Unholy Murder

by Lynda La Plante

  Becky’s eyes widened. ‘Bloody hell. If your timeline is right and Meade was the priest who visited the convent, then he must have known the murdered nun.’

  Boon nodded. ‘If he killed her, the big question is why – and who else was involved. We found out there’s a tunnel from the convent chapel that leads to near where her body was found.’

  ‘Have you checked it out?’ Becky asked.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Do you think the nun’s murder had anything to do with the sale of the convent?’ Becky asked.

  ‘How do you know about the sale?’

  ‘I’m a journalist. I do my homework before writing an article,’ she said indignantly.

  Boon suspected who her source was. ‘You mean your father told you about the coffin being found on the building site.’

  ‘Yes, but I made my own enquiries to find out about the history of the convent, the fire and then the sale to the building developer, Thomas Durham. If the nun found out there was something hooky going on between Meade and Durham, then maybe they thought she might tell the police.’

  Boon laughed. ‘Now you are in fantasy land. Durham bought the land well after the nuns left. Even if he was remotely involved, why bury the coffin somewhere you know it would be dug up?’

  ‘That’s a good point . . . but I still think it’s a possibility worth exploring.’

  ‘Please, Becky, leave the detective work to us,’ he said. ‘Or you could find yourself in trouble.’

  *

  Jane returned to Bromley to do her report on the meeting with Mrs Parkin. She phoned Nick first to see if he was in.

  ‘Hi. It’s me. I’m due a lunchbreak. If you’re not busy, I could pop to the café and get a couple of sandwiches.’

  ‘I’d love to, but I’ve got to go to my dad’s,’ he said.

  Jane thought he sounded stressed. ‘Is he all right?’

  He sighed. ‘Not really. One of the other residents at the convent showed him the News Shopper article. He’s got himself in a right state about the site being closed down. He’s convinced no one will buy any property there if they think bodies of murdered children and nuns are buried in the grounds. His breathing sounded heavy and a bit erratic, so I’m quite worried about him, to be honest.’

  Jane wondered if there was more behind Thomas Durham’s distress. ‘I’m really sorry, Nick. Obviously, we have to reassure the public we are investigating the allegation, but personally I think it’s just sensationalism by a young journalist. I found a document in the diocesan archives confirming the land was deconsecrated prior to the sale, so that should help put your father’s mind at rest.’

  ‘Thanks. That should cheer him up a bit. Hopefully I’ll see you tonight if he’s feeling better.’

  ‘No problem. Give him my best,’ she said, and ended the call, realising Nick was in a hurry.

  Jane had started typing her report when Boon walked in.

  ‘How’s your leg?’

  ‘Bloody sore.’ He sat down, rubbed his shin, then looked at Jane with a sly grin. ‘I’ve just spoken to a woman who was a child at the convent from 1957 to 1962. She told me about a priest who used to visit and read them stories. The children called him Father Bob.’ He paused for Jane to answer.

  Her eyes lit up. ‘Robert Meade! The bishop!’

  He nodded. ‘She didn’t know his surname, but I’d bet my life it was Meade.’

  ‘That’s brilliant work, Boony. I was at the diocesan archives earlier. I think Meade knows more about the convent fire than he’s letting on. I’m beginning to wonder if it was arson.’

  ‘Pity no one examined it at the time,’ Boon remarked.

  Jane held her right finger and thumb close. ‘I was this close to getting my hands on a list of former St Mary’s priests. With Meade’s name on it and Annette’s recollection of “Father Bob”, we’d have undeniable evidence to link him to the convent and the nuns.’

  ‘You might not need the list,’ he suggested. ‘Mrs Gorman is in regular contact with a lady called Julie. She used to be a nun at the convent. I’m waiting to see if she’ll speak to us. If she says Meade was a regular visitor to the convent, he’s screwed.’

  ‘You’ve had a productive day, Boony. Barnes will be pleased. How on earth did you find Annette Gorman?’

  ‘Believe it or not, PC Rogers’ daughter, Becky. She is really nice – unlike her old man. As a thanks for her help, I said she could attend the press conference.’

