Introduction
Have you ever wondered what happened to DC Gail Stephens? She just disappeared between the TV episodes 'Fit for Murder' and 'Death in the Slow Lane'.
Well, here's the answer to that question! We'll tell you what happened to Gail.
This is a story that I've co-written with my dear friend "John Douglas". He has been my editor and has also contributed several sections to the story. You can find John's own fantastic Midsomer Murders short stories here at fanfiction and then /u/1685240/John-Douglas. If you haven't read them, do so now! Your Midsomer life won't be complete if you leave these gems unread.
The characters DCI John Barnaby, DCI Tom Barnaby, Cully Dixon, Dr George Bullard, Desk Sergeant Angel, DS Ben Jones, DC Gail Stephens, DI Aubrey Brierly, CSI Cotton and fire brigade officer Susie Bellingham were all created by Caroline Graham or people associated with the production company of the TV series – Bentley Productions. Dave Errol was created by Michael Russell for the episode 'The Blood Point' that was never filmed. Dave Errol and Agnes Olsen are recurring characters from my previous Midsomer Murders story 'The Blood Line'.
We offer our humble thanks and excuses for using them for our own purposes and sincerely hope that we've delivered them relatively undamaged back to their rightful owners.
All other characters in this story are entirely created by our own imagination.
Do you remember the final scene in 'Fit for Murder'? Tom Barnaby's retirement party is interrupted by a phone call to John Barnaby. The vicar of Badger's Drift has been found hanged. That is where this story takes off.
This story will be published over nine days, beginning today.
We hope you will have an enjoyable read!
Pagan Death
Tuesday
When DS Ben Jones closed the door to DCI Tom Barnaby's home and went out into the chilly evening air he didn't know what to think. He felt awkwardly empty inside. His boss of the last five years had just announced his retirement and it had come as a complete surprise to Ben. And it was a retirement with immediate effect.
He walked over to his car, where DCI John Barnaby was already in the passenger's seat waiting. He sat down behind the wheel and with a hint of a sigh said: 'Did you know this was coming, sir?'
John Barnaby turned his big face towards Ben and replied: 'Of course I did.'
'Well, it sure came as a complete surprise to me.'
Their conversation was interrupted by DC Gail Stephens who approached the car and tapped respectfully at the side window. 'What should I do, sir?' she asked. 'Will you be needing me too?'
'No, Gail,' Barnaby answered, 'you go home and get a good night's rest and show up bright and early at the station tomorrow. From what we know this is probably a suicide. Hangings usually are.'
Gail murmured a 'Good night, then' and went over to her own car.
As Ben steered out of the driveway and headed towards Badger's Drift, Barnaby took up the conversation again.
'Surely, Jones, it doesn't take that much deduction to figure out that Causton CID isn't big enough for two DCIs?' It was put like a question but was more of a remark.
'No, sir, I guess not. I just didn't see it coming. That's all. The boss just seemed so much a part of the CID that the thought that he might leave had just never occurred to me.'
They drove carefully through the dark streets of Causton in silence. Each had his own thoughts. Ben's were spinning at the new situation. The boat always rocked a bit when someone left the team or a new person joined, but a change of commander was always the biggest change, as he had learnt on the course in group dynamics that he'd been on the previous year.
John Barnaby seemed a nice enough bloke, but so far he'd only met him a few times. It was one thing to meet under those circumstances and quite another to be working colleagues. He wondered what kind of boss he would turn out to be? A fair bit younger than his cousin, the other DCI Barnaby. That could be a good thing. Perhaps he was a bit more open to modern policing?
John broke the silence. 'You realize of course that you will be the senior investigating officer now?'
For a short moment Ben took his eyes of the road and glanced at Barnaby. 'No, sir, I had no idea. Why's that?'
'I'm not officially beginning my duties here in Midsomer until the 1st and that's three weeks from now. I guess Chief Super Cotton had planned to inform you tomorrow. Well, he couldn't really foresee that something like this would happen tonight, could he?'
'So… you mean I'm in charge now?'
'Yes, you are, but I'm sure you won't mind if I assist you a bit in the background on what may come up, will you?'
'No, sir, not at all,' answered Ben and thought to himself 'What a career move it would be to answer your commander-soon-to-be 'no' to that question.'
'Good', John Barnaby let out a delighted sigh and smiled. It was always a test to stake out the territory with a new team and, as Jones was his closest officer in charge, he would need to be on good terms with him. He was a bright enough lad, Tom had assured him. Eager to learn and ambitious. Perhaps a bit naïve and sometimes a bit hasty to jump to conclusions, but Jones was young and had his future ahead of him. He'd learn.
Gail drove her car slowly back to her flat near the town centre. She almost took a detour to postpone her arrival. It felt strange. She loved her flat and usually rushed off home to enjoy another evening in the cosy environment she had created. She'd moved in almost two years ago, about the same time she got out of uniform and was transferred to the CID. A period in her life when almost everything had gone well.
