Unholy Murder

by Lynda La Plante

  Jane took Boon to one side. ‘You shouldn’t have mentioned the coffin. The residents might start worrying about dead bodies in their back garden.’

  ‘Sorry, sarge, but they’re going to find out sooner or later, aren’t they?’

  Jane was about to reply when the man returned carrying a large umbrella. ‘Sorry, I’ve only got the one, but it’s better than nothing.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Jane said, taking it from him.

  The man then led them to a rear entrance off the hallway where he opened the door. Outside was a vast garden with high walls and Gothic-style arches.

  ‘Blimey, the back garden is massive,’ Boon remarked.

  ‘It’s the same as it was when the nuns tended it, though we did have to do quite a bit of work to restore it to its original splendour. All the residents chip in and help maintain it. It’s absolutely stunning in the summer,’ he said proudly. ‘Follow the gravel path towards the far end and go through an arch midway on your right into the herb garden. You’ll see another arch on your far left which leads to the building site. I’ll leave the back door open, but I’d be grateful if you could slip the latch back on and leave the umbrella outside my door when you leave.’

  ‘It’s like stepping back in time,’ Jane remarked as they walked, the gravel crunching under their feet. ‘The nuns who lived here must have led a very peaceful life.’

  ‘Bit like working at Bromley nick, then,’ Boon grinned. ‘You’ve worked at some real busy stations, and the Flying Squad, so what made you want to come to Bromley?’

  ‘I bought a house in Chislehurst a few months ago,’ Jane said. ‘Travelling uptown to Gerald Road nick by train was getting expensive.’

  ‘That’s the problem living south of the river,’ Boon agreed. ‘There’s no tube trains for us to use our warrant cards on for free travel into Central London. Did you not fancy working somewhere like Lewisham? That’s a busy South London nick.’

  ‘Not really,’ Jane said. ‘I wanted a quieter posting so I can study for next year’s inspectors’ exam.’

  Boon grinned. ‘You’ll get plenty of time to do that at Bromley.’

  They followed the man’s directions to a large expanse of land with a wood and small lake in the distance. To their right were six burnt-out buildings, one of which had a rusty old school bell precariously hanging from an arched recess in the wall above a fire-damaged door. Just beyond the burnt-out buildings they saw a dumper truck, two vans and a small car parked outside a Portakabin.

  ‘That must be the builders’ hut over there. Looks like there’s a few people working here,’ Boon said.

  Approaching the Portakabin door they could hear a man talking in a raised voice. Jane closed the umbrella.

  ‘It’s a fucking joke stopping everything! This is all your fault, Dermot,’ Barry shouted.

  Lee remained calm. ‘He did what he felt was right. Besides, it may only be a temporary setback.’

  Barry was still angry. ‘Why can’t we dig the south-side foundations? That’s well away from the bloody coffin.’

  Boon was about to knock on the door when Jane stopped him, putting her finger to her mouth and leaning closer.

  ‘Because the police told us to stop,’ Dermot said defensively.

  ‘Shut the fuck up, Dermot. Or I’ll fill your big mouth with my fist,’ Barry threatened.

  Lee had had enough. ‘Knock it off, Barry. I’m the site foreman, not you! Do as you’re bloody well told, or you’ll be joining the dole queue.’

  Barry shook his head in disgust, ‘I may as well piss off home then.’

  ‘Maybe that’s best for now,’ Lee agreed.

  Jane was about to knock on the Portakabin door when it was abruptly opened by Barry, who barged past Boon, nearly knocking him over.

  ‘Sorry, mate, was I in your way?’ Boon said sarcastically.

  ‘Fuck off,’ Barry muttered as he got into the red minivan. The wheels spun in the dirt as he accelerated away from the site.

  Jane held up her warrant card and introduced herself and Boon.

  ‘I’m Lee Holland, the site manager. Sorry about Barry. He’s just worried about the site closing down and being out of work.’

  Lee was in his late forties, bald, with a large beer belly and a double chin. He wore a black donkey jacket, white T-shirt, blue jeans, and Doc Martens workman’s boots.

