Unholy Murder

by Lynda La Plante

  ‘You could be right, but then again you could be wrong. A good investigator considers all possibilities, not just the one that best fits their assumptions.’

  ‘Very astute, officer. I shall remember that – but I’ll bet you I’m right.’

  ‘What’s the bet?’

  ‘You wine and dine me at a posh restaurant uptown, then take me dancing at the Empire nightclub in Leicester Square. If I’m wrong, it’s my treat.’

  Boon smiled. Win or lose, he very much fancied a night out with Becky. ‘You’re on.’

  She shook his hand. ‘And I’m going to choose the most expensive thing on the menu.’

  ‘As long as it’s only the starter, I’m happy with that,’ he grinned.

  Becky pressed the doorbell of the small terraced house. A plump, dark-haired woman in her mid-twenties opened the door.

  ‘Hi, I’m Becky. Is your mother in?’

  ‘My mother doesn’t live here,’ the woman replied, looking confused.

  Boon wondered if Becky had been the victim of a hoax call.

  ‘Sorry, I think we might have the wrong address. Do you know if a Mrs Gorman lives in the street?’

  The woman laughed. ‘I’m Annette Gorman. You spoke to me on the phone, Miss Rogers.’

  Becky looked embarrassed. ‘I do apologise. I was expecting someone a lot older. This is Detective Constable Boon.’

  ‘I thought it might be,’ Annette said, inviting them in.

  They went to the small living room which was littered with children’s toys.

  ‘Sorry about the mess. I’ve got two-year-old twin girls. I just put them down for their mid-morning nap, so we shouldn’t be disturbed for a while.’

  Becky asked Annette if she’d mind her and Boon taking some notes.

  ‘Not at all. I don’t really know if I can help you much. I was only ten when the convent closed.’

  ‘Can I ask why you rang Becky, Mrs Gorman?’ Boon asked, wanting to get straight to the point.

  ‘I was shocked when I read her article. I couldn’t believe one of the nuns was murdered. I showed it to my husband before he went to work. He knew I’d been an orphan at the convent and said I should call you to see if I could be of any help. He also said I should call the police. But there was nothing in the article about who to call . . . other than Miss Rogers.’

  Boon explained they had been keeping quiet about the murder as they had hoped to identify the nun before going public. ‘When were you at the convent?’ he asked.

  ‘From about 1957 until just after the fire, which I think was in the summer of 1962. It wasn’t long after that my brother and I were moved to different orphanages.’

  Boon realised Annette would have been at the convent at the time the nun was believed to have been murdered. He was about to pick up on it when Becky butted in.

  ‘Sorry, did you say your brother was there as well?’

  Annette nodded sadly. ‘He was my twin. I don’t know where David is now . . . or if he’s even alive,’ she said, welling up.

  ‘Have you spoken with the Catholic Children’s Society in Westminster?’ Boon asked.

  ‘Yes, but they couldn’t help. They don’t keep orphanage records. Sadly, they didn’t have a David Bell with the same date of birth as me on their records. I also wrote to the diocesan archives but just got a letter back saying there was no record of him.’ She started to cry.

  Boon felt downhearted. It seemed the Children’s Society would be another dead-end inquiry, though he’d still contact them to double check.

  ‘I’d like to try and help you find your brother, Annette,’ Becky said.

  ‘How? I’ve exhausted every avenue there is.’ She wiped her eyes with a tissue.

  ‘I’ll ask my editor if I can do an article on the orphanage, the loss of your parents and the struggle to find your brother. It might help to locate him.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you. Not all the children were orphans in the true sense of the word. Some had been abandoned or were from broken homes. When I was sixteen, I ran away from the children’s home I was in to look for my brother. Then I met my future husband, who was eighteen at the time. His family took me in and helped me look for mine.

  ‘We managed to trace a close friend of my parents. Through her, I discovered David and I had lived in a big house in Sussex. When we were three, our father was seriously assaulted during a break-in and died of his injuries some months later. As a result, our mother had a breakdown and started drinking heavily. She confided in the local priest about her depression and drinking.’ Annette’s brow furrowed. ‘He rewarded her plea for help by informing the authorities and having us taken away,’ she said with bitterness in her voice.

