THE REVEREND

This is a detective story. People are not what they seem. There are twists and turns along the way.

The drugs haul could not have been found in a more inconvenient place as far as Reverend Wilkinson was concerned.

The police had knocked on his door late one evening to announce that during some ongoing investigations into the importation of illegal drugs by a circuitous route they had received a tip-off as to where a certain stack would definitely be found. The anonymous source did not specify the exact location but gave the address and phone number of the reverend, saying he would either back up the claim or he would be the key to unlocking the whereabouts of the said drugs.

“Reverend Wilkinson,” the chief inspector had politely but firmly announced. “We have reason to believe that you are in a good position to assist us in our inquiries”. He had explained all the details to the bemused priest, who frankly admitted he was completely in the dark. He was convinced he could not help them in any way whatsoever.

The chief inspector persisted in his questioning. “You see, sir, we cannot leave things as they stand, because someone gave your name, address and telephone number as a possible lead in this case. Now who is lying? Our source or your good self? Of course, you being a priest leads me to think that the source wants to cause mischief. However, I’m bound to say that being a priest does not necessarily mean you are a law-abiding citizen, let alone a shining example of a member of your religion.”

The reverend did not disagree with the chief inspector, but was still puzzled as to where this unwanted conversation was leading. After all he was due to go out on his rounds of visitations among his parishioners, especially the sick and housebound, as he explained to the somewhat irritated inspector, who was anxious to get a result in this long-running saga of a case. It would do no harm with his excellent reputation in the regional headquarters for solving crimes others were loath to take on.

“Well, sir, am I to take it that you do not wish to help us with our inquiries?”

The reverend was himself equally irritated with this unconscionable attack on his probity and integrity as a man of the cloth. He reiterated he was unable to help, because he simply knew nothing about any drugs.

With that, the police inspector asked to be shown round both the vicarage and the church with its graveyard. In fact he detailed several of his officers with the reverend’s kind permission to search every room in both buildings. He had no warrant. So he chose to state it would be in the reverend’s best interests to cooperate. The latter considered that to be coercion and was about to call his solicitor, when he thought that since he had nothing to hide, there was no point in raising the stakes. So he acquiesced in this infringement of his privacy and his professional status.

Reverend Wilkinson waited in his study for what seemed a very long time. He judged it best to let them get on with whatever they needed to do. He decided to deal with his correspondence, but somehow could not quite keep his mind on it. He seemed for no apparent reason perturbed about what might be found. He also had faith in the incorruptibility of the British police. So he was particularly upset when after two hours the chief inspector arrived at his front door, holding a heavy duffel-bag. The latter’s face told the reverend things had suddenly taken a turn for the worse.

“Sir, we found this in your vestry.” The bag was opened in which could clearly be seen plastic bags containing a white substance which the reverend assumed was the illegal drug. “In fact we found several of such bags both in your vestry and elsewhere within the church premises. How can you account for them?”

Reverend Wilkinson found the nearest chair and sat down heavily on it. He was breathing heavily and could say nothing. It was all too much for a man who was looking forward to retirement and rest and recuperation from the trials and tribulations of working in an inner city parish. However, this had made him utterly speechless. He had no conception as to the trouble in which he was inextricably involved.

He continued to plead his innocence to the chief inspector, who was beginning to become exasperated. He then issued the reverend a final warning to tell the truth or face the consequences. Since the reverend’s idea of "spilling the beans" or the equivalent did not fit in with the inspector's, the latter had no choice but to arrest him on drugs charges with the possibility of more to come, once the case had been solved.

The reverend asked to see a lawyer, and was told one would be assigned to him, once they had arrived at the police station and he had been formally charged. The former also stated he had to inform his housekeeper, who had had the day off, so she could look after things in his absence. He assumed once everything had been clarified he would return that same day. This was just a formality which had to be gone through by the police in their investigations.

When eventually he had been charged and told the name of the defence lawyer, who had been assigned to him, and found himself alone, locked up in a cell, he realized he had made a big mistake.

Although the reverend himself may not have had anything to do with the drugs, he was quite possibly in possession of some knowledge which could be assistance to the inspector. The fact Rev Wilkinson chose to withhold this information would count against him in the long run, but because of family loyalty he had been placed in an unenviable position.

