by Jo Spain
‘We’ve our work cut out for us,’ Ray said. ‘I’ve got to make a call. Do you want me to make you a coffee or something? I don’t think that’s contaminating the scene, is it?’
‘I think we should err on the side of caution,’ she smiled. ‘Jack will be back soon, I’ll ask him to bring some.’
Ray left to ring Father Terence, thinking that Jack seemed to be more use to Ellie as a messenger boy than an assistant.
The priest answered after a couple of rings, and Ray introduced himself.
‘I believe you were talking to Sergeant McKenna earlier and he informed you we had cause to be in Kilcross?’
‘Yes, he rang. How can I help, Detective?’
Father Terence’s voice sounded like that of a young man.
‘I’m afraid I have to impart more bad news. I’m sorry to do this over the phone but, with this weather, it’s the only option. Father Seamus died this afternoon.’
There was an audible intake of breath on the other end of the line.
‘Pardon me? I thought Mother Attracta had been murdered.’
‘Yes, Mother Attracta is dead – and so is Father Seamus. We suspect foul play in his death, too.’
‘I don’t understand.’
There was a tremor in Father Terence’s voice. He was either an excellent actor or truly distressed.
‘I know this must be very hard to get your head around, and I don’t have all the answers. I can imagine you’re very shocked but I really must ask you a few questions to try to help our investigation along. Is that okay?’
The priest swallowed and cleared his throat. ‘Of course; ask me anything.’
‘How long did you live here for?’
‘Over two years.’
‘And you lived in the priest’s house?’
‘Where else?’
‘Father, when you were here, did you ever notice anything unusual about Father Seamus?’
‘Unusual how?’
‘Did he have any strange habits? Was he away much? Did you notice him spending much time in the attic?’
The priest let out an involuntary laugh. ‘In the attic? I shouldn’t say so. We had a lot of damp in that attic because of a leaky roof, and I’m severely asthmatic. Seamus kept it locked.’
Crafty old devil, Ray thought.
‘As for habits . . . well, not many, really – and none that were “strange”. He was very much into old movies. He used to travel up to Dublin every now and again for showings in the Irish Film Centre.
‘To be honest, Detective – and this might seem like I’m fobbing you off, considering I lived with the man for two years – but it wouldn’t be an understatement to say we were like ships in the night in that house. When I arrived I was still tied into my last parish, and I wasn’t long in Kilcross before I was called upon to provide cover for other parishes around the county. Seamus had his own parish under control and was very accommodating.’
‘I understand,’ Ray said. ‘Did Father Seamus ever talk about the past, specifically the period when the convent in Kilcross housed a Magdalene Laundry?’
‘Not that I recall.’
‘Did he have any run-ins with anyone that you know of? What was his relationship like with the nuns in the convent? Do you know if he had any enemies? Please, think hard.’
As he was speaking, something occurred to Ray. He pulled out his notepad and jotted it down.
‘There is something . . .’ said Father Terence.
‘Yes?’
‘It was just after I arrived in Kilcross, so about two and a half years ago. Father Seamus got a call very late one night. He never said who rang. I heard shouting and went to see what the problem was. He had just hung up and he was shaking. He said it was a hoax caller. He was nervous for weeks after, I recall. That was around the time he got the extra locks fitted on the door. It seemed to me to be an overreaction to a prank call.’
‘Yes, indeed.’ Ray could feel the excitement of a lead developing. ‘And he didn’t say who had called him, or what they’d said?’
‘No. I tried to bring it up the next day. He was, let’s say, adamant that I was not to raise the topic again. So I let it be.’
‘There’s nothing else you can remember, Father? No other arguments? Nobody coming to the house?’
There was silence for a moment, as the priest searched his memory.
‘No, Detective. I’m sorry, I can’t think of anything else.’
‘If you do, will you ring us straight away?’
‘Absolutely. Detective?’
‘Yes?’
