With Our Blessing

by Jo Spain

  Tom hung up and remained in the sitting room, quietly watching the wood hiss and spit as the fire burned merrily in the grate. Through the lace curtains in the window he could see the grounds at the front of the convent, covered in white, bereft of movement except for the clumps of snow that periodically fell from the trees and landed, silently, on the virgin snow beneath.

  He picked up his phone.

  Maria answered after a couple of rings.

  ‘Mam said you were mounting “Maria-watch” from down there.’ She yawned.

  ‘I’m only ringing to tell you I love you and I’m thinking about you,’ he said.

  He knew she’d been expecting a smart remark but his heartfelt words disarmed her. Their relationship nowadays was characterized by witticisms and sarcasm, emotions evident but left unarticulated. It had been that way since she entered her teens.

  There was silence for a moment and then a surprised, ‘I love you, too.’

  He could hear a catch in her throat.

  ‘Dad? You’re not disappointed in me, are you? I’m planning to stay in college. I mean, I’ll try to. It might be better if I get a job and pay my way.’

  He shook his head vigorously. ‘I could never be disappointed in you, Maria. Don’t even think it. Whatever you do, I’ll support you. But don’t imagine for one second you’re facing this on your own, or that we won’t be there for you every step of the way. We’re your parents; that’s our job.’

  A vehicle pulled slowly into the drive.

  Maria was silent on the other end of the phone, and he knew she didn’t want to say anything in case it came out with a sob.

  He lifted the smartphone and pressed its cool glass against his forehead. ‘Hug, pat, kiss,’ he said.

  She laughed, the tension broken.

  ‘Hug, pat, kiss,’ she said back.

  It was the routine they had played out every evening for years. He would arrive home from work and call up to say goodnight to his little girl. Louise called it their OCD routine – a hug, a pat on the back and a kiss on the lips.

  ‘See you when you’re home, Dad,’ she said.

  She ended the call, and he stood up.

  The vehicle was Ellie’s. Tom met her at the door and helped her carry her equipment case back into the convent.

  ‘Déjà vu,’ she said. ‘Emmet was with us earlier, but he’s in Limerick city now.’

  ‘I’m just about to ring him. He won’t be happy in someone else’s lab – he gets crankier the further he gets from home.’

  ‘I find that hard to believe,’ Ellie replied. ‘I’ll give everything a quick going over. Emmet has a habit of finding things even when you think you’ve covered every millimetre.’

  ‘It’s all part of his God complex. Where’s your sidekick?’

  ‘Still up at the priest’s house. I get the sense he’s reluctant to come down here. Between you and me, I think this place gives him the creeps.’

  Tom left her to get settled. On the way to the records room, to check on Michael and Laura’s progress, he rang Emmet.

  ‘Different county, same procedure – eh, Tom? I barely get to look at the evidence before you start harassing me.’

  ‘Come on, Emmet, you’ve been in Limerick for hours. What have you got?’

  ‘I spoke to the pathologist. They took samples from the body last night. The priest was indeed injected with Epinephrine, which in turn caused him to have a massive heart attack. Lucky guess on my part. You have a double murder.’

  ‘Marvellous. Any forensic evidence?’ Tom asked, hopefully.

  ‘Yes. The priest had DNA under his fingernails. I got the sample myself from the mortuary, with the pathologist’s assistance. It’s minuscule but it’s there. Just as well I came down.’

  ‘That’s good news.’

  ‘This DNA will only be of use if you’ve got a suspect to match it to. Have you?’

  ‘That’s the plan. Will you be here soon?’

  ‘As soon as you want me, Tom. Sure I’m just kicking my heels here, shooting the breeze with the rest of these useless, lazy scientists. We were turning the Bunsen burners on and off and talking about a round of golf . . .’

  Tom hung up and smiled to himself.

  The case was moving. In what direction, he wasn’t sure, but he could smell a breakthrough.

  *

  ‘I have three names,’ he said, handing his notepad to Laura.

  ‘Who are they?’ she asked. She had been fruitlessly rechecking boxes to ensure they hadn’t missed a Liz Downes.

