Evil intent, p.10
Evil Intent, page 10
part #1 of Callie Anson Series
Some echo of his childhood resonated in his head, and Neville realised that the names belonged to women in the Bible.
Perhaps Leo Jackson would be able to enlighten him.
The rectory door swung open almost before Neville had rung the bell, and Leo Jackson loomed above him.
Neville was not easily intimidated, but Leo Jackson had that sort of effect on him. It wasn’t just Leo’s size, though he was massive; there was something about his very presence which radiated authority and power, in a spiritual rather than a physical sense. Leo Jackson was not someone to be trifled with.
His face, so distorted with emotion when they’d first met, had by now been composed into a mask of sombre courtesy. ‘Come in,’ he invited, and led the way into his study. He offered them coffee, which Neville was happy to accept; it seemed like a very long time since he’d downed that cup of coffee at his desk.
‘I’ll just be a minute, then,’ Leo said, and disappeared.
In a habit born of long practice, Neville looked round the room for clues to the man he was about to interview. It was clearly a room with a function, and that function was work. The walls were ranged with filled bookcases, there were two filing cabinets in a corner, and the large desk was covered with untidy stacks of paperwork. Not at all unlike his own desk, thought Neville ruefully. One corner of the desk held a stylish-looking iMac computer – switched on – but nothing could be seen on the screen except the shimmering waves of a screen saver.
Neville scanned the room for photos or other revealing personal mementoes. There was, as far as he could spot, only one photo, hanging on the wall in a space between the bookcases and the door. He stepped up to it for a closer look.
Leo was at the centre of the photo, a huge smile splitting his face. In the background was the façade of St Paul’s Cathedral. On either side of Leo, his long arms spanning their shoulders, stood two women, also smiling.
Something about the picture caught Neville’s attention. The woman closest to Leo on the left side was a pretty redhead, fair-skinned, so tiny that her head barely reached Leo’s shoulder. She was wearing some sort of a loose white garment and a dog collar. And round her neck was a white stole with blue writing on it: the names of women in the Bible.
Leo was glad that the police had asked for coffee. It gave him a few precious extra minutes while the kettle boiled to complete what he’d started to do before they arrived. He’d already checked the sitting room and kitchen for anything which might betray Oliver’s presence, removing a few golden hairs from the sofa cushions and a magazine from the coffee table. Just in case. Now he picked up the cordless phone and carried it through to the kitchen. He dialled Frances Cherry’s mobile phone number and listened in frustration as an impersonal voice told him that the number could not be reached and he should leave a message. She was at work, then – the hospital required that mobile phones be switched off.
Speaking as softly as he could, almost whispering, he left a message. ‘Frannie, love. It’s Leo. I have some bad news, pet. Jonah Adimola’s dead – he’s been murdered. The police are here. I’m going to have to tell them about last night – about the row. If I don’t, someone else will. I’m sure they’ll want to talk to you. I just wanted to warn you, pet.’
Neville heard Leo coming, and moved quickly away from the photo to take a seat.
‘Sorry to have taken so long,’ said Leo, pushing the door open with his foot and setting down the coffee tray on a small table. One corner of the study was arranged as a seating area, with three comfortable armchairs; it was where he would sit with people who came to see him for counselling or marriage preparation. He handed both policemen mugs of black coffee, and kept one for himself. ‘I suppose you have some questions you want to ask me,’ he said in a neutral tone.
Neville sipped gratefully at the scalding brew. It was strong enough to strip the varnish from the table – God, it tasted good. That gave him a moment to collect his thoughts, to decide what to ask first and how to ask it. There was nothing to be gained by being high-handed or demanding with this man, he realised. He would treat him with deference and courtesy.
‘First of all,’ he said, ‘I suppose I’d like to know what the man – Father Jonah – was doing in your church. He wasn’t officially associated with it, I understand.’
‘Good Lord, no.’ Leo’s mobile face betrayed with a grimace what he thought about that scenario. ‘He was there for a meeting last night. Willow must have told you about it – she was there serving coffee.’
