Cherringham: A Deadly Confession (9 page)

“Want some help?” she said, leafing through the old papers.

“That’d be brilliant Grace — you sure?”

“Beats doing brochures for Costco’s,” said Grace, tucking into her salad. “This still the case of the Flying Father?”

“Yep,” said Sarah. “And it’s not exactly flying.”

“What’s this lot?” she asked, mouth full, pointing to the box of statements.

“The good priest’s files.”

“Uh-huh. So let’s do the money stuff first,” said Grace. “Follow the money, isn’t that what they say?”

Sarah laughed: “They do, though I’m not sure it always works.”

“Shame Father Byrne wasn’t better at filing,” said Grace, holding up a stack of random papers. “Looks like we’ll have to do it for him.”

“While you’re doing that,” said Sarah, turning back to her keyboard. “I’ll see what I can find online.”

“Get me a cake from Huffington’s at tea-time and it’s a deal,” said Grace, laying out the papers on the floor and starting to sort them.

*

It only took five minutes for Sarah to find what she needed on Antonio Bell and she called Jack straight away.

He answered on first ring: “Sarah.”

“Hi, Jack, sorry — it’s been chaotic.”

“Hey, don’t worry — we fit all this round our real lives, not the other way round, huh? And you have a busy one, that’s for sure.”

“That’s certainly true today,” said Sarah. “Anyway — as you Americans say — I got the
skinny
on Mr. Bell.”

“Go ahead.”

“He’s a trainer — horses, that is. Runs a racing stables over towards Cheltenham.”

“Hmm, no surprise there. But I wonder why our priest was paying him every month?”

“Maybe Father Byrne owned a horse, kept it at the stables?”

“Unlikely. I think he just liked betting on them. Tell me more about Senor Bell?”

“Not much to say. He’s small-scale but successful. Owners like him, he trains winners. There’ve been hints online of some shady dealings in the past, a few news stories, but nothing people are willing to risk a lawsuit for saying out loud.”

“Hmm, well keep digging. I’ll see what our friend Liam knows — if he’s prepared to tell me. Like I said last night — he and Eamon go back a long way. I have a hunch he knows things that he hasn’t told us.”

“Well, you be careful, Jack.”

“Keep saying that and I’m going to get worried,” Jack said, laughing. “I’m going to head over there now. You got anything else for me?”

“Oh — I checked out the meds. Standard issue for his heart. Nothing unusual.”“Okay. Text me Bell’s address — and if I don’t come back, promise you’ll look after Riley for me, huh?”

“Don’t joke,” said Sarah. “One day you’ll over-do that tough cop act and get yourself in trouble, Jack Brennan.”

“Talk later, partner.”

Sarah clicked her phone off and got back to her screen.

She thought about the retreaters — Gustav, Tom and Isabel.

Something going on there for sure. Was there a connection between them?

Time to find out.

She looked across to Grace who was now sitting on the office floor, surrounded by papers, slowly sifting them into neat piles.

A few years ago, when Sarah’s life had collapsed under a very nasty divorce, she’d acquired some … unconventional … computer skills.

The kind that allowed a hard-working wife and mother to discover that her lying, cheating husband was living the high life with his female boss in Brussels, staying in the Maldives with same, and draining cash from the family savings.

The results of those skills — in the hands of a cagey divorce lawyer — allowed Sarah to leave the lying cheat and move back to Cherringham where she’d grown up.

And now those very same skills came in handy when there was a case to crack.

But Sarah had made it a rule from the first time she and Jack started investigating, not to involve her young assistant in anything potentially illegal.

So now she kept quiet as she first lifted the travel agent’s name from the St. Francis Convent website, then hacked into their records.

Handy skills indeed…

It only took a couple of minutes to find the full names of the three retreaters, their travel arrangements laid bare — including home address, phone number, occupation, date of birth, passport information…

All of which were the key for Sarah to unlock even more information should she need it.

So: Tom Porter from Boston. Isabel Allard from Caen. And Gustav Stechman from Hamburg.

