Unholy Murder

by Lynda La Plante

  ‘It smells delicious. What did you say it was called?’

  ‘Soppa tal-armla. It’s a popular Maltese winter soup made with vegetables, potatoes and tomatoes. I just need to add some cubes of goat’s cheese for a few minutes, then it’s ready to eat.’

  ‘Does tal-armla mean vegetables in Maltese?’

  He started stirring the soup with a large wooden spoon. ‘The literal translation is “of the widow”, thus it’s commonly known as widow’s soup. The name originates from the medieval practice of gifting penniless, widowed women with vegetables and other available produce, which they would use to make filling soups.’

  ‘I can’t wait to try it, Father.’

  ‘Please call me Chris,’ he smiled.

  ‘Well, seeing as we are both technically off duty, you must call me Jane.’

  He placed two wicker table mats, side plates, cutlery, and napkins neatly down on the small table, then pulled out a chair. ‘Please, take a seat.’ He gently slid it back in as Jane sat down, then unfolded a napkin and handed it to her.

  ‘Would you like a glass of red wine with your soup? It’s a Chianti,’ he said, holding up the bottle.

  ‘Only if you’re having one.’

  Chris poured two glasses and handed one to Jane. ‘Cheers,’ she said, raising her glass.

  He smiled. ‘Cheers. Here’s to a successful outcome to your investigation.’

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ Jane replied, taking a sip of wine.

  ‘I made some Maltese sourdough bread earlier. Would you like some with your soup?’

  She nodded. ‘You obviously like cooking.’

  ‘I used to help my mother in the kitchen when I was young. I find cooking relaxing, though it’s generally just meals for myself. Having company is a pleasant change.’

  He cut four slices of bread on a wooden chopping board which he then placed on the table. He ladled some soup into two bowls, sprinkled some chopped parsley on top, then put the bowls on the wicker mats before sitting down.

  ‘It can be served with a poached egg on top, but I used my last two for breakfast, I’m afraid.’

  ‘It looks delicious as it is,’ Jane said, picking up her spoon. She noticed Chris had bowed his head, with his palms pressed together. On impulse, she followed suit.

  ‘Bless us, O Lord, and these, thy gifts, which we are about to receive from thy bounty. Through Christ, our Lord. Amen.’ He made the sign of the cross. ‘Help yourself to some bread, Jane. I like to dunk it in the soup,’ he said, picking up a spoon and fork.

  Although the soup looked appetising, she noticed it had cauliflower florets in it, a vegetable she had never liked. Using her fork to cut a small bit off she scooped it up in her spoon with some of the soup. Her opinion of cauliflower was instantly transformed as the flavour enveloped her taste buds. Next, she tried a bit of the cheese, which literally melted in her mouth. She dipped her bread in the soup, took a bite, and raised her wine glass.

  ‘My compliments, Chef Chris. I can honestly say I’ve never tasted a soup like this. It’s absolutely delicious.’

  Chris raised his glass with a smile. ‘I’m glad you like it.’

  ‘Without a name for our victim, finding out what happened to all the nuns living at the convent over a hundred years is going to be a massive task. My intention is to work backwards in ten-year periods from the day the convent closed.’

  ‘Some of the nuns will still be alive,’ he pointed out. ‘They may be working in other convents or parishes.’

  ‘They shouldn’t be hard to trace, then.’

  ‘There is one problem you may encounter, though.’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘Which is . . .?’

  ‘In some convents, nuns change their names to reflect the change that has happened in their lives. Sometimes they can suggest a new name, but it’s often up to the Mother Superior to decide on it.’

  Jane sighed. ‘That could make things a lot more complicated.’

  ‘It might be worth trying to locate the last Mother Superior. The diocese should know where she is.’

  Jane nodded, swallowing a mouthful of soup. ‘What about the orphan children who lived in the convent? Will there be a record of them?’

  ‘I’d imagine so, and Bromley Council may have a record as well. Would you like some more wine?’ he asked, lifting the bottle.

  She picked up her glass. ‘Just a drop, thank you.’

  He topped up both their glasses and offered Jane another slice of bread.