‘Yes, but…why would he have been in that part of the church? That wasn’t where the meeting was held?’
‘The meeting was in the church hall,’ Leo affirmed. ‘After a service in the chapel.’
‘Did this Father Jonah have a reason to be in the – what’s it called? – vestry?’
Leo spoke with deliberation, weighing his words. ‘I sent him there, after the meeting. There was…an incident. He needed to clean himself up. The vestry seemed the best place for that.’
‘What sort of an incident?’ Neville could scarcely imagine anything happening at a church meeting that would merit a description like that.
‘I need to explain a few things.’ Leo took a gulp of coffee, then leaned forward. ‘Jonah wasn’t an easy man to get on with. He was opinionated, to say the very least. One of the things he hated – and I say one of the things, because there were many – was women priests. He couldn’t accept them, not at all. And last night I had asked a woman to assist me with the service. He and another priest, his boss, walked out – they didn’t stay for the service at all.’
‘Why did you ask a woman to assist you if you knew he would hate it?’ Neville asked, believing he already knew the answer; Leo’s dislike of the other priest came through loud and clear.
A smile twitched at the corner of Leo’s mouth. ‘Partly to get up his nose, if I’m being honest. But also because it was right. I don’t think you should stop doing what’s right, just because it might upset people.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘Anyway, at the end of the meeting I opened a few bottles of wine. Jonah picked a fight with the woman. Frances Cherry, she’s called – she’s a hospital chaplain. He was unspeakably rude to her. Deliberately rude. So she…well, Frannie threw a glass of wine over him.’
‘Ah.’ Neville had scarcely begun to come to terms with the idea that priests might dislike each other, and now he was being told that things could go even beyond that. Suddenly this case was looking very interesting indeed.
‘I don’t blame her,’ Leo added. ‘She was provoked.’
‘What happened then?’
‘I sent Jonah off to the vestry to clean up. And I took Frannie outside for some fresh air, to calm her down.’
‘Did you go back to the meeting after that?’
Leo shook his head. ‘No. It took a good while to calm Frannie down. We walked a long way. I ended up walking her home. By the time I got back to the church…well, everyone had gone, or at least I assumed so. The lights were all off, the place was deserted. I locked up and came home.’
‘Did you lock the vestry?’
‘No.’ Again he shook his head. ‘I didn’t even go near it. It wasn’t usually kept locked. All of the valuables – the silver and so on – are in the sacristy. And that’s always locked. But nothing is stored in the vestry except for vestments.’
‘So anyone could gain access to it.’
‘Theoretically, yes. As long as the church was open.’
The church had been open, which meant that anyone at the meeting, or anyone off the streets for that matter, could have got into the room where the priest was murdered. ‘What time, exactly, did you get back? What time did you lock up?’ Neville didn’t yet know – possibly might never know – at what time the murder occurred, but this could be important.
‘I think it was gone eleven,’ said Leo. ‘Ten past, quarter past. Something like that.’
‘And after that?’
‘I came home, as I said. Went to bed.’
Neville dreaded asking his next question; it was always a difficult one, implying as it did that the person was under suspicion. ‘You understand that I have to ask you this,’ he began. ‘Apart from this Frances Cherry, is there anyone who can vouch for your actions, your whereabouts?’
‘An alibi, you mean,’ said Leo flatly.
‘I have to ask,’ Neville repeated.
Was there a flicker of hesitation, a heartbeat in which the man across from him decided what to say?
‘I am a bachelor,’ stated Leo. ‘I live alone.’
Neville sensed that he would not progress any further by pressurising Leo, by putting him on the defensive, so he moved on to a more neutral question. ‘This Father Jonah,’ he said. ‘Can you tell me anything about his personal life? Where he lived, anything about his family?’
Leo put down his coffee mug, leaned back in his chair and tented his fingers. ‘About his family, no. I don’t think he had one, at least not in London. He lived in the clergy house at St Mary the Virgin, Marble Arch. The person to ask about his personal life would be Vincent Underwood, his vicar.’
