WITH THE MONKS’ chanting clearly audible, I left the abbot’s office and went directly to the Postgate Room to find Prior Tuck and Detective Sergeant Sullivan. Prior Tuck had been busy. He had found a blackboard, now standing near a lectern, and on the wall behind was a large computer screen bearing a detailed map of the entire campus. Small green areas showed places that had already been searched and declared clear. Facing the screen were about twenty chairs arranged in rows as if awaiting a lecturer and upon each was a pad of paper and a ballpoint pen. Prior Tuck expected his monkstables to make full use of this room as their own assembly point.
‘This is the monkstables’ operations room,’ he beamed, recalling his own police experience as he addressed the detective sergeant. ‘The CID murder room will be in SALT – St Alban’s Lecture Theatre – near the library. Their equipment and personnel are en route. Meanwhile all our monkstables have responded and are searching for Simon. Father Robin has organized them into two-man teams. Father Will in the cop shop will deal with anything that arises and we have both computer and telephone contact with him.’
‘Good. So have there been developments with the murder enquiry?’ I asked.
‘We’re awaiting the official photographers, police doctor and the forensic pathologist; when they’ve finished in the crypt we can move the body. There’s very little we can do just now.’ Detective Sergeant Sullivan was carrying a mug of coffee as he wandered up and down the central aisle. ‘I’m expecting my boss any minute but meanwhile the crypt remains sealed. Your cops are doing a good job.’
‘Some were pupils at the college which means they know their way around – and all the hiding places! They’re all are very keen. So is there any sign of Harvey?’
‘No. I’ve managed to make a few enquiries, but no one seems to know where he has established his studio, or where he might have gone. He does a lot of his work on his triptych away from here so his studio can’t be far away. I’m working on it – we must talk to him as soon as we can.’
‘Do we know any more about him?’ I asked Prior Tuck.
‘I’ve spoken to the procurator,’ he replied. ‘Even he knows very little about him. He’s a loner, very much a mystery figure and most elusive. He calls himself by one name – Harvey – and won’t give his full name or address to anyone, nor will he say where he has based his studio. He’s paid cash from funds donated by a benefactor in Cannes, through the abbey accounts. The donation – a large one that covers his fees and expenses – has been banked and the abbey pays him an agreed amount at the end of each month. He insists on cash and signs the receipt as Harvey, but refuses to commit anything else to writing. I must say he works hard; he’s not a slacker or a work-dodger.’
‘So how do we contact him?’
‘By leaving notes on his work-bench in the crypt – he can read! We never know what time he’s expected there; he comes and goes without warning and never visits any other place on the campus, except the procurator’s office around month end. Even then, he can vary his visits. You can’t plan a meeting with him, and have to rely on a chance encounter, or hope he responds to one of those notes.’
‘Well, he’ll have to change his tactics now.’ Detective Sergeant Sullivan sounded emphatic. ‘We’ve bolted the north and south doors from the inside so if he wants access to his creation he’ll have to ask me and that won’t be granted until we’ve forensically examined the entire crypt.’
‘If he can’t get in, he’ll ask at reception. He’ll be told what’s going on.’
‘Yes, and I have the key. We don’t want him moving around the crypt before we’ve finished with it. Don’t forget he’s a prime suspect – lots of his tools would make good murder weapons. We need to examine those and then interrogate him.’
‘You’re not honestly suggesting he’s the killer, are you?’ I asked.
‘It can’t be ruled out, but I’m also aware that someone else could have picked up one of his hammers and used it, then put it back or thrown it down somewhere. That’s something we’ve yet to establish – we’ll get more information about the wound once the pathologist has carried out his post mortem. Then we’ll try to match a hammer or other tool against it. If it’s none of those, we’ll have to look elsewhere.’
‘There’s one more thing about Harvey,’ added Prior Tuck. ‘He runs a scruffy white van which he parks at the north of the abbey near the kitchens when he’s working in the crypt. He usually enters via the north door if he has anything bulky or heavy to bring in, so he’ll borrow a kitchen trolley to carry it. The kitchen staff are quite used to him wandering through their corridors.’
