SENTINEL: an exciting British detective crime thriller (4 page)

Radford stood up.

‘You’re not going to tell us who did this, are you?’ he said.

Rowland shook his head. ‘I am sure whoever did this will be punished enough. Every man must live with his sins.’

‘Some find it easier than others.’

‘The Lord will judge him soon enough. However, if anyone thinks that what has happened will stop me speaking out about the demolition, they are wrong. In fact, as soon as I can I will be contacting the media.’

‘Why?’

‘You’ll find out.’

‘But you won’t tell us?’

‘No.’

‘Fair enough, it’s your funeral,’ said Radford. ‘Literally, I imagine. One thing before we go. We found a Bible beside you, with a passage marked in red.’ He fished his notebook out of his jacket pocket. ‘How hard it is for those who have riches to enter the Kingdom of God? Sermon?’

‘Not that I recall. Although, my memory on some things is still a little hazy.’

He closed his eyes and the interview was at an end. Radford reached over and patted the clergyman on the hand. On the way out of the room, he murmured a few words about being vigilant to the officer on the door.

‘I reckon that our reverend is hiding something,’ said Radford as they started walking down the corridor.

‘In my experience, everyone is. If you ask me, he won’t shop them because he genuinely believes all that happy-clappy shite. Big on forgiveness is Reverend Rowland.’

‘Maybe so. Where we going to find this Garvin fellow at this time of day then?’

‘I guess we could start at The Black Lion over on Kefford Street.’

‘I know it.’

‘You do?’ Gaines could not contain his surprise.

‘Yeah, it’s a dive.’

There is so much you do not know about me, Michael. And I had rather hoped never to set foot inside the place again.

‘Why would he be there then?’

‘It’s a favourite watering hole for a lot of the Labour Party activists.’

Not just them
.

‘The Black Lion it is then,’ said Radford.

Chapter five

Detective Constable Gerry Perlow arrived at St Mark’s shortly after seven that evening. A few years younger than Radford but a man whose career had not scaled the same heights, the constable was as stark a contrast as could be imagined. A stocky man with fleshy cheeks, he had a shock of tousled black hair and a hangdog appearance not helped by a five o’clock shadow that started growing the minute he finished shaving in the morning. When he remembered to shave; it often depended whose bed he got out of in the morning.

Today, Perlow’s dark suit was, as ever, crumpled and his overcoat flecked with crumbs from the pasty that he had been eating when the call came in from uniform; a light was on in the church, they asked, did CID want to be there given what had happened earlier in the day? Perlow, sitting alone in the office after a mundane day investigating handbag thefts in the city centre without much hope of apprehending the miscreant – Romanians, he reasoned – and wishing he’d been asked to accompany Radford instead of Gaines, immediately decided that this one was for him. Muscle his way in on the attempted murder inquiry. Gerry Perlow loved being close to the action.

Now, he walked up to the uniformed officer standing on the front steps of the church, his greatcoat collar turned up against the rain. The uniform grinned on seeing the detective brushing the crumbs off his own coat. The DC reminded the uniform of an unkempt crow engaged in pointless preening.

‘Did I disturb your tea by any chance, Gerry?’ he asked. ‘Or are they the crumbs left over from lunch?’

‘Funny man.’ Perlow glanced behind the constable at the dim glow through the stained glass window. ‘You tried to get in?’

‘Na. Charlie is round the back, that’s where they usually try, but it all seems secure. We’re waiting for one of the key-holders. Some old duffer called Roberts. Second time today he’s been here. Any news on the vicar?’

‘They did him over pretty badly, apparently. Whoever it was they were determined to make a good job of it.’

‘Surprised it took this long,’ said the uniform.

‘Yeah?’

‘Him and his big mouth have hacked a lot of people off. He’s a real holier than thou one, from what I hear. Always telling people what to think.’

‘That’s vicars for you.’

‘Maybe, but his approach has been somewhat secular. Played too much politics has our James Rowland. Out of his depth, if you ask me.’

‘But I thought folks loved him?’ said Perlow. ‘Local hero and all that.’

‘Don’t believe everything you read in the paper, Gerry.’ The uniform turned to look up at the brooding presence of the church. ‘A lot of people have been rubbed up the wrong way over this place.’

‘Still no reason to do that to him,’ said Perlow.

‘Depends how much you want him to stop talking, doesn’t it?’ said the officer, lowering his voice even though they were alone on the steps. ‘The development’s worth millions, from what I hear. Last thing some folks want is any more delays and yer man was just about the only one still fighting to block it. Lot of fingers pointing at City Hall over the attack, I should think.’