Now everything seemed to be going wrong both in her personal life and at work. Promising as the CID had seemed to be, she felt she hadn't really been given the chance to step forward. Or perhaps she just hadn't acted on the chances given? Had Tom Barnaby kept her back because she was a woman? No, she really didn't think so. He was old-fashioned alright, but not unfair. The only times she really enjoyed her work was when there were cases that required a lot of computer work. She loved gathering information on the internet and various databases and she loved it even more when there was tracking of illegal activities in secret networks to be done. That was what she liked and felt comfortable with. In her darkest moments she almost admitted to herself that perhaps she just wasn't cut out to be a detective working in the field? In two years' time she should have learnt to cope with murder victims and other nasty things. As for her personal life it was a complete disaster. She sighed to herself as she parked the car. Now there was no return.
She walked the two stairs up and went in. There on the telephone desk in the hall it lay waiting as it had been doing since she bought it three days ago. She undressed in the bedroom and walked naked out into the hall again and picked up the little parcel. On her way to the bathroom she stopped in front of the full-sized mirror and studied her body. Did it show? No, of course not. She put the stupid thought out of her mind and went into the bathroom, opened the parcel, sat down on the toilet to do her business. She laid the pregnancy test kit facing downwards on the bathtub edge while she washed her hands and waited the prescribed amount of time. With trembling hands she gripped the test and looked at it… There was no doubt. It was positive…
Gail looked at herself in the bathroom mirror and tears began streaming down her cheeks.
Jones and Barnaby could see the flashing lights of the panda car as they drove closer to the church at Badger's Drift. While parking Barnaby asked Jones: 'Do you know who the vicar is? I mean was?'
'Yes, Dave Errol, a nice enough man, though we had to put his wife away for murder a few years back.'
'Oh,' Barnaby hummed, 'well, that of course can't leave anything but a troubled and unhappy man, I guess. Were you in on the case?'
'Only marginally, sir. I was still in uniform back then and didn't have that much to do with the actual case or the persons involved.'
'I see.' Though not the SIO, Barnaby was still ahead of Jones into the church.
They walked into the large mediaeval building and could at once see a man hanging from one of the lower side beams. They passed the attending PC, a young redheaded bulky man, and approached the body. Ben nodded at the PC and murmured 'Evenin', Chimes' before looking up at the dead man's face.
'Sir!' He almost shouted. 'This isn't the vicar. This isn't Dave Errol.'
'It is not? Then who is it?' Barnaby sounded confused.
Before Jones managed to answer the PC said: 'No, sir, it's the church warden. Apparently by the name of Eric Singer.'
'But then why..?' Barnaby's question wasn't finished before the PC spoke again.
'Apparently it was Mr Errol, the vicar, who found him and from what I understand and have seen of him, he must have been so upset when he made the 999 call, that they got it all mixed up.'
'And where is Mr Errol now?' asked Barnaby.
'He was in no condition at all to make a statement, sir. I couldn't get a word of sense out of him. The dead man was identified by a Mrs Olsen, who came into the church some time after the vicar, about the same time as we arrived. She's taken him home and called for the GP.'
Barnaby frowned, irritated. 'I would've liked a word with him now. Who authorised you to let him go?'
The PC's cheeks reddened as he answered: 'With all due respect, sir, who are you?' and then he turned to Jones and continued: 'And for your information I used my judgement and common sense and thought it better to have a word with him tomorrow, when perhaps he can talk.' He emphasized the last words as he turned to Barnaby again and met his eyes with a stern gaze.
The moment of silence was so tangible in the air between the three of them that Ben thought you could touch it. But before he could come to the PC's rescue, Barnaby seemed to shake off his frustration and stretched out his hand towards the young PC: 'I'm so sorry. You're perfectly right to ask. I'm DCI Barnaby, John Barnaby, that is.' He finished his sentence with a smile at the constable as they shook hands.
'Sir, I didn't know. I'm sorry…'
'No, no, constable Chimes. You did the right thing.'
'Now that was a change for sure,' Ben thought. That would never have happened with the old Barnaby. The PC would have been put in his place without mercy.
'Now, constable, when that's settled, do we have any information about this poor fellow? An address and does he have family?'
'Yes, sir, I managed to have a few words with Mrs Olsen before she took the vicar away. He lives in a house at 34 Woodgrove Road with his wife, Liz. No children to Mrs Olsen's knowledge, at least none living at home.'
'Good,' Barnaby looked up at the hanging man again. 'He certainly doesn't seem to be of an age to have grown-up children, so hopefully, under these circumstances, there are none.'
Noises of people approaching came through the church door. Bullard with an assistant entered and walked up to them.
'Now, what do we have here?' asked Bullard in his characteristic thoughtful way. He looked at the body and the fallen chair beneath it.
'It looks like suicide to me,' said Ben.
'Can't argue with you there, Jones,' said Barnaby, 'but we'll let you get down to your usual procedures, while we have the questionable joy of paying the widow a visit.' Barnaby nodded at George Bullard, who had already begun to examine the body in its hanging position.
'Right, right,' answered Bullard, but from his words it was obvious he was already fully focused on the work before him.
In the car Barnaby turned to Jones. 'You do the talking when we get there, you are after all the officer in charge.'