As he pondered his precarious situation in the police cell, wondering what he was going to be charged with, he realized his rash decision to stay silent would cost him dear. Whatever happened, he would indeed be charged with obstructing the police in the course of their investigation and possibly with being an accessory to a crime of which he had not the slightest idea until the discovery of the incriminating evidence, which pointed the finger directly at himself.

He would never forget the day before the inspector’s visit, when his long-lost younger brother turned up at the vicarage in a swanky Jaguar. The latter was dressed like the proverbial man about town, and smoking a large cigar, as he stepped out of the car. He was accompanied by two young blondes, chewing gum and totally bored with the whole proceedings. “Long time no see, bro! Now, Janey and Shirl, be nice to him. Don’t upset him. He represents the staid and respectable part of the family.”

While they were all getting out of the car and waiting to be let into the house, Frankie, the reverend’s brother, was explaining the reason for this sudden visit after so many years. He had decided it was high time he went and saw the parents, even though they were six feet under in a fancy grave. He wanted to show his latest catches the old church as well as the graveyard, whether they liked it not. Clearly they did not, judging by the vacant expression on their faces, but that cut no ice with Frankie. He was enjoying upstaging his dowdy older brother.

The latter was forced to entertain these unwelcome guests to luncheon, and so his housekeeper had to be summoned on her day off to cook them a meal at short notice and with a promise of being well rewarded for her service. Not much in the way of conversation passed between the partakers of the meal, except Frankie made it clear to his older brother he knew the way to the church and if the latter just gave him the key to the church he could get on with his correspondence without having to bother to entertain Frankie and his groupies.

For some strange unaccountable reason, the reverend agreed to this proposal - which of course as he sat in this prison cell he bitterly regretted. So they left him in peace, and never returned to the vicarage.

Later that day, Reverend Wilkinson received an anonymous phone call from someone who told him not to say a word about the events of that day to anyone - especially to the police - nor was he to investigate about what had happened. He could not fathom out the identity of the voice. He was not even sure of the sex. It sounded deep but perhaps false. However, it was made quite clear that if he were to do so, there would be consequences, which would affect not just himself but others whom he cared about.

He considered his brother a rogue and a harmless one at that, until the discovery of the drugs in his church. However, his sense of family loyalty overrode any thought that justice must be done and seen to be done. Now that foolishness had led him into the police cell, where he would have time to decide what his next move would be. He looked around and saw he had been given a pillow and blanket. There was a bed - the type you would find in an old school dormitory. Probably just as uncomfortable to sleep on. In the corner there was a bucket. His mind went on overdrive as to its use. He remembered all those crime movies and could only draw one conclusion.

So far, he had been left alone. No-one seemed to want to see him or question him. Perhaps they did not need to. He was sure that once he had seen a solicitor, he would be released without further questioning or being charged. However, he knew this would not be the case. He had not told the truth to the police, and sooner or later they would find out.

Just outside the vicarage at that precise moment a police car drew up and the inspector got out and walked towards the front-door, which was opened by the housekeeper, behind whom a somewhat dapper gentleman stood with his hands in his pockets - smiling broadly!

The inspector was smiling too! All three went into the reverend’s study and each sat down in one of the comfortable armchairs. The gentleman who seemed to have taken possession of the vicarage for some reason went to the drinks cabinet and poured out whiskys for himself and his two friends, who had in fact become his co-conspirators. Once they had their drinks in their hands, they stood, clinked glasses and celebrated.

All three had sworn themselves to absolute secrecy. They each had a cast-iron guarantee that no-one else would grass, because at that moment they each had a medium-sized attaché case, containing one million pounds sterling. The flamboyant gentleman had managed to sell the drugs for the amount he had demanded. He prided himself on being a tough negotiator.

The others did not inquire about the details of the transaction, because it was a case of the fewer people to know the better. All he would say was that the drugs were no longer in this country and that the banknotes were not in sequence, so they could not easily be traced. He advised them not to start any rash spending of the money, but bit by bit to invest in various overseas accounts in places where no questions would be asked about provenance.