‘Should I be taking precautions?’ There was a note of fear in Father Terence’s voice. ‘Is this some kind of maniac killing religious people? I lived in Kilcross – do they know who I am?’
‘No, Father. We suspect whoever did this specifically targeted Mother Attracta and Father Seamus. By all means take due care, but don’t worry unnecessarily.’
Ray rang off and immediately dialled Tom’s number.
‘I have something,’ he said when the inspector answered, relaying details of his conversation with Father Terence and the late-night phone call to the dead priest.
‘Hmm. That fits with something we’ve just found out from Ciaran.’ Tom told him about the woman caller to the police station. ‘I’ll find out exactly when the call was, and see if it was around the same time.’
‘I was thinking,’ Ray said. ‘Father Terence said Father Seamus made the odd trip to Dublin, but he didn’t mention any pattern. What if our killer planned on taking both victims on Wednesday but Father Seamus was gone?’
Tom mulled it over. ‘You could be right, Ray. It would explain why our killer was desperate enough to kill him under our bloody noses.’
‘So, if it’s not one of the nuns, has the killer been in the village since Thursday night waiting for an opportunity? Why leave it until now?’
‘Maybe, despite his false alibi on Thursday, the priest was actually busy on Friday and Saturday, and the killer couldn’t get him alone?’ Tom mused.
‘Not even at night?’
‘Well, if it was a nun she mightn’t have felt secure sneaking out immediately after Mother Attracta was abducted. Then we arrived down yesterday. She could have been waiting for an opportunity.’
Ray nodded, but didn’t speak. There was something niggling at him. He looked down at the scrawl on his notepad.
‘What is it?’ Tom asked, intuitively.
‘Assuming for a moment we’re dealing with a single suspect, I feel like the killer wants to make a point, to show us that he or she can act with impunity. A woman was taken for twenty-four hours, tortured, killed and displayed in a public park. Our killer then broke into the priest’s house while it was under surveillance and murdered him. And the carving on the nun’s body – ‘Satan’s whore’ – is this some sort of crusade? Is the killer punishing religious people who have done wrong?’
Tom fell silent as he considered.
‘It’s plausible,’ he said, eventually. ‘I have the others looking at the women who went through the laundry. One of them could be on some sort of mission to avenge a perceived wrong. Of course, one of the sisters could be, too. What’s your take on that priest you were talking to? He lived with Father Seamus for a while. Does he know more than he’s letting on?’
Ray rocked on his heels. ‘It sounded like this was all news to him. And he was pretty convincing.’
‘Okay, well, check him out, anyway. Then try to get back here. We’re going to need all hands on deck to go through these files. How are Ellie and Jack getting on?’
‘Jack is useless, and Ellie’s dog tired.’
‘Wrap it up for the day, then.’
*
No sooner had Tom ended his phone call with Ray than Ian rang him from Dublin. The sergeant had news for the inspector.
‘We tracked down the young man Gerard Poots was with the night they discovered the body,’ the Blanchardstown sergeant informed him. ‘He confirmed the stor
y. The lads in vice know him well. Sad case . . .’
‘Go on.’
‘A couple of teenagers have come forward. They were in the park that night but didn’t want their parents to find out. The girl cracked in the end – reckoned she should try to help, and to hell with the consequences. The bad news is they didn’t see anything resembling your priest’s car.’
‘Don’t worry about that. He’s dead. I’m pretty sure he didn’t kill Mother Attracta.’
‘What!’ Ian exclaimed. ‘What happened?’
Tom gave him the short version.
‘Shit,’ Ian said. ‘Well, the couple said they were sheltering in the little glen – you know, the one with the duck pond? They saw a vehicle turn off the road and follow the track through the field towards the woods where the nun was found.’
Tom straightened up. ‘And?’
‘Well, unfortunately, they both hid. They thought it was a park ranger or someone. So they can’t give us details. But they can confirm it was some kind of 4x4 and that it was light in colour.’
