A Journal of Sin (27 page)

She tapped her recent calls list and rang Dales. ‘Sarge. I’ve nicked him. Anne’s in a bad way. He’s battered her pretty badly.’ Blue lights wailed in the background.

‘Sarah? Signal’s not great. We’re on our way to you; something told me you wouldn’t listen. They’ll have you for this. When the bosses ask you why you thought you knew better than Chief Superintendent Adams, you want to have a little more than a dead man’s book and the testimony of an overexcited dog. What’s that noise in the background?’

‘Tom’s in a little pain, Sarge.’ She couldn’t help but smile. Just a little.

‘How are her injuries?’

‘Severe bruising to the face. Maybe more. She’s not moving, her eyes are open and she’s breathing. It’s hard to tell, but if he struck her with full force, there’s a good chance of broken bones.’

Tom had given up squirming and just lay still.

‘I’ll radio up for a paramedic. We’re not too far away.’ He hung up the call. She didn’t want to wait too long. If Tom got a second wind, he could be a handful, even in cuffs. She coughed. A burning sensation spread on her face and her eyes watered as the spray took effect.

‘Anne?’ Her mumbles were still far too low for Sarah to hear.

‘She’s not going to talk to you. You think you can come in here and disrupt our relationship? We’ve been married fifty-seven years. Your parents were just spunk in your grandfather’s balls back then, weren’t they?’

‘Anne? Can you hear me?’

‘Anne’s not saying a thing, are you dear? This woman wants to keep us apart, wants to take me away from you. Look how she’s hurting me.’ His charming tone was back, the tone he’d used to slide inside Anne’s mind from the moment they’d met, to charm, subdue and control her.

‘Anne? I can’t hear you. I know it may hurt, but I need you to speak up. Can you do that for me?’

Anne turned her head ever so slightly towards her. It was a small movement, almost unnoticeable and the first one she’d made. Sarah felt him panic underfoot. He arched his neck to look at her, but his glare lacked all influence from the ground. He looked up to her for the first time in their relationship.

‘Anne, dear. She wants to hurt us. What will you do without me? I love you. She wants to put me in prison, Anne. How will you cope here on your own? Without me?’

‘Focus on my voice. Just a little louder for me.’ Sarah strained to hear, but it was no good. She needed Anne to speak up, to speak up for herself and be heard. Her bruises were horrifying and the image of Tom’s repeated punches pounding his frail, helpless wife time and time again broke her heart. Anne managed to turn her head enough so they could look directly at her. Sarah smiled a wide inviting smile. ‘Come on, Anne. I need to you to help me.’ Tom tried to stand up, pulling his knees up, but she dug her heel in with even more force, stopping him dead.

‘Leave him alone, dear.’ Sarah’s heart shattered. Anne looked directly at her. ‘Leave him alone, dear.’ Fifty-seven years of control, manipulation and constant, daily psychological damage had taken its toll. Even now, with her abuser prone and vulnerable, her first thought was to protect him, keep them together and continue the cycle of twisted dependence. Why bother at all? They’d only go back. It was true, time and time again. But how could you blame someone who’s suffered years of someone telling them how to think, how to feel and dominating every aspect of their lives? Sarah couldn’t be angry; it was never the victim’s fault. Anne’s perceptions of love and affection had been skewed by a manipulative and selfish partner. Dales had been right; this wasn’t the way to go about it. She made the wrong call, and once again, others suffered.

‘See? You dumb fucking bitch. What happens now? I’ll tell you. You end up with no evidence for either charge against me, I walk free in the morning and make a formal complaint of your brutality. You’ll have a hell of a time of explaining all this.’

‘She’s got the bruises, Tom. We can prosecute without her.’ Victimless prosecutions were rare, but she was grasping at straws. When they did go ahead, juries found it difficult to convict beyond reasonable doubt without the testimony of a victim. She needed Anne on board.

‘An old bag that frail could bruise in so many ways. Like maybe when you reached for those books, Anne, you know on the top shelf and they fell on top of you? See, Officer? It’s that easy.’ Sarah was certain she’d separate his shoulder if she pressed down any harder.

‘Leave him alone, dear.’