  ‘It’s just a thought,’ she said, ‘but is there a specific religious shop where nuns and priests get their clothing?’

  ‘There is for us. I’m not sure about nuns. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I didn’t check the habit at the mortuary. A maker’s label might help identify a period when it was made and narrow the timeline of our victim’s death. I’ll get our forensic guy to take a look.’

  ‘That’s clever thinking.’

  ‘Not really. It’s something I picked up from an experienced colleague on a previous case. I should have thought to do it at the mortuary.’

  He admired her modesty. ‘It must be hard to concentrate after such a gruesome discovery.’

  ‘You kind of get used to it, but I’d be lying if I said it’s never upsetting – not so much at the time, as you’ve a lot to think about, but later, when you are off duty. Dealing with grieving families is hard, but you have to be strong for their sake. It must be the same for you.’

  He nodded. ‘Yes, it is, especially when it’s children or babies who have died. I was wondering . . . would it be possible for me to visit the deceased nun in the mortuary and say a prayer for her?’

  ‘Certainly. Under the circumstances that would seem to be very appropriate. Are you free tomorrow afternoon?’

  ‘Yes. After one would be best.’

  ‘I’ll pick you up at around quarter past one,’ she said, knowing he didn’t have a car.

  ‘There’s no need to put yourself out. If you give me the address, I’ll cycle there.’

  ‘It’s no bother. I can let you know how my meeting went on the way to the mortuary.’

  Jane savoured her last spoonful of soup and put the spoon in the bowl. ‘That was pure heaven.’

  ‘I doubt the angels make it as good as my mother did,’ he joked, and Jane laughed. ‘Would you like some more?’

  ‘I’m full, thanks,’ she said, patting her stomach.

  ‘Would you like some more wine . . . or a coffee?

  Jane said a coffee with milk would be fine. Chris filled a kettle, put it on the hob and spooned some instant coffee into a cup.

  ‘Would you like to try some kwarezimal with your coffee?’ he asked, picking up a round cake tin from the work surface and removing the lid. He put the tin on the table.

  ‘Did you make these as well?’ Jane asked, admiring the inch-thick, oval-shaped, chocolate-coloured biscuits.

  ‘Yes. Basically, they’re made with orange water, cocoa, ground almonds and spices, then coated with honey and almond slivers. They’re best straight out of the oven, but I can warm some up for you.’

  ‘No need. They look delicious.’ She picked one up and took a bite.

  ‘These are to die for as well. What are they called again?’

  ‘Kwarezimal. It’s a traditional Maltese Lenten food, which derives its name from the Latin word Quaresima, meaning the forty days of Lent. During Lent, adult Catholics abstain from eating meat and often had these instead. They’re quite fattening, but I love them . . . naughty but nice,’ he said, picking one up and biting into it.

  The kettle started whistling. Chris made Jane a coffee, emptied what was left of the wine into his glass and offered her another kwarezimal.

  ‘If I eat any more, I’ll burst. But I’d love to know the recipe for the widow’s soup.’

  He opened a drawer and removed a worn leather-bound notebook with an elastic band around it. ‘My mother kept all her recipes in this book. Cooking Maltese
food reminds me of my parents and my old life in Malta.’ He removed the elastic band and handed the book to Jane.

  She noticed some old burn marks on the back, which made it look as if it had been dropped on a stove at some point. ‘Do your parents still live in Malta?’

  ‘Sadly, they’re both dead now.’

  She realised they must have died quite young if Chris was in his early thirties. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, wondering if he had any brothers or sisters but didn’t want to ask.

  ‘I miss them, but they are still with me in spirit . . . and never more so than when I’m cooking something from my mother’s recipe book.’ He smiled. ‘What about your family?’

  ‘My parents live in London, and so does my sister.’

  ‘Is she also in the police?’

  Jane laughed. ‘No, she’s a hairdresser. She’s married with two young children.’

  ‘Does she do your hair?’

  ‘Yes. I’m due to see her for a trim next week, though it may depend on how this case works out.’

  ‘She’s obviously very good. I’ll swap her details for the soup recipe.’

