The monk, p.1
The Monk, page 1
The
Monk
ALSO BY TIM SULLIVAN
The Dentist
The Cyclist
The Patient
The Politician
SHORT STORIES
The Lost Boys
The Ex-Wife
The
Monk
A DS CROSS THRILLER
TIM SULLIVAN
www.headofzeus.com
First published in the UK in 2023 by Head of Zeus,
part of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
Copyright © Tim Sullivan, 2023
The moral right of Tim Sullivan to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (HB): 9781804545607
ISBN (E): 9781804545584
Cover design: Ben Prior
Head of Zeus
First Floor East
5–8 Hardwick Street
London EC1R 4RG
WWW.HEADOFZEUS.COM
For Brian Worthington
who had confidence in my ability before anyone else
and introduced me to Henry James
Ora et Labora
Contents
Also by Tim Sullivan
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Acknowledgements
About the Author
An Invitation from the Publisher
1
George Cross was rarely shocked by anything he came across during his work as a detective sergeant in the Avon and Somerset police. He had quickly come to the conclusion, many years before, that people were capable of inflicting the most grotesque acts of violence upon one another. So, no matter how bloody or gruesome a crime scene was, he managed to view it objectively. The sight of a throat cut with a blade or slashed by a broken bottle, brain matter splattered over the ground near a shattered skull, was simply evidence, and should be thought of as such. As appalling a sight as it may be, it was just the first step in a process that would lead to the identification, arrest, charging and hopefully conviction of the killer. A sense of emotional outrage or disbelief were just obstacles to an investigation, in his view. An emotional reaction to a crime scene was an unnecessary distraction. In a sense this was easy for him to think, as empathy in any given situation was not one of his strong suits.
What confronted the Avon and Somerset murder team that morning in the woodlands of Goblin Combe was, though, without question truly shocking, as well as confounding.
If a murder scene wasn’t easily accessible and, as in this case, necessitated a lengthy walk down a wet and puddled footpath, requiring a slow hopscotch to avoid wet feet, the sense of anticipation that built inside the stomachs of the murder team became increasingly palpable. It meant that some of them had to take pause before facing whatever horror awaited them that particular day. It had rained heavily overnight so the trees were laden with huge bulging berries of rain, which grew in size as other drops joined the party, before the surface tension was too much and they burst, falling intermittently with unerring accuracy on those below. The shoulders of Cross’s beige mackintosh had dark, wet epaulettes. As he and Ottey approached the scene, the first thing they saw was the back of a wooden chair protruding from the ditch that ran alongside the path. Many people had walked past this chair in the past few days, doubtless bemoaning the lack of respect others had for the countryside and how fly-tipping had become something of an epidemic in Somerset. They couldn’t have ignored the smell, however. That sweet and sour, sickly smell of human decomposition, so familiar to the squad. But, this being the country, they’d probably put it down to an animal carcass lying somewhere nearby. The actual source of it was taped to the chair with industrial duct tape. A man whose face was now dark purple from lividity, having been left facing downwards onto the ditch. Blood had also pooled round his wrists like gruesome dark bracelets. Gravity was pulling the body downwards so that the tape was stretched to breaking point. The man was dressed entirely in black. It appeared that he was wearing a black habit and hooded scapular. He hadn’t been to a fancy-dress party or a T20 cricket match, though; he was in fact a Benedictine monk. They knew this because Dom Dominic Augustus of St Eustace’s monastery, 15 miles away, had been reported missing two days earlier by the father abbot. It almost certainly had to be him. So, in a sense it wasn’t exactly a surprise. Brutal, horrific and unexpected, yes.
Everyone was focused on wondering how anyone could do this to a monk. Cross’s attention, however, had been drawn to the fact that the lifeless, chair-bound corpse in the shallow ditch below him had been savagely beaten prior to his death. His bruised eyelids were swollen shut. His lips were bloody and cut. Cross couldn’t imagine why such a fate would befall a man who had made the decision to withdraw himself from everyday life and devote himself to one of contemplation and prayer. What could possibly provoke someone to do this to a monk? Or what could the victim have done to drive someone to such an act? What had been the purpose of the beating? He looked carefully at the monk’s body and saw tiny ripples of movement under his cassock. This meant thousands of maggots had already colonised the body. Hundreds more were congregating at various orifices, his ears and nostrils and around his eyes. It also meant he’d been dead for at least twenty-four hours but Cross didn’t know exactly how cold or warm it had been in the last few days. The body could have been in situ for two or three days depending on the life cycle stage of the maggots, which he would leave Swift to determine.