  ‘Be careful, Boony. I know from personal experience that journalists can be very underhand. They turn on the charm to get what they can out of you.’

  ‘She’s just a junior reporter,’ he said, ‘and her heart’s in the right place.’

  Jane raised her eyebrows. ‘Sounds as if you like her.’

  ‘I’m not so stupid I’d mix business with pleasure,’ Boon said quickly.

  Jane didn’t comment further. She knew many of her colleagues would disapprove of her dating Nick if they found out. It was early days, but she’d tell them when the time was right and duly suffer the raised eyebrows and cynical remarks.

  ‘What else did Mrs Gorman tell you?’ Jane asked.

  Boon opened his notebook and went through his conversation with Annette.

  Jane felt physically sick hearing how the children had been treated by some of the nuns. ‘Those poor kids. An orphanage is supposed to be a safe place, not a bloody prison camp.’

  ‘I just can’t understand why the nuns Annette said were nice, like Sister Julie, didn’t do something about it,’ Boon remarked.

  Jane thought for a moment. ‘Maybe our victim tried to . . . and that’s why she was murdered.’

  Boon nodded. ‘If you’re right, it points to nuns being involved more than Meade. Mrs Gorman said all the children liked him.’

  ‘I don’t doubt that, Boony. But what Annette told you raises a stronger possibility for me. Men who abuse children need to win their trust. Father Bob’s stories and boiled sweets may have been a means to an end.’

  ‘You think he was sexually abusing young girls?’ Boon asked in a shocked tone.

  ‘It could be boys as well as girls,’ she said. ‘When he handed out sweets, he said not to tell Mother Superior, or he’d get in trouble. Children who are abused don’t understand right from wrong or what is happening to them. They trust the abuser. They will do whatever they say. If our victim knew Meade was abusing children and threatened to expose him, his life would be over. He’d be defrocked and go to prison.’

  ‘His only way out would be to silence her,’ Boon concluded.

  Jane’s desk phone rang. She picked it up, giving her rank and name.

  ‘It’s Father Floridia. Are you free to talk?’

  She sensed an uneasiness in his voice. ‘Yes. Go ahead.’

  ‘Bishop Meade just phoned me in an absolute rage. He’s been made aware of an article in the Bromley News Shopper about the nun’s murder and the bodies of children—’

  Jane interrupted him. ‘I know. I was at the diocesan archives earlier. I got asked to leave by a priest who’d just spoken with Bishop Meade.’

  Father Chris’s tone changed. ‘Did you know about the newspaper article as well?’

  ‘Not until it was published this morning.’

  ‘You could at least have had the decency to warn me as soon as you knew about it,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sorry. It was thoughtless of me. It hit us out of the blue as well. What did Bishop Meade say?’

  ‘He accused me of being in cahoots with you, a liar and a disgrace to the Church. He said we have been deceitful, and the police were underhand by not being honest from the start.’

  ‘I’ll speak with Meade and tell him you didn’t know about the murder,’ Jane assured him.

  ‘I’ve already told him that, but I don’t think he believes me. He said I was not to talk to you again without his authority or a representative of the Church being present.’

  ‘Then why are you talking to me no
w?’ she asked.

  ‘There’s something you need to know, but I’d rather not say it over the phone. Can you come over to the presbytery?’

  ‘I’m quite busy at the moment . . .’

  ‘It’s about Bishop Meade. He’s lied to us.’

  ‘I’m on my way.’ Jane got up and grabbed her coat.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Boon asked.

  ‘I’ll tell you later. Write up your report on the Annette Gorman information,’ she said, hurrying out.

  *

  Father Floridia was dressed casually in his tracksuit when Jane arrived. He took her through to the living room. She could see the anxiety on his face as he took a deep breath.

  ‘Since we parted on Friday, the thought that someone connected to the convent might be involved in the nun’s death has eaten away at me. On Sunday, after mass, I spoke with one of my older parishioners about the convent. She didn’t know much about the nuns so I asked if she could remember who the priest at St Mary’s was in the late fifties and early sixties.’

