by J P Lomas
A visibly pregnant teacher on maternity leave had suddenly appeared at the back of the school hall on the last night of the Christmas Term in 1983 and had started shouting the odds about her husband having an affair with another member of staff. Thankfully, the children’s Nativity Play had actually finished and the Head was conducting the raffle when the incident happened. A lot of details seemed to have been embellished over the ensuing years – Jane for one did not believe that anyone in real life would have called out ‘She’s a fucking whore and she’s going to burn in the fires of Hell!’
What did interest Jane was that one of the people involved was Connie Baker and one of the few things that most people agreed on when Jane sought to substantiate the story was that Catherine Sullivan had threatened to kill both her and her family.
St Winifred’s RC Primary School stood two thirds of a way up a lane leading away from the town centre to the hospital at the top. From this level you could make out the blue estuary in the distance over the roof tops of the town houses below. A convent stood in one part of the grounds, whilst the school itself was a red brick Victorian building.
Jane had been disconcerted to find out the head was a nun, she wasn’t sure how she was going to handle a nun.
As it was, the dark wooden bookshelves, filled with impressive educational and philosophical volumes, made Sister Ruth’s cramped Headmistress’s office even more intimidating than she’d imagined. Sister Ruth, an iron haired matron of what appeared to be half a century’s teaching experience, but which was probably more like thirty years, interrogated her from behind her pebble lenses.
‘Tea? Or would you prefer coffee? I can make you some squash if you’d prefer? Or would you like to be naughty and have a small sherry, it is after school now?’
Her friendliness surprised Jane and placed her on her guard. She’d conducted enough interviews herself using this technique.
‘Just a black coffee and no sugar please.’
‘Ah, a little sugar wouldn’t spoil your beautiful figure, my dear.’
Was the woman flirting with her? Jane hadn’t been expecting a lesbian come on in a Catholic primary school.
‘No, just black please.’
‘Like my habit, ‘said Sister Ruth smiling, ‘are you sure I couldn’t tempt you to a biscuit? They’re Sister Anne’s special recipe?’
Jane felt it was best to humour her and so took a biscuit as the best possible way of getting down to brass tacks.
‘Now it’s our little sex scandal you’d be wanting to talk about, if I’m not mistaken?’
Jane’s face would have lost her a game of poker at that moment.
‘Why else would some big shot police woman want to see me?’ smiled Sister Ruth, ‘Another biscuit?’
Jane accepted – the woman was being genuinely nice to her – wasn’t she supposed to be rapping her over the knuckles with a ferula, or locking her up in a cupboard?
‘Now how did you know that?’
‘Well, no-one from the outside world ever seems to really want to discuss the good things which happen here: the happy children, the hundreds of milk bottle tops we donated to the Blue Peter appeal, or the lovely services we have at the end of term, but if there’s a sniff of a scandal my telephone seems to ring more times in an afternoon than in the preceding ten years. Having been here since 1962, I can tell you the Sullivan business was the closest we’ve come to having a scandal in that time.’
Jane felt herself redden. The kindly sister was making her feel like a gutter journalist of the worst type.
‘As I said on the telephone this is related to two on-going murder enquiries and I can assure you no word of this will get out to the press.’
‘Well maybe if it did it wouldn’t be such a bad thing. The trouble about these things is they can quickly build up in people’s minds to becoming worse than it really was. Even now I hear the most distorted rumours being whispered as truths at the school gates from parents who should know better than to make idle gossip. Though it’s the visiting priests are the worst; they love a good bit of tittle-tattle!’
‘Please give me your side of the story,’ asked Jane opening her notebook, ‘it probably has no bearing on our investigation, but I’d like to hear it anyway.’
‘It was a sad business and cost St Winifred’s two good teachers and a lot of trouble as well.’
‘Good teachers?’ queried Jane.
‘I’m not here to judge their morals, but Mr and Mrs Sullivan were both good at teaching their classes.’