  ‘The women who made accusations that Father Seamus got them pregnant.’

  ‘So it’s true!’ Michael exclaimed, shaking his head.

  Ray had joined the others and took the notepad from Laura to study the names.

  ‘I just saw that woman’s name, Noreen Boyle. Are we speculating that Margaret Downes is actually “Liz” Downes?’

  ‘Yes, I think so,’ Tom said. ‘Her house name was Maggie. Maybe she gave herself a new first name in a bid to put this place behind her.’

  Tom knew this was all conjecture, but there was so much similarity between Margaret and Liz’s stories.

  ‘I want the other two files, asap,’ Tom said, ‘but we can’t get carried away with these three women. They got pregnant, so they couldn’t hide what had happened to them. Others may have been raped and never spoke of it. Remember, we found photos of more than three girls in the priest’s attic.’

  Ray pulled out a file from the box he had been going through. ‘Noreen Boyle,’ he said, handing it to Tom.

  ‘Oh, hold on,’ Laura said. She crossed to another box. ‘Bríd O’Toole. I remember seeing it yesterday.’

  Tom held the two files as though they were eggs that would break if dropped.

  ‘Right,’ he said, opening the first one.

  He read aloud the pertinent facts.

  Noreen had been admitted to the home in 1971, aged fourteen. She had been sent there from an industrial school. Her house name was Ivy. A note attached to her file stated bluntly that her mother had been a prostitute, father unknown.

  It seemed the young girl had been accustomed to institutional life when she entered the laundry because there were scant entries recording disobedience in the years leading up to 1973, when she fell pregnant.

  A handwritten page noted the pregnancy.

  Ivy has made outrageous, sinful claims about how she conceived this baby. Due to her quiet nature, none of us have been watching her particularly closely and she has abused our trust. It is a reminder that we must never take our eyes off these girls, especially the ones that come from backgrounds like Ivy’s. She has been punished for the sins of her fornication and pregnancy and we are now considering a suitable chastisement for the sin of lying.

  Laura clicked her tongue with disgust as Tom read aloud.

  The remainder of the file charted Noreen’s admission to the infirmary in late December 1973. A short note revealed her baby had been adopted at eight weeks of age. It seemed there had been some difficulty getting Noreen to sign the adoption release, but her assent had eventually been secured.

  A period of rebellion followed, before she was released from the laundry in 1977, aged twenty, to study as a nurse in Dublin.

  Bríd’s file was equally harrowing.

  The youngest of six children, she had been placed in the laundry, aged twelve, following the death of her mother in 1969.

  A handwritten note stated:

  Her father did the right thing in placing Bríd in our care. One can see that even at the tender age of twelve, this girl has all the markings of promiscuity. The figure of womanhood has already begun to bloom on her, something she considers a great delight, and she is entirely aware of her effect on men.

  Bríd was pregnant in 1974, aged seventeen.

  Tom thought back to the Downes file. She was around seventeen in 1974; he’d have to recheck it. Had Father Seamus not raped the younger girls? Maybe he was smart enough not to take the risk of impr
egnating them at that age for fear of a closer investigation. Or maybe he took pleasure in grooming them over a lengthy period.

  Bríd’s file was littered with punishments. She was obviously a serial rebel, which may have delayed her release from the laundry until 1981, aged twenty-four. The file didn’t record what she went on to do.

  ‘That reminds me,’ Tom said. ‘There was nothing at the end of Margaret Downes’s file, either, to say where she’d gone or if she even left the laundry.’

  ‘So, we’re dealing with two crimes,’ Ray said, when Tom shut the second file. ‘The murders and the rapes.’

  The inspector nodded. ‘It may turn out that Sister Bernadette killed Mother Attracta and Father Seamus, but we’ve established that the probable reason for their murders lies in the past. These laundry women have been ignored for too long.’

  ‘I think we’re right to focus on the women who got pregnant as other potential suspects, though,’ Laura suggested. ‘Can you imagine the psychological damage that would do to someone – being raped and then having your child forcibly taken from you?’

  ‘But if they’d been raped, surely they wouldn’t have wanted the babies?’ Michael said.

