About the Author
PAUL GITSHAM started his career as a biologist, working in such exotic locales as Manchester and Toronto. After stints as the world’s most over-qualified receptionist and a spell making sure that international terrorists and other ne’er do wells hadn’t opened a Junior Savings Account at a major UK bank (a job even less exciting than being a receptionist) he retrained as a Science teacher. He now spends his time passing on his bad habits and sloppy lab-skills to the next generation of enquiring minds.
Paul has always wanted to be a writer and his final report on leaving primary school predicted he’d be the next Roald Dahl! For the sake of balance it should be pointed out that it also said ‘he’ll never get anywhere in life if his handwriting doesn’t improve’. Over twenty-five years later and his handwriting is worse than ever but millions of children around the world love him.*
You can learn more about Paul’s writing at www.paulgitsham.com or www.facebook.com/dcijones
*This is a lie, just ask any of the pupils he has taught.
Forgive Me Father
PAUL GITSHAM
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019
Copyright © Paul Gitsham
Paul Gitsham asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © June 2019 ISBN: 9780008314385
Version: 2019-05-16
Table of Contents
Cover
About the Author
Title page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Saturday 21st February
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Sunday 22nd February
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Monday 23rd February
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Tuesday 24th February
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Wednesday 25th February
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Thursday 26th February
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Friday 27th February
Chapter 25
Saturday 28th February
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Sunday 1st March
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Monday 2nd March
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Tuesday 3rd March
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Wednesday 4th March
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Thursday 5th March
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Friday 6th March
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Saturday 7th March
Chapter 45
Sunday 8th March
Chapter 46
Monday 9th March
Chapter 47
Tuesday 10th March
Chapter 48
Wednesday 11th March
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Thursday 12th March
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Friday 13th March
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Saturday 14th March
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Sunday 15th March
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Monday 16th March
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Tuesday 17th March
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Wednesday 18th March
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Thursday 19th March
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Friday 20th March
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Saturday 21st March
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Wednesday 25th March
Chapter 91
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Extract
Dear Reader …
Keep Reading …
About the Publisher
For those who weren’t believed.
Prologue
Scaling the ancient stone wall wasn’t difficult. The metal spikes that lined the crumbling edifice were over three hundred years old and those that hadn’t been lost were rusting to nothingness. The whole wall needed major repair work, but the cost of restoring the medieval brickwork to its former glory would run into hundreds of thousands and the fundraising had barely started. Besides, who would want to break into the ruins of a deserted abbey?
Nathan Adams gallantly laid his coat over the top of the wall in the gap created by two missing spikes, then cupped his hands. The wall was about five feet tall and his companion, Rebecca Hill, easily pushed herself up. Nathan enjoyed the view as her short black skirt briefly rode up, exposing more of the snow-white flesh already tantalisingly revealed by the strategically placed rips in her black tights.
Nathan passed up the plastic carrier bag of cheap cider, before attempting to pull himself over as well. It was harder than it looked, and he wondered if he was going to have to drop back down and take a run-up, when his scrabbling feet found purchase. Rebecca grabbed the handle on the top of his backpack and with her help he finally flopped onto the wall, the rough stone scraping his stomach where his jacket had opened. The drop to the grass on the other side was slightly less, and he rolled clumsily over the wall, landing in an untidy heap.
‘Are you OK?’ hissed Rebecca.
‘Fine.’ he said, ignoring the pain in his shoulder. The weed in his pocket and the booze would take the edge off it, and if all went to plan, he might even get a
shoulder rub later. He put that thought quickly to one side, lest he embarrass himself.
Raising his arms and suppressing a wince, he helped her down to the ground – for a brief instant, their faces were bare millimetres apart. He froze. Should he kiss her or should he wait until they were a bit more mellow? His indecision lasted just seconds and then the moment was gone. Was that a flash of disappointment in her eyes?
Rebecca had been here before and she took charge, taking his hand and leading him further into the abbey grounds.