‘Yet the school let them go?’
‘Well Catherine Sullivan, Catherine Moloney as was, didn’t want to come back. She was on maternity leave at the time of it all and her husband Andrew Sullivan resigned.’
‘And Connie Baker, the teaching assistant?’
‘She went before she was pushed.’
‘You would have sacked her?’
‘Our Lord may forgive her; I fear our School Governors wouldn’t have.’
‘Did you know about Connie Baker’s affair with Andrew Sullivan?’
‘Not until Catherine’s outburst at the Christmas Play – that’s the one thing I found most distasteful about the whole business, involving the children. The poor, wee bairns should have been spared that. It took us quite some time to try and settle that one, although fortunately we had the holidays to recover and the younger they are, the more quickly they get used to changed circumstances. Fortunately, we already had a very good teacher covering Kate’s maternity leave and I was able to take Andrew’s classes.’
‘What happened at the Nativity Play?’
Sister Ruth sat back in her chair and took a sip of her tea.
‘It wasn’t what people made it out to be afterwards. The children had finished the play and were being gathered together by their parents. Some were having more photographs taken and the rest were collecting squash and biscuits from the serving hatch. I saw Catherine coming into the school hall and was pleasantly surprised to see her, as she’d been off since the summer on maternity leave. When I got closer, I’m short sighted as you can probably tell; I saw she was in some distress…’
Again, Sister Ruth paused during her narrative. For the first time in the interview, Jane thought the nun looked her age.
‘I noticed Catherine looking around the hall; she was caressing her belly and was on the edge of tears. Then I followed her gaze to the kitchen. Andrew and Connie had been helping to serve drinks to the parents. He was holding a glass in his hand and smiling at her as she seemingly brushed a crumb off his cheek. I imagine Catherine saw more in that gesture than I did, or took it as the final proof of something she already knew, as she suddenly swept her arm downwards and scattered all the miniature figures making up the Nativity Scene which I’d placed by the Christmas tree.’
‘Dramatic,’ added Jane.
‘Yes, we never did find Joseph again in the ensuing confusion. Fortunately Mr Braddock was able to make us a new one for the following year.’
‘Small mercies…’
‘Everyone turned and stared. Andrew came running out of the kitchen. But then she just started screaming like a banshee ‘Bastard, bastard, bastard!’ She then began keening if you know what I mean, agonising in that way which only hurt Irish women can agonise in.
Jane nodded. She was still surprised to have heard the Sister swearing, although very little about Sister Ruth was living up to her preconceptions of how a nun should act.
‘She didn’t use any of that language I’ve heard some parents ascribe to her – just those three words.’
‘Did Catherine Sullivan threaten to harm either Connie Baker or her husband?’
‘I managed to lead Catherine out of the hall, she wouldn’t let her husband come near her, with the help of Miss Keep. The parents and children were parting like the Red Sea in front of us. Yet she broke free of us at the doorway and turned round to face the crowd. She then screamed “Don’t let that fucking whore think I’m finished with her yet!” A
lthough it might be best for you just to write an ‘f’ followed by a line of asterisks in your notes, my dear. Such language Sergeant! Not since I was a novice helping the homeless on the streets of London have I heard such words in the mouth of such an angelic looking girl.’
It took Jane a little while to catch on that Sister Ruth had been ironic about her lack of worldliness; the exaggerated Irish lilt she had used when talking about helping the down and outs should have told her that.
‘We do sometimes see a little more of life, Sergeant,’ continued Sister Ruth with a smile, ‘some of us even watch the telly!’
Jane wrote Catherine Sullivan’s threat down verbatim and smiled at the formidable woman in front of her.
‘It was unfortunate that Connie had run after Andrew and was at his side when Catherine re-entered – the way the two of them looked, they might as well have spelled their guilt out using fairy lights!’
‘How surprised were you by Catherine’s behaviour?’
