With Our Blessing

by Jo Spain

  He turned to Ciaran. ‘What do you think of this?’

  ‘I think we need to check out this facility sharpish. The company is planning to tell its customers about the new security this week. We tried to get them to hold off, but they’ve bought advertising slots that are set to go. Catherine hasn’t been back since. But she’s still paying rent, and could return at any time.’

  ‘And we’ll know if she does,’ Ronan added.

  Tom’s mind raced in several directions. But there was one thread in particular that unnerved him. After crossing the Rubicon and marking Sister Bernadette as a suspect, now any of the nuns were potential candidates. When he spoke to Sister Clare yesterday, she’d referred to Sister Concepta as an actress. It was ridiculous to imagine that Sister Concepta and Catherine Farrell were one and the same, wasn’t it? Or was Catherine Farrell actually Margaret Downes?

  Then there were the dates the three women had been raped. Sister Concepta must have been born in the mid-seventies. And hadn’t she said her parents were dead?

  It couldn’t be, could it?

  Exactly what had been Sister Concepta’s name before she became a nun? In fact, if it was a child of one of the women who’d been raped, that opened up the suspect list to several other men and women. Linda McCarn had said that Tom could have already met the killer. She’d also said it was always the most likely suspect. But what if it was the most unlikely . . .

  His mind was racing with possibilities that he couldn’t give voice to yet.

  ‘How long does it take to drive to Portlaoise from here?’ he asked.

  ‘About an hour and fifteen minutes in normal weather conditions,’ Ciaran answered. ‘Could take two hours in these conditions. But they’ve been clearing the main roads all day, and there hasn’t been any snowfall since this morning.’

  Tom wasn’t about to lose another minute.

  ‘Right, I’m heading to that lock-up right now. Ronan, can you monitor that storage unit and keep digging into this Catherine woman?’

  ‘Absolutely. I am so rethinking my career choices right now.’

  Tom pulled his ringing phone from his pocket.

  It was Ian, hopefully reporting on the backgrounds of the three women whose names Sister Clare had given them. What had seemed less important just an hour ago was suddenly to the forefront of the investigation.

  ‘Ian?’

  ‘I have good and bad news,’ the sergeant said.

  ‘Start with the bad.’

  ‘Right. Of the three names you gave me to check, two are deceased: Bríd O’Toole and Margaret Downes. Bríd died in the late eighties. She was the victim of a hit and run in Manchester.’

  ‘What a tragic life,’ Tom said.

  ‘You think that was tragic? Margaret Downes died in the psychiatric unit she was transferred to by the nuns. She only passed away in 2008.’

  The inspector ran his fingers through his hair and shook his head.

  Could she have made the phone call to Kilcross and posed as Liz, from a psychiatric hospital? Or, if Margaret was dead, then the Liz Downes who rang the station could have been a family member, ringing in grief. Did that make her a suspect? Or was the remaining woman on the list the key to the case?

  ‘Did they have families?’ he asked.

  ‘Bríd was married but had no children outside of the baby that was adopted. There’s no evidence they ever reconnected. The husband’s dead as well. I don’t know about Margaret. I spoke to someone briefly down there who said she might have had visitors. I’m looking into it.’

  ‘What’s the good news, Ian?’

  ‘Noreen Boyle is alive and well. We have no number for her, but we have an address in Newbridge, County Kildare.’

  ‘Excellent. Keep looking into possible family for Margaret, will you? Send that address for Noreen through.’

  He hung up and tried to gather his thoughts. His gut told him the lock-up was where Mother Attracta had been murdered. But Noreen Boyle was the only remaining victim of Father Seamus who had been forced to give up her child.

  Was she the person who had sought revenge?

  The others stared at him, eagerly awaiting his orders.

  ‘Right, we’ve more to do now. I’ve got an address in Newbridge for one of the women who accused Father Seamus of rape, Noreen Boyle. She’s the only one on that list of three still alive.

  ‘Ciaran, I want you to go with Laura to interview her. We can’t rule out the possibility that she is the killer. And in that case, she could even be posing as Catherine Farrell. I know you barely saw her, but you are the only one of us who has any chance of recognizing her. Get local backup. And Laura, bring your firearm.’