  ‘And she told you it was Bishop Meade.’

  Father Chris raised his eyebrows. ‘How did you know?’

  Jane told him about her visit to the archives and Annette Gorman’s account of her time at the convent.

  ‘I don’t want this to sound insensitive,’ he said, ‘but . . . do you believe her?’

  ‘My colleague who interviewed her has no doubt she’s telling the truth. Her distress while recounting such painful memories was not an act.’

  Father Chris shook his head in disgust. ‘Those poor children will have been scarred for life. Do you think Bishop Meade knew what was going on?’

  ‘If Meade had nothing to hide, why didn’t he just tell us he was the local priest and visited the convent on a regular basis? It’s clear he’d know who the Mother Superior was, and at least the names of some of the nuns, including possibly our victim. He’s deliberately obstructed police inquiries and distanced himself from the convent. The question is, why?’

  ‘Are you going to arrest him?’

  ‘That’s not for me to decide . . . but I think it’s inevitable.’

  Father Chris sighed. ‘This just gets worse and worse. But I can’t believe Bishop Meade would be capable of murder. It seems more likely he’s concealing the wrongdoing of others.’

  Jane decided to be open with him. ‘It’s possible he was sexually abusing children at the convent and our victim found out.’

  Father Chris was stunned. ‘You think he’s a paedophile?’

  ‘Bishop Meade is clearly hiding something. Under the circumstances we have to consider it a possibility,’ Jane said. She told him about Meade reading stories to the children and giving them sweets.

  ‘Has anyone said they were actually abused by him?’ Father Chris asked.

  ‘No, but his acts of kindness may have had an ulterior motive,’ Jane suggested.

  ‘That’s ridiculous!’ he said. ‘Hundreds of priests, vicars and nuns read bible stories to children and give them sweets at Easter, Christmas, or other special occasions. Are you saying they are all paedophiles as well?’

  ‘No, but Meade also told the children not to tell Mother Superior. And now he’s not telling us the truth.’

  ‘I really can’t get my head around all this. It flies in the face of everything I’ve been taught and hold dear as a Catholic priest.’

  ‘Does Meade have a chauffeur-driven black Ford Granada?’ she asked.

  ‘The archbishop does, but Bishop Meade’s been using it in his absence. Why do you ask?’

  Jane told him about a man matching Meade’s description going to the mortuary on Saturday morning to say a prayer for the nun.

  ‘He didn’t know I’d prayed for her soul. It could have been a priest he sent to the mortuary,’ Father Chris said defensively.

  ‘The mortuary technician said he was dressed in a purple shirt and wore a gold ring, with a large round purple stone in it. When he saw the nun’s body, he had what can only be described as an emotional breakdown. I think Meade knows who she is and was full of self-pity and regret for something he’d done.’

  Father Chris tilted his head back and sighed. ‘No, no, no, this can’t be right.’

  ‘I know the truth can be hard to accept,’ she said gently, ‘but the evidence speaks for itself. It’s also clear one person alone couldn’t have moved the coffin. There are others out there who were involved or know what happened. And they’ve covered up the truth for at least twenty years.’

  Father Chris looked miserable. ‘I know. That’s why I will do what I can to help you. Archbishop Malone is flying back from Rome tomorrow morning. Meade said he’ll probably want to speak with me on Wednesday. I can’t lie to him as well, Jane. I have to tell him everything I know.’

  ‘You don’t need to get involved,’ she said. ‘There’s a record of the parish priests in the archives which will prove Bishop Meade worked here. The last thing I want is for you to get in trouble or lose your job. As far as I’m concerned, this conversation never took place and you never knew about the nun’s murder.’

  Father Chris shook his head. ‘There are no priests’ records in the archives . . . apart from mine.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘I spoke with Mrs Parkin on the phone just after you left. I told her I was writing an historical article on the church and needed some details about the previous parish priests. I wanted to confirm what my parishioner told me.’ He sighed. ‘The strange thing is, I wasn’t really surprised when I was told they were missing.’