‘Well I’ve seen the quietest young girls roused to fury when provoked like that. Although there had been nothing in her character so far to suggest such passion, though I always suspected she had an inner steeliness. She was still very young, as well as being pregnant with their first child and had been betrayed by her husband. I expect even you, Sergeant, might have reacted in a similar way.’
Jane reflected that she would have served Tim’s balls up on toast if he’d done that to her when she was pregnant.
‘What was Catherine like?’
‘Young. She was straight out of training college. Quite pretty. Besotted with Andrew – that was one relationship I did foresee. Very committed to her pupils and in love with the Church. If it hadn’t been for Andrew we might even have seduced her into joining our order, ‘she smiled.
‘And Andrew Sullivan?’
‘Mr Rochester, but without the fortune. Oh, he was a good teacher and very popular, he just had an air of impatience about him. I felt he married Kate partly because he had to.’
‘She was pregnant?’
‘We’re not living in Ireland, Sergeant. No, I think it was more to do with his age. He was in his mid-30s and getting married was something he hadn’t yet done.’
Jane reflected that she had been pregnant with Jenny, when Tim asked her to marry him. And whilst neither of their families was particularly religious, Tim’s parents were very old fashioned and whilst their approval wasn’t being actively sought, their assistance in buying a house was…
‘Do you still see Catherine?’
‘I no longer see her at Church. I did hear that her baby was stillborn. So very sad. And that she refused Andrew a divorce.’
‘Why would she do that?’
‘Some would say she’s a good Catholic girl, I’d say she still loves him.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘I had a reference request a year ago from a school in Dorset. Not one of our schools fortunately, ‘she smiled, ‘I gather they offered him a post. I’ll get my secretary to give you the address.’
‘And Connie?’
Sister Ruth’s face darkened.
‘I shouldn’t be judgemental, and yet I found her the hardest to forgive of the three. She was married and to sound my age, she should have been old enough to know better. Colleagues told me Andrew wanted to marry her, but that she was not won over by his charm. And yet I don’t believe she killed her husband to be with him.’
Again Jane had been beaten to it.
‘Might she have had other reasons to kill him?’
‘Having never been married, I can only imagine what those reasons might be, ‘smiled Sister Ruth.
Jane left the interview feeling that although she may not have shed much more light on the case, she had certainly been enlightened as to nuns. She also had addresses for both Catherine and Andrew Sullivan to follow up.
Chapter 15
Spilsbury inspected his shit with more than professional interest. He had been expecting a difficult one, perhaps even one which would have pebble dashed the porcelain and made for awkward questions from Mrs S (which was why he would usually try and save those for the relative anonymity of the police station bog), but this was one firm and good sized stool. Perhaps the hurriedly eaten takeaway curry last night had yet to work its usual effects, or maybe skipping that third pint of beer last night had been a good decision after all. It made for an easy wipe job and he buckled his belt with a self-satisfied smile. Maybe today was going to be a good day. As he washed his hands in the rose and white tiled bathroom of the bungalow they were renting he felt good.
Perhaps Mrs S was right and they should buy in Devon after all? The lure of Spain had been pulling him when he was stationed in Essex, yet Felicity might be right about there being both too many ex-colleagues and too many cons over there. At times he wondered who might make the worse neighbours?
Quietly slipping out of the front door, he had time to admire the bright red and pink geraniums each side of the drive and the blue River Exe on the horizon. He’d never had any time for gardening and wondered if there would be enough time to learn its art when he retired? The day was warm without being close and he thought about taking a gentle drive before heading in to the station. He might even check out Littleham Cross where Hawkins had said the first murder happened – there was no point being a complete grouch about her theory.
****
Jane had been more than a little surprised to see the note telling her to meet her boss at Littleham Church. After Sobers’ sudden Damascene conversion was she going to lose another boss to the God Squad?