  Compared with the cold weather outside, the Portakabin was stiflingly hot. There were two paraffin heaters, the interior windows were covered in condensation and there was also an overpowering musty odour, a mixture of dampness and sweat, which Dermot and Lee seemed oblivious to. The cabin had a couple of desks and some filing cabinets and pinned up on the wall were plans for the site. The floor was covered in muddy boot prints.

  ‘Who found the coffin?’ Jane asked.

  ‘Barry hit something hard when he was using the digger,’ Lee said. ‘But Dermot here was also there. They cleared the surrounding soil away so you can see it better. I’ll put the kettle on while he tells you about it.’

  Dermot recounted how the coffin had been uncovered, not mentioning that Barry had wanted to open it.

  ‘Did you find anything else which might indicate the area was a graveyard?’ Jane asked.

  Lee shook his head. ‘No, not a thing. And we’ve dug out quite a large area so far. Would you like to see the coffin now or have a coffee first and see if the rain eases off?’

  ‘May as well see it now,’ Jane said, holding up the umbrella. ‘This should help keep the worst of it off us.’

  ‘It’s pretty muddy out there. Have you got any wellies in your car?’ Dermot asked.

  ‘Unfortunately, no,’ Jane replied.

  ‘I’ve got some plastic shopping bags you can use as shoe covers,’ Lee said, opening a desk drawer and taking some out.

  ‘They might make it more slippery as they’ve no grip, but thanks anyway,’ she replied, thinking she’d look ridiculous wearing the bags.

  ‘I’ll have some,’ Boon grinned. ‘These shoes were expensive!’

  *

  Dermot took them round the back of the Portakabin to the building site, which was bigger than Jane had expected. At about half the size of a football pitch, it was clear that quite a few flats or houses were going to be built on the land. Jane stepped carefully through the mud, whilst balancing herself with the umbrella, but her shoes quickly became covered in the brown sludge.

  Standing at the edge of the footings trench, the large grey metal coffin was now clearly visible as the heavy rain had washed away the topsoil. It was over six feet long with an inlaid silver cross on top and fresh scratch marks caused by the digger bucket. It looked old, with patches of rust.

  ‘Looks like it’s been in the ground for a while,’ Boon said.

  ‘There’s no name plate on it, though. It might be a nun, or a priest connected to the old convent,’ Dermot suggested.

  ‘Looks a bit big for a nun’s coffin,’ Boon said.

  ‘Nuns, like us, come in all shapes and sizes. The fact is, we won’t know who or what’s inside until it’s opened,’ Jane said.

  ‘Might save some time if we have a quick look inside now,’ suggested Boon.

  ‘Barry wanted to open it,’ Dermot said. ‘Then if it was empty, we wouldn’t have had to call you lot. Being a Catholic I was a bit wary, so I said best to leave it and tell Lee.’

  Jane could tell Dermot was nervous and gave him a reassuring smile. ‘Don’t worry, we won’t open the coffin here. I’ll arrange for it to be taken to the mortuary where we can do it in a more controlled and dignified manner.’

  ‘How’re we going to get it out?’ Boon asked.

  ‘I can dig under the coffin with a shovel and put some heavy-duty straps around it. If I attach them to the digger bucket and lift it out you can put it in a police van,’ Dermot said, thinking they would remove the coffin in one go.

  ‘The undertakers will come in their van to remove it to the mortuary,’ Jane told him.

 
Dermot pointed to his right. ‘We’ve made a temporary road using the rubble from the old buildings we knocked down. It’s a bit bumpy and muddy in some bits, but they should be able to get their van up from the lane down the far end.’

  Jane could see that the makeshift road was about a hundred metres long and a section of the woodland had been cut away to allow vehicles in from the lane.

  She turned to Boon. ‘I need you to go back to the car, radio the station and ask them to inform the Bromley coroner’s officer about the coffin and request the attendance of the undertakers’ van. Give them the location of the entrance and a heads-up about the muddy conditions. See if they can arrange the opening of the coffin for this afternoon.’

  ‘Will do, sarge. Do you want a lab liaison sergeant to attend?’

  Jane shook her head. ‘It’s not a crime scene. Besides, I don’t think there’s anything they can do to assist us here.’

