The decision had been made to go public with the belief that the deaths of Fathers Nolan and Daugherty were murder, not suicide. A press conference had been scheduled for midday, but Warren thought it important that the residents and staff at the retirement home be briefed first thing, before the press were informed. The only space big enough for everyone was the dining hall.
The huge room was dominated by a massive open fireplace. Red flocked velvet wall coverings spoke of the Langton family’s wealth back in the eighteenth century, and the tiled, wooden floor gleamed under the lights suspended twenty feet above the gathered crowd.
Most of the original paintings had been removed to storage or local museums, and the subsequent spaces covered with appropriate paintings and iconography, including portraits of the most recent popes, a tasteful rendering of the virgin Mary with child, a painting said to be of St Cecil – the retirement home’s namesake – and a near life-size crucifix.
The simple trestle tables that the priests typically dined at had been folded away after breakfast, to create more space, so that everyone could have a seat.
The room was filled with a low-level buzz of conversation as the residents and staff filed in. Beside Warren, Deacon Gabriel Baines discreetly ticked attendees off on a sheet; anybody absent would be an immediate suspect – or worse, the killer’s potential next victim. Warren estimated that he had personally met about one third of the people in the room during the recent investigations. Rodney Shaw was the last to enter.
‘Everyone is accounted for,’ Baines told Warren quietly; even Fathers Kendrick and Ramsden had been brought down in their wheelchairs, along with their carers, including the three sisters. Aside from the brief flash of grey cloth, glimpsed when Sister Clara informed them that Father Cormac Nolan was missing from his room, it was the first time Warren had clapped eyes on the resident nuns.
Nobody in the assembled crowd was a fool, and it was clear from snatches of overheard conversation that everyone assumed that they would only have been gathered, with the SIO of the two deaths, if the fatalities had been ruled suspicious.
Bishop Fisher stood up and cleared his throat. Immediately the room fell silent. After a short prayer for the souls of their two deceased friends, and a request for the Lord to give strength and support to Warren and his team, Fisher passed the floor to Warren.
The news might not have been unexpected, nevertheless it was clearly a shock and upsetting to all of those present. There was also a degree of anger.
‘DCI Jones, I believe I speak for many of us here when I say that I find it disturbing that we have been left in the dark about these killings, and our safety put at risk.’ The speaker was a relatively young priest, Father Angus Boyce, who helped provide care for some of the priests.
‘I think it is clear from the degree of ongoing police activity that you knew – or at least had suspicions – that the death of Cormac Nolan was more than a suicide. Yet you did nothing to warn us. Perhaps if Gerry Daugherty had thought that there was a killer on the loose, he may have taken precautions and still be with us?’
The speaker had a point, and from the nodding of heads and general murmuring of assent, it was a widely shared view. The best that Warren could claim was that for operational reasons he was unable to go into specific details about an active investigation and appeal for their patience and continuing assistance.
From the continued mutterings, it was clear that no one, including Father Boyce, was satisfied with that answer. For his part, Warren had a suspicion that there was a serious case review likely in the coming months, and that every decision made by his team would be scrutinised.
‘Are we in any danger?’ asked somebody else. Again, Warren recognised the speaker; Father Owen Merricks was a red-cheeked Welshman whose broad shoulders and upright posture belied his 78 years.
Before Warren could respond, one of the health care assistants, a tall, man in his mid-thirties, with a broad Black Country accent, also spoke out. ‘Shouldn’t we have armed guards, until this maniac is caught?’
‘Perhaps we should evacuate the home, until this all blows over?’ suggested his co-worker, a petite, Asian woman.
‘Where would we go?’ asked Father Merricks.
‘At present we have no evidence to suggest that there is a specific threat to your safety, and there is no need to close the home or move any residents out.’ Warren had to raise his voice to cut through the rising chatter. ‘We will be posting police officers at the entrances to the home to ensure that no unauthorised persons enter the house. In the meantime, we urge you to remain vigilant; to report anything suspicious to one of our officers or Deacon Baines or Bishop Fisher, and to take care when outside the home, especially after dark.’