‘And a description? Do we have a description?’ asked Sullivan who was jotting notes on a pad of paper, later to be written up in his official pocket book.
‘Of him or the van?’ asked Tuck.
‘Both.’
‘According to the procurator, he’s a large man, more than six feet tall and heavily built, more like an all-in wrestler than a sculptor. He dresses all in black – much of it leather, and wears knee-length leather boots with thick soles. Some of his clothing bears chrome studs. He has leather kneecaps because much of his work involves kneeling. He has a very unruly mop of curly black hair with matching moustache and large beard. He reminds the procurator of one of those Goths who go to Whitby to celebrate Dracula’s visit. It’s hard to tell his age. Late forties perhaps.’
‘Well, he shouldn’t take much finding, except on a dark night,’ beamed the sergeant. ‘So what about his van. Has it got his name on it? Do we have its registration number?’
‘Neither. It’s plain and rather scruffy, quite anonymous. I don’t have a record of its registration number but Brother George may have it.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘He’s a monkstable and well into his sixties, Sergeant,’ responded Prior Tuck. ‘He was a hill farmer before joining the monastery and lost a lot of his sheep to thieves. He got into the habit of recording the registration numbers of every car, lorry or van that came anywhere near his farm – and several thieves were caught. He has continued that practice here, especially because there are so many white vans coming onto the site due to the construction work. Building materials are sometimes stolen, and if we get a report of a theft or burglary in one of the site offices, he passes van registration numbers to the county police who then interview the drivers. He’s not an ordained priest by the way; he’s a monk, Brother George – not Father George.’
‘Thanks. He sounds a useful sort of man to have around. OK, at an opportune moment, I’ll see what he can tell us. I’m beginning to appreciate your monkstables more and more. I’m sure we can work together on this….’
And at that point, the door opened without warning, crashed against a chair that was rather too close behind it and admitted a huge man with massive splayed feet. Large black shoes with polished toe-caps exaggerated the overall appearance of them. Bald-headed with a dome of white skin but with tufts of black hair around his ears and the back of his head, he appeared to waddle rather like a penguin.
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Found you, Sarge. Is the coffee on? I’m parched.’
‘I’ll see to it,’ offered Prior Tuck who had not yet had an opportunity to don his police uniform. He was still wearing his black habit.
‘Thank you, Reverend, that’s a good start. I’m Detective Chief Super Napier,’ beamed the huge fellow. ‘Now DS Sullivan, I’m sure you have not spent all your time chatting and drinking coffee, so what can you tell me about all this?’
He plonked himself on a chair, issued a huge sigh of relief and continued, ‘I must get some weight off, I feel as if I’m carrying several sacks of spuds around with me all the time. So, introduce me to your friends then tell me what I need to know.’
Clearly in awe of the great man, Jim Sullivan first introduced Prior Tuck as the man in charge of the monkstables, giving a brief account of them and then explaining this room would be their base as they searched for Simon Houghton.
‘Tuck?’ frowned Napier. ‘You’re not that man Tuck from Northumbria Police, are you?’
‘Yes, I left to join the Benedictines, some years ago.’
‘I remember you leaving quite suddenly after that child drowned. So what does a prior do?’
‘I’m deputy to the abbot.’
‘I suppose that means a lot of God-bothering and praying?’
‘Among other things. But because of my police experience, I’m in charge of our own force of constables. This is our operations room, apart from being a small general conference room, and we have an office in the abbey’s reception area.’
‘Oh, well, don’t let me get in the way, I’ll clear off in a while and leave you to it. Has my team of detectives got another room? I hope there’s somewhere suitable. They’ll be here soon, forty or so at least. Mebbe fifty. They’ll need a lot of space. And they’ll want gallons of coffee.’
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Sullivan. ‘We shall be using a lecture theatre called SALT as our murder room – that’s St Alban’s Lecture Theatre. I’ll take you there after we’ve visited the scene.’