  ‘My God, that’s awful,’ Becky exclaimed. ‘I thought the Church was supposed to help people in need!’

  ‘Were you reunited with your mother?’ Boon asked, moved by her painful story.

  She shook her head. ‘No. Thanks to the priest, she ended up in Graylingwell asylum. She committed suicide when David and I were nine. My mother’s friend found out we were at the convent and wrote a letter to the Mother Superior, but we were never told about it.’

  ‘What possible reason could she have for not telling you?’ Becky asked.

  ‘In the eyes of the Catholic Church, suicide is a mortal sin, and she was an evil cow.’

  ‘Do you mind if I ask you some questions about your time at the Sisters of Mercy orphanage?’ Boon asked.

  Annette let out a cynical laugh. ‘We used to call some of them the Sisters Without Mercy.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  She looked sombre. ‘Because the Mother Superior and her minions were heartless and brutal in the way they treated us. Although I was only five, I’ll never forget my first day there.’

  ‘What happened?’ Becky asked, apprehensively.

  Annette sat motionless, her lips trembling as she recalled the event. ‘We were in the dining room having breakfast when we were made to stand in a line. Mother Superior said she was going to show us what happens to girls and boys who misbehave. The door opened and four girls, not much older than me, were marched in by Sister Margaret who whacked them across the back of the legs with a bamboo cane if they walked too slow. At first, I thought it strange as they were all wearing white headscarves and carrying silver bowls. They were then made to stand in front of us and remove their headscarves. All their hair had been shaved off and it was in the silver bowls they held in front of them. Mother Superior produced a big wooden ladle from up her sleeve then proceeded to walk behind the girls and whack each of them hard on the head. I could see they were terrified, but they didn’t dare cry in case they got hit again.’

  Becky gasped, putting her hand over her mouth. ‘What did she do to the boys?’ she asked.

  Annette licked her dry lips and clasped her hands together. ‘Sister Margaret marched the boys in and paraded them round the room. All of them were wrapped in bedsheets.’ She paused and took a deep breath.

  ‘Why on earth where they made to wear bedsheets?’ Boon asked.

  ‘Because they had wet themselves during the night. It wasn’t until they were made to pull the sheets from their heads that I saw David was one of the boys. He started to cry when he saw me. I took a step forward, then one of the elder girls tugged me back. She whispered I’d make it worse for him if I did anything.’ Annette’s sadness was turning to anger. ‘Mother Superior then gave them a whack with the ladle as well.’

  Boon shook his head in disgust. ‘In my few years as a police officer, I’ve seen some terrible things but the thought that anyone, especially nuns, could do that to children . . .’

  ‘Having all your hair cut off or being made to wear a wet sheet was nothing compared with being made to sit in the chapel crypt in the dark, on your own. Mother Superior would say it was so we could “reflect on our sins in the presence of the Lord”.’

  ‘Were there dead bodies down there?’ Becky asked, wide-eyed.

&nbs
p; ‘Just the man who founded the convent. He was in a stone sarcophagus. Occasionally a nun who died would be in a coffin awaiting burial, but that was rare. It was terrifying and so cold down there you’d sit on the floor with your knees under your chin, pulling your dress down and your jumper sleeves over your hands to try and keep warm. Thankfully, I only ever got sent down there once. I never wanted it to happen to me again, so I made sure I always did as I was told.’

  The thought of being alone in the crypt sent a shiver through Becky. ‘Do you think there might be the bodies of abused children buried in the grounds of the convent?’

  Annette shrugged. ‘I don’t remember anyone suddenly disappearing while I was there, but that’s not to say a child hasn’t been killed since the convent opened.’

  Boon knew it was a possibility but doubted it. ‘I’m really sorry for making you recall such traumatic events, Annette. Yours, David’s, and every child’s life in the convent must have been a living nightmare,’ he said.