'Hah', Ben thought, 'so now I'm in charge. Wasn't much sign of that back in the church, was there?'
Gail couldn't get to sleep, no matter how hard she tried. She thought of taking a brandy to calm her nerves, but realised just before she poured the glass that of course she couldn't drink alcohol.
She looked at the digital figures her alarm clock projected onto the white ceiling for the umpteenth time. 12.45 am. Tomorrow would be a long day if she didn't get to sleep soon.
She wondered what he'd say about it. They didn't know each other that well, but the sex had been fantastic and, since she had no one else in her life, she hadn't seen the harm in having a bit of fun. Would he be happy? Terrified? Demand an abortion?
If only they could have met tonight as planned, but she had got his text even before getting to the Barnaby party, that tonight's late rendezvous was off. Something had come up…
The thoughts danced about in her head and she realised she didn't actually know what she felt about it yet. Was she happy? Terrified? Was she going to have an abortion?
All those questions were of course impossible to answer before she had told him and got his reaction. Or was she even going to tell him before she'd made her own mind up? 'I don't really know him', she thought again, when she turned in her bed and closed her eyes to force herself to sleep.
34 Woodgrove Road was in complete darkness. Not a light in the house was on. As they approached the house Ben could see with help from the bright moonlight that someone in the household loved their garden. There were flowers everywhere in all colours and tastefully put together. The few bushes were neatly trimmed and the gravel path seemed carefully raked.
The house was something unusual, as it was a timbered house. The façade of overlapping timber was beautiful where it was visible beneath the climbing ivy.
On their way into the house they passed a rather shabby Saab. They obviously didn't love their car as much as their garden. On the top of the bonnet lay a magnificent black and white cat of some longhaired variety sleeping. The cat graced the two policemen's presence by opening half an eye and letting out a big yawn before going back to sleep.
They couldn't find a door bell so Ben knocked hard on the front door. Nothing happened. He waited a minute and then he knocked again. Now a light was lit somewhere in the house and its beam reached the floor so that Barnaby could see it from the window he was looking through.
'Someone's awake now,' he whispered to Jones, ' knock again'. Funny, he thought, how we almost always turn to whispering outside in the dark.
A few minutes later the door was opened slightly and from the door chink a female voice asked: 'Yes?'
'Mrs Singer?' Jones asked while holding up his badge, 'I'm DS Jones from the police. Could we please come in for a moment?'
'The police?' Liz Singer's voice sounded sleepy and confused while she opened the door and looked at them in bewilderment as they entered the house. 'What is it about? Has something happened?'
'Perhaps if we could sit down, Mrs Singer, we need to talk to you.' Ben felt great sympathy for this poor woman, who didn't yet know what was to come.
She guided them in to a very warm and welcoming sitting room, clearly inspired by the American or Canadian wood-producing states, but all done in very good taste. Barnaby and Jones were invited to sit on a large comfortable leather sofa, while Liz Singer sat down in the matching armchair and introductions were made.
During the few moments before Jones spoke the inevitable words "Mrs Singer, I'm so sorry to have to inform you that your husband has been found dead", John studied Liz Singer. He judged her age to be somewhere around 35, although she looked older or rather as if life had been rough with her. She had distinct wrinkles on her face. She was tall for a woman and of medium build. Right now she of course looked as if she had come straight out of bed, which was in fact what she had done, but she had a sort general tiredness about her. Her hair was short and dark, with a fair amount of grey in it. Her eyes made an intelligent impression and her manners and voice spoke of good breeding. John thought she must have been rather pretty in her teens, but that she had been one of those flowers that faded fast. Once Jones had uttered the shocking message her face twisted into a grimace of horror and disbelief.
'Bu-bu-but how? Where? I don't believe it! I-I-I want to see him now. You've made a mistake. It can't be my Eric.' The words flooded out of her together with ever-increasing sobs.
'Look, Mrs Singer, I'll make a cup of tea,' said Jones and began to rise for the kitchen.
Barnaby put a hand on his arm and held him back. Instead he went into the kitchen. Jones spoke gently and comfortingly to Liz Singer and gave her the details as far as they were known.
When Barnaby set the tea in front of them she took several large gulps between the sobs and seemed to calm down a little.
Finally she spoke again: 'So you're saying Eric committed suicide?'
'It would appear so, Mrs Singer. Again I am so sorry.' Jones really felt for her.
'I don't believe you, sergeant! It's impossible! Eric was as happy as ever and hasn't had a bad day in his entire life. No, I do not believe you!' Her tone was now almost aggressive.
'Of course we'll look into the circumstances, but at the moment, that is what it seems like.'
'O-oooh m-yyy God!' She fell backwards in her chair and started crying helplessly.
Jones waited for a moment before speaking again. 'Is there someone we can call to be here with you? It would be good for you not to be alone after a shock like this. Perhaps a relative or a friend?'
Liz breathed heavily for a while and then she suddenly took control of herself again. 'No, please. I appreciate your concern, but I'd rather be left alone.'
'Are you sure...?' Jones left the rest of the question hanging.
