by Val McDermid
Carol sighed. Bronwen had reeled her in like a rookie. Only a face-to-face interview with Saul Neilson would help her understand what had gone wrong. Still she tried to convince herself she wasn’t committing herself. An exploratory meeting, that’s what it would be. Walking away from the paperwork, she told Flash, ‘I don’t owe Bronwen Scott a damn thing.’
The dog wagged her tail. At least one of them was convinced.
32
We often have very fixed ideas about the identity of the interviewer in relation to the person we’re seeking information from. ‘Send a woman to interview a man who likes to think of himself as powerful because he’ll believe he can dominate her.’ Or ‘Don’t send a young male officer to interview a young woman or she’ll try to flirt with him.’ These are the kind of judgements that don’t take account of the particular skills of individual interviewers. I advise senior officers to look at the available talent in their team and go with the person most likely to get results, regardless of age, gender or attractiveness.
From Reading Crimes by DR TONY HILL
Rutherford considered his options. He’d done management courses that supposedly revealed how to run a team in a major operation. And the ideas were sound, in an ideal world where there were no fast-moving changes of circumstance. The problem was that in the real world, events conspired to prevent him making the best use of his resources. Take now, for example. Somebody needed to go to York to the Mother House of the Order of the Blessed Pearl to interview the nuns who had been stationed – was that the word, ‘stationed’? – at Bradesden in an attempt to understand what had gone on there and who was responsible. His choice would have been to send Paula, who was said to be the best on the squad when it came to persuading the reluctant to talk.
But Paula had just called to say she was bringing in the groundsman from the convent to interview him under caution. He couldn’t argue with that – obviously, the discovery of the second group of bodies in the man’s personal area of the grounds begged too many questions to ignore. Either he was a serial killer – Rutherford cringed inside at the term, guaranteed as it was to whip up public hysteria and a media-feeding frenzy – or he knew who was.
Rutherford supposed there was a third possibility – that somebody else, presumably under cover of darkness – had been digging up the man’s vegetable beds, planting bodies then restoring them to their original state without the owner noticing. He supposed it was just about possible. If the killer waited till the right moment, when the crop had been harvested and the ground dug over in preparation for the next sowing, they might manage it. But it would be hard to know exactly when that would happen; surely no killer would allow their urges to be governed by somebody else’s gardening practices? No, that was a nonsense. It would be a desperate defence counsel who’d try to lead them up that particular garden path.
He was happy that they were making progress of a sort, but it was annoying that it meant his best interviewer was tied up. It could possibly wait till the morning, when Paula might have moved things along far enough to leave them on the back burner while she pursued the nuns. But that was a risky endeavour, and the longer he let things lie, the better prepared the nuns would be. Rutherford, a well-brought-up Scottish Presbyterian, had no doubt they’d have established a common line, even if it ran counter to what they believed had really happened. After all, if you could swallow the virgin birth and the resurrection and the turning of bread and wine into flesh and blood, you’d had plenty of practice in putting your fingers in your ears and going, ‘La la la la la la.’
This was supposed to be a big step up for him. On paper, it had sounded impressive. But the truth was, his options weren’t brilliant. To keep some sort of control over the whole operation he’d had to put Sophie Valente in charge of the incident room, which, in fairness, she seemed to be handling well. Her background in management and organisational skills meant she knew how to run the information flow. To take her off that would disrupt both sides of the inquiry. The only other woman on the squad was Stacey Chen. The idea of sending her to interrogate a bunch of nuns brought a grim smile to his lips. Chen was the mistress of machines, not people.
But maybe a woman wasn’t the best person for the job anyway. Rutherford’s hazy knowledge of the hierarchies of Catholic life made him suspect that although the Mother Superior was always perceived and portrayed as ruling her nuns with a rod of iron, she herself was answerable to the convent’s resident priest. Ultimately, women were pretty powerless in the church. They couldn’t even be priests, not like in his Church, where they had no pope or bishops telling them what to do. The Church of Scotland had even had women Moderators, which was the nearest they got to having someone in charge. But if you’d always been subject to the authority of men, maybe it would make more sense to have a man asking the questions.
