Read Online The Discourtesy of Death (Father Anselm Novels) by William Brodrick - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: William Brodrick
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wanted to see me on “a matter of some delicacy”.’ Olivia used two fingers to open and close the quotation marks. ‘They didn’t want to talk on the phone so I suggested they come here for a meeting.’
‘Who was it?’
‘Nigel Goodwin.’
The first name meant nothing to Anselm and his face said so.
‘Jennifer Henderson’s uncle,’ explained Olivia. ‘The brother of Michael, her father. Estranged brother, I should say. Turned out they hadn’t seen each other for years. There’d been some sort of dispute or breakdown in the past that had never been resolved. Your territory, I imagine, not mine.’
‘Then why come to you?’
‘He was also Jennifer Henderson’s godfather. She’d died three days earlier. He wanted to know if the police had the power to request a post-mortem examination notwithstanding the existence of a death certificate. Whether it could be done without the consent of the immediate family. Whether it could be done secretly.’
‘No, no and no,’ replied Anselm with a flourish, though not entirely sure about questions one and two. He reflected for a moment. ‘A
post-mortem
?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he say why?’
‘No.’
‘A solicitor could have answered his question. Why come to you?’
‘He wanted to make an allegation without making an allegation. To report a crime without naming a crime. He was distressed. As was his wife. I got the impression she had something to say … that she wanted to interrupt and give her point of view. But she just sat there, letting her husband do the talking. He’s a man who’s used to running the show.’
Anselm drank some Gorreana, a tea from the Azores. Olivia had branched out from the mysteries of the East; she’d looked closer to home for enlightenment. The thought came to Anselm like a welcome distraction, because in this desperate meeting between godfather and police officer lay the first and last opportunity to obtain concrete evidence of any crime before the burial of Jennifer’s body. It would have been there … faint abrasions on the neck, a chemical in the blood … however it was done, there’d have been some signs of forensic significance; and those indicators would—
‘You can’t act on this kind of thing,’ she said, quietly, following Anselm’s thoughts. ‘He had a suspicion … but it was based on nothing he was prepared to reveal. He wasn’t even involved with the Henderson family. He was a stranger to everything that had happened after Jennifer’s accident. I sensed he was kicking himself for not having sorted out the problem with his brother.’
‘As if that might have made a difference?’
‘Perhaps.’
Anselm placed his cup on the edge of Olivia’s desk. As with
Tosca
, he couldn’t see what the fuss was about. Perhaps his palette lacked refinement. That’s what Olivia had managed to say when Anselm had given back the recording. He’d lost the booklet that had come with the box. Worse, a killer had been acquitted earlier that afternoon. He’d shaken Anselm’s hand afterwards and asked if he could have one of the autopsy photographs.
‘He should have spoken up while he had the chance,’ continued Olivia, trying to reach the brooding monk; she’d lost him, suddenly, and felt the separation. ‘If he’d said something specific before the burial, I could have responded appropriately. But he said nothing. And he’s saying nothing now. He came to me in secret and now he’s come to you in secret. But behind all this is a simple, tragic, all too human story. It often happens when people enter retirement. They look for something to do. Something meaningful. And Nigel Goodwin … he’s a distant uncle who feels he let his niece down. She was sick and he didn’t pull his weight. To make up for his absence while she was alive, he’s become her saviour in death. He’s lost his way.’
Anselm retrieved the letter. He looked at the words without quite reading them.
‘This is not a case you or I can
‘Who was it?’
‘Nigel Goodwin.’
The first name meant nothing to Anselm and his face said so.
‘Jennifer Henderson’s uncle,’ explained Olivia. ‘The brother of Michael, her father. Estranged brother, I should say. Turned out they hadn’t seen each other for years. There’d been some sort of dispute or breakdown in the past that had never been resolved. Your territory, I imagine, not mine.’
‘Then why come to you?’
‘He was also Jennifer Henderson’s godfather. She’d died three days earlier. He wanted to know if the police had the power to request a post-mortem examination notwithstanding the existence of a death certificate. Whether it could be done without the consent of the immediate family. Whether it could be done secretly.’
‘No, no and no,’ replied Anselm with a flourish, though not entirely sure about questions one and two. He reflected for a moment. ‘A
post-mortem
?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he say why?’
‘No.’
‘A solicitor could have answered his question. Why come to you?’
‘He wanted to make an allegation without making an allegation. To report a crime without naming a crime. He was distressed. As was his wife. I got the impression she had something to say … that she wanted to interrupt and give her point of view. But she just sat there, letting her husband do the talking. He’s a man who’s used to running the show.’
Anselm drank some Gorreana, a tea from the Azores. Olivia had branched out from the mysteries of the East; she’d looked closer to home for enlightenment. The thought came to Anselm like a welcome distraction, because in this desperate meeting between godfather and police officer lay the first and last opportunity to obtain concrete evidence of any crime before the burial of Jennifer’s body. It would have been there … faint abrasions on the neck, a chemical in the blood … however it was done, there’d have been some signs of forensic significance; and those indicators would—
‘You can’t act on this kind of thing,’ she said, quietly, following Anselm’s thoughts. ‘He had a suspicion … but it was based on nothing he was prepared to reveal. He wasn’t even involved with the Henderson family. He was a stranger to everything that had happened after Jennifer’s accident. I sensed he was kicking himself for not having sorted out the problem with his brother.’
‘As if that might have made a difference?’
‘Perhaps.’
Anselm placed his cup on the edge of Olivia’s desk. As with
Tosca
, he couldn’t see what the fuss was about. Perhaps his palette lacked refinement. That’s what Olivia had managed to say when Anselm had given back the recording. He’d lost the booklet that had come with the box. Worse, a killer had been acquitted earlier that afternoon. He’d shaken Anselm’s hand afterwards and asked if he could have one of the autopsy photographs.
‘He should have spoken up while he had the chance,’ continued Olivia, trying to reach the brooding monk; she’d lost him, suddenly, and felt the separation. ‘If he’d said something specific before the burial, I could have responded appropriately. But he said nothing. And he’s saying nothing now. He came to me in secret and now he’s come to you in secret. But behind all this is a simple, tragic, all too human story. It often happens when people enter retirement. They look for something to do. Something meaningful. And Nigel Goodwin … he’s a distant uncle who feels he let his niece down. She was sick and he didn’t pull his weight. To make up for his absence while she was alive, he’s become her saviour in death. He’s lost his way.’
Anselm retrieved the letter. He looked at the words without quite reading them.
‘This is not a case you or I can
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