‘You’ll give me his address?’
‘Of course.’
‘And the other people who were there last night for the meeting?’
Leo went to his desk and pulled a directory from under a stack of papers. He sat behind the desk and wrote out a list, consulting the directory for addresses and telephone numbers. Neville waited in silence, glancing at his sergeant, who hadn’t said a word but who was taking assiduous notes. ‘Here you are,’ said Leo, handing over the list. ‘That’s everyone. I’ve put Vincent Underwood at the top.’
Neville glanced at the list and passed it on to DS Cowley. ‘Thank you very much. You’ve been very helpful.’ He rose to go, then did something which he’d deliberately borrowed from the old American television detective Columbo. ‘Just one more thing.’
‘Yes?’
‘Have you ever seen a white stole with blue names painted on it? Names of women in the Bible?’
This time there was no hesitation. ‘Of course,’ Leo affirmed. ‘It belongs to Frannie. Frances Cherry. She wore it for the Mass last night.’
‘Does anyone else you know have a stole like that?’
Leo shook his head. ‘No. It’s a complete one-off. It was an ordination gift, made specially for her.’
‘Did she have it with her when you walked her home last night?’
‘No. I told you, we went off in a hurry. I suppose she must have left it in the vestry.’ It was at that point that Neville reckoned the penny dropped. He had never seen a black man go pale before, but Leo Jackson suddenly went ashen grey, as though the blood had drained from his face. ‘You’re not saying…’
The stole was an important clue, Neville realised, and now that its ownership had been confirmed, he was no longer prepared to give away his advantage. ‘I’m not saying anything. It might be relevant to our enquiries, that’s all.’
So the redhead in the photo was Frances Cherry. Neville considered the implications of that fact. She and Leo Jackson were friends; he had been at her ordination; he had been responsible for her involvement at the service last night; he was the one who had looked after her following the debacle with Father Jonah, and had walked her home.
Or had he?
Neville spoke reflectively to DS Cowley as they got in the car. ‘Do you suppose he’s been shagging her, then?’
‘Who?’
‘Him. Leo. Shagging that woman Frances Cherry.’
Cowley, in the process of lighting a cigarette, turned a shocked face to him. ‘But they’re both vicars!’
Neville smiled humourlessly. ‘Don’t you read the tabloids, sunshine? Vicars are the worst.’
‘But…’
He ticked the points off on his fingers. ‘First, he’s known her for years. He said so. And they were in that photo together, looking pretty chummy. Second, he calls her “Frannie”. Like a term of endearment.’
‘That doesn’t mean anything.’
Neville ignored the interruption. ‘Third, he’s hiding something.’
‘Is he?’
‘Didn’t you see the way he hesitated, when I asked him about where he was later last night? I’ll bet you a pint of Guinness that Leo Jackson wasn’t alone in his bed.’ He nodded his head thoughtfully. ‘And who more logical to have shared it with him than Frances Cherry? We only have his word for it that he walked her home.’
‘Maybe he knows that she killed that Father Jonah, and is covering for her,’ said Cowley, his imagination finally engaged. ‘Or maybe they did it together – maybe they went back and killed him.’
Neville was still nodding. ‘Maybe they did.’
Inevitably, their first call was the address supplied to them for Frances Cherry. It was rather farther than Neville expected, in Notting Hill, to the west of Lancaster Gate beyond the point where the Bayswater Road becomes Notting Hill Gate.
The person who answered the door was not Frances Cherry: it was a bespectacled middle-aged man in a grey clerical shirt and dog collar, who looked startled when they proffered their identification.
‘We’d like to speak to Frances Cherry,’ Neville said.
‘I’m afraid she’s not at home. She’s at work.’ He hesitated. ‘Is there anything I can help you with? I’m Graham Cherry. Her husband.’
Somehow Neville hadn’t anticipated that she would have a husband. ‘You’re a vicar, as well?’