He sighed. This was the downside of having a small handpicked team. When you were in a live investigation, you were always stretched. And it was never a good move to pull in local officers for the truly crucial interviews. Everybody might theoretically be after the same result – answers, a conviction, an appropriate sentence – but too often office politics got in the way. He wasn’t anywhere near sure enough of DCI Alex Fielding to entrust the vital interviews to members of her team he knew even less well than his own players.
Karim was keen but too inexperienced. And besides, although Rutherford daren’t say it aloud these days, he had a suspicion that culturally he might be inclined to defer to older women. Steve was persistent, a grafter who’d dig and dig and dig, but the big question mark for his boss was whether he had the finesse to handle this. And besides, Paula had asked for him to sit in with her on the interview with Martinu.
Alvin Ambrose might not be the first name in the frame when it came to finesse either, but Rutherford liked what he’d seen of him so far. In spite of an intimidating physical presence, he could put people at their ease. ‘Gentle giant’ was a cliché but it was credible enough for people to buy into. And there was a popular misconception that if you looked like a heavyweight boxer on his day off, you weren’t going to be too bright. Maybe Ambrose could lull the nuns into a false sense of security.
*
And so Alvin found himself on the outskirts of York, driving through an estate of modern brick boxes. He thought he’d lost his way; it didn’t look like convent country to him, despite the twin towers of York Minster peeping over distant rooftops. But at the end of what he feared was a culde-sac he arrived at a wide gateway in a high stone wall. A discreet sign on the right-hand gatepost announced that he had reached the Mother House Convent of the Order of the Blessed Pearl. At the end of the short driveway sat an elegant Georgian house. Perfectly symmetrical around a pillared porch with a circular window above it, three storeys of windows divided into small panes, eight windows to a side. It was hard to tell how far back it extended but Alvin had a hunch it was a lot more than one room deep. How did these nuns end up with such grand accommodation? Last he’d heard, they were supposed to be all about poverty, chastity and obedience. Still, as Meatloaf pointed out, two out of three ain’t bad.
As he grew closer, he could see his first impression wasn’t quite borne out close-up. It reminded him of a soap star he’d once met in the course of an inquiry. The distance of the camera lent her a perfection that across an interview room table felt more like a clever disguise. Up close, the flaws and the passage of time were perceptible. So it was with the convent. The paint on the window frames had gone one winter beyond its prime; the masonry showed signs of wear round edges and corners that were no longer precise; and he could just make out something surprisingly sturdy growing out of the huddle of chimney pots that adorned one gable.
He parked on the tarmacked area in front of the building. His was the only car there, but a narrow drive ran round one side of the building, a sign saying PRIVATE leaning at a slightly drunken angle beside it. Alvin got out, shaking each leg like a dog that’s been confined for too long. He took
his time walking up to the door. More Western gunslinger pace than Tactical Support Group raid. He knew he was looking smart enough for the encounter. His wife Esme wouldn’t let him out of the house unless he looked enough like the good guys not to be mistaken for a villain. So, dark grey suit, pale blue shirt, peacock blue tie. Because a man had to have a splash of colour, right? Otherwise he’d be just like anyone else. When he’d first said this to Esme years before, she’d hooted with laughter. ‘Alvin, you couldn’t be less like anyone else,’ she’d said, reaching up to pinch his cheek.
As he often did, he remembered reading the opening of Raymond Chandler’s The Big Sleep, where Philip Marlowe itemises his smartest outfit then observes, ‘I was neat, clean, shaved and sober, and I didn’t care who knew it. I was everything the well-dressed private detective ought to be. I was calling on four million dollars.’ OK, Alvin was a cop, not a PI. And he’d yet to call on four million dollars. But the principle was the same. You respect yourself, it makes it harder for others to disrespect you.
