Bad Catholics

by James Green

  He repeated his question, blowing smoke into the air. ‘Would the car be visible from the cooker?’

  Philomena stood up.

  ‘Let me know when you have finished your cigarette, Sergeant, and I’ll come back if I’m free.’ She turned and walked towards the door.

  Kind cop got up quickly and followed her. ‘Excuse me, Sister.’

  She paused.

  ‘Please, come back and sit down.’

  Philomena looked pointedly at the policeman at the table. He drew on his cigarette. Their eyes met. Philomena didn’t move. He dropped the cigarette into his tea cup. Philomena turned to his colleague.

  ‘Very well, Inspector.’

  They returned to the table and sat down.

  ‘By the way, Sister, I’m a sergeant. This is Inspector Deal.’

  Philomena scrutinised them slowly, one at a time. ‘I have my own ways of deciding seniority,’ she said.

  Inspector Deal leaned forward. ‘Wasn’t it irresponsible to let a woman like Mrs Amhurst come and work in a place like this? Weren’t you inviting trouble?’

  The inspector’s question was meant to sound exactly as it did, an accusation. He wanted her to know who was in charge and that he was in a position to allocate blame.

  When Philomena replied, her Irish accent was more pronounced, deliberately comic.

  ‘Now what would you be meaning, Sergeant, by “a place like this”?’

  ‘You know exactly what I mean. And it’s still Inspector.’

  Philomena dropped the elaborate brogue.

  ‘I do not know what you mean and I don’t care what rank you are. I don’t like your question and I don’t like you.’

  The sergeant was worldly-wise enough to see that the inspector could very well get the sticky end of exchanges with this woman and if that happened the fall-out would certainly land on him.

  ‘Please, Sister, we’re only doing our job.’ He was vainly trying to keep the peace.

  ‘Are you? And what job would that be at all?’

  The comic accent was back and with it a sweet, innocent smile. Then the brogue and the smile were gone and the voice was serious.

  ‘Is it your job to put the blame on us at Bart’s for Mrs Amhurst’s death? We shouldn’t let the refuse of the street gather here to be fed and rested? We’re part of the problem, are we? The best answer would be for us to close down and move on because we’re not wanted. Is that your job, to get rid of us? Would the best answer be for me to say that I was to blame, and for us all to pack up and go?’

  ‘Of course not, Sister, no one is saying –’

  ‘It’s one answer,’ cut in the inspector, leaning forward. ‘At least that way no other innocent volunteer gets knifed.’

  Philomena leaned back and relaxed. She had the measure of Deal now. He was a blusterer and a bully, a nobody.

  ‘Do you think that might work? Maybe you’re right, it’s been tried before.’

  ‘To close you down? I never heard that, nobody ever said …’

  There was genuine surprise in the Sergeant’s voice.

  ‘Not here, it was in another country, and it was a long time ago.’ Philomena turned to the inspector. ‘But then it was handled by a really dangerous bastard, not some pocket-edition desperado,’ she looked at his curly hair, ‘with a nice perm.’

  There was a moment’s silence, then the inspector spoke in a flat voice.

  ‘OK, we got off to a bad start and if it helps, I apologise. Can we get on now? Could Mrs Amhurst’s car be seen from in the kitchen?’

  ‘You can see the car from the sink by the window. But not from the cooker, you’d have your back to the window.’

  ‘Did she always park it in the same place?’

  ‘Yes, near the entrance, because there’s a light over the door so we could see it even when it’s dark.’

  ‘Even so, it wasn’t really safe, was it? It’s not the sort of neighbourhood where unattended cars are just ignored.’

  ‘There’s nowhere else. And it was quite safe there, for that car, I mean.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘The first time Mrs Amhurst came, she arrived by taxi and the next time her husband brought her in his Bentley. So I warned her about the neighbourhood. It’s not the sort of place where people travel in Bentleys. One day, someone would have been waiting.’

  ‘It looks like one day someone was. Anyway, what did she do?’