All three were agreed. However, the one who organized the deal was not absolutely sure if the housekeeper completely understood the need for caution, now that she had suddenly become rich beyond her wildest dreams. However, she was glad the deed had been done. She had never liked her sanctimonious employer, who always took great delight in condemning his wayward brother as a wastrel and a ne’er-do-well.

The boot was now firmly on the other foot with the vicar in a safe place and out of harm’s way. None of them were too sorry that he would probably be stripped of his living and vocation, such as it was, once he had been convicted of being in possession of drugs - a crime which alone carried a custodial sentence, from which he would never recover. He might even join the criminal fraternity as a failed cleric.

After the drinks were replenished once more, they took their cases and left the house, not bothering to lock it up. They then proceeded to jump into the Jaguar and then sped down the drive into the lane. Within two hours, the Jaguar had been abandoned and each of the three made their way in their own cars to various exit points out of the country and just disappeared.  

It was not long before the shock-waves of the disappearance of the three was felt - especially that of the chief inspector. At first it was thought he had been under so much pressure he might have taken off or worse still attempted suicide. As for the housekeeper, she would have sought another position since her erstwhile employer was now under lock and key in the local constabulary. No-one knew much about the mysterious stranger who also seemed to feature in these events.

A new investigative team was set up to examine all the evidence. They soon discovered the disappearance of the drugs haul from the church, and realized that since the reverend was in jail at the time, he was probably innocent of the crime, although a tail would be placed on him, so they knew his whereabouts. He might take them to the perpetrators of the crime. Even unawares!

A team of forensic experts went through the vicarage with a fine tooth-comb, and soon discovered the remnants of a drinks party which had not been cleared away. They managed to get a considerable number of fingerprints on the glasses in particular. In fact they were so sharp the experts felt confident they would get a match fairly easily within a short space of time.

They were wrong of course, because the crime remained unsolved for years. It was never abandoned - just shelved, put to one side, until they got a lead.

In the summer of 1985 one of the detectives in the London Metropolitan Police Force was holidaying with his wife in Marbella. They had looked forward to a time of rest and relaxation. The hotel where they stayed had all the mod-cons. They could not have asked for better service. They did get a chance to meet the English owner. He was a nice enough bloke. As they chatted away every dinnertime at the table, with the owner sometimes sitting down with them, the detective couldn’t help thinking that the man looked familiar.

He decided not to ask any questions which might be considered impertinent or suspicious. As it turned out, it was a wise move on his part. However, he surreptitiously took some photos of the man. Perhaps his instincts as a detective were kicking in. When he told his wife, she was absolutely incandescent with fury, and told him he should admit to the owner what he had been doing and promise to destroy the film. He explained to her about his suspicions and about the fact this action might help to solve a crime which has been remained unsolved for too long. He began to realize he might have met a colleague who was working on a drugs case some years previously and then suddenly disappeared.

Once back in the UK, the detective reported for duty and immediately told his superior about what had transpired in Spain and how this development might assist their inquiries. It was not long before it was indeed established that the man in the photos was the chief inspector involved in the drugs haul. An extradition order for the man was arranged and it was not long before he was arrested and sent on his way to Scotland Yard.

There were still many questions to ask this former colleague - not the least of which would hopefully lead to the discovery of the whereabouts of the other two conspirators, the ringleader being one of them, as they soon discovered.

The police do not use torture to extract information out of their suspects, unless deprivation of sleep is considered as such. The former chief inspector, whom we shall call Johnny, was subjected to constant interrogation night and day, until cracks began to appear in his story. It was then that he was offered a lesser sentence if he told everything he knew about the other two in the plot. It was a worthwhile proposition, because they suspected he indeed knew where they were living their secret lives, and he was given twenty-four hours to mull over what he was being offered - after which time the door would be firmly closed, and they made it quite clear he would be in for a long stretch in a prison where those incarcerated would not take kindly to a bent copper who had banged them up.

The next day he was singing like a nightingale. He cooperated like a meek lamb. The names, addresses and even telephone numbers were supplied within a very space of time.

Now his interrogators could have gone back on their word, but instead, in order to sweeten the pill, they proposed a minimum sentence in an open prison after a short period in solitary confinement in a less salubrious place, and upon release he would also be given a new identity after surgery to change his appearance. At first he balked at this but knew that this was the only deal in town.