  Jane laughed. ‘Deal . . . though I better check with her first as she doesn’t usually cut men’s hair – apart from my father’s and her husband’s.’ She opened the recipe book. It hadn’t crossed her mind that all the recipes would be written in Maltese. ‘I think I’ll need you to translate again,’ she said, handing him the book.

  Chris read out the ingredients and the method for making the soup and Jane wrote it down in the back of her notebook. He asked if she’d like the recipe for the kwarezimal biscuits as well.

  She smiled. ‘I think they may be beyond my cooking abilities.’

  Chris closed the recipe book, put the rubber band around it, then gently kissed it and made the sign of the cross.

  Jane looked at her watch. ‘I really must be going, or I’ll never get my report done by tomorrow morning. Would you like a hand with the washing up?’

  He stood up. ‘No, it’s fine. My housekeeper will do them in the morning. She actually gets annoyed if I do the dishes – or cleaning of any sort.’

  Jane laughed. ‘Thanks for a lovely meal.’

  ‘My pleasure. Thanks for the company.’

  ‘Hopefully, I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  ‘I hope your meeting goes well. It would be a great shame if someone as determined as you wasn’t allowed to continue the investigation.’

  In the hallway, Chris helped Jane on with her coat and opened the front door – then he asked her to hold on for a second and nipped back to the kitchen, returning with the biscuit tin.

  ‘Please, take these.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  He nodded. ‘I can easily make some more.’

  ‘Thank you. Goodnight, Chris.’

  ‘Goodnight, Jane,’ he replied, closing the door.

  Chris went to the living room, turned on the radio and sat in the armchair to listen to the evening news. After a couple of minutes, he got up, turned off the radio, then picked up the phone and dialled a number.

  It was quickly answered. ‘Bishop Meade speaking, how can I help you?’

  ‘Good evening, Bishop. It’s Father Floridia. I’ve just rung to tell you a coffin was uncovered today in the grounds of the old St Mary’s Convent . . .’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Driving home, Jane felt nervous about her conversation with Father Chris. She knew it could land her in trouble, and she only had herself to blame if it did. She hoped he’d meant it when he said ‘trust works both ways’. It was that remark that had persuaded her to confide in him. Her only two previous encounters with a priest were at a friend’s wedding and the funeral of a murder victim she had attended in her official capacity. In both instances the priests had been in their sixties and rather dour. Father Chris seemed proof that not all priests were the same, with his warmth and humour.

  It was obvious he still grieved the loss of his parents. She wondered if he’d left the Mediterranean island of Malta to become a priest because of their deaths.

  Arriving home, she parked her Mini Cooper on the small driveway. As she got out of the car, Jane noticed a man in his late sixties walking past with a small Jack Russell terrier, which cocked its leg on her front wall pillar and peed on it. The owner looked embarrassed and was gently tugging the dog’s lead.

  ‘Naughty boy, Spud. I’m so sorry. I’ll get a pitcher of water . . .’

  ‘No need,’ Jane said. ‘I can do it.’

  ‘No, I insist. I won’t be two seconds,’ he said, hurrying to the house next door.

  Jane removed her briefcase from the passenger seat, opened her front door and flicked the hallway light on. It lit up briefly, popped and went out.

  ‘For God’s sake, not again,’ she said to herself.

  ‘Everything all right, love?’ the neighbour asked, pouring some water on the pillar.

  ‘There’s a fault with the hallway light. It works fine for a bit and then the bulb blows.’

  ‘I can have a look at it if you like. Have you got a ladder?’

  ‘Sorry, I haven’t. Don’t worry, it’s pretty late and I’m sure you’ve better things to do.’ She switched on the living-room light which lit up a section of the hallway. ‘That will do me until the morning.’

  ‘It’s not nice entering a dark hallway. We don’t want you tripping over anything on your way upstairs,’ he said, noticing the storage boxes in the hallway Jane had yet to unpack. ‘I’ll just nip and get my ladder and tool kit.’

  Jane really wanted to get on with her report but didn’t want to offend him. It wasn’t long before he returned with an old wooden ladder and a metal toolbox, from which he removed a torch.