Perlow nodded. ‘I suppose so.’ He’d heard similar comments from Radford over recent weeks.

‘Not that your gaffer will want to hear that, mind,’ added the uniform. ‘Too busy feathering his own nest.’

‘Come on, that’s not fair.’

‘Is it? Too close to de Vere, from what I hear. You seen what happened to the last guy who made that mistake, Gerry. If you ask me, your gaffer is going the same way.’

Before Perlow could reply, a small car pulled up alongside the nearby wasteland and George Roberts got out. His arrival was a relief to Perlow; the detective constable liked Radford but, like everyone else, he had heard the gathering rumours and even he, as big a fan of Radford as there was to be found, had discovered himself beginning to doubt his boss’s integrity. Didn’t want to think that the DCI might be taking backhanders to ensure that the police did not look closely at council affairs, but for all Perlow did not want to think it…

George Roberts walked towards the officers, the church door key in his hand.

‘This is becoming a habit,’ said the old man. ‘It’s hardly two hours since I was here with your Inspector Radford. How is the vicar, may I enquire? Have you had word from the hospital?’

‘A little better,’ said Perlow, ‘but still very unwell.’ He gestured to the light that was dimly visible through the grimy church window. ‘Should anyone be in at this time of night, Mr Roberts?’

‘Not tonight. The vicar liked to leave it open as long as he could. Said he did not mind if the down-and-outs used it for shelter. Said it was what God’s house was for.’ Roberts placed the key in the front door, adding pointedly. ‘I locked it the moment your colleagues left this afternoon. You can’t be too careful in this day and age.’

‘You didn’t hold with keeping the church open then?’ asked Perlow as he exchanged glances with the uniformed officer. Maybe the uniform was right about James Rowland. ‘Surely, churches should be as welcoming as possible?’

‘Fine words but there are limits,’ said Roberts and opened the door to let the officers through into the chill of the church. Once the door had swung open, he turned to face them. ‘Look, to be honest, some of James’s ideas were a bit liberal for me. You have to move with the times, we understand that, but the last thing we wanted was winos coming in and shitting in the aisles. What if it had been one of us this afternoon?’

Perlow looked at the old man with his thinning white hair and rivered features then thought of the pictures he had seen of the fresh-faced vicar in the local paper. All bright eyes and optimism. Such a sharp contrast in both appearance and philosophy struck the detective constable forcibly as they prepared to enter the church.

‘I guess so,’ he said.

Never a religious man, the harshness of the steward’s profanity nevertheless gave him an uneasy feeling. It seemed to suggest a deep-running disrespect for the vicar, and for reasons that he could not identify the idea disturbed the constable. It was probably due to his memories of his God-fearing mother whose faith never wavered even as cancer stripped her of all dignity, he decided. Clearly, the good people of St Mark’s were not as resolute in their faith and certainly not as united as the media would have everyone believe. Perlow issued himself with a mental note to tell the DCI. Anything to get away from those tea-leaf Romanians, he thought.

Banishing the idea and resolving to focus on the job in hand, he entered the darkened church where it soon become clear to the detective constable that the light they had seen through the side window was being thrown by several candles burning at the altar.

‘You not blow them out when you left?’ asked Perlow, glancing at Roberts. ‘Isn’t that a fire risk? A bit dangerous?’

‘Actually I did,’ said the old man quietly. ‘Clearly, someone else lit them again. We seem to have a visitor.’

‘Stay here then, please, sir,’ said the uniform, gently pushing the old man back towards the door, unclipping his baton from his belt and walking down the aisle, shoes clicking on the stone floor. ‘Police! Anyone there?’

A sound behind Perlow made the detective constable turn to see the other uniform entering the church, brushing past George Roberts. Perlow nodded at him, turned back and followed the first uniform towards the altar and its flickering candles. As the two officers reached the altar, a noise made them look to their left and Perlow caught sight of a figure cowering in the shadows. Seeing that he had been spotted, the young man turned to run towards the side corridor leading to the offices but, realising that there was no escape, he turned and walked back towards the officers, his hands held out as if in supplication.

Now that he had walked into the light, the officers could see him more clearly. A wiry, gaunt youth of no more than nineteen years, he was a bundle of nervous energy, his eyes darting nervously left and right, his hands trembling slightly, beads of sweat starting on his brow. Wired, thought Perlow, wired and dangerous.

‘Druggie,’ whispered the uniform.

‘Looks like it,’ nodded Perlow. Everyone knew that there was no reasoning with tanked-up druggies. Drunks you could usually talk out of doing something stupid, half guess their next move, even if they couldn’t, but druggies were different. Unpredictable.