It did not take them long to arrest the housekeeper who had not followed the ringleader’s advice. She had gone back up to Scotland where her family took her in without any questions asked. In fact she was the one who answered the knocking at her parents’ house when the two detectives arrived to arrest her. She did not cause any fuss or make a complaint. She knew she had reached the end of the road and the adventure was now over. The detectives also got the added bonus of discovering her attaché case was in her bedroom, unopened and with the money unused. She eventually was sentenced to a medium term in prison. I do not know whether she came out of that experience a changed woman who had learned her lesson or not.

As for the ringleader, they were unable to locate him. His contact details were genuine, but it seemed that he had been tipped off by someone, local to where he was living, and fled to an unknown destination which could have been elsewhere in his adoptive country or another place altogether. The detectives who arrived to question their suspect got the distinct impression that he had become so much a part of his new surroundings and made so many loyal friends, that when they started to make inquiries through an interpreter, they were confronted by a wall of silence. In fact, it was suggested to them that their lives might be in jeopardy if they persisted in their quest, or was it all just their imagination going wild in this out-of-the-way part of the country, where all strangers were viewed with suspicion?

They managed to find a phone line back to London and asked for further instructions. They explained the predicament in which they found themselves and said that they did not much care to stay any longer than necessary in such a hostile neighbourhood. It was agreed reluctantly that they should return home and resume their duties after debriefing and some well-earned leave.

Just a day after the British detectives had made a hasty retreat back to the UK, a body, riddled with bullets almost in execution-style and and not yet in the first stages of decomposition was discovered in an orchard, which overlooked the village where they had tried to conduct their investigation. The find was made by an international trekking expedition. The local police were summoned, but were none too happy that murder of possible international implications had been committed on their patch, and their aim was to try and conceal the facts, in order to divert attention of the outside world. The hikers were outraged, and collected photographic evidence of the scene, with the intention of informing the relevant law enforcement agencies, and thus ultimately within a short space of time Scotland Yard became heavily involved.

Detectives, assigned to the case, quickly established that the body, found in the orchard, was that of Frankie, the reverend’s brother. Curiously it seems that the pockets of the deceased had not been rifled, so his identity could only be confirmed by a scrap of paper pinned to the jacket on which three names had been written, and on the back of which there were the English words: “See you in hell.” So the investigative team now knew that all three in the plot had been accounted for, but the case still remained open, because of the murder. In the search of the area where the body was located it was not surprising that no attaché case was found.  

A day after the discovery, a police car drew up outside the vicarage. This time two officers, both got out and approached the front-door. They must have been expected or spied at through net-curtains, because the door was immediately opened by what presumably was the housekeeper, who had been appointed as a replacement for the former one, now languishing for some considerable time in a prison cell.

The woman addressed the two detectives in her broad Scottish accent, letting them know that the reverend had unexpectedly just left on sabbatical and would not be back for a long while. Yes, she did know the address of the retreat house where he would be staying, but it was in one of the North-eastern states of the USA. However, the house was run by a closed order of nuns, and did not take kindly to being disturbed. She did say that he had taken a small attaché case with him. What it contained she did not know. However, she did admit that it was the first time she had ever seen it.

Once they were back at the police station, the officers made inquiries about the retreat house and after hasty inquiries it soon dawned on them that they had been given false information. There was no such place. They returned to the vicarage to find it completely shut up and deserted. It was almost as though it had not been lived in for a long time, and that perhaps they were mistaken about seeing a housekeeper.

So, once more it was reluctantly decided to put the case on hold indefinitely, after a fruitless search via Interpol was made for the reverend, if he was indeed a man of the cloth. This state of affairs did not sit well on the newly appointed chief inspector, who was keen to build up his reputation as a man of action and results. The unsolved crime would remain as a running sore for a good many years to come, until they were fortunate enough to be given a credible lead. “Reverend” Wilkinson was for the time being a free man, but would always have to look over his shoulder and be one step ahead of his pursuers - both the law enforcement authorities of many countries and international criminal gangs who were only too keen to get their hands on the money, even it meant they were to waste him away.