The two detectives were in Graham’s office at the Met shortly before six-thirty in the morning. Clive stood as his Superior collected up the slim files and placed them into his briefcase.
They were about to leave for Penn once more, when Graham spotted something on the corner of his desk. There were two typewritten sheets, which had not been there when he left the office the previous evening. Picking up the first, he quickly read the contents. “Ah,” he said to Clive. “It’s a brief autopsy report from Sallie, on Thomas Singleton and it confirms that he was murdered by injection of a poison.”
“What did he use this time?” asked Clive.
“ Atropine, according to this. Does the poison mean anything to you, Clive?”
“Nope. Not a thing,” he chirped. “What’s the other note?”
Graham reached for the sheet and began to read. “Ah,” he said, “It’s from the Ornithologist.” He read through the short report. “Seems the feathers are from the Hummingbird.” A slow smile spread over his face as he related the last piece to Clive. “The crucial bit is that the particular breed is something of a hybrid and, although rare, is known mostly in the Amazon forests and jungles.” The triumph in Graham’s voice was undisguised. He added: “Now, Clive, where did our Jesuit say he had spent a couple of years?”
Brazilian Amazon,” he said, acknowledging that his Superior’s hunch was proving to be along the right lines. Not sufficient to convict a man but a giant step forward in the investigation.
Stuffing the papers into his briefcase, Graham followed Clive to the police car park where they took a vehicle for the journey to Penn.
Even at this early hour, traffic was beginning to build. However, it was much lighter than it would be in another half an hour and good progress was made to the A40. Once there, the going was steady and they were soon onto the M40 and the route to Penn.
Arriving at the local police station within the hour, they found it to be manned by a Sergeant Tim Brewster. Apparently George Flint was on his day off. Brewster was a portly, old-time type copper, nearing retirement, and just as genial as George. An over-large moustache drew attention immediately and the seasoned, brown eyes sparkling from the multi-lined face, seemed to understand this.
“Good morning, detectives,” he boomed. “Early morning journey, eh. Would you like a brew?” he asked before introductions had been made. The pair from the Met wondered how he knew what they were — was it so obvious?
Turning to put on the kettle in the small kitchen nearby, Brewster called over his shoulder: “You’ll be Graham and Clive from The Yard, eh?”
The pair exchanged glances. “George told me all about you. Said you’d probably be popping back here again sometime.” The chinking of cups reached their ears. “Knew you were fuzz,” using the general description of the police force. “Takes one to know one…or two in this case!” A booming laugh followed the rather weak joke.
Coming from the kitchen, precariously balancing three cups of tea on saucers, Brewster ushered his visitors into George’s office. Over the drinks, Graham briefly explained his suspicions of the Jesuit and the new evidence on the feathers.
No longer being surprised by anything humanity threw up, Brewster grunted his agreement. “Yes. It does sound suspicious, I agree. Get the bugger in here; we’ll soon have him talking,” he added, the eyes twinkling.
“I appreciate the offer, Sergeant, but we need to make a few more enquiries yet,” Graham responded. He did not want to do anything that might jeopardise the case. It had to be right; clear evidence that could be used in a court of law. “We’ll pay a visit to Mrs. Singleton first, and then Father McGiven again.”
“Yes, whatever you say Detective,” came the toneless response as Brewster finished his cup of tea. “Better be getting back to the desk,” he said, with a big smile, indicating that the hospitality was at an end. Emptying their cups, the two men from Scotland Yard offered their thanks and left.
Having the address of Mrs. Singleton together with a local town map, they had no problem locating her. The door was opened at the first knock, the bereaved woman having seen them arrive as she looked out from her front room window. Graham introduced them, showing his ID card. “Could we ask you a few questions about Brother Saviour, the Jesuit Priest, please Mrs. Singleton?” he opened.