  *

  It was 5 p.m. and already fully dark outside. If they left the convent now, Tom reckoned he could be in Portlaoise by 6.30 – as long as the roads weren’t too bad.

  Ciaran and Laura would be lucky to get to Newbridge for 7 p.m.

  ‘Ciaran, I’m leaving Ray in charge here. I want a close eye kept on these nuns. I don’t know if our murderer has finished what was started. On the other hand, it could still be one of the sisters doing this. Can some of the local guards come up here this evening?’

  Ciaran nodded gravely. He had the same fears.

  ‘Of course, I’ll ask a couple of the lads to spend the night here and to patrol the grounds. One of them left earlier for Limerick city with Sister Bernadette’s DNA sample, but there are still some guards here from the next village.’

  Tom left him to rally the troops, and found Emmet in the hall. The forensic scientist was on his hunkers by the hall table where the glass vase had smashed, holding a pair of tweezers and staring intently through a magnifying glass at what they held.

  ‘Deep breaths, old friend,’ he said, when he noticed Tom. ‘I found a tiny piece of glass. I can see how it would have been missed in the day. It was the ceiling light reflecting on it that caught my eye.’

  ‘Could it be from someone’s shoe?’ Tom asked. ‘People have been walking in and out of here for the last couple of days.’

  ‘Not unless one of the nuns was table dancing. It was embedded in this curve.’

  Tom dropped down and saw the groove at the edge of the table, a natural indent in the wood.

  ‘What’s the significance, though?’ he asked. ‘We know the vase was smashed here.’

  ‘It’s discoloured.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s discoloured with blood. It could be Mother Attracta’s. Or it could be your killer’s.’

  ‘You truly are gifted, Emmet. Where’s Ellie?’

  ‘She said she had to check out of wherever she stayed last night. But to be honest, I think I was getting on her nerves.’

  ‘I can’t think why.’

  ‘Did you just track me down to insult me, Tom, or can I get back to going over this area for you?’

  ‘I’ve just got a tip about a lock-up in Portlaoise. I’m going to check it out. This could be Mother Attracta’s murder site.’

  ‘All right, let’s go. But we need to take a quick detour and leave this glass with the technicians in the city. They have the DNA from under the priest’s fingernail. If this is the killer’s blood, it could be a match.’

  Tom hesitated. The seed of an idea germinating in his head had suddenly rooted itself.

  He wanted to get to the lock-up as quickly as possible – they had better make this detour quick.

  *

  Before they left, Tom gave Ray an update and instructions about keeping a watchful eye on the convent.

  ‘Ray, there are a number of people I want you to monitor in particular,’ Tom said, his voice low and grave as he listed the names.

  Ray gave him a puzzled look.

  He opened his mouth to say something, then shut it. He knew better than to question how Tom’s mind worked. The inspector was typically several steps ahead.

  ‘And where’s Sister Bernadette?’ Tom asked.

  ‘We brought her back with us.
We didn’t have enough to detain her. Anyway, she may as well be here if we’re keeping an eye on all the nuns.’

  Tom nodded.

  ‘By the way,’ he said, ‘Linda McCarn is due back here to talk to the nuns. Tell her to act normal will you? Bloody woman.’

  Ray nodded in sympathy.

  The psychologist was the least of his worries.

  Especially after the names Tom had just listed as suspects.

  Chapter 51

  Laura and Ciaran had passed Portlaoise by the time Tom and Emmet were leaving Limerick city. The back roads from the village had been thick with snow, and Tom was rueing their decision to detour. They had a local police car stationed at the storage facility, though, so if anyone turned up there, they’d be detained.

  ‘Linda McCarn jumped out a window to avoid seeing you,’ he said to Emmet, as they drove along the deserted motorway.

  ‘She jumped out a window because she’s mad as a bat,’ came the reply. ‘Just the ground floor, I take it. That was her coming up the road as we were leaving, wasn’t it?’