Different cities, different countries
.

But was there a connection between them? Now she threw the names into various search engines to find out.

Nothing — apart from a few shared links to St. Francis’s Convent. But that wasn’t going to help.

She tried some family ancestry sites.

Hmm, still no connection.

Time to step back and try something else.

Now she put Liam, Eamon and the old people’s home that Jack mentioned — St. Elrich’s into another search.

She hadn’t expected to get anything, but the screen filled with hundreds of hits.

Interesting…

She dragged some of the promising links onto a separate screen and started to go deeper.

And soon she had the story — and it wasn’t a pleasant one.

St. Elrich’s was a Catholic hospice in the North of England that had closed suddenly in the nineties.

News stories at the time hinted that there had been a high-level investigation by the Church — first locally, then from Rome — into the hospice’s finances.

And a key trustee of that charity? Father Eamon Byrne.

Liam O’Connor was one of the priests in a nearby town.

In digitised copies of the local newspapers of the time, Eamon himself was interviewed. But the priest gave nothing away about the real reason for the demise of the hospice.

“Disagreements about strategy” were noted by the paper. “Failure to post accounts” and “an alarming lack of financial oversight” were also cited about the charity which was dissolved a year later.

Even before the hospice was closed, Eamon was transferred overseas “to continue doing God’s work in the places most stricken by poverty” as the Church spokesman diplomatically put it.

Sounds like Father Byrne was being quietly taken out of the firing line.

They were covering up
and
protecting him.

She couldn’t find any more references to Liam in the local papers — he just seemed to disappear too. Maybe he was transferred to another church? Sarah found a Catholic register of priests and parishes but it was as if Liam O’Connor had never existed.

Eventually she found a small official note, dated just a month after the closure of the hospice, approving his request to leave the Church.

Out of interest she kept on Liam’s trail over the next few years.

A degree in Business Studies.

An MBA.

A job in the City with a hedge fund outfit called Faulks Capital.

She recognised
that
name: back in London Faulks had been talked about in awe by some of her ex-husband’s friends as the very model of a perfect money-making machine.

From priest to capitalist in ten easy years. Interesting.

What had really happened at St. Elrich’s Hospice? And could it have something to do with St. Francis’s Convent?

Something very fishy here,
thought Sarah.

She stared at the press photo of the hospice on her screen, hoping somehow to find more clues.

“St. Elrich’s huh?” said Grace, getting up from the floor and standing next to her. “That’s … a coincidence.”

Sarah felt her pulse quicken — as it always did when she felt that a case might just have moved into another gear.

“Coincidence?” she said, turning and looking at her assistant. “What do you mean?”

“Father Byrne had six different bank and building society accounts — and one of them is called ‘The Knights of St. Elrich’.”

“You don’t say…”

“And whoever the knights are — they’re loaded. Or at least they were. Up until last week there was nearly a hundred grand in there.”

“But there’s not now?”

“All gone — in one withdrawal,” said Grace. “What’s interesting is where it goes to after it leaves the knights.”

“You going to tell me?” said Sarah.

“Might do,” said Grace. “You think it’s time for that cake?”

“Tell me what you know, clever girl — and I promise I’ll not only double the cake ration, I’ll get some of their chocolates too.”

“Deal,” said Grace.

“Information first — then chocolate.”

“Okay,” said Grace. “So, the Knights of St. Elrich Instant Withdrawal Account was first created in 2003, with its main signatory — yes, you guessed it — one Father Eamon Byrne.”

Sarah sat back with her notepad and started to make notes.

Whatever Jack found at the racing stables — this was surely going to be part of the jigsaw…

Jack sped along the main Cheltenham road in his little sports car, letting the Sat-Nav do the work.

This was a new road to him and he loved the gentle hills and long curves, woodland and broad fields flashing by in the spring sunshine.