  ‘I was never so happy as when I left that place, but it’s stayed with me ever since and robbed me of growing up with my brother. There was a constant atmosphere of fear, but it wasn’t all bad. Some nuns were kind and even lied to protect us. Although they didn’t argue with Mother Superior about her strict rules, they didn’t enforce them with an iron rod like some of her cronies.’

  ‘They should all be ashamed for doing nothing about it,’ Becky said fiercely.

  ‘Believe me, I know they were. Those that did challenge Mother Superior quickly found themselves transferred to another convent, usually in some godforsaken country, or so I was told.’

  ‘How many children lived at the convent?’ Becky asked.

  ‘About thirty . . . there were slightly more girls than boys.’

  ‘Have you kept in contact with any of them?’

  ‘No. A couple of girls were moved to the same new orphanage as me. But I lost contact with them when I left.’

  ‘How many nuns were there?’ Boon asked.

  ‘It varied, but generally I’d say about twelve, including Mother Superior.’

  ‘Can you remember the Mother Superior or any of the nuns’ names?’

  ‘I haven’t a clue what her name was,’ she said. ‘Everyone just called her Mother Superior. Sister Margaret was her deputy, and she was even more sadistic. She always took great delight in beating and humiliating us.’

  ‘Do you know her surname?’

  Annette shook her head. ‘All the nuns were just called Sister and we used their Christian names for those that let us.’ She paused for thought. ‘There was Sister Suzanne, Sister Julie, Sister Jane and Sister Melissa. I remember them mostly because they were the nicer ones. It’s hard to recall the others.’

  ‘Can you remember the Christian names of any other nuns beginning with an “M”?’ Boon asked.

  Annette thought with her eyes closed, then opened them. ‘There was Sister Maria, at least two Sister Marys, and I think a Sister Madeline. I’m sorry, but that’s all I can remember just now. Do you think the nun who was murdered might be one of them?’

  ‘It’s possible. We believe our victim was between eighteen and thirty and had the initials MB. If I read the names out, could you give me a rough age of each of them?’

  ‘Sorry, I was ten years old . . . I couldn’t even begin to guess how old they were back then. Mother Superior and Sister Margaret looked the oldest. Sister Maria and Sister Suzanne were definitely younger.’

  ‘I know this is a long shot, but do you know if any of them still live or work in the area?’

  Annette sighed. ‘Sister Julie does, though she’s no longer a nun. We speak on the phone and meet up quite regularly, actually. I didn’t want to give you her details until I spoke to her personally and made sure it was OK.’

  ‘I understand . . . and thank you for your honesty. Obviously, Julie might be able to provide some useful information. Would you mind calling her just now and asking if she’d be willing to talk to us?’

  ‘I’ll try but she might be at work. She’s a nursing sister at Farnborough Hospital.’

  While Annette went to the kitchen to make the call, Boon checked his notes to see if there was anything else he needed to ask.

  Becky let out a sad sigh. ‘It’s made me realise how lucky I was to be raised by loving parents who always made me feel wanted and safe. Although we’ve had a few big rows over the years, I can’t ever recall a time when my parents raised a hand to me.’

  ‘Same here,’ Boon replied.

  ‘Could you prosecute the nuns for assault after so many years?’

  ‘It would need Annette and other victims to give evidence in court. I’ll certainly be telling my superiors what she told us. Are you going to write an article about what happened to her?’

  ‘I feel the public has a right to know. Those responsible should be named and shamed, but I won’t write it without Annette’s approval. And I will still try and help her find her brother.’

  Boon smiled. ‘You’re a good person, Becky Rogers.’

  She smiled back. ‘As are you, Simon Boon.’

  Annette came back and told them Julie must be at work as she wasn’t answering. She turned to Boon. ‘I’ll call her later and give her your office number. I’m pretty sure she’ll do her best to help with the investigation.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Boon said.

  ‘How did you meet up with Julie again?’ Becky asked.