The drive from the town centre to Littleham Village, whilst not exactly taking her through the countryside, at least gave a view of the fields and cliffs on this side of the town. Passing Littleham Cross, she noted again the rather squalid looking amusement arcade which had replaced Kellow’s butcher’s shop. It was made more depressing for her by the fact that the bars on the flat above were still in place. One of the newsagents had been replaced by a video rental shop and the convenience store had expanded into the former bakery next door and been rebranded as one of the smaller chain stores which were now springing up all over the place.
Passing a small industrial site on one side and the low rise council estate on the other, she nearly gagged on the smell of slurry coming from the nearby farm. Jane’s car nosed towards the more rural part of Littleham, though it was only when she had crested a hill that she could see down into the village on the other side. Over on the far side she could make out the parish hall which had served as their incident room in the Kellow Case.
****
Littleham Church would have been marked by a cross above a square on the Ordnance Survey maps Spilsbury had pored over in his uncle’s stationery shop in Lewisham. He had loved tracing the topographical features and esoteric names on these charts; they helped open up a bright and unfamiliar world to him. As a boy, he had spent a year as an evacuee in a Yorkshire village, but the actual experience of living in rural England had never been as satisfactory for him as seeing the world spread before him on paper. On a map the contours were concentric lines to be enjoyed and not steep hillsides to be rambled over. If the next decade was going to mark his retirement to the countryside, then it would be the ‘A’ roads and ‘B’ roads on the map which would open it up for him, rather than the dotted footpaths and winding bye-ways.
The fact that the church dated from 1234 appealed to Spilsbury’s sense of mathematical order. He wondered if the medieval villagers had seen significance in that date, just as so many people had got worked up three years ago when the Orwellian year of 1984 had come into being. Personally, he could have done with a few more of the surveillance devices from that novel’s vision of the future when solving this crime. At least in Essex he had had far more joy in gaining CCTV images when investigating cases, down here he’d be lucky to find a Box Brownie to help photograph a suspect.
Still, as he settled his bottom onto the wooden bench, which
displayed a brass plaque dedicating it to a recently deceased parishioner, he couldn’t help but think how beautiful the spot was. The cool, south wall of the church lay behind him and tall trees extended their shade over the more ancient graves in this part of the church yard. Sometimes he wished he was one of those fictional detectives who could always quote an apt line from poetry in situations like this. His rote learning from school only supplied his memory with a choice of ‘The boy stood on the burning deck’ or ‘The mirror crack’d from side to side, out flew the web and floated wide’ neither of which adequately summed up his current feelings of contentment and good humour. At least he’d had the good sense to buy a snack on the way.
****
Sobers noticed the flowers tied to the railings; it was nice that people still remembered. The pavement which ran around the centre of the central London square was where WPC Yvonne Fletcher had been gunned down three years ago, whilst policing a demonstration outside the Libyan embassy. He’d left the force by then and yet he had still felt a part of it when he heard the news. The sight of her coffin being carried past serried ranks of her colleagues, lining the route in their dress uniforms had moved him deeply. Yet still her killer had escaped justice; diplomatic niceties apparently excused cold blooded homicide. Though a former colleague, still in the Met, had told him the police had been straining at the bit to storm the embassy that day; Sobers wasn’t supposed to agree with revenge and yet part of him was drawn to the ‘eye for an eye’ approach over this.
Commending her soul to God, he moved further up the wide street. His long legs quickly ate up the distance as he hurried towards Soho. The gold watch on his wrist may have dulled in terms of its brightness since his mum had presented it to him on his confirmation three decades earlier and yet it still worked and showed him he was in plenty of time to meet up for birthday drinks at ‘The Rear Admiral.’ For a man who always ensured his socks and cuff-links were co-ordinated, the old fashioned timepiece might have seemed at odds with his studied elegance and yet it seemed to off- set the smart chinos and Oxford shirt he had chosen to celebrate his 46th birthday in.