She frowned, not really wanting to discuss anything more in connection with her beloved daughter and her ex-husband. The memories were still fresh; still painful. She had just about come to terms with the death of Debbie and accepted it in the light of the Jesuit’s words.
“Well,” she began hesitantly. “I think I’ve gone through just about everything with the local police — and I don’t really feel like talking about it any more. Is it really necessary?”
The woman was clearly troubled but Sampler needed to talk to her. She may just offer some kind of clue that could strengthen the case against the priest. “I’m truly sorry, Mrs. Singleton,” he said. “But we will take up as little of your time as possible. I realise it must be painful to you but it could help to apprehend the person responsible for these crimes. We’d like to make sure he doesn’t kill again, if possible.”
Mrs. Singleton relented, the urgent plea in the detective’s eyes softening her. “Oh, all right, then. Come in.” She turned and led them into the room where Ignatious had so recently brought his holiness and aura to her.
Inviting them to sit, she followed suit, sitting upright betraying the discomfort she felt, her hands clasped together on her lap.
Graham smiled, hoping to relax her a little. “Firstly Mrs. Singleton, I understand that you received a visit from Brother Saviour, shortly after Debbie had been found.”
“Yes. He helped me a great lot. He made me feel as though I was talking to God Himself.” She spoke in a faraway, wistful voice.
“Quite. Did he talk to you about his past experiences, at all?”
Elizabeth thought for a while before replying: “No. Not that I can think of.” She then decided. “No; definitely not. He came in and consoled me and put my mind on the right track. He made me realise that Debbie was now safe and she was happy. That is all I should want for her.” She stopped to choke back a tear. “I miss her so much but I must not think of myself. Debbie’s happiness is all I ever wanted for her when she was alive, so why should it be any different now?”
Graham felt for her. To lose a child must be devastating. For a fleeting moment, he wondered how he would feel if anything happened to his little son, Nathaniel, while he was enjoying illicit sex with his lover. The thought was quickly brushed away, it not being welcome.
“Did he ever mention being in Brazil?”
Elizabeth looked at him in puzzlement. “Brazil? Why Brazil?”
“It’s just somewhere he had lived for a while. I thought he might have mentioned it,” he said, dismissively. “Did he mention Hummingbirds to you?”
The questions were getting silly now. “Detective,” she said with some frustration. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“I appreciate that some of these questions may not mean much to you, but we need to build a fuller picture in our investigations.”
Elizabeth stared at the two. “Surely! Surely, you are not saying that you suspect the priest?” she snapped.
“I don’t imply anything at all, Mrs. Singleton. It’s merely a case of gathering as much information as we can. Many questions help to exonerate a suspect — not that I suggest the priest is a suspect,” he added hastily.
“I should hope not!” She then calmed. “I have told you all I can, detective. Is that all, now?”
“Just another couple of questions, then we’ll leave you in peace. “Did Debbie ever mention Brother Saviour to you? Or a priest, even?”
Elizabeth forced a tight-lipped smile. “For someone who you don’t suspect, you’re certainly asking a lot about him. No. She didn’t mention him, or a priest. I felt she was going to meet someone that day but it wasn’t a priest, I can assure you of that!”
“How can you be so sure, Mrs. Singleton?”
“Because, Debbie was wearing make-up and I could smell a faint aroma of perfume.” She smiled. “It doesn’t sound like she would be meeting a man of God, exactly, does it?”
Graham went on to his next concern. “Your ex-husband, Thomas, Mrs. Singleton.”
“Yes.”
“Was he present when the Jesuit paid you a visit?”
“No. He had to get back to his woman!” The bitterness was evident. “She used to be my best friend, too!” she spat. “What are friends for? Not for taking your husband, that’s for sure! As much as I hated him then, it hurt me a lot when I found out he had been murdered.”
The guilt again invaded Graham. “As far as you know, did the Jesuit visit him at his home, or somewhere?”
“Yes. I understand from Father McGiven that he spoke to Thomas at the church.”
