sometimes get it wrong? And miscarriages of justices do sometimes occur?’
‘Oh yes!’ Peter smiled. ‘We get it wrong often enough and it can sometimes even mean people get wrongly convicted – although I’d say that it’s more common for our mistakes to allow criminals to get away with it.’
‘So it can’t do any harm to have another look at the evidence, can it?’ the priest argued gently. ‘Just in case…?’
Peter was spared the need to answer immediately by the return of Father Damien with a tray. He set it down in the centre of the table and started handing round coffee.
‘Here’s your disgusting muck,’ he said cheerily as he passed Father Gerard a large mug with a photograph of St Cyprian’s Church on the side – one of a large consignment produced to help raise funds for the restoration of the organ. ‘I hope it’s strong enough for you. Help yourself to sugar from the bowl.’
His friend took the mug and reached out for the sugar. ‘I just like to be able to taste my coffee, that’s all,’ he protested with a smile. ‘I can’t understand why you always used to insist on watering it down with milk and spoiling the flavour.’
Peter watched the priests’ banter, realising that this was a long-running difference of opinion dating back to their student days, which had been revived as part of the process of re-establishing their friendship after a length of time apart.
‘And here’s yours, Peter,’ Father Damien continued, setting down a matching mug in front of him. ‘Like mine – white, and no sugar because we’re both sweet enough without! And help yourself to biscuits, both of you. These are home-made shortbread from a parishioner who thinks I don’t feed myself properly and need building up. Have as many as you like – she’ll probably have some more for me on Sunday.’
Peter and Gerry obediently each took one of the biscuits and nibbled them. Damien sat back in his chair with his coffee mug cradled between his hands and looked round at them.
‘Have you told Peter what it is we’re hoping he might do for us?’ he asked at last.
‘Well, I started, but …’
‘Father Gerry said that he’s worried that someone may end up getting convicted for something they didn’t do,’ Peter continued, as the priest tailed off. ‘But I don’t know who or what or why you think I might be able to help.’
‘Typical Gerry!’ Damien snorted in mock derision. ‘You never could get to the point, could you? I remember Father O’Keefe describing one of your homilies as, “a winding road that always promises sight of its destination round the next corner but eventually peters out leaving the listener stranded in an impenetrable forest of metaphors.” Get out that paper you were showing me earlier and let’s start with that.’
Gerry reached into a battered briefcase that lay on the floor beside his chair and took out a newspaper. He laid it down on the table, moving the tray to one side to make room for it. Peter saw that it was a local paper covering a region of Worcestershire around Evesham. He read aloud the headline on the front page: ‘Local woman kills her husband.’
Then he looked up at Gerry. ‘Is that the case you’re worried about?’
The priest nodded. ‘Carry one,’ he urged. ‘Read the rest of the report.’
‘Mother of one, Mrs Vanessa Wellesley, attended South Worcestershire Magistrates Court on Monday to be charged with murdering her husband, Christopher Wellesley, by stabbing him in the chest with his own screwdriver. She was remanded in custody pending consideration of her application for bail by a crown court judge.’ Peter paused to scrutinise the photograph below the headline. It was of a woman in a black dress, flanked by two uniformed police officers. Her straight black hair hung down to her shoulders on either side of her face. The picture was too small for him to distinguish any facial features or to make a guess at her age. He looked up at Gerry. ‘Vanessa Wellesley is your parishioner, I take it?’
‘That’s right. I’ve known her since she was a teenager. Her family have been there since way before I came to the parish. Her mother is head teacher of our school and her father is our treasurer. The whole family are real stalwarts of the church.’
Peter decided against suggesting that none of this precluded Mrs Wellesley from being capable of killing her husband. He turned back to the newspaper.
‘When the emergency services attended the Wellesley family home in the Greenhill area of Evesham last Saturday,’ he read aloud, ‘they found Christopher Wellesley (40) lying unconscious in a pool of his own blood. The murder weapon, a large screwdriver, which had been driven into his chest, lay beside him. Paramedics attempted to treat him at the scene, before rushing him to the emergency department at Worcestershire Royal Hospital. He was pronounced dead on arrival without having regained consciousness.’
‘What it doesn’t mention,’ Gerry interjected, ‘is that it was Vanessa herself who called the emergency services. According to her, she found him like that when she got home from the shops.’
‘See page 5 for an exclusive interview with her sister, Louise O’Shea,’ Peter continued to read. ‘Should I look at that too?’