He pulled a brass knob and heard an old-fashioned brass bell echoing inside. There was a long pause. Alvin bent down and pushed open the brass letter box. A black-and-white tiled marble floor was all he could see beneath the internal flap. He stood up and rang the bell again. This time there was a scurry of soft footfalls and the door swung open. A woman of indeterminate age in a grey skirt and cardigan, her hair covered with the sort of headgear he was more used to seeing worn at hen nights or fancy-dress parties. A heavy silver crucifix hung on a bosom like a solid shelf. ‘We are at prayer,’ she said severely. ‘Psalm one hundred and nineteen. “Seven times a day I have given praise to thee.”’
‘I’m sorry,’ Alvin said. He held up his ID. She peered at it through gold-rimmed glasses. ‘I was hoping to talk to the Mother Superior.’
The woman tutted. ‘This is the Mother House. You mean the Superior General. Mother Benedict.’
Oh boy. Talk about being outside his comfort zone. He gave what he hoped was an apologetic grimace. ‘You have to forgive me, I’m not familiar with how you run things here.’
Her lips pursed in what might have been a tart little smile. ‘You’re right, I do have to forgive you. Come in, Sergeant Ambrose. Vespers will be over shortly and Mother Benedict will see you then.’
He stepped inside, the hard heels of his shoes loud on the tiles.
She walked away, looking over her shoulder as if to encourage him to follow her. ‘We’ve been expecting you.’
33
I’ve read a lot of theories about how to tell when someone is lying. They fidget. They keep preternaturally still. Their eyes go up to the top left corner of the room. They sweat. They keep touching their face. The truth is, there is no standard tell.
From Reading Crimes by DR TONY HILL
The last shreds of Jezza Martinu’s composure had vanished by the time he reached a police interview room. Skenfrith Street station had been extensively renovated in recent years but a decision had been taken to maintain the studied lack of amenity in the interview rooms. Nobody wanted to spend money on the comfort of the accused. Tony had once tried to make the case for providing a more welcoming environment. Carol had scoffed, ‘What? You think we should get the recording equipment in pastel colours, with matching décor? That would make it less unsettling, you think?’ Ever since that exchange, Paula couldn’t help picturing the whole of Skenfrith Street in the palette of The Truman Show. That was far more disturbing than the reality.
In truth, she didn’t think it would matter whether the interview suite was decked out like a five-star hotel, complete with fruit basket. Once that door closed and the recording equipment beeped, everybody knew what they were there for. Even those who had nothing to be guilty about felt the creep of anxiety in the hairs on the back of their neck. Even, she sometimes thought, the ones who had no hair on the back of their neck.
Before they went in, Paula led Steve Nisbet into the observation room. Martinu was constantly shifting in his seat. ‘There’s a man who doesn’t like being cooped up,’ Steve said. ‘Stands to reason, doing what he does. Out in the open in all weathers. He’s going to get more and more uncomfortable the longer we keep him here.’
‘Not necessarily,’ Paula said. ‘Some people settle down once they realise there’s nothing they can do to make it go away. It’s like they sink into a sort of zen interview state. But I think you’re probably right about Jezza. There’s something eating him and we’ve got to get him to give it up.’
‘How are we playing this, then?’ He was eager, no doubt about that. Jacket off, tie loosened, he had the air of a man ready for a long night. Even his neat little quiff looked more buoyant. He pointed at Paula. ‘Good cop?’ Then at himself. ‘Bad cop?’
Paula wondered fleetingly whether working with Steve was such a good idea. ‘No,’ she said. She laid a palm on her chest. ‘Good cop.’ Then nodded at him. ‘Silent cop. Taking notes cop. Interesting facial expressions cop. You can look as menacing as you like, but I don’t want you buggering up the tempo of my questions.’
His face turned surly. ‘But what if I want to ask something you’ve missed?’
‘Don’t assume I’ve missed it. I might be circling round to it from a different direction. If you think there’s something significant I’ve not picked up on, you can tell me when we break and I’ll hit him with it when we go back in.’