An evening in the graveyard of a ruined abbey, in winter, wouldn’t be Nathan’s first choice for a romantic date, but he was happy to let Rebecca call the shots; he’d spent most of the previous week persuading her to give him a chance tonight and he wasn’t going to ruin it with a bit of squeamishness. An afternoon spent trawling through her Facebook and Instagram posts had revealed her favourite music – death metal bands, all of which sounded the same to him when he’d streamed their albums on Spotify. The T-shirt he’d ordered online had arrived that morning – all shiny and smelling of plastic packaging. He hoped it wasn’t obvious that a week ago he’d never even heard of Flesh Kitchen.
The graveyard was in the centre of the abbey’s grounds. Nathan dimly remembered the layout from school visits, but it looked different in the dark with only a sliver of moon to light their way. The glow of Middlesbury town centre behind them did little to pierce the gloom. He stumbled along behind Rebecca, hoping it wasn’t much further. The weather had been dry and the skies clear, but February was February and the cold was beginning to bite. Rebecca had promised that she knew a cosy spot inside one of the crypts, and that they could light a fire with no one noticing.
His mates were right. She was definitely weird.
But she was also cute and interested in him, and right now, that was all that mattered.
Finally, the low wall that surrounded the graveyard started to emerge out of the gloom. A few more paces and the ghost-like statues adorning the tombs of Middlesbury’s most prominent citizens from centuries past also appeared. Nathan repressed a shudder. Rebecca was marching confidently onwards and he wasn’t going to show any sign of weakness.
To the left, a squat building was black against the night sky. Suddenly, Rebecca stopped dead and Nathan barely avoided knocking her over.
‘Can you smell that?’
He sniffed the air.
‘Smoke.’
He groaned internally. Somebody else had clearly had the same idea as them. He doubted Rebecca would want to get too … cosy … if there were other people about. He started frantically thinking of a plan B, somewhere else they could go. His mum and dad were both in, vegetating in front of the TV, and her place was out of the question – she’d said her parents were really strict.
‘I think the fire is in that building.’
She was right. A faint orange glow was visible through ground-level windows.
‘We should go, before somebody calls the fire brigade.’
If somebody had set the building on fire, it wouldn’t look good for them if they were found trespassing with a bag full of fire-making equipment. Not to mention the weed in his back pocket.
Rebecca ignored him, taking a few more paces towards the building, as if drawn to the light and warmth.
‘I think that’s the old chapel. There’s an undercroft, that’s where the glow is coming from.’
The crackling of the flames was now clearly audible, the glow becoming brighter.
‘We need to go,’ repeated Nathan.
The evening was ruined already. It was too cold to go and sit on the common and the youth club would be packed full of losers this time on a Friday night. Besides, they wouldn’t get in if they were drunk or stoned. The best he could hope for was a slow walk home and a goodnight kiss. The last thing Nathan wanted was for the evening to end in a police cell.
‘Becky?’
She let out a sigh. At least she sounded as disappointed as he did.
They turned to leave the way they had come, before she stopped again.
‘Did you hear that?’
Nathan heard nothing; he shook his head.
‘There it is again.’
He strained his ears.
Still nothing.
No, wait.
They both heard it now.
Louder.
Clearer.
‘Oh my, God, Nathan. There’s somebody in there!’
Chapter 1
The light drizzle had started within minutes of DCI Warren Jones’ arrival at the scene of the fire. He’d almost welcomed the phone call at first, an hour and a half after the alarm had been raised at twenty past nine that night; he was well on his way to yet another comprehensive Scrabble defeat by his wife Susan. Now, even though the precipitation slid off his plastic-coated paper suit, he’d changed his mind.
‘You’re clear to enter the scene, sir.’ The familiar, portly figure of Crime Scene Manager Andy Harrison was easily identifiable, even with his facemask on. ‘Professor Jordan has done his preliminary examination of the body, and it’s ready to be transported.’
‘Tony, do you and Moray want to join us?’
DI Tony Sutton was standing a little way off, also dressed in a paper scene suit. Beside him stood DC Moray Ruskin – whose huge bulk meant he had to bring his own suits to crime scenes in case the CSIs didn’t have his size in the back of their van.
The path between the outer cordon and the doors to the old chapel was shielded from the rain by a hastily erected tent, and the proscribed route to the front entrance was covered by raised plastic boarding to protect any undiscovered shoe prints or other trace evidence.