“Did Father McGiven tell you what the conversation was about?”
Elizabeth was becoming angry now. She didn’t want all these questions. She’d had enough. “Certainly not! He is a priest you know! Confidentiality and all that?”
There was nothing to be learned here, Graham decided, so he offered his apologies, thanking Mrs. Singleton for giving them her time, and left. She was glad to be rid of them and began to dust and polish the furniture furiously, allowing the anger to dissipate with the effort. It would take time.
“Father McGiven next,” said Graham as they left the Singleton home.
“Well, we didn’t learn anything there, did we?” replied Clive, “perhaps we’ll have better luck with the priest.”
Clive again took the wheel and moved in the direction of St. Mary’s. “Do you think we will learn anything that we don’t already know, Graham?”
A shrug of the DI’s shoulders indicated a semblance of uncertainty. “What I’m looking for,” he said, slowly, deep in thought, “is something to confirm my theories; some comment that may tie the Jesuit into the murders. Every little helps, Clive. Like with Mrs. Singleton. She proved that the man has a powerful effect on people — I’ve actually experienced it myself. He somehow causes confusion in the brain; his presence tends to take over. It’s difficult to explain but, as you will find out whenever you meet him, you feel like throwing yourself at his feet and begging forgiveness for everything that you have ever done wrong. Weird.”
Clive cast a sidelong glance at his boss, wondering if the case was tipping him over the edge. “Mmm,” was his only comment.
“Mrs. Singleton,” continued Graham, “has clearly been affected by him. You’d have thought my questions about the Jesuit were sacrilegious. And, one other thing, she told us that he had spoken to her ex-husband before his death.”
“What difference does that make?” ventured Clive.
“It’s the first time he has been linked to a victim prior to death. Before, we understood that he always arrived on the scene after discovery of the body. Small thing but another tiny step forward.
Arriving unannounced at the vestry of St. Mary’s, the detectives were relieved to find Father McGiven in a welcoming mood. “Come in. Come in,” he urged. “Let me get you a cup of tea and something to eat.”
The offer was eagerly accepted as the men sat at the priest’s invitation, while he called from the door leading into the church to Mrs. Collins, his general help: “Three teas and some hot, buttered toasted teacakes, if you will, please.” Smiling at her he closed the door and returned to his guests. “So very nice to see you again, Detective Inspector. I expect you are here about the Jesuit, are you?”
Graham confirmed the nature of his visit and introduced Clive to the priest. “I’m sorry to trouble you again, Father,” he said. “I’m trying to find some order in these awful killings and I must explore every avenue.”
“Quite. If I can be of any assistance at all?”
The ensuing conversation went smoothly, the questions from the detectives being put in a conversational way, almost as though in praise of the mysterious Brother and showing keen interest in the stories he’d told to Father McGiven in their earlier meetings. The priest was enthusiastic in his recounting; it was clear that the Jesuit was some kind of a hero to him and, to Graham, demonstrated the effect transmitted by the holy man.
Without arousing their host’s suspicion in any way, it was discovered that the first time he had met the Jesuit was after the death of Debbie. He was quite certain of this, the meeting having been occasioned as a result of the murder and the desire to comfort the bereaved. Graham had hoped that a link could have been made prior to the death but it was no great setback. However, Father McGiven confirmed that Brother Saviour had spoken to Thomas Singleton before his untimely end and that he had seen Thomas to his car afterwards.
“Did they talk again after the meeting here, Father?” queried Clive.
“Only at the car. They chatted for a few minutes and then Mr. Singleton left.”
“How did Mr. Singleton appear to you as he left? Did he seem agitated, or worried at all?”
“Oh, no. Not at all. Quite the opposite I would say. Smiling — relieved even.”
Clive persisted. “Did the Jesuit tell you what they had chatted about, Father?”
“No. I never asked and he didn’t say. Why, is it important?”