Soon as he was off onto the side-roads however, he knew he was back in an England that still intimidated him: narrow lanes, high walls and hedges, crazy locals who drove at you head on then gave a smile and a wave as they nearly forced you into the ditch…

At last, he topped the crest of a hill and there was the sign for Bell’s Stables: down in the valley below, the house itself looked modest, but he could see a long line of stables in a courtyard behind it, and on either side stretched paddocks and long sweeping rides for the horses.

He made his way down the narrow asphalt drive and pulled up in front of the house.

The place seemed deserted.

He rang the front doorbell but there was no response. After waiting for a couple of minutes he went round the side of the house to investigate the stables.

“Anybody home?” he called. Nobody answered.

The stables girdled a large concreted courtyard. He could see twenty, maybe thirty individual stables, the doors on most of them open.

Was this where Eamon had been photographed celebrating all those years ago?

He walked along the line of doors, peering in and calling “hello” but it was like the
Marie Celeste
…

He reached the last door — to the largest stable — and saw a horse inside peering at him.

Jack liked horses, always had.

“Hey, fella,” said Jack walking in, across the hay-strewn floor and holding his hand out in greeting.

The horse snorted, as if pleased to see someone. And soon Jack was rubbing him under the ears and chatting away like they were old friends.

But he didn’t hear the footsteps behind him at all … and the first he knew he was not alone was the hand gripping the back of his jacket and his legs being kicked from under him.

He fell back hard, the fall only partly cushioned by the straw on the stable floor.

There were three of them — young guys in polo shirts and jeans — and before he could say anything they had grabbed him and dragged him out of the stable into the daylight.

Jack knew better than to struggle — but he also knew that no amount of police training was going to help him with these odds: three fit young guys versus one ex-cop with dodgy knees.

It was a no-brainer.

Do nothing.

For now…

While two of them gripped his arms and shoulders, the third stood in front of him and grabbed the neck of his shirt.

“What the bloody
hell
were you doing?” he said, spit flecking Jack’s face.

“Cool it, will you?” said Jack as calmly as he could. “I was just being friendly to the horse.”

Jack watched the young man step back and could see his response hadn’t helped.

“Search him,” said the man.

And the other two began the roughest pat-down Jack had seen — or felt — in a long time.

“I’m looking for Mr. Bell,” said Jack, trying to ignore the rough handling. “And I’m guessing from the welcome that you guys don’t work front of house, huh?”

“Shut up.”

“If you want some spare cash, it’s in the wallet in the back pocket.”

“How long was he in there?” said the interrogator to the searchers.

“Long enough,” said one of the guys, handing Jack’s wallet over.

A Land Rover shot round the corner of the house and came to a dusty halt in the yard.

Jack watched as an older man in a smart tweed suit climbed out of the driving seat and walked over.

“What’s going on?” said the man.

“Found this guy messing with Sunspa.”

“Shit. Have you searched him?”

“He’s clean, but we won’t know till we get the police I think.”

“You called them?”

“About to.”

“Mind if I say something?” said Jack. “I think I can clear this up, if you’ll let me…”

The older man stepped closer and inspected Jack.

“American?”

“Jack Brennan,” said Jack. “I’m here to see Antonio Bell. It seems maybe I should have made an appointment.”

The older man stared at him for a couple of seconds.

“I’m Bell. And you shouldn’t be walking around my racing stables without being asked.”

“My apologies.”

“Especially on the day before a big race.”

And now Jack understood.

The nice little chat he’d been having with the horse had been confused with who knows what — a doping attempt? Sabotage?

“Hey — I’m real sorry,” he said. “Perhaps if your guys could lower me to the ground, I might explain?”

Bell nodded to the guys who let go of him. Jack dusted himself down and breathed a sigh of relief.

He should have listened to Sarah — she’d clearly had a premonition Jack was going to walk into trouble. And this time she’d been right.

*

Jack waited while the housekeeper poured his coffee, then took the cup, sat back in his cushioned garden chair, and took a sip.

“To be honest, Mr. Bell,” he said. “This was more the kind of welcome I had in mind.”

Antonio Bell shrugged and sipped on his own coffee.