'Quite sure.' The reply was sharp and instant. She softened her voice and continued: 'We're not from these parts, you see, and even though we've lived here for quite a while we really don't socialise that much and don't have any close friends.'
'Where are you from, Mrs Singer?' Barnaby entered the conversation for the first time.
'Eric's from Minnesota, America that is, and I'm from…' she paused and wiped away some tears, 'Lincolnshire.'
After giving their condolences once more, they arranged that Liz was to come down to the mortuary at 2 pm the following day for identification. She followed them to the door and wished them a good night.
'Strange that,' Jones said back in the car.
'What?'
'Following us out and wishing us a good night, after news like this?'
'It's in their breeding,' answered Barnaby philosophically, ignoring Ben's raised eyebrows.
Wednesday
Ben was early at the station. He still wasn't sure about it, but if what Barnaby had said was true, he was the senior officer in charge and he had better prepare the CID morning meeting.
It was confirmed when the Chief Super came by his tiny office and informed him. The Chief Super also asked for a few minutes at the meeting to inform the group. Ben continued his preparation. When Gail passed his door he looked up and gave her a smile. She smiled back at him, but she looked awfully tired. She must have continued the party elsewhere, Ben thought, smiling to himself.
At 8 o'clock they were all gathered in the conference room and Chief Super Cotton made his entrance. He looked out over the gathered detectives and declared, in his usual sweet-talking way, that he had absolute confidence in placing the command of the CID in DS Jones's capable hands. Even though Ben knew that Cotton had this manner and that he was always "selling" a message, he couldn't help feeling his ego grow on him. Just to have it punctured flat when Cotton ended his monologue with: 'And even if he isn't officially on duty until the 1st, DCI John Barnaby will of course be a resource that you can count on and is at your disposal. Isn't that right, John?'
John Barnaby, placed discreetly at the back of the room, answered: 'Of course, sir.' But he had no intention of rising and taking over the meeting. Instead he nodded as CS Cotton left and then turned his eyes to Jones.
'Right,' said Ben, 'what we have to deal with is the church burglaries. Five churches have been robbed and vandalised to date. Some of the church silver has been nicked and they've also destroyed a lot of the interior.' Ben paused. 'So far we know almost nothing about the perpetrators. Are they thieves? Young vandals? Satanists? We have more questions than answers, but we have to put a stop to this. I've been on that case, but since we had a death in Badger's Drift yesterday, I'll look into that and leave the burglaries to DC Stephens. OK?' His eyes questioned Gail and she nodded in response. My God, she really looks like she could use some sleep, crossed Ben's mind. I'd better have a word with her later on.
He continued: 'As for the death it actually also took place in a church, but so far everything points to a suicide.' He turned his back to the room and put a photo of the hanging man up on the whiteboard. 'The dead man appears to be the church warden and he goes by the name of Eric Singer. We've informed the widow…'
His sentence was interrupted by the sound of someone rising hastily and turning over a chair. Ben turned around to see Gail Stephens run out of the room with her hand over her mouth, heading for the ladies. Damn, he thought, he'd really have to have a serious talk with her.
'Hush hush,' he silenced the chattering colleagues, 'she's probably had something bad to eat!' He could see in their eyes that they didn't believe him for a moment, but at least they went quiet.
'As I said we've informed the widow and she'll be in this afternoon to identify the deceased and I will go out to Badger's Drift right after this meeting to interview the vicar, Dave Errol, who found the body.' He paused to let the information sink in. 'You all go on with your present business and those who work with the burglaries report to Stephens in an hour, when I've handled the case over to her.' He caught Gail's eyes as she was now standing in the doorway to the room, so pale that a paracetamol would have looked like a mole on her skin, and nodded towards his office. She slipped silently away in that direction.
'Sir?' he turned to Barnaby.
'You go and have a chat with Stephens. I have a few things to discuss with the Chief Super. Do you mind if I go with you to see the vicar later?'
'Not at all, sir. See you at the car park in an hour.'
Gail sat uncomfortably in the visitor's chair in DS Jones' tiny office. She still felt nauseous and cursed herself for not being able to control her stomach. She hated the thought of lying to Ben, but without doubt that was what she would have to do.
Ben came in and slowly sat down behind his desk. He carefully cleared some papers away before he finally looked up at Gail and said with a sigh: 'Late night was it? A little bit too much to drink? Didn't know you were off to another party.' He tried to mask how uncomfortable he thought the whole situation was, but the look on his face gave him away.
'Look, Ben, it's not what you think..' Gail spoke softly in an attempt to disguise her voice, which she thought was trembling.
'Isn't it?' Ben seemed a little relieved but was still cautious. 'What is it then? You look as if you haven't slept for a week.'
'It's true I didn't get much sleep last night. But not for the reasons you think. I just couldn't get to sleep. That's it!'
Ben murmured and waited for her to continue.
'And of course I overslept this morning and was in a heck of rush, so I threw down a left-over tuna sandwich I found…' Gail swallowed hard before she went on with the lie. '…and it must've been iffy 'cause I felt a bit sick already in the car park.' There, now it was done. The lie she'd thought of was out. She held her hands clutched to her thighs so as not to show how she was trembling inside.