  ‘Can you switch the main fuse off for me, please?’ he asked as he unfolded the ladder.

  ‘Certainly,’ she said, assuming it was somewhere in the hallway coat cupboard next to the kitchen door.

  ‘I think you’ll find it in the small floor cupboard next to the front door,’ he told her, turning the torch on.

  ‘Sorry, I haven’t had a chance to get to know where everything is yet.’ She opened the cupboard while he shone the torch on the fuse box.

  ‘I’m Gerry, by the way. I live next door with my wife Vi, that’s short for Violet. Would you hold this for me while I remove the bulb and light shade?’ He handed her the torch.

  ‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Jane.’

  ‘Welcome to Oakdene Avenue, Jane. How are you settling in?’ He removed the light bulb and handed it to her.

  ‘Fine, thanks. Still got a lot of unpacking to do, though. Sorry I haven’t popped round to introduce myself yet.’

  ‘I expect a young woman like you is very busy with her work. Are you in the police?’ he asked, as he removed the lightshade.

  ‘What makes you ask that?’ Jane asked.

  ‘I saw you at lunchtime in the Hillman Hunter when I was walking Spud. My grandson told me if you ever see a deep red Hunter behind you, it’s wise to slow down as it’s probably a plainclothes police car.’

  ‘Can’t argue with that.’ Jane smiled, as everyone in the CID knew the Hillmans stuck out like a sore thumb.

  ‘Do you work locally?’

  ‘Yes. I’m a detective sergeant at Bromley.’

  ‘Not far to travel for work, then.’

  ‘Thankfully, no.’

  He unscrewed the drop cap and asked Jane for the torch so he could examine the wires inside.

  ‘As I suspected, the bulb’s blowing because there’s a loose connection in the cap, which is causing an arc to jump across the contact rather than flowing through it.’

  ‘Is it a big job to repair it?’ Jane asked, wondering how much it might cost.

  ‘No. I just need to reconnect the live wire.’ He got a small screwdriver from the toolbox and secured the wire. ‘Do you have a spare bulb?’

  She held up the blown bulb. ‘This was the last one I had.’

  ‘I came
prepared.’ He smiled, removing a spare bulb from his toolbox and fitting it in the cap. He switched the main fuse on and tested the hallway light, which lit up instantly. ‘There you go . . . nice and bright now.’

  ‘Thank you so much. Are you an electrician?’

  ‘No. I’m a retired cab driver. But I’ve learned a lot about electrics and plumbing doing up my house over the years. Sorry to say this, but your fuse box and wiring is very old. I’d say it was fitted when the house was built in the mid-Thirties.’

  ‘Is it dangerous? The last thing I want is for the house to catch fire.’

  ‘You’d be best to get a qualified electrician to look at it. Edith, who lived here before you, was in her eighties and didn’t bother to update anything after her husband died twenty years ago.’

  Jane nodded. ‘The estate agent did mention an elderly lady lived here for nearly forty years.’ Jane knew the house had been offered at a well-below-market price due to its antiquated state. It would have been sensible to get a full survey done, but she couldn’t afford it.

  ‘Poor Edith got dementia before she died.’

  ‘In a care home?’ Jane asked.

  ‘No, she had a heart attack in the living room. I had a key for the place and used to check on her a couple of times a day. Walked in to find her slumped in the armchair and cold as ice. Mind you, she made it to eighty-two, so it wasn’t a bad innings.’

  ‘Funnily enough, the estate agent never mentioned that,’ Jane said, unhappy at the thought that someone had died in the house.

  ‘I bet you see a lot of dead bodies as a detective,’ he said cheerily.

  ‘Quite a few. It’s all part of the job.’

  ‘Rather you than me, dear. Right, I’d best be off and let you get some shut-eye. You must pop round for a drink and meet Vi,’ he said, before picking up the ladder and toolbox.

  Jane opened the front door. ‘That would be nice, thank you.’

  ‘Any time you like . . . our door is always open.’

  ‘Goodnight, Gerry.’ As she closed the door, she wondered if she should have offered him some money for fixing the light, but thought he’d probably have refused. She decided to buy Gerry a nice bottle of wine and drop it off the following day.