  Tom said nothing. He’d thought Emmet was too focused on driving to notice.

  The inspector’s phone buzzed.

  ‘Ray?’

  ‘Sir, Michael has found something in one of these old files.’

  ‘What? How’s it going there, anyway?’

  ‘There are plenty of guards, and we’re taking turns patrolling the house. I keep checking on the ones you told me to watch, but it’s difficult when they won’t stay in the same place. Anyway, remember Sister Concepta told us that Sister Bernadette was the only one who had proper medical experience?’

  ‘Yes . . .’

  ‘That’s not true. Michael found a file of a woman who had a baby here. She came in pregnant; she’s not one of the names we were given. Anyway, she nearly died in childbirth but two nuns saved her. They weren’t fully trained midwives but had experience delivering babies. Seems Mother Attracta had been ill and couldn’t attend to the woman.’

  Tom was impatient to hear the names.

  ‘Sister Gladys and Sister Clare were the nuns.’

  ‘Ask Sister Concepta why she didn’t mention them,’ Tom said.

  He felt cold. He knew Sister Gladys had been with some of the girls who’d had their babies taken.

  But could she and Clare be potential targets for the killer? And why hadn’t Concepta said anything?

  *

  Noreen Boyle’s home was lit up like a Christmas tree. All the dwellings in the pleasant little cul-de-sac offered welcoming porches and living-room lights, but this cottage had entered into the Christmas spirit with particular vigour. Festive lights hung from the eaves of the roof, and a Christmas tree twinkled behind the living-room window. The illuminations cast a warm shimmering glow across the front garden, where a little family of snowmen sat.

  Laura and Ciaran exchanged a look.

  The background check on Noreen indicated she lived alone, but this was a house and garden that looked as though little people were very much a feature.

  They lifted the wrought-iron gate off its latch and entered. Just behind the garden wall sat a printed sign urging ‘Santa, please stop here’.

  ‘This place is a winter wonderland,’ Laura observed.

  ‘I know. Any chance this is the wrong Noreen?’

  ‘Our station sergeant is very thorough.’

  ‘Well, if there are no children here, we’re dealing with someone who’s a few cakes short of a picnic,’ Ciaran commented.

  A garda car was parked up on the other side of the street. The uniforms inside waved over at the visitors to their local Lapland.

  ‘It’s now or never,’ Ciaran said, and pressed the doorbell beside the giant Christmas wreath that adorned the front door.

  A merry ‘Jingle Bells’ tinkled through the house.

  Laura didn’t know whether to laugh or run.

  A moment later, the door opened and a little old lady stood in front of them.

  ‘Yes?’ the woman asked, smiling at them broadly.

  Her hair was silvery white and framed her face in soft short waves. She wore thick-lensed glasses over sunken eyes. Her smile was kindly and welcoming. If a picture was to accompany the word ‘grandmother’ in the dictionary, this could be her.

  ‘I’m afraid we might have made a mistake,’ Ciaran said, flashing his badge. ‘We’re looking for Noreen Boyle.’

  The woman nodded.

  ‘Yes, that’s me.’ She kept smiling.

  Something jarred with Laura. Normally when the police called to the door, people reacted with worry.

  ‘Eh, the Noreen Boyle we’re looking for would have spent some time living in a place called Kilcross in the seventies . . .’ Laura said, then stopped.

  The woman was still nodding and smiling.

  ‘Yes, that’s me.’

  ‘But you’re . . .’ Ciaran looked at her, uncomprehending. ‘Could you give us your date of birth, Ms Boyle?’

  She laughed, a clear tinkling sound.

  ‘I was born in 1957. I know – I look like I’m bordering on octogenarian. It’s amazing how hardship can speed up the ageing process. I can assure you, I’m the Noreen Boyle you’re looking for. I’ve been expecting you since yesterday. I know why you’re here. Now, would you like to come in? The heat is escaping and I’ve got biscuits in the oven I’d like to rescue.’

  Laura and Ciaran cast a nervous backward glance at the car across the road, then stepped over the threshold and into the woman’s house.