‘Yes, go on,’ Gerry urged. ‘That’ll put you in the picture.’
Peter turned the pages and found the interview. It was illustrated with a head-and-shoulders photograph of a woman in her twenties or early thirties with short black hair and dark eyes. He scanned down the page, reading silently and picking out sentences here and there.
‘Ms Louise O’Shea doesn’t mince her words when it comes to her brother-in-law,’ he commented. ‘Look at this: “While I’m totally convinced she didn’t do it, I wouldn’t blame Vanessa if she had killed him.” … and this: “He was a vicious bully and made her life hell. He deserved what he got.” … and here: “It was all his fault that she lost her baby.” This is hardly designed to convince a jury that her sister is innocent!’
‘That’s what I said,’ Damien chipped in. ‘That definitely reads like she knows she did it, but only because he drove her to it.’
‘That’s what everyone thinks,’ Gerry agreed. ‘Nobody is disputing that Christopher was an abusive husband. Vanessa’s parents have been worried about his controlling behaviour for years. The obstetrician who treated her when she went into labour prematurely and delivered a stillborn baby last April was suspicious at the time and is now prepared to give evidence that she had bruises on her abdomen that suggested that she had been kicked or punched. Her GP confirms that she was suffering from post-natal depression and that she had several times in the past presented with injuries typical of domestic abuse. Vanessa herself always used to insist that there was nothing wrong, but since Christopher’s death, she’s admitted that he was systematically abusing her both physically and mentally. Everybody agrees that it would have been completely understandable if she had suddenly snapped and …’
‘If everything’s as clear cut as that – and if the prosecution is willing to accept that her husband was the vile abuser that her sister portrays him as – surely the best thing for her to do would be to plead guilty to manslaughter and appeal for leniency because of all the mitigating circumstances?’ Peter suggested.
‘That’s exactly what her legal team keep telling her!’ Gerry answered. ‘They’re confident that she’d get away with a non-custodial sentence, because of Christopher’s treatment of her and because sending her to prison would be unfair on her little girl.’
‘And because there’s no possible reason to suspect her of being a danger to anyone else,’ Damien added.
‘So where’s the problem?’ Peter asked. ‘Why doesn’t she take their advice?’
‘Because she didn’t do it,’ Gerry repeated. ‘She told me that she didn’t kill him, and I believe her.’
‘Oh! I get it,’ Peter said, after a brief pause. ‘That’s what you meant by it being difficult to explain except to another priest. You’ve heard her confession and she didn’t confess to killing her husband?’
‘As I’m sure you are aware,’ Gerry answered, poker-faced, ‘I am not permitted to reveal anything about what is said at the sacrament of reconciliation – or even to confirm that an individual has come to me for that purpose. However, I’m not breaking any rules by telling you that, if a penitent confesses to a criminal offence, I would require assurance from them that they will hand themselves in to the authorities and accept whatever punishment is meted out to them under the law, before agreeing to pronounce absolution. And any of my regulars would be able to confirm that Vanessa Wellesley rarely misses my Saturday afternoon confessional time.’
‘I get it,’ Peter grinned. ‘It’s one of those, “you might well think that; I couldn’t possibly comment” occasions. OK. So your Vanessa is innocent of killing her husband. But presumably the prosecution must think they’ve got a good case against her. Under the circumstances, she might still do better to plead guilty to manslaughter – on the grounds of loss of control or else because she was just using reasonable force to defend herself.’
‘But that would mean telling a lie in court,’ Gerry argued. ‘And that’s something she can’t in all conscience do.’
‘And surely you’re not suggesting that she ought to?’ Damien added.
‘No, I’m not,’ Peter assured him, ‘but I am saying that that might be the pragmatic way of minimising her sentence – assuming that the real killer can’t be found.’
‘And that’s exactly why Damien suggested talking to you!’ Gerry broke in. ‘We need someone to find the real killer. That’s the only way of convincing people that Vanessa didn’t do it.’
The two priests looked hopefully towards Peter, who dropped his eyes and seemed to be busily studying the newspaper again. They waited in silence. Eventually Peter felt that he had to say something.
‘I’m not at all sure I’m the right person for the job. I’ve never investigated a crime without a team of police officers behind me. Can’t this Vanessa’s solicitor find a proper private detective to do it?’
‘I told you – they think she ought to plead guilty,’ Gerry replied quickly. ‘You’re our only hope. Damien thought you’d understand Vanessa’s predicament.’