  ‘She got an old Skoda, a dreadful old heap but she was proud of it.’

  ‘She was proud because she’d bought a heap?’

  ‘Can you see anyone bothering to hot-wire an old Skoda? Who would want it? She even left it unlocked so no one needed to break a window to get in, not that there was ever anything inside. That car could have sat there unlocked for ever. The worst thing that might happen would be somebody sleeping in it, but only if all the local doorways were already occupied.’

  Inspector Deal sat back. The nun was dead right about the car, of course, but she was still wrong for all her cockiness. The car may have looked right, but the Amhurst woman didn’t. She looked money, quiet, smart, and understated, which meant a lot of money. He didn’t like interviewing people who were in control. They only told you what they wanted you to know.

  ‘But she must have stood out round here, even if her car didn’t.’

  ‘Well, she certainly never had any trouble with any of the clients. They all seemed to like her.’

  The sergeant joined in.

  ‘I’d have thought they’d resent the Mother Teresa sort.’

  ‘Still looking for your killer among the clients?’

  The inspector took over again. ‘They knew her movements. It would have been easy for someone to wait for her coming out one night and grab her handbag.’

  ‘And kill her?’

  ‘She might have recognised whoever it was. Or it might have been someone on drugs. That sort kill for anything they can get, sometimes for no reason at all.’

  ‘I won’t pretend one of our clients couldn’t have done it. But any regulars, those who knew what time she went home and where her car was, also knew there’s never anything on these premises worth stealing, and the same goes for the staff. She would have had nothing of value on her, no money, no jewellery, not even a watch.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said the sergeant, going back a few pages in his notebook. ‘We were going to ask you about that. She had no watch on her when she was found. We thought it might have been taken.’

  ‘No, she never wore one while she was here.’

  ‘Can you give us a list of those who were here yesterday?’ The inspector wasn’t giving up.

  ‘I can try. When do you want it?’

  ‘In your own time, Sister,’ said the sergeant, ‘but the sooner we get it the more help it is. Tell me when to call and I’ll collect it.’

  ‘I’ll have it ready tomorrow morning.’

  ‘I’ll be here at 9.30 then.’

  ‘I’ll be at Mass, come at 11. By the way, did you find her handbag?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  The sergeant stood up. ‘Thank you for your co-operation, Sister.’

  The inspector pocketed his cigarettes and lighter. ‘I’ve never questioned a nun before.’

  ‘You still haven’t. I’m a Religious Sister, not a nun.’

  ‘There’s a difference?’

  Philomena smiled her sweet smile. ‘Not one that you would be able to understand,’ and went on with mock seriousness, ‘I could try to explain if you’re really interested in the Religious Orders of the Catholic Church but I –’

  ‘Could you ask Mr Costello to come in now, please, Sister?’ the sergeant interrupted. He didn’t want hostilities to be resumed.

  ‘Of course, Inspector.’

  Deal watched her leave the room.

  The sergeant looked up from checking his notes. ‘She didn’t mention cleaning up the soup,’ he observed.

  Deal shrugged. He didn’t like his sergeant
s to point things out to him.

  ‘That wasn’t relevant. If they were cleaning up soup they couldn’t have seen anything.’

  ‘So what do you think?’

  ‘I doubt there’s going to be anything here for us. But let’s see what this Costello guy has to say.’

  A minute or so later Jimmy walked in and came over to the table. He looked at the sergeant. There was no hint of recognition in their faces, but they both knew that they knew each other.

  ‘Sit down, Mr Costello.’ Inspector Deal pointed to the chair. ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’ he added with exaggerated politeness, taking his cigarettes and lighter from his pocket. Jimmy indicated that he didn’t care one way or another. The inspector placed his cigarettes and lighter on the table without bothering to light one up.

  ‘It was you who found Mrs Amhurst?’

  ‘I was asked to go and see why her car was still there. She was lying by her car.’

  ‘Who asked you?’

  Jimmy shrugged.