Ben looked at her for a moment and then gave her a broad smile: 'Good! …I don't mean that you were sick… ah, you know what I mean…'
'Yes, of course I know. Think nothing of it, you had to ask.' Gail said graciously, feeling a great weight being lifted from her chest. They looked at each other for a few moments, both feeling very relieved, but for completely different reasons.
'Now, as for the church burglaries,' Ben got down to business, 'you know almost as much as I do, but here are my notes and the plan of action I had made…'
They began to talk about the case and within the hour Ben had handed all the information over to Gail.
'Now I'm off to Badger's to see the vicar together with the boss.' Ben rose from his chair. 'What do you make of him so far?' he asked Gail.
'I haven't had much to do with him yet, but he seems nice enough.' she answered.
'Yeah, I think so too, I mean just to let me act as the SIO…'
'That's good of him, but be careful. I don't think you should cross him just because you can. I get a feeling he can be hard as stone underneath that pleasant exterior.'
'Hmm, maybe you're right…' said Ben as he walked out to meet the person in question.
'It was the police, they'll be here in half an hour,' Dave Errol put his phone down and turned to Agnes Olsen, who was sitting comfortably in the kitchen, drinking her tea.
She put the latest edition of the parish news leaflet down on the table and said: 'I'd better be going then.'
'I wish you could stay. Talking to the police makes me so nervous, since…' He didn't finish the sentence and tried to steer his thoughts away from his ex-wife, Margarita, now in jail for murder.
'You'll be fine,' Mrs Olsen patted his cheek gently, 'I'm sure they are perfectly nice people and they just want to ask you some questions. Bye then, vicar!'
As she left through the back door Dave said after her: 'Please, Agnes, it's Dave.' But he already knew her answer 'That just won't do. You are the vicar after all.'
'Please, have a seat.' Dave Errol showed Barnaby and Jones into the large sitting room of the vicarage. He remained standing himself by the fireplace, nervously fiddling with one of the little dog statuettes on the mantelpiece. 'I got the impression Chief Inspector Barnaby was coming too?'
'I am in fact DCI Barnaby,' said John and stretched out his hand towards Dave Errol, 'DCI John Barnaby.'
'Oh,' Dave Errol nervously fingered his lower lip, 'are you related in some way?'
'Cousins, as a matter of fact.'
'Oh, I see. Well, I understand you have some questions?'
'Yes, Mr Errol,' Ben talked gently, noticing how the poor man had his nerves on display, 'we understand it must've been a most disturbing experience but can you tell us in your own words what happened last night?'
Dave Errol remained silent for a while with his eyes closed, as if he was searching for inner strength, before he began to talk.
He had gone to the church and almost immediately seen the man hanging. He hadn't seen who it was and didn't dare to go any closer for a better look. He had slipped down on one of the church pews and almost fainted. After a few cries for help he had remembered he carried his mobile phone in his pocket and had managed to make the 999 call.
'That's when Mrs Olsen came in,' he said, looking at the two policemen with tears in his eyes, 'she helped me out to one of the benches outside the church. I wanted to go home, but she persuaded me to wait for the ambulance and the police.'
'Did Mrs Olsen go in again?' John Barnaby shifted position in the old rococo chair.
'Yes, she went in again to see who it was and she told me it was Eric.' The vicar gave forth a loud sob.
'How well did you know Mr Singer?' asked Ben.
Dave Errol thought for a few seconds. 'Not at all really, I'm afraid. Eric's been a churchwarden for 3 to 4 years now, but he was very private with his faith and his personal life. We only discussed practical matters occasionally, so I can't say I knew him.'
'Do you know his wife?'
'I'm afraid I don't. I know her by sight of course, it isn't a large village, but she's isn't a visitor of the church. Actually I don't think I've ever seen her in church, though Eric attended Sunday communion every week.'
'Can you think of any reason why Mr Singer would have wanted to end his life?' Ben searched eye-contact with the vicar to look for any sign of reaction.
'No, no, none at all,' Dave buried his face in hands, 'it's all so terrible. What troubles can drive a man so far?' He lifted his face again, just to sneeze loudly into his handkerchief.
'Thank you, Mr Errol. That'll be all for now.' Ben rose and made ready to leave.
'Just one more question, Mr Errol,' John had also risen from his chair, 'why were you at church so late?'
Dave Errol hesitated only for a second, but it was long enough for John to notice, before answering: 'It's all those church burglaries… of course. I went there just to make sure everything was undisturbed.' The vicar let out a small sigh, when he thought about the lie he had just told. Hopefully God would forgive him.
'Well, we'll be off then,' said Barnaby and made for the door with Jones accompanying.
Behind them they could hear a few more sobs from Dave Errol and a weak: 'If only we had put in an alarm instead of those cameras…'
Barnaby and Jones froze mid-step and turned around. 'What did you just say, Mr Errol?' Barnaby's voice was sharp.
Errol looked at them with great surprise and fear. He was like a little schoolboy afraid of doing wrong.