‘Stag night gone wrong?’ a nervous uniformed police constable had joked when he arrived at the scene.
‘Are you aware that a monk local to this county has been reported missing?’ Cross asked him.
‘Of course,’ he replied.
‘So, presumably you thought your comment was amusing?’ Cross went on. Ottey was about to intervene. But it was first thing in the morning and she decided she didn’t have the energy for the inevitable lecture about appropriate behaviour at a crime scene.
‘Sorry,’ the constable replied.
‘You should leave,’ Cross instructed him.
‘What?’
‘Your presence is no longer required,’ Cross said. So the young constable left. He probably thought he’d done nothing wrong and that Cross was just an uptight, humourless prick. Cross would’ve been unconcerned. He considered that kind of comment, coming from a policeman at a murder scene, unacceptable. To him it showed not just a lack of respect for the victim, but a lack of professionalism too, which he couldn’t tolerate. He also hoped the young man might learn something from his dismissal.
‘George, he was probably just trying to ease the tension,’ said Ottey quietly.
‘Then he might have been better suited to a career as a masseur,’ Cross reflected. Ottey laughed. Cross looked at her, surprised.
‘That was a joke, George,’ she said. But he still looked at her blankly. ‘Maybe not.’
Cross’s attention was now drawn to the arrival of the forensic pathologist Clare Hawkins and forensic investigator Dr Michael Swift, who at six foot eight towered over her. Both were dressed in their white paper forensic overalls. They signed in with the policeman on the perimeter, then came over. Clare held out two paper suits for Cross and Ottey. He took his and walked away to put it on. Ottey declined hers.
‘I won’t be needing one,’ she said.
‘Seen enough?’ asked Clare.
‘Yep.’
‘I’ve got some coffee in the car. Freshl y ground. Piping hot. I can go get it if you want,’ Swift said kindly, realising she might need a restorative pick-me-up.
‘Maybe after you’ve done your stuff. Thanks,’ she said and walked away towards a clearing in the trees. She walked through it to a view of the beautiful Somerset countryside which couldn’t have changed in hundreds of years. That thought comforted her. Grounded her, in a way. Various tractors were working a hillside field opposite her. Probably tilling, destoning and maybe planting potatoes at this time of year. Clouds scurried across the landscape unnaturally quickly like speeded-up film. The fields were relatively small by modern standards, bordered by orderly hedgerows that had survived the wholesale destruction modern farming methods had inflicted on much of the English countryside. It was a beautiful April day. One of those on which it was difficult to decide what to wear. Warm when the sun came out, then suddenly cold as it retreated behind slow-moving clouds. Birds hovered in the wake of the distant tractors, swooping down to feast on any uncovered worms; the farmer obviously had good biodiversity in his earth. Ottey breathed in deeply in an attempt to remove the stench of death inhabiting her nostrils. It had stuck stubbornly to the tiny hairs inside her nose, like pollen on a bee’s back legs. The air smelt of freshly grown grass and drying soil. It was filled with birdsong. They sounded excited, as if they were communicating to whoever was willing to listen that summer was on its way. A couple of hawks soared effortlessly on the thermals high above. A day of perennially renewed promise, except for one unfortunate monk. Ottey was a regular churchgoer, partly out of habit, but also because when she thought about it, she did believe in God. She had to. Despite the fact that her job often presented formidable challenges to maintaining any kind of faith. Like today.
A tent was erected over the monk’s body. Hawkins and Swift then entered it to do their grim work undisturbed. Cross and Ottey walked back to her car. They wanted to tell the abbot at St Eustace’s the news before he learnt of it third-hand, probably through the media. Their task made all the more urgent by the arrival of a couple of local news vans who parked up and quickly started to unload their equipment.
‘They’re quicker than blowflies when it comes to finding a corpse,’ Cross observed.
2
St Eustace’s monastery was in the countryside just south-west of Cheddar.
‘Do you know something?’ asked Ottey.
‘I happen to know quite a lot of things,’ Cross replied.
‘I’ve never been to Cheddar Gorge or the caves.’
‘People often take for granted things of interest that are on their doorstep,’ he observed.
‘Have you been?’
‘Yes. Raymond took me there when I was a child. The caves are quite impressive. You should take the girls.’
‘I will. Maybe Raymond would like to join us,’ she said.
‘Why would you ask him?’
‘The girls like him and he’s so interesting about stuff like that,’ she replied.
‘I also know lots of interesting stuff. Probably a great deal more than my father,’ Cross said, trying his best not to sound defensive, which he failed at comprehensively.