Clive smiled. “Just trying to build the picture, Father. It’s possible Mr. Singleton may have given some clue as to whom he was intending to meet,” he continued.
The priest nodded. “Ah, I see. Yes, I suppose that could have been of some importance.”
Graham then spoke. “There was another killing quite nearby, Father.”
“Yes, a young teacher. Terrible business. This is a reasonably quiet area, yet we have had this spate of suspicious deaths and all in the course of a few weeks. I fail to understand it.” He shook his head in disbelief.
“Was he one of your parishioners, Father?”
“Yes, he was a regular at Mass and at confession. I understand he was an excellent teacher, also.” He looked at Graham quizzically. “Is his murder linked, Detective Inspector?” he asked in surprise.
“There are still vital pieces of evidence as yet missing but, yes, I do believe that all the recent killings are the work of one person.”
The priest sank back into his chair. “Oh,” he said quietly. “And you think Brother Saviour may have obtained some knowledge, somewhere along the line, of whom the killer might be?”
Graham shrugged his shoulders. “Yes, Father, that’s what I’m hoping. He has met people directly involved with the victims — apart from Maddigan, that is — and he has a way of opening people up. They will probably tell him things they wouldn’t normally disclose. He could be of great value to us.”
Father McGiven agreed — the Jesuit had an overpowering persona. Answering the unasked question he said: “Mr. Maddigan lived alone. I believe his family live in Cornwall and his body was transferred there for burial.”
“Do you know where Brother Saviour is at present, Father?” ventured Graham.
“No, I haven’t heard from him recently. Is he not in his motor home?”
“Probably, but he has moved from the district and we don’t know where he has gone to. Did he give you any idea of his next destination?”
Father McGiven could only tell them that Brother Saviour would be moving around the country at will, wherever the urge took him. He had mentioned no place in particular.
The detectives finally left, thanking Father McGiven for his time and asking him to contact the Met if the Jesuit got in touch. Again, a link had been established with one of the murders and the presence of Brother Saviour. At this stage it was tenuous, no evidence of any contact between the Jesuit and the victim but the fact that Saviour had visited the parish church of Lawrence Maddigan did, to some degree, tie him in. Also, it was the first the detectives knew that Maddigan had any connection with the Church. It was by now past lunchtime so the pair stopped at a small cafe as they left Penn to grab a bite to eat.
Almost an hour later, their hunger satisfied, the detectives were on the way to Twyford in the Thames Valley, where they intended to meet up with Father Conway Rafferty, the parish priest at the church of St.Thomas More. It was hoped the priest would be able to throw some light on any connection between the ill-fated Mary Stewart and the Jesuit.
As they arrived at the church, they saw the priest at the church entrance speaking to a few worshippers as they left following an early afternoon Mass. Allowing the people to go on their way, they approached Father Rafferty. He stood in the doorway ready to receive them, wondering who the strangers were.
On introduction, the detectives were impressed by the strength of character exuded by the man. Large-framed, he offered a crisp, warm handshake, the rather rough countenance breaking into a pleasant and welcoming smile. He took the two through to the vestry where he shouted to the ever-present Mrs. Collingwood to bring a tray of tea and buns. She called back that she would be with them in a couple of minutes.
“Well, gentlemen. What can I do for you?” asked Father Rafferty.
“We are investigating the incidence of several murders in the general area,” opened Graham. “Our inquiries have shown that they are all linked to the same killer and we need to get as much background information as possible.”
The priest eased back into his comfortable chair, “And you feel I may be able to help?”
“Well, Father, any piece of information may be of significance, no matter how small.”
Just then, Mrs. Collingwood entered pushing a hostess trolley silently across the carpet. It bore a pot of tea, sugar and a jug of milk. Laid beneath, on the lower tray, was a full Chocolate Gateaux ready sliced into eight decent sized portions and a plate containing several cream buns. A stack of four small plates and four silver teaspoons completed the set.