Graham Cherry nodded in the affirmative. ‘Yes. This is my parish.’
‘But you weren’t at the meeting last night with your wife?’
‘No. It was a deanery meeting, and I’m in a different deanery.’ Graham hesitated, his brow furrowed, then blurted, ‘Look, I know Frances lost her temper. But surely it isn’t a criminal matter? Surely he’s not pressing charges?’
So he knew about the wine incident. That, thought Neville, was interesting. How much did he know about Leo Jackson, and his wife’s relationship with him?
He glanced at his watch. They needed to be getting on with other urgent matters, and those were questions which could wait.
‘It’s just not like her to lose her temper like that,’ Graham insisted. ‘I’m sure it won’t happen again.’
‘We’ll need to speak to her nonetheless. What time do you expect her home?’
DS Cowley spoke for the first time. ‘Or do you have a number where we can reach her?’
‘She’s usually home by half six. I’m afraid it’s difficult to reach her when she’s at the hospital, as she has to switch off her mobile.’
‘We’ll be back,’ Neville promised, adding ‘and I’d appreciate it, sir, if you didn’t tell her about our visit.’
The reaction of Vincent Underwood, when he was told by DI Stewart that his curate was dead, was suitably dramatic: he staggered backwards, clutched at his heart, and burst into tears.
A few minutes later he had recovered sufficiently to speak, and led them into his study, dabbing at his eyes with an immaculate linen handkerchief. ‘Excuse me, Inspector,’ he said. ‘I just can’t believe that Jonah is dead. But how? When? Was it a traffic accident of some kind?’
‘No, sir,’ said Neville impassively. ‘He was murdered.’
‘But…but that’s not possible!’
‘I’m afraid it’s true.’
Father Vincent sat down heavily on the nearest chair and pressed his fingers to his temples. ‘When? How?’
‘We’re still waiting for details from the post-mortem,’ Neville hedged. ‘He was found in the vestry of St John’s, Lancaster Gate this morning.’
‘Then she did it,’ Father Vincent said at once in a ringing voice, raising his head to stare at the policemen. ‘That woman. She killed him.’
‘And which woman would that be?’
‘That dreadful woman, that hospital chaplain. Frances Cherry. It must have been her.’
Neville waited for more, and it came. Father Vincent imparted his version of the row. According to him, Jonah had been minding his own business, drinking his wine, and Frances Cherry had accosted him, spoiling for a fight. She had attacked him verbally, then she had thrown her wine over him. ‘I was shocked. Shocked! I’d never seen such disgraceful behaviour in someone who calls herself a priest.’
‘Surely she is a priest,’ Neville pointed out.
Father Vincent shook his head, briefly distracted into a lecture. ‘Oh, no. Not at all. She just thinks she is. Like all of those women. They’re deluded. They think that because they went through an ordination ceremony, it makes them a priest. But God knows better. It’s just not possible for women to be priests, whatever they may think. And this,’ he added pompously, ‘shows us exactly why. They’re not stable, are they? Women, that is. Their hormones make it impossible for them to act rationally. Menopausal, I wouldn’t doubt. Not that it’s any excuse for her appalling behaviour.’
Neville tried to digest this, and finding it impossible, encouraged him back onto track. ‘So what happened after she threw the wine over him?’
‘Leo Jackson – he’s the vicar of the church – suggested that I should take him to the vestry. There’s a wash hand basin there, so we were able to repair the worst of the damage. Most of the wine had gone onto Jonah’s face, though some had dripped onto his cassock. I helped him to clean up.’
‘And how long were you in the vestry together?’
The priest considered the question for a moment. ‘Oh, I suppose it was ten minutes, quarter of an hour – something like that.’
‘Then what happened?’
‘We left,’ Father Vincent said promptly. ‘We went out together. Jonah had walked to the meeting, and I’d come in my motor. I offered him a lift home, but as he was getting in the car, he remembered something and said he needed to go back into the church. He said not to wait for him. And that,’ he added, his voice trembling, ‘was the last time I saw him.’