Tom had a clear view of the convent’s front yard from where he was sitting. Of the five cars owned by the nuns, two were SUVs. One was silver, the other light gold.
‘That’s very interesting,’ he replied.
‘Glad to be of help. The bad news is the media have the victim’s ID. They’ll be descending on you as soon as the weather permits. It’s snowing pretty heavily up here.’
‘Same here. Don’t worry about the media. They haven’t got anything else yet, have they? Like the carving?’
‘No. Is there anything else you need from me here?’
‘Yes, check out the brothel that Father Seamus was visiting. I want to rule him off the suspect list for Mother Attracta entirely. Ray can give you the details.’
Tom rang off as Ian was repeating the word ‘brothel?’ and steeled himself before dialling the superintendent’s number.
McGuinness was sticking to his usual Sunday routine. He was at home and Tom could hear the strains of Rachmaninov in the background. He had been in McGuinness’s house often enough for Sunday lunch to know that his boss’s favourite pastime after watching his grandson’s match was to have a hearty meal and then relax with a cognac and some classical music. Those who only saw the brusque, stressed side of the man at work would be amazed to see how cultured and laid-back the superintendent could be.
Tom filled him in on the latest turn in the investigation and made his request for the rest of the Dublin-based team to be sent down.
In the background he could hear the Rach 3 piano concerto, until McGuinness turned it down. Now all Tom could hear was his boss’s heavy breathing.
‘Tom, I have no problem with your team going down. I’ll tell you what I do have a problem with – how the public is going to react if it looks like the police’s main suspects in a double murder are former Magdalene Laundry inmates. Have you any idea how that would be received? If some priest gets killed in a hit and run in Galway, should we start pulling in and interrogating men who were in Letterfrack?’
Letterfrack was one of the notorious industrial schools for young boys run by the Christian Brothers.
‘I know how it sounds, but I’m afraid the priest’s predilections are sending the investigation in that direction.’
McGuinness sighed heavily. ‘I hope you’re wrong, Tom. The laundry issue is political dynamite at the moment. Between you and me, I suspect the government are playing silly buggers with this because they’re terrified of how much they might have to pay in compensation claims. The bottom has fallen out of the economy; they’ve enough on their plate with the bloody IMF on their case.’
‘I’ve no doubt they would rather it all went away,’ Tom agreed. ‘I’ve had my eyes opened over the last few days. Between this place and the mother and baby homes . . .’
‘I know. Disgusting,’ McGuinness said.
It was one word, but it was potent.
Tom knew McGuinness was a practising Catholic. For him to be critical of the Church’s history was a damning indictment.
*
After the call, the inspector left the sitting room and found Ciaran in the hallway, just finishing a call on his own phone.
‘Ciaran, when did that call come into the station from the Downes woman?’
‘It was two and a half years ago – summertime.’
‘That fits,’ Tom said, and told him about the call to the priest’s house. ‘Is there any word from the canvass of the villagers? Is the weather slowing things down?’
‘That’s what I was just checking. The team have made good progress. People are slowing them down by inviting them in for hot drinks. Those they’ve spoken to are shocked about Father Seamus but there’s no indication anyone saw or heard anything. The woman renting next door to the priest’s doesn’t seem to be down this weekend.’
‘Do you have much of that in the village – people taking holiday-type rentals?’ Tom asked.
‘Not particularly,’ Ciaran responded. ‘We’re too small: no sea, no lakes, no quality restaurants. No real attractions except isolation.’
‘Does anybody know this writer woman?’
‘I’m sure someone does. I caught a glimpse of her one time, on her way into the house. Red hair. The curtains are always twitching here, though, so someone will give you a proper description.’
‘Is there any chance your lads can ask about her while they’re doing their rounds? And can they come to the convent when they’re done in the village?’ Tom filled Ciaran in on his plan for the systematic search of the records.
‘If the road is still passable, they should be able to. I might get off now and help them finish up.’