  ‘Janine or Sister Philomena.’

  ‘And when you went out you found Mrs Amhurst had been stabbed?’

  ‘No. I found her lying by the car outside.’

  ‘You didn’t see she’d been stabbed?’

  ‘She was lying face down and no blood was visible when I first saw her.’

  ‘She might have fainted or been mugged or it might have been a heart attack or something, and yet you didn’t try to help or revive her? Why was that?’

  Jimmy remained silent.

  ‘You went out and when you saw it was Mrs Amhurst you came straight back in and told the Sister and she called the police?’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘You made no attempt to find out what was wrong with her? Were you already sure she was dead, is that it?’

  Jimmy remained silent.

  ‘In your own time, Sir.’

  Jimmy looked at the sergeant. Clearly it would be a very long time indeed.

  ‘When you came in, what did you say to the Sister?’ the inspector continued.

  ‘I told her Mrs Amhurst was lying outside by her car, that she should phone the police. I can’t remember the exact words I used.’

  ‘You asked her to phone the police, just the police, not an ambulance?’

  Jimmy nodded.

  ‘Why no ambulance?’

  Silence.

  ‘In your own time, Sir.’

  Silence.

  ‘Mr Costello, this is a serious investigation. We need a clear picture of everything that happened last night. You seem reluctant to give us your full assistance.’

  Jimmy remained silent, so the sergeant took up the questioning. This was turning into a hard morning.

  ‘After you told the Sister about Mrs Amhurst, what did you do?’

  ‘She asked me to go outside and stay with Mrs Amhurst. I went and stayed until the police arrived.’

  ‘The Sister asked you to go, or you decided to go?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘Who was in the dining room last night?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  The morning wasn’t getting easier. The inspector took over again.

  ‘Come on, Mr Costello, are you telling me you can’t remember anyone who was here last night?’

  ‘Sister Philomena, Janine, Mrs Amhurst, me. I can’t be sure about anyone else.’

  ‘Did you see anyone outside when you first went to the body?’

  ‘Not that I remember.’

  ‘Or when you went out to wait for the police?’

  ‘Not that I remember.’

  The inspector sat back. He hadn’t liked the nun and he didn’t like this guy.

  ‘You seem to have a very poor memory, Mr Costello.’

  ‘I know, I worry about it sometimes.’

  ‘Do you think your memory would be better if we talked to you at the station?’

  There was no mistaking the threat in the words. Jimmy leaned forward and put his arms on the table with his hands together and examined his thumbs.

  The sergeant didn’t like the way things were going, the threat was a mistake. Not for the first time he wondered how Deal had got to be a Detective Inspector. He tried to move things forward.

  ‘When did you find out she had been stabbed?’

  ‘When I went out the second time, I could see blood just under the edge of her coat.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Her car keys were on the pavement.’

  The inspector took over again. ‘Close by her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Anything else? A handbag?’

  ‘Not that I can remember.’

  ‘Your memory again.’

  Jimmy went back to studying his thumbs. He gave the very strong impression that there was nothing more he had to say and now, please, he really did want to get on with the study of his thumbs.

  Inspector Deal stood up.

  ‘We may want to speak to you again, Mr Costello. Please don’t leave the area, and inform your local police station if you change your address. All right, Sergeant.’

  The sergeant put away his notebook and pen and stood up. At the dining room door the inspector turned.

  ‘Let the nun know we’ve finished, for the time being.’

  Jimmy nodded but didn’t look at them. He was still busy with his thumbs. Philomena came in a few minutes later.

  ‘I heard the front door. Have they gone?’

  ‘They’re gone.’

  ‘What did you think of them?’

  ‘They’ll do whatever has to be done.’

  ‘What about the inspector? What did you think of him?’

  ‘Nothing in particular.’

  ‘I think he was not a nice man, Jimmy.’

  ‘So long as he does his job, does he have to be nice?’

  ‘I suppose not. Will they find out who did it, do you think? There’s police in the alley looking round but there doesn’t seem much to go on.’

