else can you tell us, Prof?’ asked Sutton, as he circled the body.
‘Not much until we get him back to the morgue and I do the post-mortem. I can’t tell if he died of burns, smoke inhalation or something else, although I’m told the kids that discovered the body heard screaming, so I suspect he was conscious at some point. Like I said, I’ll know more later.’
‘“He?” Definitely male then?’ asked Ruskin.
‘Almost certainly, although again I’ll be more confident after the PM. The muscles have contracted, which makes it difficult to estimate build; I’d be prepared to go out on a limb and say he’s not a child, but anything more will have to wait.’
Warren looked at the chair lying next to the man; a sturdy affair, the wood looked scorched but not burnt.
‘One of the seats from the chapel, you can see the kneeler fixed to the back,’ offered Harrison.
‘Why didn’t it catch fire?’ asked Ruskin.
‘The fire investigators will tell us for sure, but my nose suggests that the body was doused in petrol before being set alight. You can see that his clothes clearly caught, and then his skin, but the petrol probably vaporised and didn’t soak into the wood sufficiently for it to catch.’
Ruskin’s voice was thick when he spoke.
‘Who would do such a thing?’
Before Warren could answer the young officer’s rhetorical question, Harrison spoke up.
‘Don’t jump to conclusions, son.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Sutton.
‘We found a petrol canister and matches next to the body, alongside some whiskey and a pill container. The container was melted from the heat and only part of the label is visible. I reckon you’ll get the prescription details but not the patient’s name. They’ve been sent off for analysis. And I’ve not seen any sign that the deceased was restrained.’
‘What are you suggesting?’ asked Warren.
‘Well, the door from the chapel to the undercroft was locked; I’m no locksmith, but the large metal key we found next to the chair looks like it matches the only entrance to this place.’
It took a few moments for the importance of the discovery to sink in.
When Ruskin finally spoke, his voice was filled with horror.
‘You mean the victim did this to himself?’
Warren stifled a yawn. He’d arrived home very late the night before, the adrenaline of the night’s activities soon giving way to a bone-weary exhaustion. He could have handed over the 8 a.m. briefing to DI Sutton, but his second-in-command had been up just as late as his DCI. And what would be the point? Despite his tiredness, sleep had proven elusive. The nightmares that had plagued him since the events of the summer had returned, and he’d eventually given up and driven into work, trying his best not to disturb Susan.
At the back of the room, he spied Moray Ruskin busy regaling another detective constable with a no-holds-barred description of the body from the previous night. He at least looked refreshed – a fact that had more to do with him going straight home than the resilience of youth, Warren told himself.
‘Dunno where the kid gets his energy,’ muttered Sutton. ‘He’s already been for a run and a session in the gym this morning. He’s helping train Mags Richardson for her first half-marathon.’
‘It’s just because he had a good night’s sleep.’
‘Keep telling yourself that, sir.’
Warren chose not to respond, instead bringing the room to order. After briefly summarising the events of the previous night, he projected a photograph of the body onto the briefing room screen.
‘We have yet to identify the victim, however preliminary indications are that the fire was self-inflicted. But until that is confirmed we’ll be treating the death as unexplained.’
Detective Sergeant Mags Richardson beat DS David Hutchinson to the first question.
‘Have we eliminated the kids who called it in? Some folks get a kick out of these things.’
‘That’s underway. Forensics are analysing their clothing and belongings for traces of accelerant and have finger-printed them and taken impressions of their shoes. The locked door is supposedly the only entrance into the undercroft large enough for a person to fit through, although we will be checking the state of the bars on the windows.’ Warren smiled. ‘Moray, they might respond better to someone closer to their own age. Can you do a follow-up interview with them later today?’
Ruskin acknowledged the thinly veiled reference to his own cheeky comments the night before with a grin.
‘Have English Heritage been contacted?’ asked Hutchinson.
‘We managed to get hold of them late last night, Hutch, and they referred us to St Cecil’s Home for Retired Clergy, who are actually responsible for the maintenance and upkeep of the abbey,’ said Sutton, referring to his notebook. ‘The retirement home is actually situated within the abbey grounds, but at the far end from the chapel, and shielded by trees, so none of the residents were aware of what was happening until the fire engine turned up. A Deacon Gabriel Baines is in charge of the whole site, and he called the groundsman. The property was secured and I’ve arranged for a meeting with him first thing.’
‘I’ll take that,’ said Warren. ‘I want to get out there again.’
‘Any indications who the victim might be?’ asked DS Rachel Pymm.
‘All we have so far is that it’s an adult male,’ said Warren. ‘When we have a better description, we’ll contact missing persons and homeless shelters. I’m going to visit the abbey immediately after this briefing, and see if they can help. Any further questions?’
When none were forthcoming, Warren started assigning roles to the team.
‘Mags take charge of collecting CCTV; I’m sure they have cameras inside the grounds for security; our victim may have driven or walked, see what’s available from the surrounding area. Hutch, scope out any residential properties nearby and see if there are any witnesses. I’d also like you to arrange a team to interview any of the residents that live on site after I’ve visited.
‘Moray, bring the kids that called it in down to the station and sweat them a bit. At the moment it’s looking like a suicide, but I want us to keep an open mind. Rachel, I’d like you to set up an incident desk and get information inputted into HOLMES; if this does turn out to be something more sinister, I want us ready to react quickly.’ Warren suppressed a grimace as he remembered his early morning meeting with his superior, Detective Superintendent John Grayson. ‘Somebody burning to death in the crypt of Middlesbury’s number one tourist attraction is likely to generate headlines for all the wrong reasons. The sooner we deal with this the better.’
Deacon Gabriel Baines was a sparsely built man with a full shock of white hair and a ruddy complexion. He’d greeted Warren at the main entrance to the abbey grounds, unlocking the trades’ entrance next to the imposing double doors that served the public. A printed sheet pinned to the door apologised for the abbey’s unexpected closure.
‘These doors date back to the eighteenth century and are pretty much impregnable