Hearing it again confirmed Sarah’s losing battle. The sooner Dales arrived and Tom was carted off the better. Whatever the outcome, Anne needed medical attention as soon as possible.

‘Anne, rest your voice, my love. There’s no need to say any more,’ said Tom. There was a change in his tone, and Sarah noticed Anne was no longer looking at her, but looking down, directly at him.

‘Leave him alone, dear.’

‘Anne.’ Tom writhed underfoot.

‘Don’t make him burn his Bibles.’

‘Anne. Anne, stop.’

‘It’s dark in there and he’s scared. Jessie won’t stop barking at him.’

‘Stop talking this instant.’

‘He just wants you to stop hurting those boys.’

‘You think you’re in pain now? I will whip every inch of your body until you’re a blackened bloody stain on the floor.’

‘Put the knife down, dear. He’s our friend.’

NINETEEN

Anne provided a full interview to the police. The court gave an extension of the full ninety-six hours, allowing them enough time to gain Anne’s trust and convince her to be interviewed on video, a standard procedure for vulnerable or intimidated witnesses. Tom was charged with the murder of Father Michael and assault occasioning ABH. The doctors were surprised he hadn’t broken any bones; Anne was tougher than she looked. It was enough to hold Tom on remand whilst they built a case around all the historical offences from the past sixty years. Louise called the office, wanting to set the record straight. It wasn’t free money. She’d witnessed Tom beating Anne; the loan was a bribe to keep quiet. £200,000 bought her silence, something she regretted, was ashamed of and something she hoped giving evidence would put right. The build-up to the trial was tough. Sarah had to earn and keep Anne’s confidence throughout the long wait and the doubts, whilst everything inside screamed for her to return to Tom’s warped normality.

When the date finally came, the jury heard how Tom used to abuse some of the boys he babysat. Anne sat behind a screen in the courtroom as the video interview played. The jury saw every facial expression and every movement she made whilst recalling the traumatic events that brought her to the witness box. He would tell Anne to leave the room, but she knew what he was doing. She told them how he’d lend people money to buy their silence. He only confessed to taunt the priest. He liked the power it gave him; he could say anything he wanted and Father Michael couldn’t act on it. Her old-fashioned decency stopped her short of saying he got off on recounting it all, but the implication was there.

When Father Michael couldn’t take anymore, when he was going to risk his vocation and tell the police everything, Tom tortured and murdered him. He came back from the woods in a state. The storm had rearranged St Peter’s so much that he took too many wrong turns on the way to the burial site he’d selected. He dumped the body and planned on going back, but it had been too late. He’d told Anne where he dumped it and when Amy offered to walk the dogs, she suggested she take the eastern path, the closest to the body, relying on Jessie’s nose to do the rest. She didn’t name Tom’s young victims despite pleas for her to do so, but as the verdict was read, a slender man in his twenties, with rounded cheeks and big baby blues, abruptly left the court in tears. That investigation would have to wait for another time, and Sarah wanted to be the one to interrupt Tom’s life sentence to slap him with further charges.

No charges were laid for the burglary of Father Michael’s quarters. No witnesses, no claw hammer and with no one to say who was allowed access and who wasn’t, the results of the forensic examination, which mostly turned up glove marks in any case, didn’t take the investigation any further.

The pathologist’s report highlighted the loss of blood from the stab wounds and the genital injuries as the cause of death. It also documented ligature marks on his wrists and ankles, belt lashing welts on his back and burnt fingertips. It was suggested the severity of the injuries related to frustration at his own crimes, rather than anything to do with Father Michael, but when asked, Tom denied all counts. A knife fitting the width of the stab wounds was recovered from Tom’s house. The search team photographed his shed’s blackened walls. Sponges and buckets were in the corner and tarpaulin covered the windows. He’d kept one of Father Michael’s Bibles in his bedroom and forced him to burn the rest before murdering him; Anne had been made to watch it all. The SOCO’s report detailed burn marks in a circle in the shed.

The defence counsel argued against the use of the journals as evidence. The judge admitted them to be read, but directed the jury that they were hearsay and suggested it was a matter for themselves whether they believed they were Tom’s confessions or not. His barrister pointed out the journals had been found, kept in a larder, then stolen, and during that time anyone could have written anything in them. Enough for a reasonable doubt? The jury’s thoughts would, of course, remain a secret.