  *

  The industrial estate was just on the outskirts of Portlaoise town. At its entrance, Tom and Emmet passed a giant plastic snowman holding a sign pointing to Santa’s Wholesale Grotto.

  The drive down had been easy enough but both Tom and Emmet had been eyeing the temperature monitor on the dashboard nervously, as the number slowly fell. A freeze would make the roads lethal, and they didn’t yet know where they’d be staying tonight.

  Emmet drove slowly as they followed the numbered doors to the lock-up unit they were looking for. Unit 40b. He pulled the car into the designated loading bay and got out.

  Tom looked around furtively as he slipped the key they’d been given by the factory owner into the lock of the door. Two local guards had met them with the search warrant they needed to enter the storage unit. They didn’t have a huge evidential basis for obtaining the warrant, but Sean McGuinness was known as a man who rarely asked for something on a triviality, so it had been secured easily enough.

  Right now, an open web page on the computer Ronan was sitting at would inform him that the door had just been unlocked. He wouldn’t react; they’d called him when they arrived.

  Tom felt along the inside wall until he found the light switch.

  He swung the door open fully and looked into the unit. The large space could comfortably accommodate most of the furnishings of an average-sized house.

  This unit, though, was empty – bar two items.

  Two plastic chairs with steel legs, like those found in waiting rooms, sat in the corner.

  The harsh artificial light bounced off the four grey walls, the white ceiling and concrete floor. Tom stepped in, closely followed by Emmet.

  Their eyes travelled around the near empty unit, before coming to rest again on the chairs. Neither man said anything, but they were both thinking the same thing.

  Was this a random coincidence and the chairs nothing more than unwanted pieces of furniture, left behind?

  Or had Mother Attracta been tied to one of them when she met her fate, her tormentor facing her?

  ‘This place has been cleaned,’ Emmet said, lifting his head to smell the air.

  ‘You look like a bloodhound,’ Tom said.

  ‘Bleach. The place reeks.’

  Tom sniffed. He picked up the faint whiff of bleach. His crooked nose didn’t seem to work as well as everyone else’s.

  ‘Would the factory owners have cleaned it after the last use?’ he ventured, unconvinc
ed.

  ‘Why?’ Emmet responded. ‘Furniture is stored here, not foodstuffs or anything else that’s likely to leave a mess or smell. I can imagine them giving it a run over with a sweeping brush but using industrial strength bleach after each rental seems an unnecessary expense. And the smell wouldn’t be as strong if it had been cleaned some time ago.’

  Emmet approached the chairs.

  ‘This is what I’d use,’ he said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Tom asked.

  ‘Wood would absorb the blood, no matter how much you cleaned it. This place is perfect, in fact. The floor and walls could easily be washed – or if you were a professional, draped with plastic sheeting. There’s only one problem.’

  Emmet walked out to the car and returned carrying a small stepladder.

  ‘You’ve come prepared,’ Tom remarked.

  ‘Always.’

  He beckoned the inspector over.

  Tom crossed the room and supported the scientist as he mounted the ladder and reached up to the ceiling.

  ‘Plaster,’ Emmet said and licked his finger. He rubbed the ceiling with his finger and brought it down to show Tom. ‘This was painted recently.’

  Tom felt his spine tingle.

  Chapter 52

  In Noreen Boyle’s cosy sitting room, the Christmas fir tree was adorned with an eclectic mix of ornaments that looked to have been collected from all over the world.

  A fire was blazing in the grate, and the comforting smell of peat and the sound of crackling wood filled the room. Four stockings hung along the fireplace; the names of two girls and two boys had been stitched on their front. Little candy canes poked from their tops.

  Along the mantelpiece, amongst the holly and ivy and assortment of globes, porcelain Santas and reindeer, stood framed photos of the four young children.

  Laura hauled herself up from the deep couch and examined the photos. In the centre, Noreen was pictured between a red-bearded man and a ginger-haired woman. Neither of them particularly resembled Noreen. If anything, the man looked a little like Jack, their crime scene technician. Laura peered closer. No, the man in the photo had subtly different features.