‘I’m with you so far. So this must be ex-Inspector Rhea?’
He made no effort to shake hands, so I nodded. ‘Yes, that’s me.’
‘So what are you doing here? I’ve always thought retired police officers never returned to their old haunts. When I retire, I’ll never want to read about another murder, let alone try to solve one.’
I explained my role as a former police inspector and force press officer, adding that I was founder and trainer of the monk-constables. I explained they were now searching for a teenaged pupil who had not turned up for today’s first period.
‘Is he a suspect?’
‘I doubt it,’ was my response.
‘Victim, then?’
‘I sincerely hope not.’
‘Never doubt such possibilities, Mr Rhea. Everyone is a suspect until proved otherwise, and if that kid’s done a runner, then he’s in the frame. Whatever has happened, he needs to be found and eliminated, and soon. I don’t want my men needlessly chasing him around the countryside if there’s a genuine suspect lurking somewhere else. So can we place that lad at the scene? At the material time?’
Sergeant Sullivan answered, ‘Not at this early stage, sir. We need to establish his movements and contacts over the weekend.’
I now said my piece. ‘The abbot wants to speak to you about the missing pupil, Mr Napier. It’s very important.’
‘He’s explained his worries to you, has he?’
‘Yes. As I said, I was responsible for helping to train the monkstables.’
‘Then you can tell me what’s bothering the abbot.’
‘I would rather he told you in complete confidence, Mr Napier.’
‘Oh, well, I suppose I can fit him in. This is a posh school with rich and famous families here … he’s probably thinking of kidnap with a ransom demand. Right, I’ll have a chat with him. Maybe you could fix that?’
‘I will. The monkstables are searching for the boy at this minute. They’re checking the grounds and buildings.’
‘I should hope they are, you can’t hang about in cases like this. Those monk-cops could be very helpful. Now, where’s that coffee?’
Prior Tuck went to the adjoining ante-room and emerged with a mug of coffee on a tray, complete with milk and sugar.
‘Black for me, Reverend,’ he said, as he accepted the mug. He drained it almost at one gulp, put it back on the tray and said, ‘I don’t want to contaminate the evidence by spilling my coffee into this stone coffin you told me about so, now, DS Sullivan, take me to the crypt. How do we get in?’
‘We’ll go through the door in reception,’ Prior Tuck told him. ‘I’ve got the key. The other entrances, north and south, are bolted. We’ve made the place secure.’
‘Good. Lead on. Are we all going?’
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Sullivan. ‘Prior Tuck was first at the scene and he called in Mr Rhea for advice. At that stage, it wasn’t evident the man had been attacked, he merely appeared to have died in the coffin. In his sleep perhaps. Then we noticed his head wound.’
‘Right, you can each tell me your story when we get there. Then it’ll make more sense to me. Any sign of our technical wizards yet?’
‘They’re all on the way, sir. Scenes of Crime, pathologist, photographer.’
‘They should learn to move faster and get here earlier. OK, show me the scene.’
As Detective Sergeant Sullivan took the keys, we followed him into the reception area where I explained to Constable Stutely that we were going into the crypt and that no one was presently in the Postgate Room. He indicated his understanding and would inform us if the technical team arrived.
‘You sound as if you’ve got an efficient private constabulary working here, Reverend.’
‘We do our best.’
And so we followed DS Sullivan down the illuminated steps into the crypt as Prior Tuck switched on the lights and led the way, once more using his torch. I was expecting some caustic comments from Napier but the sound of the monks’ choir could be heard in the church and he said nothing. He was looking about himself as he entered the crypt, concentrating on his task and absorbing every detail.
‘Weird place, nice singing. Monks have their uses,’ he muttered, adding, ‘Smells musty and damp, I’d say,’ and then for us all to hear, he said, ‘Prior Tuck, Mr Rhea, lead me into the scene where the body lies, using the exact route you used when you first found it. And give me a commentary on your actions and thoughts at that time. Both of you. If either of you noticed anything out of the ordinary, tell me. I need to know such things. Also I need to know about that sculptor – show me his work area before we leave.’