Ottey didn’t reply.
‘Ah, I see. The girls don’t like me,’ Cross went on.
‘That’s just not true. They are both very fond of you. I just thought Raymond might enjoy it a little more than you.’
‘You are, of course, completely right. I wouldn’t enjoy it at all.’
‘Now I can’t tell whether you’re joking or not,’ she said.
He looked at her, confused. Hadn’t he just agreed with her? ‘Why would I joke about the tiresome nature of children?’ he asked.
They arrived at the monastery which sat at the top of a small hill, shrouded by mature trees. There was a set of electronic gates and an entryphone system at the bottom of the hill.
‘They obviously want to keep the outside world outside,’ Ottey commented.
‘Or the monks inside,’ Cross replied.
Ottey pressed the intercom button which was mounted on a post at the driver’s side of the vehicle.
‘St Eustace’s Abbey,’ came a polite, distant voice through the speaker.
‘DS Ottey and Cross to see the abbot,’ Ottey replied.
‘Yes, of course.’
They drove up a single lane winding through a canopy of trees that joined together over the road. It made it quite dark, as if preparing the visitor to leave the world behind them and enter a different place. They came to a Victorian Gothic structure that could easily have been mistaken for a small preparatory school. A monk was waiting at the front door for them. He smiled warmly as they approached, his arms folded under his scapular.
‘Good afternoon, officers. Welcome to St Eustace’s. My name is Brother Andrew. Please follow me.’
He had an open face that was almost line-free. Probably in his mid-twenties, Cross thought. They followed him into the enclosure and the abbot’s office.
‘Detectives are you here about Brother Dominic?’ the abbot began, standing up behind his desk. He was in his late fifties, in an identical habit to Brother Andrew and the late Brother Dominic. The only difference being a large silver crucifix which hung from his neck, reaching just below his chest. He had tightly cropped grey hair which looked like it might be wildly curly, were it given the opportunity to grow. His light blue eyes betrayed his Scandinavian heritage. Father Abbot Anselm was originally from Denmark.
‘We are,’ said Ottey.
‘Oh good. I was beginning to get a little worried,’ said the abbot, smiling.
‘A body was discovered this morning by a woman walking her dog,’ Cross said. Ottey turned to him, horrified.
‘DS Cross,’ she said, shutting him up.
The abbot sat down slowly. This was unexpected and incomprehensible. It wasn’t a scenario he’d contemplated.
‘It’s always a dog walker, isn’t it?’ he said quietly, as if he hadn’t really taken in what he’d just been told.
‘Dogs have thousands more receptors in their nose and on the whole have a much stronger sense of smell than humans. They are very sensitive to the smell of putrefaction,’ Cross volunteered unhelpfully. Ottey looked at him again, in disbelief.
‘I’m sorry to inform you, Father, that we do believe the body to be that of Brother Dominic who you’ve reported missing,’ said Ottey trying to signal to Cross that this conversation would be better handled by her.
‘I see. Where was this body found?’ asked Father Anselm.
‘In the woods at Goblin Combe,’ Ottey replied.
‘Really? Are you certain it’s him?’
‘That is a good question,’ said Cross, jumping in. ‘He will need to be formally identified.’
‘Of course,’ replied Father Anselm.
‘The fact that you have reported one of your community missing and that the victim is dressed in a monastic habit, mean the chances of it being him are quite high,’ Ottey replied.
If the abbot was upset by this news he gave little away to reveal it. He had an air of unaffected composure and preternatural calm about him.
‘I will come and formally identify him as soon as is convenient for you. In the meantime, do you have a photograph of the dead man? If it appears to be Dominic I’d like to be able to tell the community. Your very presence here this morning will have set tongues wagging among the monks.’ This was a surprise to Ottey. She found the idea of monks gossiping comfortingly amusing.
Cross reached for his phone and scrolled through the photographs.
‘Father, the deceased was badly beaten,’ said Ottey.
‘Really?’ came the weary reply, as if he couldn’t believe things could be getting worse.
‘His face is bruised and swollen.’
‘I see.’
As Cross looked at the photographs, he realised that the bruised appearance of the dead monk’s face was the least of their concerns. Every photograph showed the monk’s face covered in maggots around his eyes, mouth and nostrils. He gave the phone to Ottey who immediately saw the problem.
‘I think it’s best you come to the mortuary once we have him there,’ she said.
‘I understand. How terrible. It’s that bad, is it?’
‘I’m so sorry, but it is.’