  Jane shook her head in disbelief. ‘Bishop Meade must have removed them. He must be a complete fool to think we wouldn’t find out he was the parish priest. My DCS is holding a press conference this evening. He’s confident a public appeal will identify other nuns and children who were at the convent. We can also make discreet inquiries with local residents. I’m sure there will be plenty of people out there who remember “Father Bob ”.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘You’ve been very understanding.’

  ‘I hope everything works out for you, Chris.’

  ‘So do I, Jane. But right now, I don’t know what my future holds,’ he said darkly.

  Jane wondered what he meant. ‘Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?’

  He forced a smile. ‘That depends on what it is.’

  ‘What made you want to become a priest?’ She hoped he wouldn’t be offended by the query.

  Father Chris sighed. ‘That’s a question I’ve repeatedly asked myself these last few days.’ He paused and looked at Jane with a sadness in his eyes. ‘I’ve never told anyone the real reason before.’

  ‘You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,’ she said, sensing his discomfort.

  ‘I was seeking God’s forgiveness, by giving my life to Him.’

  ‘Forgiveness for what?’ Jane asked.

  ‘The death of my parents,’ he said softly as his eyes glazed over. ‘If it wasn’t for me, they’d still be alive.’

  ‘What happened?’ Jane asked in a quiet voice.

  ‘We had a small restaurant in Valetta, and my parents and I lived above it. My father Aaron looked after the guests and my mother Tamyra was the cook. My brother Michael and I took turns working in the kitchen and serving the guests. We closed early one Friday night as it wasn’t very busy. Michael went home to his wife and baby son and I went to a nearby nightclub with a girlfriend.’ He paused and took a deep breath.

  ‘I can still remember hearing the explosion above the sound of the music. Everyone ran into the street to see what had happened. The sky was red with flames and filled with smoke. Somehow, I knew it was our restaurant. I ran down the road to find the front of the building blown out and the inside on fire. The upper floor we lived on was in a state of collapse . . . then I saw my mother at the smoke-filled bedroom window trying to open it . . . but she couldn’t. I tried to go in, but I was driven back by the flames. I trie
d again, but a friend grabbed me and said it was too dangerous. Eventually the fire brigade came . . . but it was too late. After they put the fire out, I found my father in the kitchen. He had died from severe blast injuries. My mother was in the bedroom . . . there wasn’t a mark on her body. I cradled her in my arms, but she was dead from smoke inhalation.’ He put his hands over his face and wept.

  Jane wanted to comfort Father Chris by putting her arms round him, but knew it wouldn’t be appropriate.

  ‘Oh, Chris, I’m so sorry for your loss. It must have been terrible for you and your brother. What caused the explosion?’

  He looked up at Jane slowly. ‘I did. And I can’t forgive myself for what I’ve done . . . only God can.’ His voice trembled.

  Jane felt numb. ‘But how . . .?’

  ‘Through my negligence and stupidity. I was so hasty to go out and enjoy myself that I forgot to turn off the propane gas bottle in the kitchen. My father switched the light on, then the spark of electricity ignited the gas,’ he said, his voice full of guilt and self-loathing.

  ‘Is that what the fire brigade said or what you believe happened?’ Jane asked.

  ‘They said it was a gas leak, so it had to be the propane bottle. I was last out of the kitchen that night. It was my responsibility to check the bottles were turned off . . . and I obviously didn’t.’

  Jane remembered the burn marks on his mother’s cherished recipe book. Now she knew why it was so precious to him.

  ‘You can’t blame yourself and let it eat away at you, Chris. I dealt with a case where a faulty gas bottle accidently exploded in a garage.’

  ‘This bottle wasn’t faulty, Jane. If it were, we would have smelt the gas before that fateful night.’

  ‘No one smelt gas in my case, either. The truth is, you don’t know whether or not you turned the gas off or if the bottle was faulty. Sometimes we carry so much guilt and doubt, we blame ourselves for what happens to others, but you have to learn to move on.’

  ‘My brother blamed me. We haven’t spoken since it happened, which was ten years ago.’

  ‘Does he know you became a priest?’ she asked.