As they reached the foot of the steps, Prior Tuck began his account, repeating what he had told me about responding to the note currently in the cop shop. He demonstrated how he had approached the so-called coffin curtain, opened it at one side and discovered the body. He described the body as he recalled it, and how he had then returned to the cop shop to summon Father Bowman who was a qualified doctor. He had returned with Father Bowman who had pronounced the man dead. We were shown their routes towards the curtain. Prior Tuck then said he had telephoned me to seek my advice, at that time not realizing the man had been attacked. I provided my own account, adding that I had touched the body on its face and hands to check for rigor mortis to satisfy myself that his was a genuine death and not some kind of student stunt. I explained how I had noticed the blood.
‘Then what did you both do?’
‘I went to inform the abbot,’ said Prior Tuck.
‘And I went up to the cop shop to ring you because I suspected murder.’
‘So where was the sculptor during this time?’
‘Over there,’ said Prior Tuck, pointing to the workbench. ‘He was working on that bench when I arrived, sorting and selecting tools by the sound of it, and by the time we’d finished, he’d gone. We didn’t see him leave and he didn’t speak to us. He was there when Mr Rhea arrived but left soon afterwards. I’ve not seen him since.’
‘Show me.’
Together we retraced our earlier steps as Napier stood and looked at the incomplete clay proofs, then allowed his gaze to take in the workbench and its arrangement of tools, all on show and ready for instant use. I noted he did not handle anything, leaving everything for forensic scrutiny. We also showed him the cupboard where more tools were stored; again, he did not touch anything. The monks were now chanting Laetatus sum – ‘They said unto me, let us go unto the house of the Lord’.
Napier addressed his sergeant now. ‘Sarge, all this must be preserved as a crime scene, as I know you’ve done so far, but we need to test every one of these tools for blood or other deposits, if only to eliminate them from our enquiries. That sculptor must be found and must not be allowed in here until we’ve finished, is that clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Right, now Prior Tuck and Mr Rhea, did you do anything else before leaving and locking up the crypt?’
I responded. ‘Yes, we searched the entire area, looking for the murderer in hiding or perhaps another victim, or even the weapon. We didn’t find anything.’
‘No weapon thrown away?’
‘Nothing.’ I realized we could have missed something that might have been a weapon – even a heavy stone. A thing like that could have been tossed into a dark corner – or hidden among the sculptor’s tools.
‘We’ll search it again with better lights once we’ve concluded our action at the scene. I must say you’ve both done well, but now it’s our turn.’
‘Is there anything we can be doing now?’ asked Prior Tuck.
‘Not a lot. We’ll leave here for the time being and secure the scene until our experts arrive.’
We left the crypt, extinguished the lights and emerged into the reception as the sound of the singing monks diminished.
‘Sarge,’ Napier addressed Sullivan, ‘we need to form a joint plan of actions to be allocated to our murder team. So what are you two going to do now? Are you going to help us with this investigation?’
‘That’s the general idea, if we’re allowed,’ I responded.
‘In view of your past experience, I’m happy to have you both on board, Mr Rhea and Prior Tuck. You are both former police officers which means you swore the oath so I can trust you. And that includes your monkstables who are officially police officers and know their way around the place, as well as its daily routine and personnel so they must be useful. But if anyone makes a mess of things, they’ll get their marching orders. Of course we do have non-police personnel working on murder inquiries – secretaries, forensic experts and so on, and all can be trusted to do their jobs. I’ve recently heard of two police forces who are considering their pensioners rejoining as serving officers – they’ve got a lot to offer society at large. So there we are. We’re all one big flexible team!’
‘Thanks, we won’t let you down. I’ll begin by finding out how our searchers are getting on,’ said Prior Tuck.
‘So what about me speaking to the abbot,’ asked Napier.
‘I’ll call him from here,’ I said. When I rang, he agreed to see Napier immediately. Father Will offered to show him the way.