‘I’m not used to—’
‘It’ll be fine, Steve. Trust me, I’m good at this.’ Hand on the door handle. ‘Let’s do it.’
Whoever Martinu had used his one phone call on had sorted him out with a solicitor. Not one of the low-paid duties, who dressed like drones in an insurance office and always looked in need of a visit to the hairdresser. This young man was wearing a perfectly lovely dark grey tweed suit with a tasteful burgundy silk tie and Paula was not in the least surprised when the business card he prodded towards her revealed that he worked for Bronwen Scott’s firm. What did surprise her was that Jezza Martinu could afford Richard Cohen.
They moved swiftly through the routine of beginning the recording and identifying those present. Thanks to TV, the accused knew the drill as well as the cops and the lawyers. ‘Thanks for coming in, Mr Martinu,’ Paula said.
‘You didn’t give me much choice,’ he grumbled, expression surly, shoulders rounded.
‘My client is not under arrest and is free to leave at any time,’ Cohen clarified.
‘Indeed. Though of course, that could change, depending on what he has to tell us.’ Paula smiled, and not just because of the consternation on Martinu’s face.
‘Can we get to the point, Inspector?’ Cohen affected an air of boredom. Paula looked forward to blowing it to smithereens.
‘Mr Martinu, you are the groundsman at the convent of the Order of the Blessed Pearl?’
‘You know all this,’ Martinu said. ‘I told you already. All three of you that came round to hassle me.’
‘How long have you worked there?’
‘Do I have to go over all this again?’ Plaintive, looking at his lawyer.
‘For the tape,’ Paula said.
Cohen nodded. ‘It’s irritating, but it’s fine. I’ll tell you when it’s not fine.’
‘Twenty years. When they shut down the convent, they kept me on a retainer to look after the grounds. So it wouldn’t look like it had gone to seed. I bought my cottage off them and I lease the land where I grow my fruit and veg.’
‘What did your job entail, Mr Martinu?’
‘Mowing the grass. I’ve got a ride-on mower, you need it for a place that size. I supplied some of the fruit and veg for the convent and the school. Not all of it. I mean, obviously. It’s not a farm, just a bit of a market garden sort of thing. I looked after the odd jobs around the building – checking the guttering, bits of joinery, repairs, the occasional bit of plumbing or electrics. Nothing major. They got contractors in for stuff like painting and decorating and fixing the roof.’
‘So
unds like they’d have been lost without you,’ Paula said. ‘You had another job too, didn’t you?’
He glanced at his lawyer, who leaned forward. ‘Where are we going with this, Inspector?’
‘Mr Martinu’s already explained his role in the discoveries that have been made in the convent grounds. I’m referring initially to the extensive human remains that have been uncovered under the lawn in front of the main convent building. Jezza, tell me about those graves.’
He looked helplessly at his lawyer. ‘I didn’t do anything wrong. I just did what I was told.’
‘You didn’t question what they were asking you to do?’ Paula persisted.
He frowned, uncomprehending. ‘It was my job. I’m a good Catholic. They’re nuns, they’re in charge. Doing God’s work. It’s not for me to question them.’
Steve shifted in his chair. Paula hoped he’d stay quiet. ‘Was it the Reverend Mother who gave you those orders?’
‘Not always. Sometimes it was Sister Mary Aquinas. She was kind of Sister Mary Patrick’s deputy. You could see it wasn’t easy for them, when a girl died. But they wanted to do the best they could by them. Those girls, they had nobody. No visitors, no family, no nothing except St Margaret Clitherow’s. Sister Mary Aquinas said it could be a blessing, when you thought how their lives might end up. “Easier to be with God,” she’d say, so’s I wouldn’t feel too bad about it.’
It was chilling to hear the matter of fact way Martinu wrote off the dead girls. She couldn’t quite work out whether this was the detached attitude of the psychopath or the profound lack of imagination of someone who simply wasn’t very bright. ‘And so, what? You’d dig a grave?’