'Please, Mr Errol,' said Barnaby with a much softer tone, 'explain to us what you meant.'
'Well, with all those church burglaries that's been going on lately, the parish council decided to have surveillance cameras installed. We got them just a few days ago.'
'Cameras? Not an alarm?' Barnaby was eager now.
'No, there was a discussion about that alternative, but we want to keep the church open at all hours for our congregation, so we decided against it.' Dave Errol looked at Barnaby as if to see if the answer would please him.
'How do they work? Is it recorded?'
'I don't know anything about the technical details, but we put them on as soon as there is no staff left at the church and I think it is recorded, because they came with something they called a hard drive where the films would be stored, as I understand it.'
'Aah,' John let out a deep sigh of disappointment, 'so Mr Singer would have turned them off when he entered the church?'
Dave Errol scratched his head. 'You know, I don't think so… Eric's been away for a few days and you need a code to turn them off… and he hasn't been at home to get the code.'
Barnaby pondered for a moment whether to ask Mr Errol to return with them to the church, but decided against it. He didn't seem to be a technical genius. Instead he asked the vicar to give the phone number of the company that had installed the cameras to Jones. He also carefully stored the information that Eric Singer had been away from home in the large archive that was his brain, before turning to Jones: 'You contact the installation company and meet them in the church. Meanwhile I'll have a word with Mrs Olsen.'
John Barnaby strode purposefully up the short path, bordered by fragrant lavender bushes, to the front door of the little thatched cottage on the edge of Badger's Drift and pressed the bell. A dog from somewhere inside answered with a few deep-throated barks and almost at once the door, which was on a chain, was opened a fraction.
'Yes?' Agnes Olsen peeped outside suspiciously.
'Mrs Olsen?' The figure inside, of which John only had the impression of a large pair of heavy-framed round glasses, nodded. 'May I come in? I'm Chief Inspector Barnaby from Causton C.I.D.'
'You can't be!' Agnes tried to shut the door but John Barnaby held it back with one hand while with the other presenting his warrant card.
'Oh! Just a minute! I have to shut the door first in order to open it.' This Agnes Olsen did and John could hear the chain being released from the door with a clatter. 'That's better! Do come in!' Agnes held the door wide for her visitor.
'Thank you so much.' John took in a frail, thin, elderly lady whose hair was swept into a bun at the back of her head. He noticed that she was wearing a cross on a chain round her neck, and over her shoulders she had an open-weave woollen shawl, almost certainly hand-knitted.
'When you said 'Inspector Barnaby' I was expecting...'
'Cousins,' said John, hoping to cut short the explanation.
'Oh! Well, it's nice to keep it in the family.' Agnes showed him into a low-beamed sitting-room, full of dated but good quality furniture. 'Do sit down.' John sat down on a sofa covered in a floral print while Agnes sat in a matching armchair, pulling the open-weave shawl more closely around her shoulders. 'I was expecting you ― that is to say, I was expecting...'
'Quite,' said John Barnaby, crossing his legs. 'I understand, Mrs Olsen, that you discovered the body of Mr Eric Singer last night, shortly after the Reverend David Errol.'
Mrs Olsen's face fell and she looked down, clutching her hands tightly together. 'It was dreadful ― simply dreadful,' she said. 'That poor, poor man. And such a good Christian! He never missed a service. But what I was most concerned about was the effect on Mr Errol. He's a very... sensitive man, you know.'
'Really?' said Barnaby, wondering whether by 'sensitive' Agnes Olsen might not mean 'weak'.
'He had all that dreadful business with his wife... well, she was his wife. But you wouldn't know about that, of course.'
'I did hear something,' said Barnaby non-committally.
'And now this!' Agnes leaned back in her chair and shook her head.
Barnaby cleared his throat. 'I also understand that you entered the church at about ten thirty last night, is that right?'
'Oh, yes, yes... that's right.' For a moment Agnes Olsen seemed lost for words.
'Rather late, isn't it, to be visiting a church?' John Barnaby looked at her with a kind but searching gaze.
'Yes! Well...' Agnes gave a little high-pitched laugh. 'I was so stupid, I left my bottle of Brasso there.' She fingered the cross round her neck nervously.
'Your bottle of Brasso?' John repeated the words slowly.
'You see, I clean the brass in the church every week ― there's quite a lot of it in St Michael's, specially the lectern, and I do like to have it all gleaming for the congregation ― and I just remembered, as I was about to turn in, that I'd left it there. And I hate leaving things lying around because... well, anybody could take it, couldn't they?'
'You can never be too careful,' said Barnaby, thinking that it was more than a bottle of Brasso that had gone missing from Midsomer churches recently.
'Oh!' said Agnes, almost jumping up out of her chair with surprising agility, 'where are my manners? I had boiled the kettle just before you got here.'
'Oh, really, I don't think...' but Agnes Olsen was on her way to the kitchen. 'Come on, Buster, go and lie in your basket!', for as she opened the door a lugubrious fawn-coloured Boxer came slowly in, wagging its stumpy tail. 'I hope you like dogs,' she said as she disappeared, giving John no chance to answer.
