Forgive Me Father by Paul Gitsham

Forgive Me Father

Forgive Me Father by Paul Gitsham (DCI Warren Jones, Book 5)
English | 2019 | Mystery/Thriller | ePUB | 5.3 Mb

Forgive Me Father : Who could kill a man of God? A fire breaks out in a chapel, and DCI Warren Jones is alarmed by what is discovered at the scene. Curled up in the ash and debris is a body – and it’s soon clear that the chapel doors were locked from the inside. The disappearance of a local priest, Father Nolan, and a cryptic note left in his room, point to an unusually violent suicide. But when further evidence confuses the picture, Warren begins to suspect foul play – and murder. Clearly, someone wanted this seemingly innocent man to suffer. And when a discovery on a quiet riverbank sends the investigation reeling, Warren knows he must act quickly to discover who is behind this spate of grisly deaths – before another man of God is found dead.

“The young man tried to open the chapel door, but it was locked,’ said Ruskin. ‘He walked around trying to find another entrance. His companion stayed back by the tree-line and called 999.’

‘We’ll need their fingerprints and shoeprints to exclude them,’ said Warren. He looked at his watch. ‘It’s getting pretty late. Where are they now? Have their parents been informed?’

‘They’re in the back of a car. I believe there is some debate over whether we should phone their parents or just drop them off outside their homes.’

‘I’ll bet,’ said Sutton.

‘It’s not a pretty sight, officers,’ said the CSI that greeted them at the entrance. ‘The stairs are only wide enough for one person at a time; make sure you don’t trip over the hoses or the power cables. Try not to brush against the walls, or the door, in case there are any loose fibres we haven’t collected yet and mind your head, the folks that built this place were tiny by modern standards.’

The instructions were easier said than followed, especially for Ruskin, who eyed the narrow stairwell dubiously.

Taking the lead, Warren stepped carefully into the space. Despite his facemask, the lingering smoke was starting to make his eyes sting. As he descended, a familiar smell joined the odour of singed wood. Petrol? A few more steps and another aroma entered the mix. The smell of burnt meat. Behind him, he heard Tony Sutton breathing through his face mask.

‘I hate bloody fires,’ he grumbled.”

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