  Laura shook her head. ‘I did some training in rape counselling. Most women are usually treated early to ensure against pregnancy. But not all those who find out they’re pregnant too late react as you’d expect. They don’t necessarily associate the child with the assault, especially when they see the baby. It’s hard to have those feelings about a newborn.’

  Tom stared at Laura, an idea forming. It was a theory that had been scratching at the edge of his consciousness.

  Just then, the door behind them opened and Ciaran came in. ‘Tom, sorry to interrupt, can we have you for a minute?’

  Behind Ciaran stood a tall, well-built man. He was in his forties and deeply tanned, his slicked-back hair lightened by sun streaks. This had to be the prodigal son from California. He smiled to reveal a set of gloriously white teeth, the likes of which had probably never been seen in Kilcross before.

  ‘Ronan O’Neill,’ he said, pleasantly, shaking Tom’s hand vigorously.

  ‘Detective Inspector Tom Reynolds,’ Tom replied, hoping his fingers would still work when released. ‘Thanks for your help with this, Ronan. Do you have something for me already?’

  ‘I do. The sender of the emails wanted to remain anonymous but made an amateur error. They had to provide an existing email address when they set up the Yahoo! account – to verify passwords. The email address provided was Mother Attracta’s.’

  Tom’s eyes widened. ‘Go on,’ he urged.

  ‘Well, to access the nun’s account from their personal computer, they’d have needed to find out her password. But if they used Attracta’s own computer, they would have had easy access to her emails because she probably had her password saved, so the email account would have opened automatically. Just give me access to her computer and I can find out more.’

  ‘By all means.’ Tom turned to Michael. ‘Could you find Sister Concepta?’

  Over Michael’s shoulder, Tom could see Ray was completely distracted. His deputy held a piece of paper and was frowning as he stared at it.

  ‘If I’m right, I should be able to see when the Yahoo! account was set up,’ Ronan said. ‘After that, I’ll try to find out as much as possible from cyber fingerprints.’

  Tom said nothing. If Mother Attracta’s account had been accessed on her own computer, then all the evidence was now pointing in one direction – towards one of the other nuns.

  So why couldn’t he shake the niggling suspicion that they were on the wrong track altogether?

  Tom and Ciaran watched as Ronan’s fingers flew over the keyboard, pulling up settings and history on the desktop.

  The door opened, and Sister Concepta stepped in. Tom marvelled at how these nuns seemed to be invisible most of the time but so easily found when they were needed.

  ‘Sister Concepta, I’ve asked this gentleman to look up something for me. You might know him from the village?’

  The nun looked from Tom to Ronan and, after a moment, nodded uncertainly.

  ‘Sister, did the other nuns ever have access to Mother Attracta’s computer? Was it in communal use?’

  Sister Concepta gave him a tight smile. ‘No. Mother Attracta didn’t like anyone else in here.’

  ‘And it was just you and Sister Bernadette who had another computer?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Tom rubbed his chin. ‘We believe someone was sending Father Seamus poison emails.’ He studied her closely for her reaction.

  She looked back at him blankly.

  He turned back to Ronan. ‘Will you be long, Mr O’Neill?’

  The man didn’t look up from the keyboard. ‘Give me a half-hour, Inspector.’

  Tom left the room with Sister Concepta.

  ‘Sister Bernadette told me you’d spoken to her,’ she said, when they were outside. ‘Inspector, I’ve known Sister Bernadette a long time. I know what she’s capable of and what she’s not. Believe me, you are barking up the wrong tree.’

  His phone rang.

  ‘Nobody knows what anyone is capable of when they’re pushed, Sister,’ he responded, distractedly.

  It was McGuinness again.

  ‘Sir,’ he said, indicating with a nod to Concepta that he had to take the call.

  She glared at him, but left.

  ‘What’s happening, Tom?’

  ‘We have some progress. Our focus at this point is on another nun from the convent. She has no alibi for either murder. She appears to have motive and means.’

  ‘Well, then, maybe my precautionary measure was taken too soon.’

  Tom’s mouth felt suddenly dry. ‘What precautionary measure?’

