Primary schools had certainly changed since Detective Sergeant David Hutchinson had attended one. Or his kids had, for that matter. Signing in at the reception desk, he caught glimpses of brightly-coloured corridors through the reinforced glass partition that separated the warm, loving environment of Blessed Mary, from the dangers of the outside world. The faint sound of children singing drifted to his ears. He placed the laminated visitor’s badge around his neck.
‘Sorry to keep you, officer, Mr Morris will see you in his office. I’ll get the duty students to take you down there.’
On cue, an earnest looking boy and girl, about 10 years old, appeared. The green lanyard for his badge signalled that he had undergone enhanced DBS checks as a police officer, and could therefore be trusted to walk to the head’s office, escorted by a child. A sad reflection of the times, Hutchinson mused, although if today’s tighter precautions had existed a few years ago, they might not be in the current mess.
The hallways seemed a lot smaller than he recalled, but the echoing squeak of his rubber-soled shoes took him right back; the smell from the kitchens was a lot more pleasant than he remembered.
Eventually they arrived at Morris’ office. The two children politely wished him well and headed back to reception. Hutchinson wondered if the well-scrubbed youngsters were typical of the school’s pupils or if they were selected especially for the role. Thinking back to his own school days, he doubted he would have been top of the list when choosing who visitors should first meet.
Linford Morris was a trim-looking man with a neat beard, flecked with grey.
‘I see you also worship the Toons,’ noted Hutchinson, nodding towards a Newcastle United flag that was at least as large as the image of the Virgin Mary beside it.
‘It’s part of my penance, for my past sins. When we converted to an Academy last year, I did suggest renaming ourselves St James’ Park Academy, but some philistine said that people would get confused with the London Underground station.’
‘The apostrophe’s in the wrong place,’ said Hutchinson.
‘Well what can I help you with DS Hutchinson? I doubt you’ve come here to commiserate over our team’s poor performance.’
‘Father Frank Madden.’
Morris’ eyes narrowed.
‘Yes, he was our school chaplain for a number of years, until he retired, back in 2011, if I recall. What about him?’
‘It’s not yet public knowledge, however he has passed away.’
Morris paled.
‘He wasn’t … you know …?’
‘I’m not at liberty to discuss the specifics as yet, but the death is suspicious.’
‘Good Lord.’
‘I wonder if you might have any thoughts about Father Madden’s death?’
Hutchinson watched the man carefully.
Morris picked up a pen on his desk and inspected it, before replacing it in exactly the same spot. His words were similarly precise.
‘Father Madden was highly regarded and much-loved by the many staff and children that have passed through our school in the twenty-odd years that he was school chaplain.’
‘I see. Do you know why Father Madden retired? He was still relatively young.’
‘I believe that he was suffering from some mental health issues.’
‘Can you elaborate any more on those issues?’
‘I’m afraid not, I wasn’t a party to those discussions.’ He paused. ‘Could his death have anything to do with his mental health problems?’
Was that a note of hope in his tone? Although it was now common knowledge that Fathers Nolan and Daugherty had been murdered, rather than committing suicide, it was possible that Morris wasn’t aware of that development. As yet, nothing had been released to the press about the link to child abuse, but doubtless speculation was rife on social media. If Morris was aware of any unreported allegations about Father Madden, he might be worried that they could be a trigger for murder. It was small wonder he was hoping for a suicide due to unrelated mental health issues.
‘I’m afraid that I can’t comment on the specifics of the case yet,’ said Hutchinson.
He chose his next words carefully.
‘Were you aware of any allegations of inappropriate behaviour by Father Madden.’
Morris spread his hands, an unconscious attempt to give the appearance of openness. Hutchinson wasn’t fooled.
‘There were no allegations of inappropriate behaviour from any of our children, or their parents towards Father Madden.’
‘That wasn’t exactly what I asked, Mr Morris.’
Hutchinson settled back in his chair and waited. He could see that Morris was conflicted. On the one hand, he had the reputation of his school to consider. But on the other hand, he was clearly uncomfortable about lying to protect that.
‘As I said, there were never any allegations made to me, or the governing body, by students, past or present, or their parents about Father Madden’s behaviour.’
‘But?’
‘It was well known that Father Madden liked a drink. And that on occasion he may have been under the influence of alcohol in school. Now and then, his words might be a bit slurred, and a couple of times he nodded off in assembly – although to be fair, when you’ve sat through year two singing “Oh Little Town of Bethlehem” every Christmas for the past twenty-odd years …’ The man smiled weakly. Hutchinson remained impassive.
‘Anyway, one of our staff felt that Father Madden was a little too familiar with some of the children. He would sometimes sit them on his knee when they were reading to him. He came to me and expressed his concern.’
‘What did you do, Mr Morris?’
Morris paused.
‘You see, what you have to realise was that nobody ever complained and nobody ever saw him touch a child. I mean it was probably completely innocent. Father Madden had been a priest for decades. That sort of behaviour was perfectly normal back when he started.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘I had a quiet word with him. Explained that times had changed, and that he needed to be more careful – to protect himself, if nothing else.’
‘What was his response?’
‘He was very embarrassed, obviously.’
‘And was that the end of the matter?’
Morris sighed.
‘Unfortunately, no. A few weeks later, a different member of staff also came to see me. He said that Father Madden had clearly been the worse for wear during a practice for the year six confirmation mass. One of the little boys was not a very confident reader and was very nervous. Father Madden suggested that he went and practised his reading with him on his own. When the teacher went to fetch him a little later, he was sitting on Father Madden’s knee.
‘I get the impression that the two teachers may have spoken about it, and one may have encouraged the other to come and see me, but I don’t think that matters.’ Morris picked up the pen again, and carried on scrutinising it as he continued speaking.
‘Sometimes, you just know. My two colleagues are very experienced teachers, and neither of them had any grudge against Father Madden. I went to the head of governors and we spoke at length.
‘Neither teacher had witnessed Father Madden actually touch a child inappropriately, nor had we had any complaints. In our opinion, there were no grounds to involve the police.’
Hutchinson forced himself to remain quiet.
‘In the end, we decided to ask the diocese for advice. I had specifically told Father Madden not to be so tactile, so he had deliberately ignored my instructions. Furthermore, it was clear that he needed help with his drinking. Bishop Fisher himself spoke to Father Madden and within a couple of weeks, he announced his retirement.’