  As Boon turned to leave, the ground on the edge of the footings trench suddenly gave way and his feet started to slide out from under him. As he fell forward, he instinctively grabbed the nearest thing to stop his fall, which unfortunately for Jane happened to be her left arm. She let out a loud shriek as she lost her balance, dropped the umbrella, then toppled over and landed in the mud. Boon, however, managed to regain his balance and stay upright.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Boon, what are you playing at!’ Jane shouted.

  ‘Sorry, sarge, it was an accident,’ he said sheepishly as he put out his hand to help her up.

  She flicked it away and got up. ‘Look at the state of me. I’m covered in bloody mud.’

  ‘I’ll pay for your clothes to be dry cleaned,’ he said, looking crestfallen.

  ‘Too bloody right you will!’ she barked as she shook her mud-covered hands in an effort to get some of it off. ‘Do you have a sink and hot water in the Portakabin?’ she asked Dermot.

  ‘No, but there’s a cold-water hose outside that’s linked to the main supply up at the flats. We’ve got some loo roll in the cabin you can use as well.’

  ‘That will have to do for now.’

  ‘Can I have the brolly?’ Boon asked, not wanting to get soaked as he returned to the car.

  Jane headed back to the Portakabin without replying.

  ‘I’ll take that as a no,’ Boon muttered to himself.

  ‘Bloody hell, what happened to you, detective?’ Lee asked.

  ‘Her mate slipped and knocked her over. She nearly fell in the footings trench,’ Dermot said as he handed Jane a toilet roll.

  ‘You all right, officer?’ Lee asked.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ she replied, forcing a smile.

  Jane did her best to wipe the mud off her coat using scrunched-up sheets of the toilet roll dipped in hot water from the kettle, but her efforts only seemed to make things worse.

  ‘Is the land you are working on part of the old convent?’ she asked Lee.

  ‘Yes. We’re building more flats,’ he replied as he handed her a mug of coffee.

  ‘Thanks. What was on the land before you started?’

  ‘Nothing, apart from the fire-damaged outbuildings, which we’ve yet to demolish.’

  ‘Do you know if the land you are building on was ever a graveyard or consecrated ground?’

  ‘If it were, I doubt the developer would have got planning permission,’ Lee said.

  ‘Is he aware of this morning’s discovery?’

  ‘I tried ringing him at his office, but he was out at another site, so I left a message with his secretary.’

  Jane removed her notebook and pen from her coat pocket. ‘I’ll need the developer’s name and contact number, please.’

  ‘It’s Nicholas Durham. His office is in Bromley, next door to Biba’s nightclub.’ Lee handed Jane a piece of headed paper embossed with THOMAS DURHAM AND SON BUILDING DEVELOPERS, 27 WIDMORE ROAD, BROMLEY, TELEPHONE 014673281.

  ‘I take it Nicholas is the “son”,’ Jane said.

  Lee nodded. ‘Tom Durham started the company, but he’s sort of retired now, and Nick runs it.’

  ‘Do the Durhams own the land or are they just doing the building work?’

  ‘Tom Durham bought the old convent and land years ago and turned it into high-quality apartments. Now he’s building some more.’

  ‘Were you involved in the initial build as well?’ Jane asked out of curiosity.

  ‘No, I came on board after that, but I’ve been working for them a few years now.’

  As Jane wrote some notes, Boon returned to the Portakabin. He told her he’d brought the CID car round and let her know the duty sergeant had spoken with the coroner’s officer, PC Rogers.

  ‘The undertakers’ van should be on the site in about an hour, and the coffin can be opened at one.’

  Jane looked at her watch. It was a quarter to eleven. ‘Where’s the mortuary?’

  ‘Queen Mary’s Hospital, just off the A20 between Chislehurst and Sidcup. Not far from your house, actually.’

  ‘A hospital? Why aren’t they using a local council mortuary?’ Jane asked.

  ‘Bromley and Bexley division regularly use the hospital mortuary for suspicious deaths and murder post-mortems. Two coroner’s officers work there as well,’ replied Boon.

  Jane closed her notebook. ‘Thanks for your time and help, gentlemen. As soon as we’ve opened the coffin, I’ll notify you of the result. In the meantime, I think it would be best if you don’t do any more work on the foundations.’

  ‘Can we do other stuff?’ Lee asked.