‘I suppose I do,’ Peter sighed, ‘but that doesn’t mean that I’m going to be able to do anything to help. If the police haven’t found any evidence that anyone else was involved, then it’s very unlikely that I will, working on my own.’
‘But it’s got to be worth a try …,’ Damien suggested.
Peter sat uncomfortably in his chair, conscious of the silent scrutiny of the two priests.
‘I’ll have to think about this,’ he said at last. ‘I’ve never been asked to do anything like this before.’
‘Sure. Take your time,’ Gerry said, detecting a softening in Peter’s resolve, ‘but if you could come up with a decision before I go back this afternoon, I’d really appreciate it.’
‘I’m sorry. I really don’t know.’ Peter wrestled in his mind with conflicting emotions. He had a deep respect for Father Damien and did not want to refuse any request from him. He also felt sympathy for this woman whom everyone seemed to agree had suffered at the hands of her husband and did not deserve to be sent to jail for his murder. Yet, it did not seem right to be questioning the meticulous police work, which he knew his colleagues must have carried out in order to reach the point at which she was being prosecuted. Not that the police always got it right – and with such an obvious suspect, perhaps they would have been tempted not to look too hard for an alternative. And then again, if he were to take on this commission, would that just be raising false hopes? What chance was there that he would find the real culprit when the official enquiry had failed?
‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated. ‘I – I – I’m going to have to ask Mary about this.’ He got up and made for the door. ‘I’ll try not to be long.’
Gerry stared after Peter as he left the room. Then he turned to look at Damien, raising his eyebrows in a questioning manner.
‘Don’t worry. He’ll be back.’
‘But … who’s Mary? I thought you said his wife’s name was Bernadette.’
‘Ah!’ Damien smiled enigmatically. ‘Peter has a special relationship with Our Lady. He’s off into the church to have a word with her.’
‘How d’you mean?’ His friend stared in disbelief and astonishment. ‘You’re joking, right?’
‘Wrong. What’s up? Prayers to Our Lady are hardly revolutionary, are they?’
‘I – I suppose … Look, I know that the church has always accepted the idea of … but, in this day and age! I mean …’
‘Come on, Gerry,’ Damien chided gently. ‘You’re not telling me you don’t say the Hail Mary or –’
‘But that’s different! It’s all part of a long-established liturgy. It’s … and to be honest, I do have trouble justifying it to our ecumenical colleagues. But, actually praying to a saint – and expecting an answer – that’s just too … And I thought you said Peter was a new convert. This is more the sort of thing I’d expect from my Irish granny!’
‘Well, of course, converts are always the most extreme and the most enthusiastic, aren’t they?’ his friend smiled back, amused at his brother priest’s apparent discomfiture with this aspect of traditional Catholicism. ‘But in Peter’s case it’s not that. He chose the Catholic Church precisely because it’s the only one that takes the veneration of Mary seriously, and he has a special reason for that.’
‘Oh? Enlighten me, do.’
‘Last summer – not the summer just gone, I mean 2017 – his baby granddaughter was snatched from her pram. During the period when she was missing, Peter wandered into St Cyprian’s. His step-daughter, Lucy, wanted to light a candle for them and he came with her. We’ve got a rather unusual Madonna-and-Child statue – I’ll show you it later. The infant Jesus has dark skin and curly black hair. According to Peter, he’s the spitting image of Peter’s son Eddie – the one whose baby went missing. Anyway, Peter was standing there looking at it when Our Lady spoke to him, and he promised her that he’d become a Catholic if little Abigail came home safe.’
‘Whew!’ Gerry whistled through his teeth. ‘And I gather the baby was recovered OK?’
‘Yup! The police tracked her down and got her back safe and sound a couple of days later. So you can see why Peter feels a special bond with the BVM, can’t you? He’ll be there now, checking what she thinks about this story you’ve just told us.’
‘But …,’ Gerry began, unsure what to make of this. ‘But … surely he can’t really …? I mean … Look Damien,’ he began again, speaking more seriously now, ‘are you sure he’s the right man for this job? You don’t think maybe he could be past it? I mean, a man who talks to statues is hardly going to carry much weight with the lawyers, is he? Or the jury, for that matter.’
‘O ye of little faith!’ Damien sighed, but with a smile on his face. ‘Trust me – Peter has got his feet very firmly planted on the ground. He’s exactly the person you need: bags of experience in the police force and total commitment once he makes up his mind to something. And he is absolutely not going ga-ga, however much he may remind you of your Irish granny!’