John stared at the dog, leaning forward, and the dog stared at him. 'Good dog!' he said unconvincingly, thinking how quiet and undemanding Buster was compared with Sykes, his own frisky little mongrel. Buster walked slowly to his basket in the corner of the room and settled down, resting his chin on his front paws and looking up at John gloomily.
Agnes returned with a trolley on which was a tea-pot covered with a tea-cosy, again almost certainly hand-knitted, milk, sugar, tea-cups, side-plates, clotted cream in a little dish, strawberry jam, and a large plate with three scones on it. 'I made them yesterday,' she explained, offering John a scone. 'Mr Errol does enjoy my baking.'
'I see.' John accepted the offering and proceeded to load it with cream and jam.
The dog, sniffing food, crawled out of its basket and approached Barnaby, its stumpy tail wagging like a metronome set to prestissimo.
'Go back to your basket!' said Agnes sharply. 'What you need is a good long walk!' The dog looked at Agnes hopefully. 'Which reminds me,' she continued, 'there's something I really must tell you.'
John Barnaby had opened his mouth wide to accommodate the over-laden scone, but he managed to say 'Please do, Mrs Olsen,' before popping it in, leaving only a moderate amount of clotted cream and strawberry jam on his upper lip.
Agnes leaned forward and lowered her voice, speaking conspiratorially. 'I was walking Buster along the path through the wood behind here when I saw them.'
'Saw who, Mrs Olsen?' asked John indistinctly, munching.
'Well, I don't know who they were, but there they were, a girl and a boy, beside the path, without a stitch on. They were 'at it', in broad daylight ― except that it was dark at the time.'
'You mean they were 'dogging', Mrs Olsen?' John wiped his upper lip.
Agnes stared at him. 'No, no, Inspector. You misunderstand. I was dogging. I was walking Buster, my Boxer.' Buster, who had returned to his basket disappointed, pricked up his ears for a moment. 'I've seen them before, you know. Well, not the same ones ― I couldn't tell you that ― but I've seen this sort of...' (she struggled for a word) '...activity before. It seems to be a haunt of theirs ― of that sort of people. I've reported it to your young men in Causton, too, but they won't do anything about it. Now, you do agree with me, Inspector, that it's got to be stopped, don't you? It's so thoroughly immoral. And it quite scandalised Buster, didn't it, Buster?' She addressed the dog, which returned her look of disapproval.
'I'll look into it,' said John, with an ill-disguised smirk. 'When exactly did you see this... activity?'
Agnes Olsen thought for a moment. 'It always happens on a Tuesday.'
'Every Tuesday?' asked John, in an attempt to humour the good lady.
'No,' said Agnes thoughtfully. 'I would say it happens about every four weeks. Yes, just about that. The last time I stumbled upon them ― almost literally, Inspector, it was dreadful ― it would have been... let me see. Three weeks ago. Yes,' she said brightly, delighted that her memory had served her so well, 'three weeks ago last Tuesday. That's it. Because it was just after Whitsun, and I remember thinking how sinful it was for people to be doing that after such an important holy weekend. Oh, Inspector, there's one scone left!', for the third scone remained unclaimed on the large silvery plate on the trolley. 'Do have it, I'll be baking some more tomorrow.'
John looked at the scone and shook his head, patting his considerable paunch. 'I'm afraid I couldn't, Mrs Olsen,' he said, 'though they're the best scones I've ever had.' In truth, this was hardly a lie.
Mrs Olsen looked very satisfied and, getting up, she put the plate on the little Chippendale side-table beside John. 'Can't you be tempted?' she asked.
'I rather think I can,' said John, swiftly removing the scone from the plate, which he now noticed for the first time. 'That's a very unusual plate, Mrs Olsen. Where did you get it?'
'Oh!' said Agnes with her high-pitched giggle again, 'it came from the 'Age UK' shop in Midsomer Magna. They do such splendid work for the elderly and I do think it's our Christian duty to support these charities whenever we can, don't you?'
'Hmm.' John Barnaby had picked up the plate. The silver finish caught the light as he turned it over. There was a hallmark on the underside. 'If I am not mistaken, this is made of solid silver, Mrs Olsen.'
'Oh, but it can't be!' said Agnes. 'It only cost a pound. It's made of tin, surely?'
'Do you mind if I take it away to get it valued, Mrs Olsen?' asked John.
'By all means,' said Agnes, 'but only after you've finished your scone first.'
The little charity shop in Midsomer Magna had no customers, as was usual on a Thursday morning, and Cathy, after re-arranging the unwanted blouses and tops in strict order of size after the destructive pokings about of a few determined senior citizens on the previous afternoon, who as usual had bought nothing, was free to let her mind wander. Caradoc. Her new prince, or knight of the Round Table, as she had discovered from looking up his name on-line. Not that that was his real name, of course, but in a way she was not keen to know his real name. Caradoc was romantic enough.