  ‘As long as it doesn’t involve any digging.’ Jane headed towards the door and Boon followed her. She turned round and looked at him.

  ‘I want you to remain here and supervise the removal of the coffin. I’ll see you at the mortuary later.’

  ‘How am I going to get there?’

  ‘Get a lift in the mortuary van. I’m sure they can squeeze you in the back,’ Jane said, knowing very well that three people could sit in the front of the van.

  Boon frowned, as if he thought this was payback for landing Jane in the mud.

  Jane gave him her brightest smile. ‘For the sake of evidence continuity, I need you to stay with the coffin.’ She handed him the umbrella. ‘Don’t forget to return this to its owner before you leave.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  As Jane drove up St Mary’s Lane, towards the main road, she saw the small parish church they’d passed on the way to the building site and noticed the door was open. It occurred to her that if the coffin did have a body in it, she didn’t have a clue what should be done concerning a reburial, and even if it was empty the coffin would probably be the property of the Catholic church. Deciding it might be worth chatting with the local priest, Jane stopped and parked the car. She took off her dirty raincoat and left it on the passenger seat before going into the church.

  Glancing around, Jane couldn’t see anyone, but noticed the cut-out cross on top of a confessional box had some light shining through it from a small electric bulb. The curtains on each side of the box were closed. Walking towards it, she heard the muffled sound of voices coming from inside. Not wanting to disturb anyone, or hear the actual confession, she moved out of hearing to wait at the back of the church. A couple of minutes later, a young woman carrying a small baby in her arms exited the box and hurried out of the church with her head down. It was obvious to Jane she was in a distressed state and had been crying. Jane felt an instinctive impulse to ask the woman if she was all right, but realising the circumstances and surroundings said nothing.

  She walked over to the confessional box. ‘Excuse me, Father, I wonder if I could have a word with you,’ she asked through the closed curtain.

  ‘Please, enter the confessional box and confess your sins to Almighty God, my child,’ he said with a slight foreign accent.

  Jane thought he might be Italian. She wasn’t quite sure what to do and, fearing she might alarm the priest, didn’t open the curtain he was behind. She stepped into the confessional booth
, sat down, and held her warrant card up to the mesh.

  ‘Sorry, Father, but I’m not here for confession. I’m Detective Sergeant Jane Tennison from Bromley CID. I’d like to speak with you about an incident I’m dealing with.’

  ‘Have you found the lead that was stolen from the church roof?’ he asked.

  ‘Not personally, Father, and to be honest that’s not what I need to speak with you about.’

  He sighed. ‘Pity. The police officer I reported the theft to thought the local gypsies might be responsible. I was hoping the lead would be recovered and save the church the cost of replacing it. How can I help you, Sergeant Tennison?’

  ‘I don’t wish to appear rude, but could we speak face to face outside the confessional box?’

  He laughed. ‘Of course.’ Pulling back the curtain, he stepped out at the same time as Jane.

  Jane had expected a small, elderly man and was surprised to see he was in his mid-thirties and about six feet tall. He was slim and handsome, with dark, swept-back hair, olive skin and almond-shaped brown eyes. He wore a neatly fitting black priest’s suit, which accentuated his athletic build, a black shirt and white dog collar. A purple stole, with embroidered gold crosses and golden tassels on each end, hung from his neck.

  He held out his hand.

  ‘I’m Father Christopher Floridia, but everyone calls me Father Chris.’

  Jane shook his hand. ‘Is that an Italian accent?’ she asked.

  He laughed. ‘No, I’m Maltese.’

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ Jane said.

  ‘No apology needed. People often think I’m Italian when they hear me speak.’

  Jane was relieved he wasn’t offended, recalling her father once telling her the Italians, under Mussolini, had dropped a barrage of bombs on Malta in 1940. She told Father Floridia about the unearthing of the coffin at the old convent building site, and how it was being taken to the mortuary to be opened.

  ‘I was wondering if you could help me with the correct procedure if there is a body inside the coffin, and who I need to inform within the Church.’

  ‘I’ve never actually dealt with anything like that before,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I’d imagine, as the coffin was found on the grounds of the old Catholic convent, there would need to be a reburial.’