“Would you mind pouring, Bertha?” invited the priest as he introduced Graham and Clive to her. Often, when people discover they are speaking to policemen, their expressions fall slightly betraying the suspicion or the natural, if unaccountable fear. However, Mrs. Collingwood simply smiled brightly and poured out the teas, milk and sugar provided in accordance with the men’s preferences. As she left the room, the questioning continued.
“When did you first meet the Jesuit, Father?” asked Graham getting straight to the point.
Thinking deeply before replying, Father Rafferty then informed the visitors of the confessions taken by Brother Saviour, that being the first time he had set eyes on the man. He went on to describe the startling effect the Jesuit had had upon him and also on his housekeeper, the effervescent, Mrs. Collingwood.
Clive began to realise that his boss was not going over the edge after all; the Jesuit seemed to affect everyone, even priests, who are accustomed to people of all kinds, especially those of the Cloth. “Do you know if he had any contact with Mary Stewart, Father?” he asked.
Casting his mind back, Father Rafferty pictured the congregation on the day of the Jesuit’s visit. Through a faint haze, the faces appeared in his vision, one by one, going along the pews to the people dotted around the pews. Yes. Mary Stewart was there. “I recall the lady being in the church, awaiting confession,” he began. “It is possible that Brother Saviour took her confession.” He considered more. “Yes, yes,” he added. “After a while one becomes used to the parishioner’s voices and, on that day, I definitely did not hear Mrs. Stewart’s confession. Therefore, assuming she did enter the confessional, and I see no valid reason for her not to as that was the purpose of her being there, the Brother must have heard her.”
“Can you recall if he told you that he had heard her confession and what she spoke about?” Clive blundered.
Father Rafferty looked from one detective to the other in mild surprise. A patronising smile broke onto his lips as he faced the young man. “No, my son, he did not. We do not discuss what we hear in the confessional box. Not even with detectives!” He chuckled at the embarrassed expression that crossed Clive’s face.
“Sorry, Father. Of course, I should have realised. I’m sorry.”
Graham again took charge. “Father, did the Brother talk of his past at all?”
The priest studied Graham for several seconds. Detective Inspector,” he said. “Your questions are all about Brother Saviour. Surely you do not suspect such a holy man. If I didn’t know better, I could have thought that he was Saviour not only in name but in person!”
The sincerity of the priest left no doubt about the impact the Jesuit imposed on people. “You don’t suspect him, do you?”
“No, Father, not at all,” lied Graham. Clive half expected his boss to make an immediate sign of the crosss! “He has had contact with the families of the victims and, in some cases, the victims themselves. We must check every avenue and find out what we can. When a lot of small things come together, it is amazing how often a bigger picture is revealed.”
“Yes, of course,” replied Father Rafferty. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to question your professionalism. Everyone to their trade, as I have just demonstrated,” he said, looking meaningfully at Clive.
The men from the Met were then given a long and enthusiastic account of Ignatious’s past adventures, dwelling mainly upon the Amazon experience. Even though the story tallied with that told by Father McGiven, it made enthralling listening. However, it seemed that nothing more was to be gained here, so the detectives prepared to leave. Just as Graham was about to terminate the meeting, Father Rafferty dropped the bombshell.
“Strange how we all differ in our particular beliefs,” observed Rafferty, “and have different religious icons, yet they all have one thing in common — faith and belief.”
Seeing the bland faces of his guests, the priest realised he was in danger of going on too long and decided to explain further. He wished to end the chat on a light note.
“When Saviour was with the last tribe,” he continued, “he witnessed many strange occurrences and observed the way the tribespeople practised their particular faith. They believed their Gods were already with them in human form, for one thing. And their view of sexual matters can only be described as primitive although, when one considers it, there is a kind of logic and no one seems to have suffered from what may be deemed loose morals.” He was becoming sidetracked again.