‘What did the kids who phoned it in have to say for themselves?’ asked Warren as the three police officers carefully picked their way along the walkway. A slip now would not only be undignified, it might also destroy evidence.
‘Not much.’ Ruskin had replaced his facemask. This combined with his thick beard and broad Scottish accent, meant Warren had to listen carefully to the man’s report.
‘They were a bit cagey about why they were here; they’ve admitted that the carrier bag of nasty-looking cider is theirs. They also had some matches and fire-lighters, both still sealed in their original packaging and unused. They’re only fifteen and wearing death metal T-shirts, so I’m guessing tonight’s plan was a bit of drinking in the local graveyard, perhaps a bonfire to keep warm, and if all went well, a bit of hanky panky.’
‘Hanky panky? I’m pretty sure the last time anyone used that phrase was before you were born,’ scoffed Sutton.
‘I was trying to use language that you old folks would understand.’
‘Cheeky sod.’
‘What did they see?’
‘Very little. It was dark and they were trying not to trip over, so they weren’t really paying attention. Neither of them saw anyone or heard anything. The first they knew of the fire was the smell of smoke, then they spotted a glow from the undercroft windows. It wasn’t until they heard the screams from the victim that they realised it was serious. They claim to have phoned the fire brigade immediately.’
The three men were now at the entrance to the chapel. The heavy, wooden door was wide open. More plastic boarding covered the ancient stone floor.
To the left of the doorway was the entrance to chapel proper; to the right, a low archway led to a flight of steep, stone steps that descended into the original, medieval undercroft. Portable lights running off a generator chased away the shadows. Nevertheless, the shiver that ran through Warren wasn’t only due to the late-night chill.
‘Did the witnesses step into the chapel or disturb the scene?’
‘The young man tried to open the chapel door, but it was locked,’ said Ruskin. ‘He walked around trying to find another entrance. His companion stayed back by the tree-line and called 999.’
‘We’ll need their fingerprints and shoeprints to exclude them,’ said Warren. He looked at his watch. ‘It’s getting
pretty late. Where are they now? Have their parents been informed?’
‘They’re in the back of a car. I believe there is some debate over whether we should phone their parents or just drop them off outside their homes.’
‘I’ll bet,’ said Sutton.
‘It’s not a pretty sight, officers,’ said the CSI that greeted them at the entrance. ‘The stairs are only wide enough for one person at a time; make sure you don’t trip over the hoses or the power cables. Try not to brush against the walls, or the door, in case there are any loose fibres we haven’t collected yet and mind your head, the folks that built this place were tiny by modern standards.’
The instructions were easier said than followed, especially for Ruskin, who eyed the narrow stairwell dubiously.
Taking the lead, Warren stepped carefully into the space. Despite his facemask, the lingering smoke was starting to make his eyes sting. As he descended, a familiar smell joined the odour of singed wood. Petrol? A few more steps and another aroma entered the mix. The smell of burnt meat. Behind him, he heard Tony Sutton breathing through his face mask.
‘I hate bloody fires,’ he grumbled.
The undercroft was huge, its farthest reaches fading to invisibility beyond the few square metres illuminated by the CSIs working the area closest to the stairwell.
‘Stay inside the marked area, we’re going to need to do a fingertip search of the rest of the room once we’ve removed the body,’ instructed CSM Harrison, who’d joined them.
The figure curled in the foetal position next to the toppled chair was dead. Of that there could be no doubt. Most of the corpse’s clothes had been burnt away, along with much of the skin on the torso and the legs; that which remained was charred and split. The hair on the victim’s head was all but gone.
The sight of the burnt flesh seemed unreal underneath the powerful lamps, yet it wasn’t that sight which Warren knew would dominate his dreams. Warren knew that fire caused the tendons and connective tissue in a body to shrink, but that knowledge failed to make the corpse’s rictus grin and protruding tongue any less haunting.
‘The flames were pretty much out by the time the firefighters broke in. A paramedic first responder confirmed the victim was deceased.’ Warren recognised the American accent of Professor Ryan Jordan, one of Hertfordshire’s registered Home Office pathologists.
‘What else can you tell us, Prof?’ asked Sutton, as he circled the body.