  ‘It was about two years ago while I was shopping at Allders department store in Bromley. I noticed this woman staring at me and shaking as if she’d seen a ghost. I asked if she was all right, but she didn’t answer. I was about to walk away when she asked me how I got the mark on my face.’ Annette pointed to a three-inch scar on her left cheek. ‘I told her a nun hit me with a bamboo cane and she looked close to tears. I’d never seen Sister Julie in casual clothes, so at first it didn’t register who she was. When she asked me if I was Annette Bell, it came to me in a flash. We hugged each other and cried our eyes out. In many ways, finding each other has been a blessing for both of us. Our long talks and lots of tears have helped us come to terms with what happened in our lives.’

  Boon was about to ask Annette a question when he heard one of the babies crying.

  Becky stood up. ‘We’d best be going and let you see to your children.’

  ‘There’s just a couple of other questions I’d like to ask before we go,’ Boon said.

  ‘If she carries on crying, she’ll wake the other one up. I’ll be back in a second.’ Annette dashed up the stairs and returned cradling one of the babies.

  Becky’s eyes lit up. ‘Ah, she’s beautiful. What’s her name?’

  ‘Davina, after my brother. Her sister is called Julie.’

  ‘Can I hold her?’ Becky asked.

  Annette handed Davina to her and then sat down opposite Boon.

  ‘Were there any non-religious people who worked at the convent?’ he asked.

  ‘Not that I recall. Most things in the convent were done by the nuns. You’d be surprised how skilled they were at fixing and making things. We had to do chores every day, keeping the place clean, helping with the laundry, tending the gardens and vegetable patches. Mucking out the pig pens was the worst punishment – you had to grab the shit with your bare hands and put it into a bucket.’

  ‘That’s gross,’ Becky said.

  ‘Were there any priests who worked there?’ Boon asked.

  ‘There was one who’d come in and read us Aesop’s Fables in class. Sometimes the bishop would visit . . . we’d be given clean clothes and inspected by Mother Superior before he arrived.’

  ‘Can you remember the priest’s or bishop’s names?’

  ‘We were only allowed to call the bishop “Your Excellency”, if he deigned to speak to us. We called the priest Father Bob. He was a nice man, everyone liked him. He used to give us all a boiled sweet in class, hold his finger to his mouth and say we must not tell Mother Superior, or he
’d get in trouble.’

  Boon closed his notebook. ‘Thank you, Mrs Gorman. I know it must be hard, talking about your life at the convent, but it’s been really helpful to our investigation.’

  Boon couldn’t wait now to get back to the station. Father Bob, he wondered . . . could he be Bishop Meade?

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Driving Becky to Petts Wood, Boon asked if she’d mind keeping the conversation with Annette Gorman to herself, at least until DCS Barnes had held the press conference.

  ‘I don’t have a problem with that,’ she said, ‘as long as you buy me a drink.’

  ‘Are you blackmailing me?’ Boon grinned.

  ‘If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t have met Annette. So, I figure you owe me.’

  ‘All right then, where do you want to go?’

  ‘Do you know The Chequers in Southborough Lane?’

  ‘Yes. It’s a quiet, cosy little pub . . .’

  ‘That’s why I chose it,’ she smiled, with a twinkle in her eye.

  ‘The Chequers it is, then,’ Boon replied.

  ‘If Sister Julie is willing to talk to you, can I tag along?’ she asked.

  ‘I doubt it will be me who speaks to her. Julie could be the key to a lot of unanswered questions. As a significant witness my DS or DI will want to speak to her.’

  ‘Will you tell me what she says?’

  He sighed. ‘I can’t do that, Becky. But if Julie wants to speak to you, that’s a different matter.’

  ‘Do you think this Father Bob is involved?’

  His forehead creased. ‘No, but obviously he needs to be traced and interviewed.’

  She laughed. ‘I can tell you’re fibbing by the way you reacted when Annette told you his name. And the way you just looked at me was another giveaway.’

  Boon sighed. ‘I can’t tell you, Becky . . .’

  ‘Come on! You wouldn’t have found Annette or Julie if it hadn’t been for me. I won’t tell anyone else.’

  ‘You promise this is between us?’

  ‘Of course. It’s not in my interest to piss you off, is it?’

  Boon told her about Bishop Meade and why he suspected he may have been involved in the nun’s murder.