Making private confessionals public caused a wider media storm than Sarah had predicted. It was an unprecedented case. The judge relied on them not being transcripts to justify her decision. No names were used and the books had been curated to those most relevant to the case, leaving out any mention of townsfolk interfering with animals or wayward mothers. Some called for her head; others for her knighthood. In no other walk of life could someone admit to such disgusting acts and the confessor be unable to react. The Church were up in arms, seeing it as an attack on their sacraments, whilst privacy campaigners latched on to it as another erosion of their rights. Was the government spying on God now?

The CPS dropped John’s murder charge in light of Anne’s evidence. He was heard for the fraud and alongside Sean, who copped an aiding and abetting charge, for the burglary. His barrister suggested the notebooks pushed him over the edge of sanity and his client couldn’t be held responsible for his actions after such an emotional episode. The jury didn’t buy it. They both received three years, to serve eighteen months. John got a further two years for the fraud charge, to run concurrently. Jenny provided evidence to say he didn’t have permission to access her accounts and had no idea he knew her passwords. She confirmed nothing in journals related to her. John had been wrong all along. She’d spoken to Father Michael about the marriage. John’s drinking was out of control and he’d started spending less and less time with his son. He’d only started giving a shit once Josh was no longer there, she’d said. Father Michael had tried to talk her out of divorce, suggesting they stay in Sunbury a little longer before making the move to the city, just to see if things would work out. She was glad she hadn’t listened.

Suzanne wasn’t charged with the burglary. She provided a statement, as Dales predicted, and gave evidence to say Sean simply came round with some notebooks she knew nothing about, minutes before police arrived. She’d heard rumours about them, but nothing more. Not strictly true, but try proving otherwise.

The search team recovered Father Michael’s final notebook from Sean’s house. It mentioned he’d been recording the confessions, but little else was legible. The only readable words were on the final page:

‘I told him, I told him I’m going to do it. Come what may, I cannot leave this to divine justice.’

Sunbury had lost its patrons. One was a good man of strong faith who’d struggled with his beliefs and desire to find the right thing to do. His decision take action against the wicked led to his torture and eventual death. The other was a vile sadist who spent years preying on the vulnerable: vulnerable children unable to protect themselves, a vulnerable woman who’d tragically fallen in love with him and the vulnerable-minded, willing to take money for their silence. The town loved them both, but now they were no longer there, they’d be remembered very differently.

The Professional Standards investigation had hung over Sarah’s head throughout the whole process. With the case in hand, it was time to face the inevitable. She crawled downstairs after a sleepless night to the smell of a full English breakfast. A delightful gesture, she just didn’t have the appetite for it.

‘I’m sorry, hon. It’s sweet, I just can’t stomach it this morning.’ She moved a Cumberland sausage around the plate with her fork.

‘It’s okay. I understand. What time’s the meeting?’ Mark pulled the plate towards him. ‘What? It’s a shame to waste it.’ He rolled up the sleeves of his pink work shirt and tucked in, careful not to get food in his beard.

‘It is indeed. It looks delicious, but, well, you know. On any other morning.’ She wondered how he kept in such good shape with such a terrible diet. Fry-ups were a treat for her, but with Mark’s working culture he could go from this to a boozy lunch followed by an office Chinese before the day was out. He managed to keep the pounds off, but she worried about what it was doing to his arteries. ‘Nine thirty at HQ. I’ve got to get going soon.’ The girls ran downstairs and into the kitchen. ‘Slow down!’

‘We’re a little late, Mum. Ellie woke up late.’ Sophie shovelled a slice of hot buttered toast into her mouth, the crumbs dropping onto the brown jumper of her school uniform.

‘No I didn’t,’ replied Ellie, bending down into the fridge to get her lunch box.
It wasn’t long ago she couldn’t reach the door and now she has to crouch,
thought Sarah.

‘Now remember girls, straight home after school. We’re going to visit Grandma, remember.’

‘Yes, Mum,’ replied Soph.

‘Tie your hair up!’ she said, as Sophie ran past her, unbrushed brown hair falling past her shoulders. It was too late; the twins were already in the hallway. ‘Love you!’