Nobody seemed particularly satisfied with his answer, least of all the two health care assistants. Warren wondered if either of them would appear for work the next day, given that neither of them stayed in the house overnight.
‘Do you have any suspects?’ asked Father Boyce, when the muttering died down.
‘We are pursuing a number of lines of enquiry,’ hedged Warren. Despite studiously avoiding looking at Rodney Shaw, he could feel the groundsman’s eyes burning defiantly into him.
‘What about a motive?’ This time the speaker was one of the nuns that shared a room and helped look after the priests’ needs. Her grey habit covered her hair and made judging her age difficult, but Warren placed her age at about 40 years old. He couldn’t recall which of the three sisters she was.
‘Again, we are following a number of different leads, Sister …’
‘Clara,’ she supplied.
Warren addressed the room again.
‘If any of you have any ideas about why Fathers Nolan and Daugherty might have been targeted, please, let me or one of my team know your thoughts, in confidence if you prefer.’
* * *
After addressing the residents of St Cecil’s, Warren headed straight for the press conference at Welwyn. This time, the press conference was beyond full. Most of the chairs had been removed, to squeeze more people in. The story had now grown beyond local and national interest, with several reporters from international agencies also in attendance.
Grayson, as usual, was revelling in the attention. As a DSI, he would typically be expected to dress in plain clothes, but unlike many of his peers, Grayson usually wore his uniform around the office. For press conferences, he also wore his jacket; freshly dry-cleaned, his medals gleaming. His white shirt, on closer inspection, was made of tailored Egyptian cotton, rather than the multipack supermarket shirts that most uniformed officers wore each day, and even though he was sat behind a table emblazoned with the force’s logo, his shoes would have passed the strictest of inspections at police training college.
Next to him, even in his smartest suit – the one usually reserved for weddings and funerals – and wearing the dark-blue silk tie that Granddad Jack had bought him for Christmas, Warren felt underdressed. His hair, whilst not untidy, had lost its freshly-cut sharpness; by contrast, Grayson’s hair could have sliced cheese. More than a week of sleepless nights and stress had left Warren with bags under his eyes; Warren strongly suspected that Grayson was wearing make-up. Tony Sutton reckoned it was so he looked good in close-up on high-definition TVs. Even the man’s aftershave smelt good.
The press conference was carefully choreographed. First came the revelation that both deaths were being investigated as suspected homicides. Next came more specifics about each death; as always, the precise details were chosen carefully, with as much care taken in deciding what not to release as to what was actually disclosed. Appeals for more information, for which a dedicated hotline had been set up, alongside the usual force numbers and the anonymous Crimestoppers help line, typically resulted in a flurry of calls from timewasters and fantasists. A few carefully chosen questions about details not yet released could usually weed those out.
The questions from the press were as predictable as Grayson’s answers.
‘Are the two murders linked – are we looking at a serial killer?’
‘At the moment, we are keeping an open mind.’
‘Are the general public in any danger?’
‘We currently have no information to suggest that the public should be worried, but we would urge people to remain vigilant and report any suspicions to the police.’
‘Will you be posting officers to protect the priests in the retirement home?’
‘I’m afraid I cannot disclose operational matters.’
‘Do the police have any idea why these particular priests were targeted?’
‘We are pursuing a number of lines of inquiry.’
‘Should priests be concerned about their safety?’
‘Again, we have no specific intelligence to suggest that priests are in any particular danger, but we will be issuing guidance to churches about increasing their vigilance.’
‘What about other faith groups? Could the killer be targeting religious leaders generally?’
‘We have no indications that that is the case, but again we would urge worshippers to take extra care.’
Finally, the questions started to dry up and a number of reporters started to slip out the back. The clock at the rear of the room ticked over to 1 p.m. and Grayson called an end to the briefing.
As they filed out of the room, Grayson murmured out of the corner of his mouth.
‘Conspiracy theorists. Start your engines …’