Getting back on track, he told of the strange funeral customs: “They cremated the bodies, Brother Saviour said, using an unbelievable extreme of heat generated by goodness knows what means and,” he chuckled, “to send them on their way to happiness, they put a small bunch of bird feathers in the coffin. Hummingbird feathers.” He chuckled again.
“They even had a special way of placing the feathers. For females, they were put next to the left thigh and for males, next to the right thigh! What this signifies escapes me — feathers with which to fly to their destination, perhaps?” The good Father didn’t realise just how near the truth he was!
The dumbfounded silence that followed this revelation puzzled Father Rafferty. “What…what…what is wrong, gentlemen?”
It was minutes before a dry-mouthed Graham was able to reply. “Oh, er, nothing Father. I was just considering something.” Rising as one, the two men hurriedly made their exit, thanking the priest for his hospitality and also warmly thanking the hovering housekeeper for the drinks and the tasty food.
It was by then approaching evening and time to be getting back to London. However, whilst they were on a roll, they agreed to forego a further meal and travel on to Watford to see the parish priest there.
On the journey, Graham took the opportunity to search through the file summaries to check if the priest’s name was noted anywhere. There was no history of the church listed, simply the name, The Holy Rood, but there, neatly typed under the church name, was “Father Cobb.”
“Not far to Watford,” observed Graham as the car glided swiftly along the motorway. “Thank goodness for the light nights, eh?”
The “hmmpphh” from Clive belayed his concentration. Even on a short stretch of motorway, it was necessary to have one’s wits about them. Even so, the pair could not resist discussing the stunning links revealed by Father Rafferty. Everything in the investigation was at last moving in the right direction.
In a little under forty-five minutes, they were easing along the one-way system of Beechen Grove towards Exchange Street where they would arrive at their destination at the junction with Market Street.
In minutes the impressive sight of The Holy Rood appeared before them, it’s gritty exterior standing proudly in its stature. It was a church, as a church ought to be, welcoming yet aggressively displaying strength and the right to exist, in fear of nothing. Clive guided the vehicle to a spot near to a set of metal railings at the side of the building. Before alighting, he placed the well-worn Metropolitan Police badge on the windscreen to avoid any parking tickets that may be issued by a zealous traffic warden.
At that time, the early evening Mass had been completed and the parishioners had gone on their way soothed by the warmth of their faith.
The detectives met Father Cobb as he pottered around the altar tidying things and placing the various religious ornaments in readiness for the next service. The hospitality offered by the various clergy had, to now, been first-class and Father Cobb’s was no exception. He seemed pleased to receive his guests at the same time wondering what on earth the police could want with him. However, he was always glad of new company.
The men from the Met had never before had as many really good cups of tea and waist enlarging cakes in a single day — and they enjoyed every morsel!
The priest was willing to talk on any and all subjects but, with gentle prodding, the experienced Graham guided him to the main purpose of the visit: the Jesuit. “Oh, yes,” he enthused. “What a remarkable man is Brother Saviour. He has had so many tests of faith for a man of his years; more, probably, than most priests with twice the service. As far as I can gather, he has come through his experiences virtually unscathed with faith in the good Lord above ever-more strengthened.”
Graham disagreed mentally with the view that Saviour had come through unscathed. It was his growing opinion that the Jesuit’s experiences had left permanent scars; indeed, rather than scars, open wounds with the blood dripping onto his unfortunate victims. “Yes, Father,” he said. “I have met Brother Saviour and I must agree, he is a most remarkable person. I have to confess, his presence had an unnerving effect on me, in the sense that my thoughts were frequently confused. That is something I am not familiar with. In my work, it is essential to have a clear mind.”
“Quite,” said Father Cobb. “Even though I am accustomed to speaking with people in the clergy; the Pope himself on more than one occasion, I have to say that I was similarly affected. I can only describe it as being in the presence of God Himself, ridiculous though that may sound.”