  ‘They might get someone. Mrs Amhurst wasn’t like our clients, she wasn’t a nobody and her husband’s very well-off, isn’t he? He’ll want a result, so they might get someone.’

  ‘But will they get the right one?’

  ‘It’ll be close enough to suit most people.’

  ‘You sound a dreadful cynic.’

  ‘I just know how these things work. I’ll go upstairs and lie down for a bit, Sister, if that’s OK.’

  ‘Go on, then. Janine needs to keep busy, so she and I can use today to catch up on cleaning and the like. God knows there’s plenty of it to catch up on. When will they let us re-open do you think?’

  ‘Couple of days maybe. When there’s nothing more to be got from the scene of crime.’

  Jimmy went up to his room and sat on his bed and thought about the inspector for a moment, then the sergeant. The sergeant hadn’t told the inspector that he knew him. Now why was that, he wondered. He kicked off his shoes and lay on the bed. Did it matter one way or another, he asked himself, and fell asleep thinking about it.

  Philomena sat alone in the dining room. There would be trouble, maybe a lot of trouble, she knew it for certain, but she couldn’t tell how she knew. It was like the rains coming in the African bush, the signs were all there long before the clouds could be seen.

  All you had to do was look for the signs.

  Soroti Diocese, Northern Uganda, 1974

  Soroti diocese was remote from Kampala, situated in the north-east of Uganda. But its remoteness had not saved it from the terror of President Idi Amin’s regime. People in many parts of the diocese had suffered, but the small convent school of Our Lady of Pity, had so far been spared any violence. The school served a large and sparsely populated area and the hundred or so girls it educated were all boarders. There was a staff of four teaching Sisters, two Irish, one Belgian and one, the youngest, a Ugandan.

  It was just after dawn. Sister Philomena, the headmistress, was already up and about, directing the few lay workers who cle
aned and cooked, when the Land Rovers arrived. She went out to meet the visitors, whoever they might be, as soon as she heard engines. Visitors were rare and anyone who passed the school always stopped. Places to rest and refresh yourself were few and far between in this part of Uganda, so hospitality was a necessity rather than a courtesy. In the early morning light Sister Philomena watched the dust drift away as the two Land Rovers stopped on the dry dirt road in front of the school. Father Schenk, a Dutch Mill Hill missionary priest, got out. This visit meant trouble. To have reached the school so soon after dawn they must have set out in the dark, and to travel the roads across the bush at night, however slowly, was an act of pure madness. Whatever had made it necessary would be very bad news indeed.

  ‘Sister, we’ve come to take you and the other Sisters away. Just gather what you can get together in five minutes, then we must go. Tell your locals, if they’re still with you, to get away into the bush, and spread the word.’

  His Dutch-accented English was flat, without alarm or emotion. She realised that the occupants of the first Land Rover were the three Medical Missionary Sisters who represented the only medical presence for hundreds of square miles and if they were leaving, staying certainly meant dying. At the wheel of the second Land Rover was Brother Thad, an Australian.

  ‘Is Brother Thaddeus going?’

  Father Schenk nodded.

  ‘We needed a driver-mechanic to be sure of making it all the way across the border, but he’ll come back when we are safely in Sudan.’

  Sister Philomena didn’t really need to be told Brother Thad would come back once his job was done. He had long ago decided to die in what he now regarded as his home. Whether his death would come about by disease, accident, old age, or violence he left in God’s hands. His job was to keep the vehicles running. He supervised the workshop-school that serviced and repaired all the vehicles for various missionary orders and trained local boys to be mechanics. He had been in Africa for twenty years, the last sixteen in Uganda.

  ‘What about my girls?’

  The priest stood silent for a moment.

  ‘That’s your decision, Sister. We can’t take any of the girls. You will have to decide what to tell them. It would be better, I think, if they didn’t stay here.’

  ‘Where can they go? We’re not near anywhere. If they walk away from here they’ll die in the bush.’