‘Fuck knows what he’s been taking,’ said the uniform, adding in a loud voice that seemed to echo round the church. ‘Just you stay there, son, and turn out your pockets. Nice and slowly now.’

‘I ain’t got no weapon, mister, and I wouldn’t hurt anyone in a church.’

The boy’s voice trembled slightly. For a moment, just a moment, the teenager’s eyes strayed to focus on George Roberts, who was still standing at the door, eying him intently. ‘I’ve already hurt enough people.’

‘What does that mean?’ asked Perlow, glancing to look at Roberts.

Roberts shrugged and the young man did not reply but once more the constable noticed his eyes sliding in the direction of the old man.

‘Mr Roberts?’ asked Perlow again. ‘Do you know this man because if you do…?’

This time it was the old man’s turn to stay silent.

‘Turn out your pockets,’ repeated the uniform, looking at the youth and taking another step towards him. ‘Nice and easy. Don’t do anything you’ll regret.’

‘Who said I’d regret it,’ said the young man, reaching into his pocket and producing a flick-knife which he held up so that its blade glinted in the candlelight. ‘This what you are looking for?’

A devilish look snaked across his face and the eyes flashed in the half light of the church.

‘Want a bit of this, do you?’ sneered the young man.

‘Put it down,’ said the uniform nervously. ‘Come on, son, put the knife on the floor. There’s no need for this.’

‘Make me,’ said the young man and, as the uniform stepped forwards with his right arm outstretched, the teenager dived in between the pews and ran down the side of the church, only to find his way blocked by the second uniform who had read his movements.

Lunging forward and lashing out with the knife, the teenager caught the uniformed officer on the cheek, sending him crashing backwards with a shriek of pain, frantically clutching his face as blood began to spurt from the wound, spattering the pile of hymn books piled up at the end of one of the pews.

The young man seized his opportunity, continued running along the side of the pews then jagged towards the front of the church, pausing for a moment to exchange looks with a frightened George Roberts before wrenching open the door and disappearing into the night, crying out in pain as he banged his knee in the process.

As the other uniform went to the aid of his injured colleague, Perlow ran down the aisle and pulled open the church door, watching as the young man half-ran, half-limped across the wasteland, stumbling across the uneven surface, occasionally reaching down to clutch his leg. Perlow knew that, even given the man’s injury, he had no chance of catching him. Perlow had scraped through too many physicals for the end result to be anything else, and the assailant soon faded into the shadows thrown by street lights on the far side of the rubble. Cursing – what would he tell Radford? – Perlow turned back into the church where the injured uniform was staunching the blood from his face with a crimsoning handkerchief.

‘You OK?’ asked Perlow.

‘I’ll live,’ said Charlie Ferris, struggling unsteadily to his feet. ‘Little twat.’

‘Do you know who that was?’ Perlow asked Roberts again. ‘I got the impression that he knew you.’

The old man seemed transfixed by the blood pouring from the officer’s face.

‘Well?’ demanded Perlow. ‘Do you know him?’

Roberts dragged his gaze from the injured policeman.

‘I could lie to you, I suppose, Constable,’ he said quietly, ‘and try to convince you that I had never seen him before in my life. That he was just one of the vicar’s vagrants who had wandered in off the street seeking the shelter of the church on a cold winter’s night.’

‘But he’s not, I take it?’

‘You would find out the truth soon enough, I imagine. Besides, since we are in a church, the idea of lying seems somehow abhorrent.’ Roberts gave a half-smile. ‘Although, given today’s events, it seems to have been one of the lesser sins perpetrated in the Lord’s House.’

‘Cut the theology lesson, Mr Roberts. Who is he?’

‘Reluctantly, I have to tell you that he is called David.’

‘Reluctantly?’ asked Perlow. ‘Why reluctantly?’

‘David Roberts. And, yes,’ said the old man, with a shake of the head, ‘he
is
related to me. David is my grandson and, although I know it to be wrong, I am afraid that is all the information you will get from me.’

‘Not even an address?’ asked the detective.

‘Not even that.’

‘My fucking face has been slashed open by the little twat…’ snapped Ferris, struggling to his feet then collapsing back onto the pew, his sentence unfinished.

Everyone knew what he would have said and George Roberts looked unhappily at him.

‘I am sorry,’ he said, ‘I really am.’

‘Brilliant,’ sighed Perlow, glancing over towards the injured officer, who was now sitting weakly on the pew, his eyes closed as his colleague again held the handkerchief against the wound. ‘Absolutely fucking brilliant.’