The sound of footsteps on the quarry tiles in the passage heralded Peter’s return. He stood in the doorway, glancing round a little sheepishly at the two men seated at the table. Damien looked back at him enquiringly.
‘Did you say this Vanessa has a child?’ Peter asked, looking towards Gerry.
‘Yes. A little girl called Leah. She’s two.’
‘And they’ll be separated if Vanessa’s convicted?’
‘That’s what the lawyers say,’ Gerry confirmed. ‘If it’s murder, there’s a statutory life sentence.’
Peter took a deep breath. ‘OK,’ he said as he let it out again. ‘I’ll have a go – but I’m not sure what good it’ll do.’
‘That’s great!’ Gerry got to his feet and squeezed past the back of Damien’s chair to reach Peter. ‘I can’t tell you what a relief it is to have you say that,’ he continued, grasping him by the hand. ‘I just know Vanessa didn’t do it, and it would be a travesty for her to be sent to jail.’
‘Like I said, I don’t know that I’ll be able to do much good,’ Peter repeated. Then, after a brief pause, he went on, ‘and you ought to know – it won’t just be me you’re taking on. If I’m going to be chasing murders across Worcestershire, there are a couple of other people who are going to expect to be doing it with me.’
‘Oh?’ Gerry looked at Peter and then round at Damien, who was smiling broadly.
‘There’s my wife, Bernie, for a start,’ Peter went on, ‘and then there’s Jonah.’ He paused. It was difficult to explain how Jonah fitted into their family. ‘He’s a friend of ours, and another ex-copper. He lives with us. He only retired a few weeks ago and he’s still getting withdrawal symptoms. There’s no way he’s going to let me keep a case like this to myself!’
‘He’s talking about DCI Jonah Porter,’ Damien explained. ‘You may have heard of him. The press call him the wheelchair cop. He was shot in the spine about a decade ago, but he refused to be pensioned off. Peter and Bernie took him in when his wife died.’
‘Oh yes!’ Gerry said excitedly. ‘I remember! Didn’t he solve a murder in one of the Oxford colleges a few years back?’
‘That’s right. And he was in charge of finding out who that corpse was that turned up under our organ a few months back. I told you about that, didn’t I?’
‘Yes, but you didn’t mention that you’d had a celebrity investigating it!’ Gerry answered with undisguised delight at the prospect of meeting the famous police officer who had defied his superiors and insisted on returning to his job after life-changing injuries. He turned back to Peter, trying not to sound as relieved as he felt that they would not be relying solely on him to find Christopher Wellesley’s killer. ‘That’s great! The more manpower we can muster the better. We’ve got quite a tight schedule. The trial is set to start on the first.’
‘The first of October?’ Peter queried anxiously. ‘That’s less than three weeks away.’
‘I know,’ Gerry grimaced. ‘It was when the date was announced that it really hit me that this is for real. I suddenly realised that if we didn’t do something soon, it was going to be too late. So now – where do we start?’ He looked round eagerly at Peter and Damien.
I think the first thing is for me to meet this Vanessa and check that she wants us to try to help,’ Peter said, more decisively than he had appeared up to now. ‘And, if she does, then we ought to see her lawyers and be officially appointed to the defence team. That will give us the right to ask the police for disclosure of any evidence they’ve found that could be helpful to her case. Where’s she being held?’
‘She isn’t,’ Gerry replied promptly. ‘She’s been remanded on bail – which just goes to show that nobody thinks she’s a danger to anyone or has any intention of trying to abscond. She’s required to live at her parents’ house and to report to the local police station every few days. Like I said, her parents are stalwarts of the church. I know them well. I can give them a ring now and arrange for us to go over. Would tomorrow be OK for you?’
Peter hastily consulted the calendar app on his mobile phone. ‘You’re in luck,’ he smiled back at the eager priest. ‘It’s an off-duty day for Crystal, so I don’t have any childcare responsibilities.’
Crystal was his daughter-in-law and the mother of baby Abigail and her older brother, Ricky.
‘Smashing!’ Gerry reached into his briefcase and took out a mobile phone. Within a few minutes, he was turning back to Peter again. ‘It’s all arranged. We’re going to meet them at half-ten. If you come to the presbytery first, I’ll drive you over there and introduce you.’
‘OK,’ Peter agreed. ‘We’ll aim to be there by ten; but we’d better take our own car – Jonah’s wheelchair won’t fit in yours.’
‘You’re sure he’s going to want to come then?’
‘Oh yes!’ Peter said confidently. ‘He won’t want to miss out!’