She thought back to the Tuesday evening when she had chosen him and he had chosen her. The rite was over and the young members of this al fresco gathering had paired off into the wood with their customary lack of inhibitions. She had had one or two partners before, but they had been quick five-minute stands, nothing to make her want to repeat the experience. But Caradoc was different. He was good-looking, courteous, and took his time. Maybe, just maybe, this was what she had dropped out of college for. An art course in The Nude in Modern British Painting had seemed attractive enough, but in fact it involved too much academic analysis of existing paintings, when Cathy would have preferred to put the theory into practice. This vacancy in the 'Age UK' shopthat she had found was only a stop-gap measure, a means to support herself while she worked out what to do next with her life. And it left her free to do what she liked in the evenings, to enjoy the great outdoors… and meet boys like Caradoc. Yes, Caradoc was the one.
'How much?' The elderly grey-haired man in front of her brought her down to earth with a bump. 'How much are these gloves?' The elderly man waved a worn pair of brown leather gloves in her face.
'Oh!' said Cathy, startled. 'All the gloves are 50 pence a pair.'
'Too much,' said the elderly man, who took the gloves back to the stand where he had found them and shuffled out.
'Mean old git,' said Cathy to herself and walked into the tiny kitchenette at the back of the shop, where she mechanically switched on the kettle. Her thoughts returned to Caradoc. She tried to picture him as an old man. Surely he would never behave like that… he was kind and generous, and great fun when he was on top of her under the majestic oaks of Midsomer County. And next Tuesday she would have the chance to meet him again… Her mouth felt dry at the prospect.
Barnaby arrived at the church gates at the same time as the van from the installation company drew up. It had 'Meehan's Alarms' printed in big red letters on the side.
It took the alarm technician only a few minutes to enter the surveillance system and reset the time of the film to yesterday evening. After getting instructions as to how to fast-forward Jones asked him to wait outside while they watched the sequence. What they were about to see made the hair on the back of their necks stand on end.
The burglar entered the church, dressed all in black and wearing a balaclava, with a sack in his or her hand, and began to rush around, apparently looking for valuables. Suddenly the figure in black froze, obviously disturbed by something and disappeared behind a large cupboard.
A moment later they could see Eric Singer enter the church in the soft evening light. He seemed to tip-toe, looking carefully around him in every direction. He had obviously entered the church suspecting that a burglary was in progress. Singer reached for the light switch and turned it on. Then the burglar appeared from behind the large cupboard, holding a shotgun that must have been kept in the sack, pointing it at Singer. They could see how Singer quickly raised his hands in the air, while he appeared to start talking to the black figure and from the look upon his face begged for his life. The burglar made a gesture with the gun and Eric Singer lowered his left hand picking up his wallet and mobile phone out of his pocket and dropped them in the sack held forward by the burglar.
'Where's the sound in this thing?' Barnaby asked with an intense look, not taking his eyes off the screen.
'Sorry, sir, there's no pick-up of the sound. It's film only,' Ben replied.
It was impossible to say if the burglar spoke as well, since the whole face, except for the eyes, was covered.
Pointing the shotgun at Singer, the burglar directed him further in to the church. They stopped under the beam where Singer had subsequently been found hanging. The burglar took a rope out of the sack and threw it at Singer. The rope had a hangman's noose at one end. The black figure made some gestures with the gun towards Singer and probably said something as well, since Singer obviously understood the instruction to get a chair, climb up on it and tie the other end of the rope around the low beam.
Barnaby and Jones both swallowed hard as they now had to witness how the trembling and crying Eric Singer got a poke from the barrel of the shotgun in his stomach. Trembling while trying to keep his balance on the chair and with tears streaming down his cheeks, Eric Singer placed the noose around his own neck.
They could see how he screamed in agony as the burglar went up close to him, probably said something to him or looked him in the eyes, and then kicked the chair away…
The rope was pulled taut by the weight of Eric Singer's body and his feet twitched desperately as the life ran out of him…
'Oh my God,' Jones shivered with revulsion, 'I can't believe it.' He swallowed hard a few times. 'That was an execution!'
Barnaby said nothing. He just continued to stare at the screen where Eric Singer's body was hanging, now all still. He closed his eyes for a few seconds before he spoke. 'That was the most cold-blooded thing I've ever seen in my entire career.' He paused. 'Bloody awful it was.'
The two men sat in silence for a quite a long while. Barnaby broke the silence: 'Mrs Singer was right. Her husband didn't commit suicide. Not that this will make her any happier…'
'What are we dealing with here?' Jones thought out loud. 'An ordinary burglar staging a spontaneous execution?' I don't get it.'
'One thing's for sure,' said Barnaby, 'this man or woman is no ordinary burglar. This is now officially a murder investigation and it's definitely linked with the church burglaries, so this and Stephens' investigation are now one.' Barnaby looked at Jones and then came out with a question that surprised Ben: 'What's your next step, sergeant?'
'My next step?' Ben thought confused, before remembering in a split second that he was the SIO. 'Well, sir, we'll have to call Stephens and her team in and I'll put Gail on to examining this film with a fine-tooth comb. She's the technical expert, you know.'
'So I've heard,' said Barnaby, 'so I've heard…'
To be continued…