‘Now I’ll track down Brother George to see if he has the number of the sculptor’s van,’ I offered. ‘Then we might learn more about him.’
As Chief Superintendent Napier prepared to leave with Father Will, he produced one of his rare smiles. ‘I can see you fellows know your own minds. I like my officers to show some initiative, but always keep me informed. Remember, that I am the boss as from this moment: this is now my patch.’
When Father Stutely returned within a couple of minutes, having delivered Napier to the Abbot’s office, I asked if he knew the whereabouts of all the monkstables who were hunting for Simon, Brother George in particular. He explained, not surprisingly adding that Brother George had gone to search the abbey’s farm buildings. As an ex-farmer who had also grown up on a farm, he knew all the likely hiding places around farm premises, such as places that might attract tramps wanting a night’s sleep or even tired schoolboys. It was about a mile from the abbey church, but I wanted to talk to Brother George, so I took my car.
I was also hoping that whilst I was there I might sneak a quick look at my inherited piece of land. One of its boundaries bordered some fields of the farm although most of it bordered the abbey estate itself. The farm was managed on behalf of the trustees by a husband-and-wife team, Richard and Susie Seaton.
‘Good heavens, Constable Nick!’ responded Richard, when he answered my knock on the kitchen door. Years earlier, he had managed a farm at Aidensfield where I called regularly to check his stock registers. ‘What are you doing here? Not on police duty, I’m sure? Is it about the missing lad? Brother George told us.’
‘It is,’ I told him. ‘I’m looking for Brother George. Is he still here?’
‘He’s had a busy time searching all over the place, all our sheds and outbuildings, stables and cowsheds. I helped him but he’s back in the kitchen now, having a nice cup of coffee and a slab of fruit cake. Then he says he wants to wash up the pots. He regards washing-up as an offering of thanks to God, so he says. Susie is happy for him to do that. Anyway, come in.’
Brother George, sometimes known as Greenfingers due to his gardening expertise, was a jolly fellow with red cheeks, thick grey hair and the gait of a farmer. He had the reputation for creating gardens out of the most barren pieces of land, but he liked to wash up after meals following a heavy day’s work – it was his form of relaxation and a way of thanking God for another day on earth. There were times when I wondered if he got in the way of the permanent domestic staff, but seemingly, no one criticized his efforts. When I entered he was sitting at the bare wooden kitchen table chatting to Susie, and both had whopping big mugs before them. I joined them for cake and coffee and after some good-natured banter, I said, ‘Brother George, I need your help.’
‘Me, Richard and Susie have searched this place from top to bottom, Nick, inside and out, and there’s no sign of young Simon. I’m confident he’s not been here this weekend. No one has seen him around the place.’
‘Thanks; we can cross it off our list. But there’s another reason I want to talk to you. I know you’ve been diligently recording car numbers that come onto the abbey grounds – especially white vans.’
‘Yes, it’s too easy for a plain white van to get onto our site when all this construction work is going on. It can easily lose itself among all the others. Now we have those archaeologists and they’ve got a white van too. A camper-van, but white nonetheless. A couple of rogues in a white van can soon nick a few valuables and vanish before anyone knows the stuff has gone. I want to catch them – and their white vans!’
‘I can understand that, but I’m interested in the sculptor’s white van. Harvey he calls himself, just the one name. We need to trace him, Brother George. We should be able to do it through his van registration number.’
‘You don’t think he has kidnapped young Simon, surely?’
‘No, nothing like that. We just want to talk to him about the body that was found this morning.’
‘I’ve been telling Richard and Susie about it.’
‘Well,’ I now addressed the couple, ‘it was in the crypt not far from where Harvey was working, so we need to find out if he saw or heard anything. He’s gone now and no one knows where he lives or where his studio is, so we thought his van number would tell us something.’