Tom left to find Sister Concepta. He found Sister Gladys instead, and realized she was the very person he wanted to talk to.
The nun was sitting in her armchair in the kitchen, both hands cupped around a mug of tea. She was lost in thought. It took a moment for her to notice he’d come into the room.
‘Can I join you?’ he asked, indicating the armchair beside her.
She sniffed. ‘I can’t stop you.’
Up close he could see the depth of the wrinkles on the woman’s face – deep grooves etched into the skin that spoke of great age and experience. Her white hair was receding at the temples, and the hands that clasped the mug were bony, fragile and covered in liver spots. Her eyes, though, when she looked directly at him, sparkled with intelligence. He suspected, too, that the lines around her mouth weren’t merely the wrinkles of old age but indicated a person of good humour – which made her apparent permanent crankiness all the more intriguing.
‘You’re a bit young, aren’t you, to be heading up an investigation like this?’
She spoke with the same clear, loud voice he had heard her use at the dinner table last night. A schoolteacher’s voice.
‘I presume they’re sending someone more senior down to take over, now the priest has been whacked as well.’
She sniffed again, and took another sip of her tea.
He sat quietly for a moment, his chin resting on his hand, his arm in turn resting on his knee. It had been a long time since he’d been told he was too young for anything, and he quite enjoyed it.
He edged forward ever so slightly and spoke softly. ‘I know, Sister, that most of the women in here see you as some kind of demented old bat who’s on her way out. I think you might play up to that. It probably suits you to have them ignore you and say what they like – thinking you’ll forget it, anyway. You probably also like being able to say whatever the hell you want and get away with it.
‘But I have a sneaking suspicion that your brain works just fine, Sister. I’d really like to have an honest conversation with you. And I think you want to have that conversation with me, too. So what do you say?’
Chapter 40
The nun said nothing for a few moments.
Tom sat back and looked at the clock on the wall. It was after six. This time yesterday the kit
chen had been buzzing with activity, but now there was just himself and Sister Gladys.
It was pitch black outside, but nobody had pulled the curtains across the back door or windows. Tom could see snow falling again. There’d be no reinforcements coming from Dublin this night.
‘Let me compliment you back.’ Sister Gladys broke the silence. ‘You’re not as stupid as you look, either.’ She rested the tea on her lap, a hint of a smile tweaking the corners of her lips. ‘What do you want to talk to me about, Inspector? If it’s about Attracta being murdered, your young men got everything out of me last night. I’m a murderer by proxy, if not by fact. In my fantasies I’ve strangled that woman, shot her in the head, buried her alive, you name it. Call it my religion, call it being sane, call it being too bloody old, but I would never actually carry out any of my rotten thoughts.’
He noticed she’d lowered her voice. He couldn’t hear anyone in the dining room, but still she was conscious of potential eavesdroppers.
‘Why did you hate her so much?’
Sister Gladys placed her tea on the table, and picked up a ball of wool and knitting needles. He watched as the hands he had considered frail moved with incredible dexterity, crossing each stitch with speed and accuracy.
The clock ticked and the needles clicked, and all was quiet apart from that.
‘The list of reasons I had for hating that woman is as long as the wool in this ball,’ the nun said. ‘In most recent times it was the fact she spoke to me like I was the village idiot. Patronizing, condescending old witch.
‘She punished me, do you know that, Inspector? At least she thought she was punishing me. She’d send me to my room if I said something she didn’t like.’ Her tone was incredulous. ‘There isn’t enough respect for elderly people in this country. You go past a certain age and people think they can speak to you like you’ve regressed to being a small child again. Shouting in your ear and speaking in baby language. So I shout back. I speak to them like they’re idiots. They usually are, mind.’
‘I agree,’ Tom said. ‘You didn’t hate her because she treated you disrespectfully, though.’
Click, click, click.
The nun paused to switch the needles between hands and started again with the next row of stitches.