Graham then asked if Saviour had spoken in any detail of his jungle adventures and if there was anything particular that he had referred to. Again, the story of the tribes was related with the same startling evidence emerging as from Father Rafferty.
As the priest spoke, his eyes widened and took on a rapturous look. He even joined his hands as in prayer. Clive and Graham exchanged concerned glances. How could a single human being impress his personality on people to such an extent? It was truly uncanny.
On ending his tale, Father Cobb licked his wet lips, lips that were near to salivating. He swallowed hard, his expression now vacant, staring ahead not seeing. It was several minutes before Graham’s three-times repeated question pierced his brain. “When did you first meet Brother Saviour, Father?”
“Er — when? When? Oh, let me see.” He was gradually regaining his full sensibilities now. “I got an e-mail message from Cardinal Patrick O’Leary around about the first of June to advise me of the Jesuit’s visit and he arrived two days later.”
“Can you be more certain of the dates, please, Father?”
Getting up from his seat, Father Cobb went to the nearby desk and consulted the diary that lay there. “Ah, Yes,” he said, thumbing the pages back and forward. “The e-mail was received on the first and Brother Saviour arrived here on the third.” He turned to his guests. “He called merely to introduce himself so didn’t stay for long — half an hour perhaps.”
“Did he visit you again?”
“Yes. He called again on the fifth and this time he stayed a while. He even took confessions on that day. Over evening meal, he regaled me with his tales of adventure and I could only sit, enthralled. He explained his mission here and I was pleased to see that The Church was moving a little with the times.” He smiled. “The wheels of the Catholic Church mechanism move very slowly, you understand. One change in twenty years is rather adrenalin-pumping!” He chuckled at this observation.
Graham chuckled with him, Clive joining in a little late, not particularly appreciating the humour. “Is that the last time you saw him?” enquired Graham.
“No. He called after the awful murder of the young girl to tell me how he had got along with the poor parents. I had contacted him earlier on his mobile to ask if he would pay the couple a visit. It had been suggested by their vicar, Reverend Gutteridge.”
All this talk of e-mails and mobiles seemed strangely at odds with Graham’s idea of religion. Then it struck him! Mobile? That meant that the missing Jesuit could be reached! “Do you have Brother Saviour’s mobile number, Father?” he asked, suppressing the excitement that tended to overtake him.
The priest went again to the desk. “Why, yes. I have it right here,” he said, opening the diary. He read the eleven-digit number out and Clive jotted it down in his notebook.
Graham rose, followed by his assistant, “Thank you for allowing us so much of your precious time, Father; it is very gracious of you. And thank you for the food, too. I reckon we will have added a few pounds to our weight today,” he laughed.
“Nice to have the company, detective. It’s not every day that I have a visit from the police, let alone the Metropolitan force.” He led them to the door, remaining to wave as their car moved into the sparse traffic and off back to London. The topic of conversation on the way back was, predictably, about the evidence now beginning to build against the Jesuit — the prime suspect. It was eminently clear that Graham’s suspicions had been well founded and that Brother Ignatious Saviour was, indeed, the killer.
Before making an arrest, though, the evidence had to be sifted and analysed. Circumstantial evidence and hard evidence were two quite different things. It was considered that all the circumstantial evidence they now had would become very powerful once a DNA test had been carried out on the Jesuit and it would then allow them to obtain a search warrant for the motor home. Many cases had been completed once a suspect had been held on such evidence and a warrant obtained. A person’s home almost always revealed the vital hard evidence required. Stolen goods, insignificant items picked up, hairs, soiled clothing, particles of glass or soil; all these things could lead to a successful prosecution. The two men journeyed on, each smiling contentedly, more than happy with the day’s work.
Tomorrow would be soon enough to sort out the various clues and their value. Then, a call to the Jesuit’s mobile and they would have him! Yes, tomorrow was to be another good day. That was the thought, anyway — until the finding of a young girl’s body was reported.