  McGuinness coughed. ‘I’ve sent down Linda to help with the witnesses.’

  Tom cursed silently and choked back his immediate response. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe steadily. Linda McCarn, Emmet’s nemesis.

  ‘You can call her back, sir. She’s not needed.’

  Silence met him on the other end of the line. Then, ‘That’s not going to be easy, Tom. She’s booked into the B&B down there and left at eight this morning.’

  This time the profanity escaped Tom’s lips before he had time to stop it.

  He took a deep breath.

  ‘You do realize I’ve Emmet McDonagh here, too? What were you thinking?’

  Linda and Emmet, it was rumoured, had once been engaged in a torrid extramarital affair. While part of Tom could see how two such driven, egotistical and stunningly clever people could have ended up together (and imploded), the thought of it made his stomach, unfairly, a little queasy. Nobody knew what had caused the rift between the two, but everyone knew of their now mutual animosity – and the hassle it caused when they were both thrust on to the same investigation.

  One of these days, Tom intended to stop indulging them and call time on their childish carry-on. He’d also just realized who Ray had been referring to when he had mentioned another character staying in the village B&B.

  McGuinness’s response was as swift as it was defensive. ‘Tom, what other action could I take? A murdered nun and a priest? That rings every psycho alarm bell there is. Of course I’m going to send down the state’s leading criminal psychologist to assist you.’

  ‘Well, there’s not much I can do about it now,’ Tom barked into the receiver.

  ‘Let her help,’ McGuinness said. ‘She’s good. And you know it.’

  Tom was still grousing when the doorbell rang.

  He knew that the person outside the door was Linda McCarn. She radiated crazy.

  McGuinness had timed his call to perfection.

  His heart sank.

  Chapter 47

  Tom opened the door and found himself eyeballing what he hoped was a fake fox.

  Underneath the animal, which looked remarkably calm for a creature that had been transformed into a hat, stood the psychologis
t.

  Just a head shorter than the inspector and skinny as a rake, Linda McCarn had decided early that the way to ensure her beanpole frame would never be overlooked was to adorn it with outrageous clothing and accessories.

  Today, her dress sense was almost demure. Except for the orange fox hat, the tail of which was wrapped around her neck as a scarf, she was wearing a white puff parka jacket and an ankle-length green velvet skirt. She was a walking Irish flag.

  Her wild frizzy brown hair was tucked into the hat, with just the odd delinquent curl escaping. The inspector often wondered whether Linda’s clients, on first impression, were confused as to who was supposed to be analysing whom.

  ‘Tom, darling,’ she bellowed, in her privileged accent, air kissing both sides of his face. ‘I hear you need me!’ She pushed past him, pausing only to whisper in his ear, ‘I’ve dressed down. My Catholic upbringing.’

  She laughed uproariously, and he backed away slightly.

  ‘Come in, Linda,’ he said, as she swept into the hall.

  ‘Well, this is just adorable,’ the psychologist said, looking around her.

  Though they were standing in the large hallway of an even larger house, Linda spoke as though she’d just entered the tiny parlour room of a two-up, two-down.

  ‘It’s all very intriguing, isn’t it, Tom? I’ve been hoping I’d get called in on this one.’

  She moved through the hall, virtually stepping over Ellie, who looked up at the long legs moving through the area she was examining with a mixture of astonishment and annoyance.

  ‘That’s Ellie Byrne, from the Tech Bureau. Emmet is on his way, Linda,’ Tom said.

  ‘That odious man. Marvellous. Charmed, I’m sure.’ Linda spoke first to Tom, then to Ellie. ‘Can I get a drink? Only a soft one. I have to drive back to my lodgings later to write up this fascinating case.’

  ‘You’ll have solved it by then, I suppose,’ Tom replied, tartly.

  She put her large hazel eyes on full swivel and fixed them on him. They were searching, brilliant eyes. When they were focused directly on an individual, that person realized, often too late, that behind Linda’s overbearing, eccentric manner lurked a genius, one who took in everything.

  ‘All of the letters after my name lead me to believe you are being sarcastic, Tom.’