‘I’ve got the details in my notebook,’ smiled Brother George. He hauled his diary from his pocket, flicked it open at a page in the back and said, ‘Here we are, Nick. I might add I checked it – you know when we went to Police Headquarters during training last week? I was curious about that sculptor even then! I asked if the control room could check his number for me. They did. It belongs to a one-man garage-cum-petrol station in Leeds.’
‘A garage? In Leeds? So it’s not Harvey’s own van?’
‘I rang them. He hires it. They said Harvey paid cash in return for borrowing the van for a few months. It wasn’t a formal hire arrangement. They have no idea who Harvey is, but because he produced the right money in nice fivers and tenners, they let him take the van. No written contract. They told me it was not worth anything as a saleable vehicle and so were happy for him to use it for as long as he wants. He’s already paid its market value several times so they’re not bothered if its falls to pieces or if they don’t get it back.’
‘But surely they have his name and address?’
‘He gave an address in Hull when he did the deal. Later when they wanted to contact him about renewing the hire, the garage discovered it was a Salvation Army hostel. The manager had no idea who Harvey was.’
‘A dead end, then?’
‘It seems he’s very secretive. Since then I’ve asked about him here on the campus, but as you said, no one knows where he lives or where he operates from. But he’s still got the van and it is taxed, tested and insured by the garage. He still pops in from time to time with cash-in-hand when it’s due. No questions asked!
‘The procurator says Harvey always wants cash … no cheque, no money paid directly into his bank account.’
‘But even he doesn’t know where Harvey lives? Or his full name?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ said Brother George. ‘The only time people see Harvey is when he parks his van behind the kitchens and goes through to borrow a trolley for something heavy. Even then, he won’t tolerate being quizzed, watched or approached. He hates people putting him under pressure. He’ll simply walk away.’
‘Then it’s going to take him a long time to get his work of art finished.’
‘Maybe that’s his intention – a piece of art without an end.’
We had chatted for a few minutes and then I felt I should leave – I wanted to take a surreptitious look at the piece of land I had inherited. It included some old buildings which could be a hiding place for the missing boy. My solicitor had suggested that at this early stage I should not mention my inheritance to any of the abbey officials, trustees or staff because I had not yet signed the relevant papers. It was common knowledge that the trustees had long desired to obtain the land in question but its Scottish owners had refused to sell it. Right now, however, I could justify my visit by claiming I was searching it in the search for Simon Houghton. As indeed I would.
‘Can I cadge a lift back?’ asked Brother George when I got up to leave.
‘You can, but I’m going via Ashwell Priory barns, I want to check them to see if Simon is there.’
‘I’ll come and help you,’ and so Brother George and I thanked our hosts and left, with me taking a short cut towards the south or back entrance to the abbey Estate. On the way we passed close to George’s Field and I remarked on the presence of the archaeologists, one of whom had a white camper-van.
‘They’ll not find anything there,’ remarked Brother George. ‘I’ve told them there’s nowt to find under that field, but the chap in charge insists on looking. But I should know, I fashioned that field out of some disused land. If there had been summat under there, I’d have found it. Anyway, I’ve noted the number of his boss’s van, just in case he does find summat valuable and clears off with it.’
‘Would he do that?’
‘Who can tell? Such things are not unknown,’ smiled Brother George. ‘So, do you think Simon could be hiding in the old barns?’
‘I think they’re worth a check,’ I responded. ‘People use them for all kinds of things.’
‘I can believe that, Nick. When I had a farm you never knew who was sleeping in your haysheds or nicking turnips from the fields!’
My two stone barns with tiled roofs had long fallen into disuse but remained standing with their roofs intact. They were very close to Ashwell Priory Wood and adjoined each other like two small semi-detached houses. They shared the same roof but had separate large archway doors but no interior dividing wall. Surprisingly dry inside, there was a hayloft at one end of the long building with a ladder in place to give access. It was really a single large barn with two huge entrances but locally everyone referred to them in the plural as Ashwell Barns.
As we drew up before them, Brother George said, ‘They’re a bit isolated. Simon wouldn’t be hiding here, would he?’
‘There’s only one way to find out.’